A/N: Hello hello! I cannot believe how long it's been since I've updated this story. I didn't really expect to lose a feel for it after I partook in Nanowrimo '08. I won, btw! First year ever. It was fantastic. Anyway, I hope this is a nice surprise for all of you that have this on alert. It was fun to write, and I'm hoping to continue to update it more steadily once more.

I went back and corrected some spelling and grammar mistakes from earlier chapters. You probably need to re-catch up after this long, huh?

This is dedicated to the reviewers, and especially to Benigma and Halcyon Impulsion (yeah yeah, you should have betaed it, shush.) I hope especially that this is a treat for them.

Warnings: The usual. Gratuitous Dean hurt (with a purpose, of course... I do it for the story I swear;) this includes a little violence and a lot of angst.

Sam unfolded his lanky frame from the Impala, smoothing his suit haphazardly with the palms of his hand. His brow troubled with worry, he took a moment to bury those emotions as far from the surface as he possibly could, set on completing the task at hand.

Double-checking to make sure that his badge was where it should be, in the inside left pocket of his suit jacket, Sam ran a long-fingered hand through his hair and entered the bank.

Flashing the bold letters 'FBI' at the nearest teller, he asked to see the manager of the small financial institution.

It was a pretty standard building as banks go. The small, brick structure had been around for a few decades. It housed only two ATM machines, in the lobby. Clutching the receipt he had gained from the corner store clerk the night before, Sam studied it once more. There was no way he could tell from that slip of paper which ATM the woman had used. That, coupled with the fact that it was, well, a bank, had forced Sam to wait until morning and request the help of the manager, rather than breaking into the building and taking matters into his own hands.

As far as he could tell, breaking into a bank never concluded to very good results.

Soon he was being led into one of the back offices by a short man with a shiny head and a scraggly comb-over. The manager looked exactly like a weasel personified. Already light-headed from lack of sleep and overwhelming worry, Sam had to fight not to grin aloud at the thought, and the image of Dean's own amused (or rather, frightened) face had he been with him.

The manager introduced him to the on-duty security guard that was housed in what turned out to be a surveillance room. He then left, rather flustered, and Sam could only guess that the small man did not want to bring attention to what could be an awkward situation for the bank.

The security guard, Tom, was a kindly old man with sharp, un-spectacled blue eyes and a fatherly air that made Sam think that he probably had children, and grandchildren.

"So you're looking to catch a criminal, huh?" Tom asked as he pushed up a chair for Sam and sat down beside him so that they were both facing the multiple black and white television sets.

The man's easy attitude helped Sam relax, if just a little. "Something like that," he replied with a slight smile. "I actually have a lead on a suspect that might have used one of your ATMs last night." With that, Sam handed over the receipt to the security guard.

The man studied the slip of paper, nodded, and began playback on one of the televisions in front of them. After a few moments he found the section of the recording that coincided with the time that was stamped on the receipt.

Sam frowned at the screen in front of him, which was glowing in the dimly-lit room. He found himself extremely disappointed in the image, and had to fight to keep that gnawing fear in his stomach from chewing itself back up to the surface. Confirming that his suspect was indeed a woman was really all that the footage was good for. She wore a scarf over her head and very large, gaudy sunglasses. It was hard to pick out any distinctive features at all on the poor quality of the low-resolution camera coupled with the scratchy black and white television.

"Well that doesn't help you much does it?" Tom said with a smile, sympathetic but obviously enjoying the company that Sam provided.

The youngest Winchester sighed and shook his head. He shut his eyes briefly, and ran a hand through his hair. Although Tom played the footage back a second time, in case there was something else to be had out of the recording, there was nothing substantial that could help him. Only a well-covered woman extracting cash from the nearest ATM.

Nearest to what? Sam thought to himself.

Nearest to he and his brother.

Tom pushed his chair away from the televisions and wheeled it over to the computer that was in the room. He clicked away at it, and after a few moments, Sam heard the unappealing screech of an out-of-date printer.

"Here you go," Tom said, standing up and handing the piece of paper to Sam. "It's not much, and it wouldn't stand up in court without a warrant, but it's something to go on." He gave Sam another sympathetic smile, and the younger man couldn't help but wonder if he wasn't hiding his feelings as well as he thought he was.

Sam smiled his thanks and looked down at the paper in his hands. With surprise, he realized that it was a bank statement.

"It's hers," Tom explained, sitting back down beside him. "Like I said, it's legal for you to request it, but it's not incriminating material unless you have that pretty little signed paper from the courts."

"You sound like you've done this a time or two," Sam commented up at the guard with a smile, before looking back at the paper. His eyes were automatically drawn to the transactions that were recorded—a butcher, a department store, Sal's Convenienc, from beside their motel—until he looked up at the name on the statement.

Sam all but jumped up from the chair he was sitting on, rage taking on his features that could hardly be hidden, stranger in the room or no. Heart pounding, jaw clenched, fingers shaking, he could only manage a quick "thanks" to the startled security guard before bounding clumsily out of the room and out of the bank, the helpless bank statement strangled in his grasp.

Sam got out to the Impala and looked back down at the paper to make sure that his eyes were not playing tricks on him. The name on it was the same. It was probably the last name he could have expected to appear at a time like this.

He pounded his hand against the cool black metal of the classic car and swore in his head. And then out loud.

"Dammit," he growled, before finally getting in and peeling away from the curb.

Bela Lugosi.

There was a spot that the draft was less; in the far left corner of the room if one was facing the door, as he had been when he had been hanging from the shackles. Dean sought what little comfort he could there, laying on his side or with his back against the shadowy wall, always with his arms wrapped around his knees. It was warmer that way, and for some silly reason he felt just a little bit safer. Like he wasn't locked in some ancient dungeon wannabe of a place; like he wasn't being periodically being violated by the blade of a sadistic vampire.

He lay there, conscious, but trying not to be. He was wracked with shivers once more; it must have been further into the evening. One day after she had made him eat, maybe two. He could never really be sure; a worrisome head injury had him weaving in and out of consciousness all the time. But every time he woke, every time he opened his eyes and was greeted with the nightmarish vision-come-true of a cold, damp cell, his heart sank a little bit more. His brother hadn't found him yet. He was stuck in Hell on Earth, merely months before his trip to Hell.

And boy, was this Hell cold.

He couldn't help but wish she would give him some sort of a blanket, at least. His shirt maybe. She kept insinuating that he was to be there a long time… if she were smart, she wouldn't want him to get sick, right?

Ill blood probably wouldn't taste as good.

He winced at the thought.

Sammy had to be getting close. He was a good hunter, one of the best, Dean surmised. He never let him down. Hell, he could be breaking through that door at any minute…

The elder Winchester brother didn't realize that he lifted his head a little at the thought, glancing over in the direction of the door.

Yup, any minute now.

Hours ago, perhaps yesterday, after he had regained some strength from the food incident, Dean had gathered enough vigor to check out the door. Limbs still burning, his pulse pounding through his temples, he had crawled to the wall, using it as support to bring himself to his feet. He stumbled the rest of the way to the door, weak but full of hope—hope that they were just stupid enough to underestimate a Winchester.

It had been bolted from the outside. Nothing to pick, no way to bust through. The steel closure was a stark contrast to the ancient-looking stone of the walls. New technology with a tried-and-true old favorite. Meant to keep him in at all costs.

Frustrated, he had pounded the steel with his fist, the pain of a couple split knuckles a welcome distraction to his ugly arms. Disheartened, he found his knees failing, his eyes closing. He leaned his head against the cool steel, angry at the vampires, at himself, even angry at Sam for not finding him yet. The latter was only fleeting, and he felt even angrier at himself for even thinking such a thing. Sammy didn't do this to him; he had brought this upon himself. If he hadn't been so stupid, if he had been more careful, had followed his instincts like his dad had taught him…

It wasn't long after that when he had discovered the draft-less corner. He had sought that corner originally because it was furthest from the door, and because he could sort of see out of the tiny, barred window. He thought that there might have been trees.

But most of all, he sought it because it was the furthest from the chains.

The door opened then, and the noise still made him jump. This disgusted Dean, but he pushed the thought away, and lifted his head with narrowed eyes that were unused to the blast of light. Bit back the surprise that undoubtedly showed when he realized that Myah was nowhere in sight—instead, Blondie was there, a tray in hand once more.

Dean took a large swallow and for a fleeting moment, the sarcastic side of his brain almost asked out loud if he was getting steak for being such a good boy. But his realistic side took over, and he knew that evil mashed potatoes were the least of his worries right now.

Blondie set the tray down beside his head and stood back up, staring at Dean with eerie, unblinking eyes. Suddenly he kicked out, catching the hunter in the ribs with what could only be steel-toed boots. "Get up," the man growled as Dean clutched his middle and groaned.

Dean gave a little cough and peered up at him through the corner of his eyes. "Shouldn't you be taking orders, not giving them?" He mumbled.

And instantly regretted being unable to switch off.

Blondie—Sebastian, he thought his name was—made a sudden movement for him, causing Dean to gasp and try to move away. It was to no avail, and a large hand circled his neck, pulling him upwards and forcing the hunter to his feet. The vampire pressed him against the wall with unnatural strength, and Dean found himself choking once more.

The man just stood there for a moment as Dean squirmed to get free of the grip. Cold, black eyes stared at him, studying him, and Dean felt all the world like a lab rat. That's all he was, just some sort of disgusting experiment to these bloodsuckers. How long can we bleed him until he dies?

But Dean somehow had a feeling that this wasn't what he was here for. He was sure that he was to be for no one but Myah, with her dark hair and navy eyes and cruel, cold mouth…

Suddenly Sebastian drew close to Dean, his nose trailing a path along Dean's chin and slowly to his neck. The hunter's hazel eyes widened and he let out a small gasp of surprise. He froze, his whole body stiffening as he ceased trying to get away. His skin began to crawl as he felt the breath of the vampire along his throat, the familiar sensation of his stomach churning once again took over.

This was not right. Oh god, this was so wrong.

Dean fought hard not to tremble, to show any weakness against his current company, swallowing hard against the chills and the vomit that were rising in his throat. He didn't know what was happening; he didn't know what to do. He couldn't move if he wanted to, he was paralyzed…

Myah had already violated him in this way, with her closeness, her breath, but somehow this felt different, it felt so much worse.

And just like that it was over. Blondie let go of Dean's throat, sending him ungracefully to the ground. The hunter's hands immediately found his neck, wrapping his fingers protectively around it. He couldn't find it in himself to look up at the man. Instead, he tried to slow his breaths, his pulse. Stared straight ahead, trying to avoid the trembling that had found its way back to his spine.

Sebastian kicked the tray towards him. "I have to make sure you eat," he growled with his deep voice.

Dean's eyes fell to the tray. A paper plate filled with what resembled Hamburger Helper looked almost less appetizing than the mashed potatoes of his last meal. He couldn't bring himself to make a move for it.

Suddenly Blondie backhanded him across the temple, white spots danced in front of his eyes and his vision swam so badly that he thought for sure it would give out and mercifully allow him to slip into unconsciousness. He braced himself with his hands pressed against the floor, fighting against the shooting pain in his head and another bout of nausea.

When he didn't move, Blondie went to hit him a second time, and Dean jumped back. "Okay!" He cried, biting back the sting of tears from the pain and a flood of emotion that he couldn't quite grasp. The reaction had satisfied the vampire, and he took a step back to watch him.

Dean inhaled and reached out his hand, drawing the tray nearer. Once more his untrusting mind toyed with the possibility that it was poisoned, but no, that wouldn't make any sense. It hadn't been last time. She wanted to drink from him, and anything bad in his system would be very apparent in his blood.

No, she just wanted him to keep up his strength. To keep producing her bright red beverage.

Sadistic bitch.

His nose wrinkled at the smell of the slop; as kids, Hamburger Helper had been a treat. Now it looked as unappetizing as wet cat food, or worse—wet cat food when it had already been processed. But he knew his watcher wouldn't leave until he had choked some down.

There was a plastic fork. Dean grasped it and with an unsteady hand, spooned up some of the hamburger and brought it to his face. He tried his hardest not to breathe in, positive that the smell would make him wretch on the spot. He just didn't have the stomach for food right now. Not with his injuries. Not with what she had done to him.

The texture only made it worse, and he forwent chewing and swallowed the mouthful with one painful gulp. He raised his eyes a little, expecting maybe another attack but hoping that the vampire would leave. In return he received neither, only those chilly eyes watching him. Waiting. Leaving unseen burn marks all the way through him. Dean took another mouthful. And then another.

Satisfied, or perhaps bored, Blondie spun on his heels and left without a word.

Dean slumped back against the wall with relief and shuddered. He gathered his knees up again, a subconscious action that he didn't really seem to notice. He half-heartedly kicked the tray away with his toe and willed the food to stay in his stomach, fearing the grub coming back up more than going down. Fearing the show of weakness that he associated with getting sick.

Fearing the repercussions of ignoring the will of Myah.

P.S.: REVIEW! :) I threaten to withold the next chapter captive for another half-year otherwise.