Hello again. I hope you're all enjoying the story so far. Sooo I had most of this chapter written and my laptop decided to shut down and install updates without telling me…and I lost over half the chapter. Damn technology. But I re-wrote it, and it seems no worse for the wear. I have to say that your reviews kept me motivated. You all are so positive and specific that I feel encouraged even when technology is out to get me (maybe there's a ghost in my laptop, haha). You guys are the best! :)

Dean had never felt so powerless before this moment. He was trapped in the back of the van, nestled between beer cases and fast food wrappers. A crudely constructed wire barrier prevented him from making his way up front to strangle the driver, not that he could have crawled up there if he wanted to. His body didn't want to move; every pothole in the road shot hot pokers through his shoulder. Besides, he had used up every ounce of strength fighting to get to Sam. Which, naturally, led him to the final and worst blow to his situation. Sam was bleeding to death in the middle of nowhere, and there was nothing he could do to help him.

Dean rested his head against the cold window and fought against the urge to cry. He didn't cry. Crying didn't solve anything; it wasted time and made you dwell on circumstances that couldn't be fixed. Like Sam, a nasty voice crowed in the back of his mind, He's probably dead by now.

Dean gasped as the van hit an especially nasty pothole, knocking him flat on the carpet. It smelled like piss and blood and stale beer. He didn't have the strength to get back up, so he stayed down. He told himself that the tears running down his cheeks were caused by the pain. He told himself that Sam was alive. He told himself that he wasn't going to die alone in a cage and then lose his mind and become some kind of animal.

Time passed. It was getting hard to remain conscious when the van screeched to a stop. Gravel crunched. The back door swung open and he peered inside. He looked to be in his mid-forty's. Light brown hair fell to his shoulders from a receding hairline. He saw Dean's position and chuckled, his green eyes flashing. "Sorry for the rough ride," he joked, "But there's no first class seating for dying folks."

Dean shuddered and tried to crawl deeper into the van. The man caught him by the ankle and pulled hard, dragging him back like a rag doll. Dean clawed at him, but that only made him laugh harder. He picked Dean up like he didn't weigh anything and carried him toward the house. The porch steps looked like they could collapse any day. Windows were broken, paint was peeling from the siding. The man unlocked the door and strode inside. He threw Dean down on a long wooden table in the dining room.

Dean went rigid at the impact and tasted blood. "You…bastard," he choked, trying to keep breathing.

"Oh please, Winchester," he said, dragging over a long bag and unzipping it, "I just killed your kid brother right in front of you. That puts us on first name terms. My name's Nick. It's a pleasure."

"Go to hell," Dean said, unable to think clearly enough to come up with anything original.

Nick stood up, a large pair of scissors in hand. He sat them on the table just out of Dean's reach and winked at him. "Normally this would be where I cut off your clothes and take a look at your bite," he said, "But I like your jacket. Mine just got ruined last week when this college kid bled all over it and stabbed a hole through the stitching. He's dead now. You and Sam just killed him back at the hotel. You killed my creature, I take your jacket. Fair's fair."

Dean gritted his teeth as the guy leaned closer and reached out, but the stabbing pain still stole his breath when Nick wrenched his jacket off of him. He laid there gasping for a moment, unable to move.

"This is nice," Nick said, holding the jacket against him. "Classy. Do you think it'll fit? I think we're about the same size."

"If Sam's dead," Dean whispered, "So are you. I'll burn you alive."

"Oh, I'm sure he's bled out by now," he said brightly, tossing the jacket onto a chair. He picked up the scissors and leaned closer. "Feel free to carry out that threat whenever you like. Meanwhile, I want a look at your bite. I'm going to cut off your shirt. I suggest you don't move."

The scissors were icy against his flushed skin. Dean shivered, trying to pull away.

"Interesting…" Devon said finally, laying his scissors back down, "The infection is really advanced. It's surprising that you're still alive…" he trailed off and smiled. "Little brother was taking care of you, wasn't he? Keeping it sterilized…possibly using holy water?"

"Stop talking about Sam," Dean growled.

"Definitely using holy water, then. Smart kid. Too bad he's off rotting in your car."

Dean lunged for the scissors.

"Whoa," Nick said, pinning Dean's hand down to the table with a thud, "Easy there. You've got a hell of a lot of spirit for a dying guy."

Dean hissed in pain as Nick squeezed his hand until his bones felt like they would break. He released the scissors.

Nick smirked and threw them back into the bag. "Dean, I've heard about your ego," he said, drawing something else from the bag, "I know you think you're the shit, and you might have been. I've killed hunters before. They talk. You and your brother are often a popular subject, and you sound like more fun than a three ring circus with all the crazy stunts you've pulled over the years. It's impressive, really."

"You've killed…" Dean began, and then coughed, another spurt of blood rising to his lips.

"This isn't my first gig, kid. You might be the shit, but compared to you I'm god. A god that's wise enough to stay under the grid. That was your mistake, making ties and all that. But don't worry, I give you a few more hours and the infection will fester so much that you won't even remember who you are. And you won't remember Sam, so you won't care that your brother's dead. That's my little present to you."

"Nothing is going to make me forget Sam. And he's not dead."

"How adorable," he said, grinning wide enough to show all his white teeth. He leaned forward and grabbled Dean's arms tightly and pulled them together in front of him.

Handcuffs. God no. Dean twisted, trying to pull out of his grip, but he might as well have been trying to arm wrestle Goliath. Nick slapped the cuffs on his wrists, squeezing so tightly that Dean thought they were going to draw blood.

"There," Nick said, "You're done. Whoever you were before—whatever you did, who you knew—forget it. I own you now," he said, zipping the bag back up, "I'm going to lock you up until you die and then I'm going to control your corpse. There's not a damn thing you can do to stop me."

Before Dean could come up with a retort Nick had slung him over his shoulder and strode from the room. The mishandling caused Dean's vision to blur together until he could barely make out colors and shapes in the house. All he knew was that he was being carried up, up, up.

SNSNSN

About twenty some miles away from Dean and the man who held him captive, Brandon Device sat at his kitchen table drinking coffee from a chipped Disney World mug. Every few minutes he would take a drag from a cigarette that was perched on a red china ashtray in the middle of the table, but mostly he just drank coffee. The coffee was spiked with Jack. Or, more accurately, the Jack was spiked with coffee.

A second man walked into the room wearing blood spotted hospital scrubs. Without a word he took the mug from Brandon and drained the contents of the cup with a single gulp.

Brandon looked down at his now empty hands with irritation. He reached over and grabbed the neck of the still half empty bottle sitting on the table and took a long pull. "Well?"

"He's screwed," the man said dryly, tossing the empty mug into the sink and washing his hands.

"You always say that," Brandon said grinning.

"Well this time I mean it," he said, "He was shot too many times. You found him too late and he lost too much blood."

"Come on, Chris. That last thing shouldn't even be an issue here. I brought you blood for the necessary transfusions."

Chris rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Of course. You brought me enough blood that I could have drowned him in it if I wanted to. Did you really have to steal all the donated blood from the last drive?"

"I didn't know his blood type and I wanted to make sure he could be saved. This guy is important."

"Important enough to cost me my job?"

"You haven't lost your job," Brandon said quietly.

"Yet," Chris retorted, "But I had to steal the ventilator that's keeping him alive right now. And the chest paddles. And all the meds for the last guy, and the painkillers for the one before that. All so you can carry on with all your little life-saving adventures," he said, putting finger quotes around the last word.

Brandon winced and picked at the label on the bottle. "Don't say it like that. Why do you always have to say it like that? I have to do this. I'm saving people."

"Yeah, well, I'm done," Chris said, laying his hands flat on the table. "I'm sick of you using me for this shit. I'm your brother, not your damn asset. I've already lost too many jobs because of you, and I'm not losing this one. I like it at this hospital. Other doctors respect me, and I'm helping people every day."

"I don't use you—"

"Next time this happens, don't come to me for help. Here's an idea—take whoever you 'find' to the hospital, where doctors and nurses are trained to save them."

"It's not that simple."

"Why?" Chris demanded. "Tell me why, Brandon. Make me understand."

Brandon hesitated, torn. "I…I can't…"

"Whatever. Just leave me out," Chris said, disgusted. He turned to walk away. Paused. "And you shouldn't drink this shit. You know how it affects you," he said, and swiped the bottle of Jack off the table. He walked to the door.

"Wait. Don't just…I'm sorry…Are we…" Brandon said, voice strained, and paused. "Are we still on for poker next week? Like usual?"

Chris hesitated a beat. "Yeah," he said, and then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Brandon groaned. He slammed his head angrily against the table. "Stupid…stupid…" he stood unsteadily and stumbled over to the guest bedroom where a figure was sleeping fitfully, attached to a ventilator. A bloody tray was perched on the bed stand. He walked over and thoughtfully poked four bullets around the tray. A number of false identification cards were also lying on the stand, most of them covered with bloody fingerprints. He swept them into the trash can with the bloody gauze and rubber gloves. They weren't necessary; he already knew who he had found. Taking a look at his face, he saw that the guy was as pale as paper; he would be dead right now if he hadn't known where to look for him.

"Come on Sam, wake up," he pleaded softly, "I need your help."

No response.

The bed springs squeaked as Brandon sank down on a corner to wait.

SNSNSN

Nick stopped walking in front of a giant oak door at the very top of the house. The first thing that Dean noticed was the smell. The stench of dead bodies and urine oozed from behind the iron hinges, making him want to gag.

As Nick unlocked multiple padlocks on the door, he grinned at Dean's reaction. "Don't worry," he said. "You'll get used to the smell. I've actually come to find it quite exhilarating."

The final padlock came off with a soft click and Nick opened the door. The full stench hit Dean like a wall, knocking the breath out of him. A single lightbulb flickered on the ceiling in the center of the room, dimly illuminating rows of small cages that were each about three feet wide and three feet tall. Colorless eyes peered up at them from every cage.

"Oh my god…" Dean breathed. When Nick began carrying him inside the room, the full terror of the situation hit him. Dean swung out and raked his fingernails up Nick's cheeks, intending to gouge his eyes out.

Nick dropped him. He landed in a two inch slop of foul smelling liquid. Before he could gather his bearings, Nick grabbed his ankle and pulled him through the liquid to the far corner of the room. As they passed, blackened arms with long, curled fingernails stretched out of cages and swiped at his bare torso and face.

"Here we are," Nick said, stopping at the only empty cage, "Your new home. I took the liberty of preparing it for you; I moved the previous tenant down to the basement," he trailed off, and smiled, "You'll have to excuse my giddiness. This is…so exciting for me. To have you, a Winchester, trapped here, helpless, and soon to be under my control…" he laughed, "It's a dream. You're the crown jewel of my collection. My greatest triumph."

Dean tried to push himself up out of the layer of shit on the tiled floor, but his arms wouldn't support his weight anymore and he splashed back into it. "There are more of these things in the basement?" he gritted out.

"And the barn," Nick said, unlocking the cage door, "Don't forget about the barn," he reached out and pulled Dean's boots off his feet. "You won't need these anymore," he said, and threw them further into the room where they slammed against a cage. The woman inside shrieked at the provocation and slammed her body into the wall of her cell over and over again, biting the iron bars and breaking her teeth as she babbled incoherently at them.

Shivering and barely able to breathe, Dean tensed, trying to prepare himself to fight back when Nick made his next move.

"Ready?" Nick said, smirking, and dug his fingers deep into Dean's bite.

Dean screamed. His vision cut out, nausea rolled, hearing ebbed; by the time he realized what had happened he was lying with his face submerged in the foul liquid, body crammed inside the cage. He lurched up with a splash and howled in anger, twisting his body around just as Nick slammed the door shut, cramming his long legs awkwardly inside the small space.

"No!" Dean screamed, trapped, "Let me out!" he maneuvered himself around so that he was kneeling at the front of the cage and tried to reach out of the cell to grab him, but his arms wouldn't fit through the bars with the handcuffs strapped to his wrists. Fueled by desperation, he slammed his body into the door instead. Again. And again. And again. It didn't budge.

Nick stepped out of his reach and sniggered. "Bye Dean," he said with a wave, and turned away, "Sleep well." He flicked the light off on his way out, throwing the room into darkness before he slammed the heavy door shut behind him and locked each bolt into place.

As Nick's footsteps died away in the hall, Dean drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face in his wet denim jeans. His head, though bent down, was still touching the top of the cage. His naked back was pressed against the bars as well, digging flecks of rust and old blood residue deep into his wound. He shivered.

"Sammy," he whispered, trying to block out a woman's high pitched shrieks in the cell across from him, "Please."

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