CW—Chapter 2

It's you. It's you. It's you…

Tell Dean, tell Dean. Can't tell Dean. Yellow-eyes and his mother snarling out it's you right in front of Sam and Sam's crib. How Azazel laughed as Mary Winchester slid up the wall, snapped his fingers and told Sam he didn't want to see that part. He'd not stopped Sam from seeing blood being dripped in his mouth, or from Sam knowing his mother recognized a freaking demon!

Trying to get a few deep breaths was seriously hampered by his left lung trying to exit his body through his nose. That woman he'd been dreaming about, the same woman he'd been reading about earlier had looked right at him…Ben Colt…whothehellever…and said it's you loud and clear. How could she do that?

"Sam. SAM!"

Jerking around to face Dean, Sam sat gripping his blanket like a two-year-old and stared at his brother.

"Are you listening to me?"

Sam nodded spasmodically. It's you…it's me…it's you!

Dean's head tipped to one side and frowned. "What did I say?"

"I dunno." Sam breathed out fast. He had no clue, and Dean always saw right through him anyway, might as well confess his indiscretion now and get it over with.

"Dude, there were cops and really old, incredibly cool cars and a murder and—" Dean threw a sock at him. "Sam?"

"Cops, cool cars, murder…got it." Oh and the fact that woman who was supposed to be dead looked right at him and said it's you! It's me. Sam was definitely losing his mind.

"I was wearing this, I mean he was wearing this," Dean pointed to the fedora desperately hanging onto the corner of his bed. "It was mine, I mean his." Dean was on his feet, arms waving around. He looked like an over excited toddler on a sugar high. "I—I mean him—we were driving around in this schweet-ass '37 Chevy Master, a black one. There was this murder, I saw the body; it was like I was there and was supposed to solve some murder of some woman who died two freaking ass decades before I even thought of being born. You were there, but not you, some kid named Benny Colt. It was me, but it wasn't me, it was some guy named Jake Colt, but it was like that TV show, remember we used to watch it, Quantum Leap, that guy would be someone else, but not really and I could see you, but I looked like some other guy, who was devilishly as handsome as me, almost and—"

"INHALE!"

Dean straightened, snapped his mouth shut and stared down at Sam. He reached out and poked Sam's shoulder. "Sammy? You okay?"

"Yeah…sure…no…I dunno." Sam looked up and tried very hard not to shake. Instead he sneezed. "I-I w-was th-there. Ben, I was Ben, or he was me." Sam stopped and sagged, coughing out a deep sigh. "My head hurts." Another sneeze. "It was like I was part of that guy, Ben Colt. I was there but had to do what he did and see what he saw. Feel what he felt." Sam's voice trailing off at the end sounded odd to his own ears. He wasn't surprised at how Dean's face morphed from freaked over what had happened to freaked over Sam.

Fingers fumbling loose from the blanket, he picked up the journal. "I was reading this to you. I didn't realize right away you'd crashed out on me." Sam opened the book to the date of Mary Shards' murder, turned it around, and handed it to Dean. "I was tired too," he shrugged. "So I decided to shut my eyes for a few minutes, thought I could catch a nap before we went for eats, and when I woke up I was wearing a suit that was too big and carting around a camera and taking pictures of—" It's you! Sam's voice caught and stayed in his throat. He bit down on his lip and stared at the carpeting between the beds.

Dean's hand rested on his shoulder. "Sam." Dean's fingers tightened around his shoulder and gave an insistent shake. "Sammy, look at me."

Sam looked up. Dean sat on the bed beside him.

"Are you okay? I know that was one grisly image, all that blood and guts hanging out, but you've seen bodies worse off. Real ones."

"Did you see her move? Or hear a woman screaming? See any yellow eyes?"

Dean shook his head silently, quirked an eyebrow at Sam and lifted one hand up, letting it drop to his thigh a second later.

"I saw—Ben saw—and found sulfur. Right under Mary's head. The whole place stunk of demon."

"Yeah, I remember the smell alright." Dean's hand pulled away from Sam's shoulder, he started flipping through the old journal. Pulling something from between the pages a smile spread slowly across Dean's face. "Look at this, Sammy."

Sam took the offered photograph of two men standing in front of a 1937 black Chevy Masters. "That's them. They were there with us. They were us. We were them."

"Great," Dean snorted a laugh, took the picture from Sam and replaced it in the journal. "Only we could find a haunted hunter's journal. At a yard sale!"

"Technically you found it. I was standing around minding my own business reading a book." Sam smiled. "That's not the weirdest part though. There was a demon there, Dean, we both saw the sulfur and how her body was…" Sam had to stop and take more deep breaths to steady his hands. He continued on quietly, "We both saw it. This murder is famous, it's been famous for the past sixty some odd years. I wonder if they found out. If that's why Jake and Ben got into hunting?"

"I don't know." Dean stood up, tossed the book into the box on the table across the room. "What I do know is what just happened, it happened and I'm not sure I want it to happen again. We went there, back then." Dean faked a shiver and gave Sam a soft punch to his arm. "Time travel is for the birds. Not to mention creepy as Hell, and I'd know."

Sam chuckled and grinned, feeling some of the tension ease away. "I'm not sure it was really a haunting sort of thing. More of a message maybe. A way to put the pieces together."

"Huh?"

Drawing in another wheezing breath, Sam steeled himself and took the plunge. "There was more of it for me. I was there a few minutes longer I think. The last bits are more broken up, like a real dream, but I saw it."

"What?"

"Yellow-eyes. No body attached, just yellow eyes. I felt them watching me, as if I was seeing what Mary Shards saw right before she died. We can use it, Dean, use that journal to find out more about Azazel."

"Yeah, 'cause that's a name I want to keep on hearing. If I never hear it again, it'll be too soon." Dean heaved a sigh and Sam knew he'd hit a chord or three. "But, you're right. This," Dean waved one hand in the general direction of the journal, "feels like what we need to do. It feels right. If that makes sense?"

"It does."

Christ, he had to tell Dean. He had to find a way to do what? Break his brother's heart and drive him away forever by saying a demon fed me his blood. I'm tainted and bad and wrong. Worse yet, he was going to have to tell Dean that the mother he worshipped had some involvement with a demon, with the demon who killed her?

Sam's stomach lurched violently and his chest constricted down to half the space needed for his lungs to work. He couldn't get the words out. He couldn't. A flicker of hope was if the same demon killed Mary Shards, maybe, just maybe Sam could find out why and tell Dean all the details.

It's you.

Dean would hate him. Hate the abomination that was Sam Winchester, but at least Dean would know the truth. Sam would know the truth; he had to.

"What if some people have to, you know, maybe let demons do things…?" He didn't even know how to ask the question.

"Anyone who lets a demon do anything to them or their family or anything is lower than the damn demons, Sam!"

Dean's sudden explosion, while not unexpected, still had Sam cringing away. Blinking rapidly, Sam wanted to squish the tears threatening to overflow back down.

Trying to breathe deep did nothing but make cause harsh, ragged coughs to be expelled. He didn't fight the urge to double over.

It's you.

Dean was going to be lost to Sam all over again. The only difference was Dean wasn't going to have to die to do it. A warm hand rubbing between his shoulder blades made him start. "I'm okay," He barely wheezed the words out.

"Yeeaahh. Sure you are." Dean patted his back a few more times. "Keep your ass sitting right there. No reading that—" He pointed to the box and journal, "—thing until I get back, and then not till I say you can."

It's you.

Sam looked up and nodded. Dean swam in waves in front of him. A box of tissue landed on the bed next to him. Images of Dean's shattered expression when he found out…Sam had to tell him. Sam couldn't tell him. Sam wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

That didn't seem to be happening either.

"I'm going to go get you a gallon of Nyquil and something to eat. What sounds good?"

"Nothing." Wasn't that the truth too? Not only could Sam not taste anything, his stomach bounced around like a deranged ping-pong ball from all the thoughts hopping through his head.

"I don't care if nothing sounds good. I'm getting food, and you're damn well eating it even if I have to hold you down and force-feed you. Don't think for two seconds I won't either." Dean's voice was harsh but his eyes were soft and worried.

Sam nodded. He watched Dean walk out the door and couldn't help wondering when he'd do that for real, when Sam would see Dean leave for the last time. When the sound of the Impala rumbling away reached Sam's ears, he pushed off the bed. Grabbing his laptop, Sam booted it up. He was going to find out a few more details about Mary Shards' murder if he could.

A few Google searches later and Sam's blood was chunks of ice banging around his entire body. Both Samuel's and Mary's parents died not too long after Mary, which considering their ages wasn't so unusual. It was the other people that made Sam want to puke his intestines onto the floor. No siblings alive, no cousins, no aunts or uncles, no one. They were all dead. Anyone who could answer a question about Mary Shards died long ago. It was as if Mary Shards' life had been wiped away.

Exactly like Mary Winchester's life.

It's you.

Ruby's words to check out his own mother's friends and relatives rang through his head.

It's you.

Shutting down the laptop and gently closing it, Sam stumbled to the bathroom. He sat there, shaking, trying not to cry and playing scene after scene of what his brother was going to do when he found out about their mother, about Sam, in his head until the room spun around him.

It's you.

Dean's hand banging on the door and his voice asking if Sam was alive or if he'd fallen in the toilet jolted Sam somewhat back to reality. He'd have to cope. He had to get himself together and just freaking deal with this however it turned out. Then he was free to crawl away and die quietly…and alone.

Coming back to a quiet room, when Sam wasn't curled up in bed sound asleep, was never a good thing. There had to be some noise, the drone of the television, the furious clicking of laptop computer keys, some comment flying his way about wondering if he had to go to the next town to get their food.

There was the muted silence as soon as he shut the door and nothing else, and Dean's preliminary search for Sam in the room returned zilch.

"Sam?"

He set down the pharmacy and food he'd collected, preparing for all worse case scenarios when it came to Sam and this new development. Sam rarely got sick and when he did, well, it wasn't anywhere in the ballpark of pretty. Kid had this unparalleled, superhuman immune system, and then every once in a while he broke down and seemed to catch everything he'd been dodging over the last year, all at once.

This time, Dean couldn't help but feel responsible. Sleeping in the Impala hadn't been necessary, even if it had felt necessary to him at the time. Dean was still inwardly berating himself for running after Cutter's Landing. He hadn't run like that since River Grove, Oregon. The result of that had him waking up to a quiet motel room, kind of like this, Sam gone…

Putting his heart in check, trying to grasp and control frayed nerves at that thought, Dean reminded himself that this was different. There was too much that had happened between then and now for Sam to just take off. Then again…

The bathroom door was closed and he slammed his fist into it a few times, "Sam? You alive? You fall in, dude?"

Relief was short-lived as the door pulled back, draining away to worry when he saw Sam, eyes hooded, sweat saturated bangs clinging to his forehead, near translucent pallor. His brother didn't just look sick, he looked haunted.

Sam shuffled past him, grunting something unintelligible before having a seat on his bed, placing his head in his hands. "Where'd you go?" Sam ground out. "No food in Strongsville?"

Dean smirked. That was close enough to what he'd been expecting. The undeniable fever burning up his little brother's body, on the other hand, not so much. Even knowing Sam was getting sick, he wasn't ready for it to be this fast, this soon.

"Was preparing," Dean returned.

"For what?"

"To take care of your ass for as long as this thing lasts."

He reached into the bag and pulled out all the medication he'd been able to round up with the last of their poker money, lining it up on the table, from Nyquil to Robitussin. And if all else failed they did have their personal cache of pharmaceuticals but staying out of the hospitals as much as they had to anymore, that was running low.

"Did you hold up a drug store, Dean?"

"One can never be too cautious, especially when your brother tends to be a walking, biological weapon when he gets sick."

"I am…" Sam started to cough again, falling back into the bed when it was over, a frustrated sigh escaping defeated lungs. "…not."

Sam moved like every muscle was a leaded weight, pulling his knees up and into his chest as he positioned his back against the headboard. Dean noticed Sam was dodging his gaze, avoiding eye contact. What was that about?

"You pissed at me?" Dean asked.

Sam's eyes shot up, finally meeting his. "No. No. No. It's uh…not that…just, not…"

"What, Sam?"

"…feeling like myself. That's all."

Dean didn't like that he couldn't tell if the glassed over look to his brother's eyes was the fever or something else. He grabbed two pills and a Gatorade and set them beside Sam, taking a seat on his own bed.

He winced as the skin around his wound tugged too much, causing the ache there to slide effortlessly into a searing pain. Fighting the urge to grab at his leg, Dean leaned back, hoping Sam hadn't noticed, especially when the action had torn at the shallow wound on his shoulder and lower back. Ones he'd chosen not to share with Sam with. Hearing again and again that he needed to rewrap the one on his leg was torture enough.

Sam was still staring at his sheets, pills and Gatorade remaining untouched.

"I've got food too. Soup if you're not up for anything else."

"Not hungry."

"Not an option. Take your meds."

"Take care of your leg," Sam added, taking the pills, eyes challenging Dean.

"Leg's fine, Sam."

But it was irritating him, random bursts of pain causing him to get back up, put some weight on it. He masked the action by giving it purpose, getting himself something to eat, and grabbing the journal.

"You going to read more?" Sam asked. "How come you can and I can't?"

"Because I'm not so sure we should be reading it in the first place. We just happen to find a book that just happens to detail one of Azazel's targets…oh, and not to mention the book makes you trip out and relive the lives of some dudes from the fifties. That, while totally awesome, is messed up."

"So you want to get rid of it?" Sam asked, almost too anxiously for Dean's liking.

If Dean even so much as breathed he was going to destroy it, he knew he would have a fight on his hands. One that involved way too much pleading and begging and Sam looking pathetic, and there was no way he was winning against that right now.

"It could have the answers, Dean," Sam tried again.

"I know that, Sam. Which is why I'm gonna be the one to read it, not you."

Sam ticked up a brow, combativeness percolating the torn down look in his eyes, forcing Dean to rally an explanation for that statement fast.

"Maybe, just maybe, we all went down the rabbit hole because of some of your psychic mojo. That's all I'm saying."

Sam sighed, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back against the wall. "And if it wasn't that?"

"Then, we get another go, Alice. If at all possible, I'd like to at least try to stay out of the history books."

Sam huffed at that and waved dismissively at Dean. "Story hour with Dean Winchester it is. Could you read to me with a British accent? Oh, and do the voices."

"Could you shuddup?"

Sam smiled and Dean put on the fedora.

"Is that really necessary?" Sam asked.

"I'm trying to get into character, Sam. Just shut your pie hole already."

November 18th, 1954

I can't shake that damn Shards case. It won't leave me alone. Too many loose ends I want to tie up and I keep fumbling, unable to grasp the threads. Thing that digs under my skin the most is that everyone's given up the chase. Evidence is being ignored, like the sulfur at the scene, and they've tossed out all witness accounts about the man with the unnatural, yellow eyes. Not that I can say I really blame them. But Shards is serving time and I keep thinking about that boy of his…

Since the Shards case I keep seeing similar statements, similar oddities at crime scenes, things cast aside when it comes down to solving these cases. Things I can't help but feel would solve the case if looked into, not just written off as superstitious mumbo jumbo. Not to mention, I'm tired of finding good people—

church going, hard-working, down-to-earth people—suddenly labeled as Satanists. Easier to label them and shelve them than to pull everything out and really listen to what witnesses and these people are claiming.

Benny's noticed the same thing. Kid's not an idiot. He pointed it out first, before I started seeing the signs elsewhere. There's something out there. Something tearing up lives…something that leaves its…God, anyone reading this is going to think I've lost my mind...evil behind.

Whatever this thing is, I wish I'd never picked up its scent. I wish I didn't care so damn much…

Anyone I've shared this with in confidence, well, let's just say I know now where my loyalties lie. They have some interesting names for me now down at the station. I can't lose credibility…I can't lose my job…

I've got to leave this alone.

But I'm afraid I can't…


It was never easy, but he was finding the initial shock, the tremors, lessened with the experience. He hoped it was never easy. With every new body he stared down the lens at, he feared becoming completely numb. He feared being able to see death and not feel a thing. He'd gained the confidence necessary to get his job done, but it still rattled him, and in a way he was glad.

Ben knelt down beside the deceased, eyes scanning for the best shot. The bite marks along her exposed shoulder caught his eye, and he focused on and captured the bloody indentations from several angles. His careful gaze moved, unaware that he was looking for something specific until he fell upon it and felt an odd tug of excitement curl up from within. Yellow powder, the smell of rotten eggs…this was another "bizarre" incident, like the Shards case. Ben looked up at Jake, who was never too far, and any excitement fizzled out at the pained expression stretching his brother's features thin.

Pushing to his feet, angling a few more pictures from near the window, Ben backed up to where Jake was and exchanged a knowing glance.

"It's similar to those other ones, Jake" he whispered, keeping his head down between them, pretending to change out the bulb, twisting it between nervous fingers. His observation was met with silence, and he ticked up his eyes between loose, long bangs to his brother's stoic visage. "Say something, Jake."

"Leave it alone."

"Jake?"

His brother moved away from the window in a slow and terribly masked retreat, dropping his arms away from his chest and nodding to another officer as he passed. Ben fell into step behind him.

"Didn't you talk to Del?"

"No dice, little brother. Leave it alone."

"But, Jake…"

"Go get some air, Benny."

"Jake, come on…" Benny watched his brother's retreating back until it disappeared into the next room, hands out to his side, pleading.

Was Jake really going to turn his back on this? Ben got it. He did. This was one more attempt on Jake's part to keep Ben safe, but there was something here that they couldn't ignore. Not forever.

Dropping his hands to his side in defeat, Benny did as he was told if only to quell the pinpricks of anger and disbelief burning blood in his cheeks. Stepping out onto the fire escape, the crisp, November night air slid over his sweat slick brow, easing away the heat from his face and clothing. The smell of fresh rain rolled around invigoratingly in his nostrils, giving the illusion that the grunge of the city below him had washed away.

He tugged at his shirt, peeling it away from his chest beneath his coat, sighing at the evidence of his nerves still raw around the work he was in now. It was a comfort to know his coat was hiding his weakness. Now if he could just get his hands to stop betraying him, not have to wrap them so tight around his camera. He wondered if Jake knew. Knowing him, he did.

The city lights were calming, instilling a brief and distilled childlike awe as he looked out over Cleveland's skyline. He breathed in deep, hoping to buoy some of the collective weight from his shoulders, but he couldn't. Suddenly the lights spread out before him only added to the sense of being too small, too out of control…one life seemingly insignificant, hopeless to make a difference.

What could he really do about the things he was seeing, and everyone else was too blind or too scared to help?

Leave it alone.

He knew in his heart, Jake wanted to do something about cases like the Shards', but he was bound by a sense of duty not only to Ben, but also to the guys at the station. Men who'd helped a kid raise a kid. There was no room to be talking about 'supernatural' things, not unless you had a few screws loose. Talk like that put worry in people's eyes, in the way they talked to you, treated you, like you'd shatter apart if they asked what was wrong.

Ben sighed and tapped the palm of his hand against the railing before pivoting to go back inside. He'd just set his hand against the window frame when he heard a metallic thunk above him, causing him to pause. Turning his eyes up trough the metal mesh, he could see someone in the shadows. The position of the dark figure made him feel like they were looking down, right at him, sending tendrils of cold up and down Ben's spine.

"Hello?"

The shadowed figure darted back into some unseen space and Ben followed, climbing the stairs two at a time, trying not to rattle the structure right out of the wall in his hurry.

The danger of his actions wasn't registering with him until he set foot in the apartment above, the open window the only place Ben could guess the person had gone. It was dark, save the crackling glow of snow from a TV set in the main room. Anyone could be around any corner, and he couldn't see from where he was standing.

The buzzing of flies drew him toward the kitchen, the smell accompanying the sound making him choke back his last meal, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Reaching out for the string hanging from a bare bulb, Ben clicked on a light, illuminating the rotting food. It covered the table and counters, rancid meat tickling the gag reflex at the back of his mouth. Something scurried into the wall in his periphery, causing him to back out into the main room. Whoever 'lived' here, wasn't using the kitchen.

Setting his camera down on a table by the window, Ben picked up the fire poker from the neglected fireplace and moved further into the apartment, driven by some gut feeling that had his heart lodged deep into his throat. Curiosity piqued and unrelenting, Ben opened every closet, turned on every light, and jumped at every shadow, all because he felt like he needed to be up here.

He hadn't imagined the man looking down at him, and this was the only place he could have gone, being the top floor. From the derelict state of the apartment, he wondered if whoever was living there was in trouble, hurt…or maybe this was a squatter. In which case, Ben's mind flashed through scenarios of having to fight off an armed man, the idea to come up here looking more and more crazy.

But every room was empty and from what he could tell, no one had passed through there in a while. He was starting to doubt he'd even seen anyone when he saw the chain still bolted across the front door…

No one around and the front door was locked.

Ben set the poker back against the wall and looked back out the window for another way down or up, another window. There was no way whoever he had seen above could have gotten past him.

Another quick sweep of the bedroom and the closets turned up nothing and he was about to give up when he heard voices coming up through the floorboards in the closet. Confused, Ben recognized one as his brother and got to his knees, shoving a few boxes to the side revealing a small hole in the floor. He could see down through a grate and into the victim's bedroom.

Every hair on his neck stood at strict attention, gooseflesh rose on his arms as he realized what he was looking at…

God…was he…was he spying on her?

Del was talking with his brother, and he could hear the dark timbre to his voice, the warning there. Ben had missed the conversation, only hearing a "Yes, sir," from Jake before Del took his leave. Jake's shoulders dropped, hand going to the bridge of his nose like he was in pain, the hat hiding his eyes from Ben as he tipped his head down in thought.

Had Jake tried to explain they'd found another one? Even after he'd said to leave it alone, he couldn't. Ben knew it!

Losing himself for a moment in thoughts about his discovery, Jake turning to leave snapped Ben back into the reality of his surroundings. There was something terribly wrong with where he was, and what he was seeing.

"Jake!"

His voice echoed through the space, and he felt his skin bristle with fear that he'd been too loud. Even though he'd combed the place, he couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were still on him.

Jake had startled at the sound, gaze darting the space around him as he turned three hundred and sixty degrees before looking up to the vent.

"Ben?"

"Yeah," he answered, voice unsure, hoping Jake didn't freak out.

"What the hell are you doing? Where the hell are you? Why am I talking to a vent?"

"You need to get up here and see this, Jake. One floor up. I used the fire escape."

He could see Jake's eyes widen as confusion slowly faded to fear. "How did you—? When did you—?" Clearly too flustered to grasp the English language, he'd shot out a commanding finger toward the vent. "Dammit, stay right there!"

Ben rolled his eyes and pushed back onto his haunches. "Wasn't going anywhere," he muttered.

Something red tugged his attention toward the back of the closet and he reached for it, coming back with cooled candle wax. Rolling it between his fingers, Ben studied where it seemed to be pooling out from a small space at the base of the wall, and he put a hand on the back of the closet and felt it move. A panel of the wall slid away revealing white candles and small bones, and a chalice…

Ben pushed away from the wall quickly, heart kicking up as he realized what was covering the small altar.

Blood. God, the whole thing was covered in blood!

What the hell had Ben been thinking? First of all, if this was nothing, and Jake doubted it was nothing, there was always the threat of the consequences of breaking and entering. But Jake didn't really give a damn about the legal issues, Jake was thinking about how and why there would be a way to see from one apartment down into the one below, the implications of that, and how his brother was now two rooms, a fire escape, and two minutes, too far from where he was, possibly in the presence of a murderer.

He'd found the open window, Smith and Wesson drawn, eyes darting over every shadow and object for something he wouldn't like.

"Ben," he whispered harshly, turning the small apartment space over quickly, not only in search of his brother, but also to make sure they were alone.

After almost expelling his stomach contents from the smell that was noxiously strong in the kitchen, and almost offing a rat for moving just outside his periphery, he found Ben in the bedroom, staring at something at the back of the closet.

"Holy…" Jake cringed as he knelt down with Ben, studying the small altar.

"Just the opposite I'd think," Ben breathed. He shivered and pushed to his feet.

Jake noted the red wax covering the floor was from 'white' candles and knew he didn't have to venture a guess as to what was all over the altar.

"Where are the others?" Ben asked.

Jake huffed. "I didn't know what you'd found. I didn't tell anyone."

"You didn't trust me."

"It wasn't that…Come on, Benny."

"I can do this, Jake.

Jake ran a hand down his face. "I know that."

Ben was walking away, tossing a wave over his shoulder. He turned back to Jake in the doorway. "I get it. I do. But I'm not the one ignoring what's happening here."

"I'm not ignoring…wait, what are you going on about now?"

"This. This right here. The altar, and the sulfur and the murders, Jake."

Jake rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand, turning away. Did Ben think he didn't give a shit? Did he not get that this was going to get them locked away somewhere?

Separated…

"I don't care if you don't believe in me," Ben started.

That wasn't the truth and both of them knew it. And when did Jake EVER say that he didn't believe in Ben?

"But the Jake I believe in wouldn't just turn his back like this."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Jake held out his hands, Ben's eyes were burning with such resolve he almost felt the need to defend himself against them. "I'm trying to keep both of our heads above water here!"

"Why?"

The question was so frank and sharp, that it left him asking himself the same thing.

"Because…I…"

"If you're worried about me. Stop." Ben returned.

Jake nodded. This had been building up inside of him for a long time, being torn between the right thing and what would keep Ben safe. He laughed lightly, eyes seeking out cracks in the floorboards like safe-havens.

"Impossible," he breathed. "You know that…"

Every hair on the back of Jake's neck went rigid as Ben wasn't the one to answer him.

"I'd worry about him."

The voice shoved cold spikes through Jake's heart. Snapping his head up, he had only the breadth of a heartbeat to register the man behind Ben, the black obsidian eyes, and then Ben was thrown, body crushing into the sofa.

Unconsciously Jake's S&W was up, aimed at the man's face, anger threading through every pulse.

"Hold it! On the ground!"

God, those eyes! What caused something like that? He couldn't see any iris, any whites. And the way his slick smile spread, twisted the shape of his face, like this was a joke, like he was bulletproof, rattled Jake.

Ignoring Jake's order, the man turned and started for Ben. One more warning left Jake's lips, before the man was too close, too fast, to his brother, and then there was no choice.

Jake fired a round into the man's leg.

The burst of crimson was the only indication the bullet embedded. The man's leg buckled slightly then straightened. A mosquito bite would have caused someone more discomfort. The man rounded on Benny again; picking him up and shoving him back against the wall. Jake took aim, but the man's hand shot out toward Jake and his legs were taken right out from under him, the back of his skull cracking against the ground floor.

Holy shit…

Recollecting the breath painfully ejected from his lungs, Jake rolled onto his side, mind staggering through the attack, stumbling over how it was possible. He watched as Benny was now somehow on the ground, diving for a fire-poker. He brought it around and into the man's face, and where a bullet hadn't even made the maniac tick, he howled as his head snapped back from the force. Turning back with black, rage-filled eyes, Jake saw the burn, the seared flesh along the man's jaw.

Suddenly the bulletproof man was running, flinging open the front door and bolting for the exit.

Jake shoved to his feet, grabbing Ben up from the ground and hauling him to his feet. "You all right?" The question came out a more ferocious then Jake had intended, causing Ben to blink, recoil, trying to catch his breath.

Jake picked up the cold fire poker and looked at Ben, confused. What the hell had burned up that guy's face?

A small line of blood slid its way along Ben's hairline and Jake's eyes widened. He grabbed for his brother's face, tilting it toward him.

"I'm okay," Ben groused, shoving Jake back, encouraging him to go. "Don't let him get away!"

"Stay here," Jake ordered, ignoring the sharp protest that followed.

Reinforcements were coming in through the window, and up into the hallway, having heard the scuffle, but Jake pushed past them all toward the stairwell at the end of the hall, slamming into a railing, catching a glimpse of the door to the alley closing.

Leaping the last few steps, Jake drove his shoulder into the alley door, stumbling out into the night. Turning quickly, catching only a shadow, he took off sprinting, something feral having taken over. This was personal, and that was before the attack on Ben. Truth. He wanted the truth and if he could catch this son of a bitch, he might have a shot at knowing.

The chase wound down behind the apartment and into the next alley, crossing the main street, Jake didn't slow down for anything, dodging cars, pushing limbs and muscles that hadn't run this hard in a long time in pursuit.

There was nothing slowing the man down, not the bullet lodged in his leg or the garbage strewn about the alleys. He plowed through it all like a tank, and Jake was losing ground on him. That was until the man reached the end of the alley, ready to dart into another busy road, and Ben materialized in front of him, slamming his camera into the man's face, clothes lining him.

The camera broke apart in Ben's hands and the man landed on his back, both looking equally shocked. Jake descended upon the man, cuffs ready, rolling him onto his face, not caring if he was face down in a puddle, fighting him the entire way.

Benny was gathering the busted pieces of his camera from the ground, face stuck somewhere between shock and awe, smile slowly creeping up the corners of his mouth as he appeared to have decided he was pleased with how that all went down. He shook out his shoulders, and Jake heard him laugh as the last wrist was cuffed.

"Interesting…weapon of choice, Ben." Jake mused.

Ben laughed and then one look at the broken camera had him instantly deflated. "Oh man…"

"I'll get you a new one for saving the day, Crimson Avenger" Jake said, running damage control.

The man Jake had pinned, one knee in his back, was still fighting him, but the effort was weak in comparison to what Jake had seen in that apartment. The low growls coming from him were becoming more intense and Jake narrowed his eyes. This tank of a man was…whimpering?

Jake flipped the man over and startled at the blisters forming on his face, the steam rising from his chest and open sores.

"Christ!"

The man arched his back, writhing, skin peeling back like someone had poured acid on him, and all Jake could do was watch him gurgle and spit. He was trying to get out from under Jake, the sounds he was making, growling out, were unlike anything Jake had ever heard come from the throat of a man.

The man stopped struggling, rearing up as far as he could toward Jake's face, pit-like eyes on him, slicing right through him.

"I'm going to remember you," he spoke, more than one voice crawling out of his throat, and skittering off the alleyway walls.

Head snapping back, the bones audibly cracking along with it, the man bucked, slamming his head back against the pavement repeatedly until something black started to slither out from his open maw.

Jake was on his feet and backing away, one hand out in front of Ben's chest to keep him from getting near the man. But one backward glance told Jake that Ben wasn't moving anytime soon. The kid had blanched, eyes wide and scared.

Whatever it was that was happening to the man, Jake knew there was nothing he could do to save him, and there was no way he was getting near…that thing.

Smoke, blackened and thick spewed from the man's mouth like he was burning up from the inside out. He coughed and cried out until the last of it had been expelled, dark mist scattering to the shadows, leaving behind a mess of flesh and gibberish, of scared eyes and quaking words.

The man was looking at him, pleading with him to listen to him, that he was innocent. It was the man with the black eyes.

There was no black left outside of the man's pupils, the whites and hazel irises returned. These were not the eyes of a killer; these were the eyes of a terrified man. The abrupt transition had Jake stunned silent, the rest of the world dead to him. Everything but those eyes.

Ben's hand on his shoulder brought him back, realization threading through the confusion and haze. He could see the swaths of red and blue light bathing the alley, could hear the sirens behind them, and noticed the officers running in to grab the man who could no longer stand on his bloodied leg. He was screaming his innocence, fighting them…

This was not the man in the apartment…

The bells from St. Peter's Cathedral sounded, pulling Jake's eyes up to the stained glass windows above the alley, the angel in one looking down at him and where they had fought. They had been near a church…

Ben was no longer with him, and he was painfully aware of that fact as soon as the world started to speed up, his shock wearing off. Del loomed in front of him demanding answers. Why was the man in that condition, where did Jake find him? How did Jake find him? Jake didn't have time for this or the sense to put together a good enough lie, so he just mumbled out how the guy must have been on some kind of drugs to run like that. How he'd attacked Ben and Jake reacted. Beyond that Jake didn't know anymore than Del.

He found his brother by their '37 on the street, jaw taught, and muscles along it bounding in thought. He looked small, hunched over himself, eyes on the busted camera in his hands.

"What if there are more?"

What the hell was it even? Jake could only think of one thing as he looked back toward the church…and who the hell would believe that?

Jake leaned back against the car with Ben, shoulders slouching, trying to drain out the man pounding on the windows of the squad car.

The man could be innocent. And there was nothing he could do…at least not anything that wouldn't cost him everything. But he knew the truth, he had seen it with his own eyes, and he was combating the doubt seeping into his mind through fragmented pieces of the logic of what he had just seen.

Jake shook his head. "Then Heaven help us."

Whatever it had been…it had been evil. That darkness that had looked into Jake's very core had left an imprint; had left Jake feeling like he needed to scrub it clean. He remembered being told once that evil survived because good men chose to do nothing and Ben's words were pricking at his heart.

The Jake I believe in…would never turn his back…

He was at a crossroads and he knew the decision he made would change everything, alter it violently…

"If there are more…" Ben sighed beside him, straightening.

Jake saw something there in his brother's eyes, something that he knew he couldn't fight, short of locking his brother away. It was something echoing through his own resolve, something that had been tearing him apart for weeks on end.

There was no more hiding from it. Everything was about to change with Ben's words. And Jake knew he wouldn't be alone.

This was theirs now.

Ben pushed away from the car with purpose. "…Then I can't do nothing."

TBC...

A/N: Thanks again to Vanessa and noelani618 for your betas. To you, the readers and reviewers, thanks for all your support!

We know this chapter focused primarily on the Colt brothers, but in order to set up this story we definitely needed to tell theirs. The coming chapters are more balanced for the brothers, if not predominantly more on the Winchesters. Also, keep in mind that Sam and Dean are "there" in these flashbacks. They experience what these brother's experience and see what they see, and are living out this past which will become very interconnected with theirs as the story continues. For those of you who are concerned this isn't a story about Sam and Dean, we hope you see that the Colts' story is just as much theirs.