Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural and I am not making any profits off of this story. It all belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke so, please don't sue and please don't be offended by the language or situations the characters find themselves in.

Chapter 5

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!

The sound of the shotgun blast was deafening.

The recoil of the gun nearly forced him to take a step back wards.

Nearly.

Sam shut his eyes and jerked his head away sharply to the side as he felt a mist of thick, warm liquid spray him.

It cooled instantly against the pale white skin of his exposed arms, the side of his neck, and his left cheek.

Slowly, very slowly, Sam turned his head back around to stare at the aftermath of the shotgun's devastating discharge.

It was quiet now, everything was shrouded in stillness.

Sam breathed through his nose, his nostrils taking in calm, steady breaths.

Instantly, the thick sent of buck-shot, gun powder, and bloody gore filled the smell receptors in his nose, the stench tickling the back of his throat.

The Black Dog, a hound from the very depths of Hell itself, his adversary, hung limp and unmoving.

Eyes that were once fiery red and filled with bright hatred and rage were now gazing at Sam extinguished, just two dull orbs of dead maroon. The entire back of the Black Dog's neck was gone.

The blast from the shotgun had punched a messy, jagged hole clean through bone, flesh, and fur, severing brain from spinal cord in one fell swoop.

The dead thing's mouth hung wide open, a lax, pink tongue flecked with specks of red dangled listlessly over one side of it's jagged toothed jaw. It dripped tendrils of cold saliva onto the frost covered ground.

Sam became dimly aware that the snow had ceased falling from the Heavens.

With a slow blink of his eyes, Sam yanked on the shotgun he was still holding. He pulled till the muzzle came loose from it's grotesque lodging with a wet, slippery sound.The Black Dog's head slumped over like a marionette who's string had been cut.

Sam slowly brought his gaze downward and stared at his hand, morbid fascination filling him as he eyed how the shotgun and his hands were splattered with a vivid, deep red.

It was then that Sam felt revulsion bubble up from within the pit of his stomach, hot and boiling.

With his nose wrinkling in disgust and annoyance swirling in his eyes, Sam took a small step back and opened up his father's shotgun with a slippery click, he turned the gun over and held it vertical, he lightly shook the spent bullet shells out of the chamber.

He then closed the gun and lightly set it down against the rock wall of the narrow passage way that had literally been the barrier between him and certain death.

With a deep breath, Sam began wiping his hands clean as best he could, lightly running them over the rock wall.

He would've wiped his hands of his pant but, he just didn't want to and he was pretty sure his father wouldn't appreciate any further blood stains to the interior of the Impala than was necessary seeing as to how John himself would most likely be making a fine mess himself with that mangled leg of his.

But, back to current events...

" This feels like demented finger painting." Thought Sam to himself as the shiny black rock before him was slowly being adorned with jagged lines of inky red.

When Sam deemed that he had gotten rid of most of the sticky mess that clung to his hands, Sam took the extra measure of wiping his hand further on the front of his torn and already bloodied shirt.

Then he turned back to his kill and now that the dilemma of death had been successfully averted, a new dilemma made itself known.

How the fuck was he supposed to get out of here now?

Sam didn't need a flashlight to know that this passage way led to either a dead end of solid rock or a sheer drop to either hard frozen water, or even harder solid ground.

Besides, Sam didn't want to go further down this narrow path.

And so, for the next couple of seconds, Sam stood there facing the Black Dog he had just wasted and thought of how he would get himself out of his involuntary imprisonment.

Then, an idea struck him.

He still had Dean's large hunting knife stuffed in the waist band of his jeans.

Sam reached behind him and pulled out the weapon, he held it in hands caked with blood and pulled it free of it's sheath.

The deadly blade, which he'd seen Dean sharpen with reverence and fever the night before, glinted brightly as the light of the moon reflected off of it's smooth, metallic surface.

He eyed the blade and then turned his attention back to the large corpse wedged deep between the two rock walls, barring him from his freedom.

With his eyes calculating and appraising, Sam looked over at the bloody remains of what was once a vicious, blood thirsty Black Dog.

Sam silently eyed the massive damage done to the Dog's neck by his shotgun.

The only thing that still attached the Dog's head to the rest of it's body was basically a sliver of flesh and fur.

Sam's a blank mask, void of everything as he coldly eyed this fact, then with a twirl of his brother's knife he advanced on the corpse of his fallen opponent.

" You wouldn't mind if I slimmed down just a little more now, would you?" Thought Sam before he set to work on freeing himself.

Besides, this thing really didn't require certain bodily parts anymore now did it?

Meanwhile, a mere twenty minutes earlier back down the wooded path that led to Sam's location...

Dean and John Winchester were both still limping and stumbling along, feeling cold, terrified, and exhausted.

They were basically halfway through the path when they heard the first muffled sounds of what was transpiring up ahead at the still distant end of the path.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

The unmistakable sounds of gunshots made the two Winchesters pick up the pace, both of them immediately knowing that the shots were being fired by Sam.

But then, silence followed the multiple bursts of sound.

" Oh God Sammy!" Was the thought that lanced through both Dean and John's terrified minds and then...

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM"

The ear shattering echo of a shotgun exploded through the air.

This loud echo made both John and Dean stop dead in their tracks for a few eternally long seconds.

" Sammy!" Yelled Dean, he was about to take off running in a chaotic mad dash the rest of the way down the but then he remembered his slightly hobbled father a few steps behind him. With a small noise of frustration and cursing the Black Dog that had caused his father's minor handicap, Dean trotted over to his father as fast as he could .

He grabbed John's arm and all but flung it over his own shoulders so that his father was leaning with most of his weight on his oldest son.

" C'mon, we have to get to the end of this Goddamn path sometime this century!" Gritted out Dean.

John nodded mutely, feeling self loathing wash over him as he and Dean hobbled along the path as fast as they could.

He never should have let that stupid mongrel beast get the drop on him and use his leg as a chew toy.

He was supposed to be the senior hunter of this family, it should have been him taking out the thing they were hunting.

Now as they pushed onward, Dean and John felt their terror increase because now, there was only silence, deep and unyielding silence.

The echoes of gun shots and one loud blast had long since faded leaving both father and oldest son desperate to know who had won that battle that had surely happened.

Who was the victor?

Was it the black Dog who had a clear advantage by being a bloody thirsty monster that had already claimed several lives?

Or.

Was it the thirteen year old kid, who they knew to always be too soft hearted and way too inexperienced to take on an evil being that they themselves had been demolished by in the very first round?

Different scenarios of their youngest one mangled, maimed, and worse assaulted both John and Dean's minds without pause as the two of them stumbled furiously down the black dirt path, following the now frozen blood trail.

The two injured Winchesters soldiered on until after some of the most agonizing minutes of their entire lives, they were in sight of the end of this God forsaken long path of cold dirt.

When they were just a few steps away, Dean sucked in as much air as his lungs could take and screamed out a single word with every fiber of being.

" SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!!!!"

Dean waited anxiously for a reply to his loud beckoning but nothing answered him back, there was just silence still.

With his terror spiking, Dean stumbled along to wards the end of the path, pulling an equally scared John along with him.

The two older Winchesters entered the clearing where the rock face loomed ominously against the night sky.

" SAMMY!!!!" Yelled out John, desperate to find his youngest child.

His shout echoed through the silence and faded, still no answer back.

John and Dean looked around frantically for any sign of life.

" Dad the blood trail, it's leading to those rocks over there." Said Dean, his voice lilted with the slightest tremor as he pointed to the rock face.

John nodded mutely and together, he and Dean made the painful trek to wards the rock face.

Dean's shoulders and his back were on fire from having his father's weight on him, John's uninjured leg was throbbing and pulsating viciously as over taxed muscles made themselves known.

But still, they moved on, not caring so much about their sorry states and focused solely on finding that which was most precious to them.

The two of them pushed themselves onward till they were at a portion of the rock face that jutted outward like a crude canopy.

" Dad, why don't you sit here, I can go further, you shouldn't be on that leg." Suggested Dean as he eyed how pale and in pain his father was.

" Can it Dean, that's an order." Barked John through gritted teeth.

" Yes sir." Replied Dean as he tightened his hold on his father as they kept walking.

The two older Winchesters rounded the corner of the rock canopy and the second they did, they both stopped dead in their tracks as their eyes fell on the site before them.

The air was squeezed out of both pairs of lungs and temporarily faltered in doing their mandatory functions.

" Oh... My... God..." Whispered Dean hoarsely while John was too shocked to form even a single syllable.

There before them was a scene straight out of the most hellish of nightmares.

There was deep, oily red staining the two rocky walls of a narrow passage way, the black frost covered ground was tinged crimson by it.

The moonlight shined off of the wet surface.

A metallic stench wafted through the air.

And there a few feet before Dean and John lay a bloodied and slightly minced mound of black fur, and a tall shaggy haired figure they recognized immediately, even though he had his back to them.

Sam.

The thirteen year old stood tall and unmoving, not acknowledging that his family was standing behind him.

His hands were hidden from view and he remained utterly mute.

With the cog wheels of his brain jumbled but turning, Dean slowly took a step forward bringing himself and John closer.

With a thick swallow, Dean forced his vocal cords into service.

" S-Sammy?" He asked with a voice barely just a few octaves above a whisper.

" Son?" Added John, sounding just as unsure and truly afraid.

From where he stood, Sam blinked as the voices of his brother and his father reached his ears.

With a last lingering look at the dead creature that lay before him, Sam slowly began to move.

Dean and John watched with bated breath as Sam turned around with the speed of a snail.

The moment their youngest was fully facing them, John and Dean literally felt their hearts screech to a halt and freeze dead within their chests.

The left side of Sam's face was speckled with tiny to medium sized drops of reddish black blood, there was a large shiny splatter down the same side of his neck, the whole front of his once long sleeved sweater/shirt was covered in both the initial spray and the mess of his most recent actions with Dean's hunting knife.

Though all of this was horrifying, it wasn't until Dean and John's eyes moved down to Sam's hands that they felt an all consuming terror more powerful than the fear they'd been feeling when they'd been stumbling down the path earlier, settled over them.

The top halves of Sam's bare arms were pale, stark white.

The lower halves seemed to have been messily dipped in red.

In his right hand, Sam held his brother's hunting knife, which was slick and dripping the crimson fluid that stained most everything on him and around him.

In his left hand...

Sam tightly gripped the severed head of the Black Dog.

Black fur over a sunken, shriveled face.

It's jaw hanging limp and open like a broken hinge.

Dead and decapitated.

The youngest Winchester stared back at his father and his brother with a blank expression on his face and his eyes dead on any emotion what so ever.

He eyed the horror written clearly over their faces with silent disinterest and then, he drew back his right arm a little and like a pendulum he swing forward, his fingers releasing at the end, releasing the heavy burden they were clinging to.

The Black Dog's head lightly sailed to the still air and landed on the ground with an almost inaudible thud.

It went further due to momentum, rolling like a heinous rubber ball.

It came to a stop at Dean and John Winchester's feet and stared at the two horrified men with dull, unseeing eyes.

Who was the victor of the battle?

The thirteen year old kid named Samuel Winchester.

That's who.