A/N: ::whistles Joshua Fought the Battle of Jericho:: And the walls came tumblin' down... Also, you noted that this story is rated T, right? I certainly hope you did cos this chapter and the next one are why.

Bip. Silence for perhaps 30 seconds. Bip.

Dean groaned, twisted in his sheets, and fumbled at the obnoxious beeping object next to his left ear. It turned out to be his phone, whining at him to plug it in. Battery exhausted. Call length: 4h42m. "Whoops." He shoved the phone onto his bedside table next to the charger cord, then scrubbed his face with his hands.

As usual, getting ready for class took twice as long with his casted leg. It was only from the knee down, but it weighed a ton and maneuvering through narrow doorways and crowded furniture with crutches was still something he had to work at. The crutches were great for poking his roommate, though. Pros and cons.

Said roommate was nowhere to be seen or heard, and the coffeepot was cold. "Weird," Dean muttered. Jack had been there the night before, watching some annoying late night talk show with the volume thoughtlessly loud, and for all his partying Jack was usually up early. Still, he was popular, and it was entirely possible he was sleeping over with a female friend. Dean tried to brush away the uneasiness and had a suitable college breakfast of cold pizza.

The feeling of unease didn't go away. It lurked in the pit of his stomach, cold and tight, and seemed to haunt the pocket where he normally kept his phone. He repeatedly thought of things to text Sam before realizing he couldn't. He started scribbling them down on a piece of looseleaf while the history prof rambled off on a tangent again.

What classes were required for pre-law? How long have we known 'Uncle' Bobby? You did sleep in a bed last night, right? I mean, eventually?

After lunch, he headed back to his apartment to get his phone. It would be fully charged by then, probably with a text or two from an overly-nervous Sam.

He stepped into the elevator, barely noted the two guys, felt his uneasiness skyrocket for reasons he couldn't explain, and then everything went dark.

"…just kinda unimpressed, I guess."

"He's in college, man- he's gone soft in his old age."

It took Dean a moment to realize that the echoing of the voices wasn't just in his head. Twitching his arms and legs confirmed his suspicion that he was tied to a chair. The air around him was still, musty, and hot. He cracked an eyelid and two blurry silhouettes against bright light eventually resolved into two guys standing in front of your average run-of-the-mill grease papered abandoned factory windows. Sticking to the tired old classics, I see. Has no one any imagination anymore? "Aw, c'mon, I'm not that old," he mumbled. "Thirty's about prime, isn't it?" He heard footsteps, made out one of the silhouettes approaching. "Old enough to know better, young enough to still have fun. 'sides, it's not the years, y'know: it's the mileage."

"God, you're just as annoying as I've heard," the guy said. He was the one who, if his distaste was any indication, had never had opportunity to go to college. "Always with some stupid quip. One of these days you're really going to annoy someone and he's gonna say 'to hell with it' and shoot you."

Dean waited for his heart to start pounding, his face to start sweating, some reaction, and wasn't sure what to make of the fact that his instinctual response seemed to remain at be annoying. "So are you 'someone'?" Up close, the guy was a mess: unwashed hair that needed to be cut, at least a week's scraggly growth on his face, at least two layers of worn out clothes, grease stained and screaming white trash.

Dean thought of where he'd last seen lack of personal hygiene combined with neglected clothing and suddenly his blood ran cold.

The guy chuckled low in his throat. It was an ugly sound. "Oh, you have no idea how much I want to be right now. But we're a little more interested in your brother."

An hour passed and three more people showed up, a man, a teenage boy, and a woman. From the way they interacted Dean guessed they were a family, but as they took apart, cleaned, and reassembled two shotguns and a rifle, he wondered if their motto was the family that slays together stays together. The teenage boy in particular was creepy. He acted so excited to be here, to be a part of trapping and capturing Sam Winchester.

If they hadn't swapped out ropes for handcuffs, Dean was pretty sure he would have been free by now. He was furious enough to burn right through rope.

They stayed too far away for him to hear what they were talking about other than stray words. "Apocalypse" he heard once, and "abomination." They rarely referred to Sam by name, or at least he assumed that they were talking about Sam when they said "the freak" since they spoke his name with the same disgust. Periodically they'd glance over, like they were worried he'd worked himself out of the handcuffs sans key/paperclip/lock picks and free hand.

He lost track of time, the air in the warehouse getting hotter and more close as the afternoon wore on. They didn't offer him water, and he didn't waste his breath asking. Sweat dripped down his back and face, irritating and somewhat alarming.

The glowing windows were just starting to dim when the woman sauntered over, bottle of water in one hand and a sawed-off in the other. "Thirsty?" she asked, and he honestly couldn't tell if she was taunting or not, so he said nothing. "No? You sure?"

"If I say yes," he said hoarsely, "you just gonna drink it in front of me?"

She looked almost offended. "Dean." She unscrewed the cap and brought it to his lips. He hesitated, then figured he had nothing to lose and opened his mouth. It was slightly alarming how much of an expert she was, tipping the bottle at the right angle so he could drink the whole thing without stopping, which she allowed him to do. "We don't blame you, you know."

He panted a moment, feeling significantly less parched, and wondering how much of this conversation he was going to understand. "You have the advantage on me, Mrs.…?"

"Call me Caroline." Caroline had dyed red hair that was dark brown and silver at the roots, weathered skin, and wore no makeup and no jewelry except for a strange metal symbol on a leather cord around her neck. She looked to be in the middle of that nebulous age range where she could get away with calling people 'hon' but probably no one would get away unscathed after calling her 'ma'am.'

"Great. First name basis. Let me put this succinctly, Caroline: I have no idea what you do or what you want with my brother, but let me just say, if you hurt him, I will kill you."

Caroline looked unnerved. "You don't even work together anymore and you…" She shook her head. "That's some bond you boys got going. Is it true you're psychic?"

Dean blinked. "Are you-? You're out of your mind. Well, that explains a lot."

"I'm not insane, Dean, and I don't think you are either. Your brother, well…" She clicked her tongue.

He squirmed against the handcuffs. "Sam's not insane!"

Caroline shook her head again. "This isn't about Sam being insane, Dean. This is about Sam being stopped. Once and for all."

Dean froze, staring at her. His brain was running in circles, trying to connect the dots, but Sam was so effective at being vague that he still didn't have so much as a semi-educated guess what his brother did for a living. He couldn't see Sam as a spy, not with his emotions running so close to the surface, and that went double for assassin. Thus far he'd blanked on another profession that could fit under 'a cult.' And now these people, these five people against Sam's one, were going to kill Sam.

Kill Sam. He felt sick and light-headed. His leg had been throbbing all day and now it felt swollen in the heat, pressing against the cast.

Caroline half-smiled sympathetically and patted his shoulder. "Don't worry. Once he's gone, we'll send you after him quick and painless." The smile became sardonic. "We want to live, after all."

Dean considered throwing up.

"So is this what you do?"

The conversation stopped and one of the guys called back, "What?"

Dean licked his lips and repeated, "Is this what you do? Hunt people down?" He sensed the silence was incredulous. "Honestly, I have no idea what you have against my brother-"

"He's an abomination," the second kidnapper said, voice dripping with disgust.

Dean couldn't keep back an incredulous laugh. "Sorry, he's a what?"

"We've heard the stories. Everyone's heard the stories." The second kidnapper walked over, his square, ugly face scarred and tight with anger, rifle leaning over one shoulder. He spat on the floor. "Allied himself with a demon, drank its filthy blood- Rumor is he was lookin' to open the Cage, let the Devil himself out of Hell. Maybe he was plannin' to ally himself with him. Maybe he was plannin' to kill him and climb onto that unholy throne himself. I don't know and frankly I don't care. All's I know for sure is, he was stabbed to death two years ago and he's still walkin' around. That ain't natural, and we put down things that ain't natural."

Dean swallowed another laugh. "What the hell are you on? Demons? The devil? Are you serious?"

The kidnapper paused and tilted his head. "You know, I wouldn't have believed it, but- You really don't know what your brother does, do you? Or what he used to do. God knows what he does now."

Dean shifted in the chair. Of all the ways to find out… "No. I don't. He didn't tell me. He said I'd be safer if I didn't know."

They chuckled wryly as a group. "Fat lot of good it did you," Caroline's significant other said.

"Still," Caroline said uncertainly, "it's almost sweet."

"Sweet and Sam Winchester don't belong together in the same sentence," the man retorted, almost a rebuke. "He's a monster. We hunt monsters."

"You keep saying shit like that," Dean said, anger heating up in the pit of his stomach. "Monster, abomination, demons, the devil- You're all insane."

"No, not insane." The kidnapper came closer and pulled up the side of his dirty green-and-white plaid shirt. There were scars across his side, long and wide and ugly. "Know anything natural with claws that big?" He dropped the hem and pushed up a sleeve, showing where enormous puncture wounds arced around his forearm. "How about teeth? Huh?" Dean could only stare. "Those're from a werewolf."

"There's no such thing," Dean said numbly.

The kidnapper leered and rolled his sleeve back down. "You'd sure love to think so, wouldn't you? Sorry, buddy: ghosts, werewolves, demons- they all exist, and most of 'em wanna kill you, eat you, or both. That's not the half of it, either. If you've heard a story about it, it probably exists somewhere, and someone's huntin' it. That's what you and your brother and your daddy did, til your daddy dropped dead and it was just the two of you." He sneered. "The Winchester brothers. Most famous supernatural hunters in the States. D'you have any idea how much we hear about you two? Then we hear that you've dropped dead and it's just Sammy, all by his lonesome."

"It's Sam."

He spat on the floor again. "I look like I give a shit? But we wondered, y'know, because it isn't the first time you've pulled a disappearing act, and then somebody was trawlin' around Phoenix and who does he see on campus-"

Outside, a just-lit streetlight went dark with a loud pop. Then another. And another.

"Shit, he's here," Caroline said softly, her voice almost reverent. She chambered her shotgun, her son following suit. Her man felt at his pockets before taking a firmer grasp on his rifle. The first kidnapper pulled a wicked-looking knife out of a sheath on his belt and twirled it in his fingers before picking up a sawed-off shotgun in the other hand.

The second kidnapper yanked off the kerchief from around his neck and tied it around Dean's mouth before he could say anything. "Stay quiet," he hissed, dropping his rifle into his hands and cocking it. He rejoined the others; they conferred in whispers before splitting up, the first kidnapper and Caroline's significant other disappearing behind Dean, Caroline and her son heading into the shadowy area to his left, and the second kidnapper going right.

Dean gagged. The kerchief tasted like sweat and gunpowder, and for the first time he really felt afraid, fear coursing down his spine like cold water. It was not, he noted with some surprise, fear for himself, but for Sam, who was presumably the 'he' spoken of and was walking into a trap.

Five against one. Monsters. Demons. Sam.

I can't do it alone.

I guess you could call it a cult. In 'til you die.

If you've heard a story about it, it probably exists somewhere, and someone's huntin' it.

Ghosts, demons, God only knew what else was out there.

If you start poking around, there are people who might recognize you and then God only knows what will happen.

Then we hear that you've dropped dead and it's just Sammy, all by his lonesome, and then somebody was trawlin' around Phoenix and who does he see on campus-

I just never did this alone before, okay? Did what?

I've tried, okay, I've tried to get out and it doesn't work.

Forget it. It's a catch-22. You'd have to know what wasn't safe to appreciate what I'm doing.

OH MY GOD you are NOT going to tell me you believe in this crap? Someone does.

Tattoos. Cults. Fear, hatred, gunpowder and sweat.

Learn to shoot- you were really good before, and I bet your muscle memory will serve you well here.

A gunshot, echoing in the warehouse. A wordless, high-pitched scream cut off with a second gunshot. Silence. Soft footsteps, then more silence. Somewhere an empty cardboard box skidded along the floor. Dean could hear someone panting behind him, breathing out curse words and "c'mon, c'mon."

A harsh scratching sound and something too bright to look at clattered to a halt right in front of Dean. He closed his eyes reflexively, heard the person behind him gasp in pain, shout "George, George, he threw a flare, I can't see-"

Another gunshot, much closer. Behind him the second kidnapper shrieked, fired his shotgun, the sound like a physical blow. Pellets rattled against the floor. Dean flinched, unable to move, his ears ringing, his head pounding. A wet thud cut short the pained cries, replacing them with a horrible, gasping gurgling that stopped after a few seconds.

Silence except for the hissing flare and metallic clicking sounds from somewhere off to Dean's left that he identified after a moment as a handgun being reloaded. Quiet footsteps then, coming towards him, very close. Dean shuddered, wondering if he was about to feel a cold, round circle against his temple, or maybe nothing at all.

Instead, he heard a soft impact and suddenly the light dimmed, the flare skittering behind him. Warm fingers, shaking a little, pulled the kerchief away from his face and for a terrifying moment a long, cold edge slid vertically against his cheek. A rough tug, the sound of fabric being cut, and the kerchief's pressure disappeared. "Got three," Sam said quietly, business-like. "How many others?"

Dean felt like he was smothering. He opened his eyes but in the darkness after the flare couldn't see anything. "Two."

"Okay. Sit tight." Quiet footsteps left before he could say wait, what's going on, Sam, is it true-