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 7

The loud rumbling roar of a car engine filled the still night air as a sleek Black 1967 Chevy Impala glided gracefully over the shiny black top of the highway at nearly full speed.

The dark, skeletal black woods that loomed on either side of the road flew past the Impala's windows like inky blurs.

John Winchester was sitting dutifully behind the wheel of the vehicle, years of training and sheer will power keeping the immense amounts of pain he was at bay as he focused as much of his concentration on driving as he could.

It wasn't easy because he had several other important thoughts in his mind that were all jockeying to become the chief thought in his head.

One, among all these other thoughts concerned the seventeen year old young man riding shotgun beside him in the front passenger seat with a pressing need of ice for the large, unsightly purplish bruise gracing the side of his head.

Another pressing thought concerned the thirteen year old boy occupying the bag seat, utterly silent and staring out the car window at the passing scenery with a eerily calm expression despite the fact that underneath that large winter coat he was wearing, he was thoroughly drenched in Black Dog's blood.

And third among these pressing thoughts concerned the horrific events that had transpired merely an hour and a half ago back down the road, deep inside the woods. The events that had led to the three Winchesters being in the states that they were in.

Two of them with moderate to severe injuries and one with what the other two assumed was in shock.

As he drove, John kept glancing up at the rear view mirror, eying his thirteen year old son with growing concern and questions bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

Dean was silently mirroring his father's actions, also using the rear view mirror to eye his baby brother in the back seat.

From where he sat supposedly staring out the window, Sam was fully aware that his family was discreetly staring at him.

And with good reason, he did after all still have blood spatter gracing the left side of his face and neck, it was almost dry now, as was the blood that he hadn't been able to wipe away on the rock face earlier.

He knew they couldn't help it but he still wished they would cut it out so that his dad would put his focus mainly on the road and not crash into anything cause he really didn't want them all to still end up dying tonight, especially after everything he had suffered through to keep them all alive against the Black Dog.

He was was bone tired now.

And so, for the better part of two hours, John Winchester drove through the darkness of the mere 11:00 night, back to the safety civilization in the form of the small town they were temporarily calling home.

The quiet, slightly run down neighborhood they'd situated themselves in was a welcome sight to all three Winchesters.

With the fatigue he'd been keeping at bay finally beginning to wash over him, John pulled the Impala up in front of the rented house. With a soft sputter, the engine was turned off.

Before John or Dean could even open their mouths to speak, Sam all but bolted out of the backseat of the car.

The two older Winchesters watched as first, their youngest stopped at the driver's side door and wordlessly yanked it open. Then he trotted off to wards the house. flying up the cement stairs to that led to the front door. Sam fished out his set of house keys from one of his coat pockets and opened the door in one fluid motion.

Before the door itself had even fully swung open, Sam was already bolting back down the steps and running back to the Impala where his big brother and his father had yet to move.

Sam came to a halt at his father's side and gazed at them both expectantly before he spoke with quiet urgency clear in his voice.

" Guys c'mon, we gotta get inside before the neighbors see us."

That effectively snapped both Dean and John back to the present situation.

As fast as he could, Dean got out of the Impala and rushed over to the driver's side door while John slowly began to force his injured body to climb out of the vehicle. Sam and Dean both reached out and grasped their father's arms to steady him as he stood with a small, stifled groan and his face tight with pain as his injured leg was jarred.

As they did in the woods hours before, the two younger Winchesters helped their father limp his way up to the house.

John grunted as he hopped up the front steps, grateful to his youngest son for his good sense of earlier to open the door first as the three of them entered the house.

The three of them made a B-line for the living room where John and Dean both wearily collapsed onto the large, ratty old sofa situated there.

Without either his father or his brother noticing, Sam disappeared off into the kitchen, he did allow himself to indulge in the need for rest, no matter how well earned it was. After all, there were more pressing matters that still needed to be tended to asap.

Back in the living room, Dean let a small groan escape him as he turned his attention to his more grievously injured father.

" Hey Dad how're you-Ahhoww!!!" Dean's question was abruptly cut off as he felt something glacially cold being pressed a little to hard against the tender bruise that graced his head, the battle wound he'd received from the battled he's lost against the Black Dog this night. Dean's hand flew up to his head, his fingers instantly sharing the frigid feeling against his temple.

Dean and John looked up to see Sam looming over them, with one blood caked hand he was pressing a large ice pack to his brother's head with an unflinching, iron grip. In his other hand, he was holding the med-kit they kept in one of the kitchen cupboards.

Wordlessly, Sam placed the med-kit on the coffee table, dexterously opening it with a soft click, he also let go of the ice pack, his hand numb and unfeeling...

Like his heart was now.

Without bothering to even spare his father and brother the slightest of glances, Sam turned his back to them, peeled off his winter coat to reveal the congealed mess of dark red that was hidden beneath, threw it over the banister, and then swiftly disappeared up the stairs to the second floor.

All before Dean or John could even part their lips to utter a single syllable.

As he silently climbed the stairs and wearily dragged himself into the bathroom and switched on the light. Sam felt disgust bubble in his stomach as he felt the sticky, congealed blood over his skin and clothing.

It was cold and itchy over his arms and face and most likely against his torso because it had seeped in through the material of his ruined shirt.

With a soft click of the lock on the bathroom door, Sam turned and stood before the mirror above the sink, finally able to gaze upon his appearance with his own two eyes.

And indeed, in his own opinion, he was an absolutely horrendous sight to behold.

Perfect little circles of now blackish red dotted his left cheek, there was a thick spatter down the left side of his neck that stained into his shirt collar.

With a small swallow, Sam blinked and then moved his gaze downward on his reflection in the mirror.

His torn, tan colored sweater shirt was deeply saturated in intricate little blood spatters. Ruined, no chance of being salvaged.

At this, Sam lamented a little.

This had been one of his favorite shirts too.

Then, Sam turned his gaze away from his reflection, instead he looked down at his hands as he held them in front of him.

They were caked in streaks of dark crimson red, from the very tips of his fingers to just below his elbows.

These were no longer the hands of a thirteen year old child.

No.

These were the hands of a hunter, a predator... A butcher.

These were his hands, for now and forever.

Blowing out a deep, slow breath through his nostrils Sam dropped his hands and turned away from the mirror.

He turned his attention to the bath tub and closed the sparse distance between it and himself with a single step.

Now he really wanted all this nasty shit off of him.

Sam reached for the tarnished faucets that hung over the head of the tub.

The hot and cold faucets squeaked as Sam turned them, the sound amplified by the silence that blanketed the bathroom.

The silence was fully shattered as the sound of water rapidly flowing and crashing and splashing onto porcelain.

There was another squeak of metal as Sam turned the tap in the middle, switching the flow of water so that it began raining down from the shower head.

Sam drew the shower curtain so that the rest of the bathroom wouldn't get sprayed and let the steam build.

While that happened, Sam clenched his jaw as he gripped the hem of his ruined shirt and began pulling it off.

It was then that Sam's only physical injury from his battle with the Black Dog made itself known as the bruise on his back just below the space between his shoulder blades protested loudly to the movement.

Sam ignored the pain, pulling his bloodied shirt off and let it drop to the floor soundlessly.

The youngest Winchester took a moment to once again eye himself in the mirror.

The Black Dog's blood had seeped in through the material of his shirt, staining his chest and abdomen in light smears of red as well.

Sam turned his gaze away from his mirror image and went back to undressing himself.

He leaned against the sink as he untied his heavy winter boots and pulled off his socks. Next, he peeled off his only slightly blood stained pants, there fate would have to rest of whether or not the blood could be washed off. Then, Sam took off his boxer shorts, divesting himself of his final article of clothing before he pulled back some of the shower curtain and stepped into the tub.

The almost too hot shower's spray that assaulted Sam the moment he was standing fully in the tub was welcomed with open arms by his nearly hypothermic body.

Sam enjoyed the heavenly feeling of being warmed for a few minutes before he remembered why he was taking this shower in the dead of night.

He brought his arms fully under the spray, diluting the caked on blood and then scrubbing off as much of it as he could with his hands.

Sam watched in fascination as the red blood mixed with the clear water, splashing and dripping off of him into the tub.

The tendrils of deep red swirled and danced around his bare, slightly submerged feet as they snaked their way to the drain and disappeared down the little hole into the unseen pipe that was connected to it.

When he deemed that enough of the excess blood had gone down the drain, Sam reached with a still somewhat bloodied hand for one of the bottles of shower gel from the shower rack.

He poured a liberal amount of the clear-blue into his hand and once he'd set the bottle back on the rack, he rubbed his hands together to build up a foamy lather.

The soap smelled like a weak version of Irish Spring.

At least it said it was antibacterial.

Sam slathered the foam all over his still red covered body, scrubbing at his skin.

At first, he scrubbed slowly.

But with each cleansing stroke, Sam felt anger bubble up from his stomach and beat through his fractured and dented heart, spreading it boiling and all consuming through his veins.

His scrubbing grew faster and faster with each passing second as his anger soon turned into a volatile, furious rage.

With a scream that he used all his will to muffle so that it sounded more like a strangled growl, Sam stopped scrubbing at his arms and face and instead, sent his fist flying into the tiled wall.

Thankfully, Sam pulled back some of the force behind his hand at the last minute, the tiles that his knuckles connected with cracked jaggedly, but didn't break fully.

Sam's chest heaved as he breathed rapidly through his nose, riding out the waves of his fury. When his hammering heart calmed down enough, Sam remembered that he was in the shower, stilled moderately covered in frothy pinkish soap, with hot water cascading over him.

Sam jerked his hand away from the wall and quickly rinsed himself off.

Once that was done, Sam speedily turned off the water and grabbed up a couple of the dark green towels from where they hung over the metal bar that held the shower curtain.

He wrapped one snuggly around his waist and used the other one to dry his hair and upper body as fast as he could.

He just wanted to get out of the bathroom as fast as he could.

He sparred his bloodied clothes where they lay near the door and decided he'd take care of them later as he all but bolted out of the bathroom and down the hall to the bedroom he and Dean shared.

Once he was inside the bedroom, he made a B-line for his bed and sat down at the foot with a heavy sigh.

As he sat there, Sam felt the last of his rage flee from his being, leaving only an emptiness as deep at the Grand Canyon within his soul.

He sat in the silence for a little while before he remembered that his father and him brother were downstairs.

With another sigh, and feeling the emptiness within him fled with the residual ache of his still freshly wounded heart and the dull anger at his father and brother, Sam forced himself to his feet and quickly found a t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants from the dresser.

He garbed himself as fast as he could, his bruised back protesting to the movement yet again.

Once he was dressed, Sam took a deep breath and walked out of his and Dean's bed room and down the hall to the stairs.

After all, he had promised his family an explanation of what the Hell had happened tonight.