A/N: Hey remember when I said this story is rated T? For language and themes? Yeah the main theme is violence and there's quite a bit of it "onscreen" in this chapter. Also appearing live and in person is my first written-out f-word! ::scattered clapping::

Thanks to the two of you who reviewed. If anyone else feels like reviewing, please know it's really really really appreciated!

Silence. Dean shifted uneasily. The flare hissed behind him, and as his eyes adjusted he could see the stark shadow it cast of himself, chained to a chair. A long seam in the concrete stretched from the front of the warehouse to, presumably, the back of it, and a slow stream of bright red liquid flowed past him in it. Dean smelled iron and phosphorus and other things he didn't want to think about. He felt sick.

Sudden running footsteps startled him. The first kidnapper careered into sight, then skidded to a halt as he stared behind Dean. Dean noted his expression of mixed horror, terror, and a certain amount of sickened acceptance and decided not to look. The kidnapper made eye contact for a moment, a fleeting look of respect and understanding, then turned and ran for the door. Another gunshot echoed and the kidnapper sprawled to the concrete. Sam emerged from behind some crates on Dean's right and crossed the open ground- calm, unflinching, as if this was routine -and knelt next to the body, putting two fingers against his neck.

Dean heard the scrape of a shoe behind him and something small pressed between his shoulder blades. His heart jumped like it was trying to escape by punching a hole through his solar plexus.

Sam turned and rose to his feet, face cold and impassive. His gun dangled from his right hand. He stood, tall and unmoving, the light from the flare casting stark shadows on his face. He looked almost alien. Dean swallowed hard, thinking about five against one, freak, abomination, monster, an ugly scar at the base of Sam's spine, allied himself with a demon, drank its filthy blood, stabbed to death two years ago, ain't natural, we put down things that ain't natural-

"Drop the gun," said a voice behind him, shaky, breath coming in huffs.

The gun dropped from Sam's fingers and clattered to the concrete.

"Put your hands up."

Sam complied smoothly, easily. "Why don't you just shoot me?" His voice was quiet and sardonic, calm, cool, terrifying. "I mean, that was the plan, right? Kidnap my brother, pull me out of hiding, shoot on sight?" He nodded at the floor behind Dean. "How's that working out for you, George?" He half-smiled. Dean's heart jumped again.

"I'll shoot him!" George threatened, voice rising hysterically.

Sam blinked, the half-smile freezing. "Sure, George," he said, voice still quiet and calm, but now edged with cold steel. "But after you do that, can you shoot me before I pick up my gun and shoot you? Because I swear to you-" His voice shook now, with fear or anger Dean couldn't tell, perhaps a mix of both. "-you shoot my brother and you will wish I went for a headshot." In the light from the guttering flare Sam looked like a psychopath, face mostly expressionless but twitching, hands raised not in surrender but in a complacency that could disappear in the blink of an eye, all 6'something of him tense and waiting.

The pressure between Dean's shoulder blades shook, then was removed. Dean was trying to remember how to breathe when the barrel of a rifle appeared practically over his shoulder, aiming unsteadily at Sam.

A bomb going off in the room couldn't have been louder. The minor explosion as the bullet broke the sound barrier felt like a two-by-four hitting the side of Dean's head. Sam dropped like a load of bricks and lay still. Dean couldn't breathe. Smoke in the air made his eyes water. He blinked away the tears, inhaled roughly, then exhaled. Sam wasn't moving. He couldn't breathe again.

Faintly, he heard disbelieving laughter. "Holy shit," George said, his voice sounding like it came from a great distance. "Holy shit." He half-staggered over to Sam's motionless body, knelt-

Sam's eyes opened, his right hand pulled a knife from his belt, and then George was sitting back on his heels, fingers plucking at the steel embedded in his throat. Blood poured down his neck to soak into his shirt and he looked surprised as he slowly fell sideways. He made a few gurgling sounds, twitched, then his fingers went still as his mouth went slack.

Dean couldn't hear out of his left ear, but his right ear worked well enough that he heard Sam's winded and almost disgusted, "Ever heard of a bulletproof vest, dumbass?"

Sam acted very calm as he unlocked the handcuffs with the lockpicks he pulled out of a pocket. Once one wrist was free Dean grabbed at his brother's hand and waited for Sam to look at him. The flare was almost dead and with the streetlights shot out he could barely make out Sam's face, forget about expression. "What the hell was that," Dean asked, and then coughed.

"Later." Sam's voice trembled, giving him away. His fingers shook for a moment before he pulled free to unlock the other sets of handcuffs. Silence fell again, only broken by the last dying hisses of the flare and Sam's uneven panting.

"Won't the police be coming?"

"Sure, once I call them." Dean's other wrist came free and Sam ducked to unlock his ankles. "We're in the middle of nowhere."

"How did you know where I was?"

Sam's hands slowed, then resumed. "I… There's a… I put a GPS tracker in your shoe."

"You what?"

Sam pulled another cuff apart with more vehemence than necessary. "The night I stayed over, I did get up at eight, but I didn't go for a run. I did it just in case this happened," he clarified, sounding halfway between defensive and embarrassed. "I wasn't tracking your every move, Dean. But then you didn't answer your phone, even after I'd waited for the couple hours it would take to recharge, and- well, you made the news, you know. Injured straight-A college student disappears between classes. Your face and name plastered everywhere." The last cuff squealed in protest as he yanked it apart. "Now everyone knows you're alive." He straightened, rummaged in his pockets, and pulled out a flashlight which he clicked on. The circle of light illuminated the concrete between their feet, increasing the ambient light so that crates and cardboard boxes loomed out of the dark. Sam's face was still in strong shadow, making it impossible to read his expression. "C'mon, let's get out of here."

"Isn't that your knife in-?" Dean pointed behind, still not looking.

Sam smiled, white teeth gleaming. "No. Good thinking, but no. That was the woman's."

"Caroline." Dean imagined her laying in the dark, bloody hole in her head. It was disturbing how easily it came to mind. "Her name was Caroline."

Sam's smile had disappeared. "C'mon." He turned on his heel and headed for the side door that the first kidnapper had been making for when Sam shot him. He paused next to George, shining the light on his face, then knelt and pulled the knife back out of his neck with a grunt.

The almost professional manner of it turned out to be the straw that broke the camel's back: Dean, at the edge of nausea for several hours, finally threw up. Sam was at his elbow in a moment, hovering but not touching. When his stomach was empty (or, well, emptier), Dean spat and straightened slowly, dizzy.

"There's water in the car," Sam said quietly. "C'mon."

Dean limped after him without looking back.

"What did they tell you?"

Outside the car, the half moon cast an indifferent light over the weeds surrounding them in the abandoned lot. The wind whistled through the partially open windows. Crickets chirped. Dean swallowed a mouthful of beer and tried to organize his thoughts. "A lot of stuff," he said finally. "About demons, and werewolves, and…" He laughed once, then took another pull from the bottle. "I don't think I'm drunk enough to have this conversation."

Sam exhaled for several seconds, then leaned his forehead on his hands against the steering wheel of the Impala. "Shit." He slammed a palm against the wheel, then curled his fingers around it. Had the light been better, Dean was sure he'd see his knuckles whiten. "That was- Shit."

"It explains a lot," Dean offered. "The whole… assassin-aura, the weird matching tattoos, that, uh…" He swallowed hard. "Hey, the guy said you… died. Are zombies a thing too?" His attempt at a light-hearted tone failed.

"Yes, but I'm not a zombie. They don't work the same as in the movies, either." Sam's voice was muffled against his hands. "It's… complicated. And irrelevant. I'm human."

"So the scar-?"

"I died," Sam said flatly. He sighed, sat back and rubbed his face with his hands. "God. I didn't want- Shit. Damn it all." He was silent for a long moment. "I got stabbed," he said finally. It sounded like he was forcing every word. "I died. You… God. You made a deal with a demon and brought me back."

The phrases "a deal with a demon" and "brought me back" came from him so naturally that Dean shivered. "So demons are real."

"Unfortunately. Those hunters were gunning for me, right? Did they tell you about the…" Sam's voice went brittle and then faded.

"Yeah, they were. They called you an… abomination." Dean looked at the profile of the man sitting next to him, hair cut badly, subdued and angry, smelling like blood and gunpowder, and yet when he tried to associate the word 'abomination' with him, it just didn't work. "Other crap, too. They were pretty scared of you, I guess."

Sam sniffed derisively and shook his head. "A year and a half ago, there might've been some basis to that. I've been slipping lately."

Dean hesitated, then began, "They mentioned demon blood…?" Sam stiffened, teeth clicking audibly as his jaw clenched. Dean backpedaled. "Hey man, we don't have to talk about all of this now. It's late. You probably need some sleep…"

"It's like heroin." Sam's voice was barely above a whisper. "I guess- well, no, not like heroin. Demon blood makes you stronger, lets you do things you couldn't otherwise, but it's addictive. I was… When I… Our… Shit." He dropped his head back onto his hands. "Our lives are so fucked up."

Dean hesitated again, then placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then tell me tomorrow. Or the day after. But no letters this time, or I'll hunt you- uh, shit."

Sam snickered weakly. "Don't worry about it. Inappropriate humor is kind of our thing." He sighed. "Yeah, okay."

"Okay what?"

"I need to sleep. Any good motels around here? And by good I mean cheap. I'm not picky."

"Yeah, I think I know where one is." Dean climbed out of the car, ignoring Sam's startled "Where are-?" and came around to the driver's side. "Scoot over. You're too tired to drive."

"I'm-" Sam sighed again and moved over. "I'm too tired to argue, anyway."

He was asleep in ten minutes.

Dean unlocked the door, balancing the bag of doughnuts on top of the coffee cups, and opened it to see a mussed, confused Sam sitting up. "Hng?"

"Morning, sleeping beauty," Dean said cheerfully. "Coffee?" The cheer was a little forced, especially now that he could get a good look at Sam.

The cut across his face was healed but still pink, there were dark half-circles under his eyes despite sleeping for several hours, and his ragged haircut looked worse in sunlight. "Hwa tummasit?" He rubbed his face and Dean frowned at the swollen knuckles and numerous little cuts all over the back of Sam's right hand.

"What'd you do to your hand?"

"Huh?" Sam looked at it for a long moment. "Oh. Hyeah. Brakka winda."

"And in English?"

Sam yawned, then stretched. Joints popped and cracked and Dean winced. "Broke a window," Sam repeated, enunciating carefully. "What time is it?"

"It's just after eight."

"Oh." Sam rubbed his eyes, blinked twice at nothing, then looked up with a slight frown. "Shouldn't you be in class?"

"Nope." Dean offered a cup. "Coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks." Sam downed what looked like half the cup in one breath. "Mm, good stuff."

"Damn, should have grabbed you another."

Sam waved it off. "I'll get more later." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and frowned down at his jeans, which were filthy. "Wow. The maid is gonna be pissed."

"She works in a skeevy motel- I'm sure she's cleaned worse. Anyway, I took off your shoes."

"Decent of you." Sam combed his hair with his fingers and grimaced. "God, why is it whenever I see you I needed a shower like two days ago?"

Dean gestured toward the bathroom as he sank down onto the other bed. "I took a shower last night- decent water pressure, though you've got to turn the handle really far to the left to get to the hot water. But first-" He opened the bag and offered it. "Hungry?" Sam grabbed the whole bag and shoved half a doughnut into his mouth. He said something Dean figured was 'famished' but it sounded more like 'fammah.' "Dude, did no one ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?"

Sam looked up at him, clearly wanting to say something, but he had to swallow three times before he could be understood. Dean waited for a smartass comment but all Sam said was, "Thanks."

Dean shrugged. "You're welcome."

Sam finished the doughnut in two bites, pulled another out of the bag, then handed it back. He jerked a thumb at the bathroom, pushed about a third of the doughnut into his mouth, then set it down next to his almost empty coffee cup to strip off his shirt.

Sam had always been careful before not to undress in front of Dean, and what Dean had taken for privacy he now realized was just another wall Sam had put up between them. Scars of every age and description told a battered history all over his chest and stomach, accented by bruises and healing cuts. He had the same flaming pentagram tattoo as Dean, and in the same place. When he turned toward the bathroom, Dean saw his back was just as scarred and bruised, but the large scar at the base of his spine took the cake. "Damn, dude. And I don't look that bad because…?"

Sam peeled off his dirty jeans and swallowed what was in his mouth. "It's a long story." He hesitated in the doorway. "I guess I can tell you now. After I shower."

"Okay." Dean settled back on his bed, raising his casted leg with a wince. "We've got all morning, anyway." He turned on the TV. "I'll be waiting."