Thanks for your continuing interest, and a huge thank you to all who have reviewed! Here's a loooong chapter for you…it didn't want to end, haha. Crazy story has a mind of its own.

"Kill your little brother for me."

Dean inhaled sharply as the command pounded a nail through his consciousness. Kill your kill your kill your—He was suddenly all too aware of his close proximity with his brother, of his head on his shoulder and his fingers twisted into his jacket, all too aware that Sam carried a variety of knives on him at all times.

The command jerked at him, twisting his limbs into unwanted action. Go for his knife knife knife—

Horrified, he tried to half-push himself away from Sam even as he felt his left hand snatching for the closest knife attached to his brother's belt. The action sent hot pain searing through his injured arm, but it didn't slow him. Blind, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt, growling.

Dean employed every ounce of willpower to bring his body to a trembling halt. He held himself there, the point of the knife making an indent in his brother's coat, terrified at the sound coming from his own mouth. I'm growling at Sam, my god I'm growling at—

Desperate, he swung his other arm, catching Sam across the jaw and—thankfully—knocking him back a few feet from the knife. He shouted, Get away from me!

He could hear Sam breathing heavily, could hear him splash back in the water. "Dean, I can't understand what you're saying," he said, "Please, you're stronger than this, you have to fight it."

"Kill him now, you piece of shit," Nick urged loudly, "Now."

Dean's training kicked in, and he found himself targeting in on Sam's position; he knew exactly where he was, and every fiber in his being longed to leap over and stab him again and again until he stopped breathing. No no no no no—He tried to step back, to put more distance between them. It didn't work. His body didn't want to obey him anymore, and he leapt.

The impact between their bodies ground his bones together; Dean didn't care. He wanted Sam dead, and the small part of him that was still conscious and screaming wasn't strong enough to hold back. He swung the knife down toward where he knew Sam's head would be, relieved when his brother's strong grip arrested the descent and held tight.

"Dean," Sam grunted, "No. It's me, it's Sam."

Dean tried to yell back that he damn well knew it was Sam, but he couldn't even open his mouth anymore. The muscles wouldn't work for him; his body was on autopilot, and he wasn't even in the driver's seat. He found himself locking in on Sam's voice and lunging, mouth wide, toward his throat.

He clamped down on air—Sam having twisted away—and shrieked, struggling to free his hand that gripped the knife.

"He's gone," Nick said, triumphant.

"No he isn't!" Sam denied forcefully, still trying to force Dean to drop the knife, "He's not, you don't know!"

Dean could feel Sam weakening as the struggle continued. He knew his brother wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer, not against something that didn't tire or react to pain. His hand inched steadily toward Sam's face with the knife, and he tried to force himself to stop, to drop the weapon. He might as well have been trying to move Mount Everest over a foot or two.

Sam delivered a swift kick to his gut—it pushed him back and hurt, but not nearly as much as it should have. Dean knew Sam was holding back. He made a mental note to strangle him for it later, when he wasn't under some voodoo mind control.

"Dean, please!" Sam choked. Dean could feel his brother's muscles shaking as they tired.

"Finish it," Nick said. "Kill your brother!"

The command slammed into him, dizzying him. Dean felt his remaining fragment of consciousness chip off and he was sucked down, unable to even contemplate control. He slammed his fist into Sam's chest, satisfied when something snapped. Sam's breath hitched and he doubled over, and Dean felt his brother's hand loosen on the knife. He pulled it out of his grip, then yanked down as hard as he could on Sam's bandaged arm—

Sam screamed.

His voice, contorted with agony, reverberated through Dean's skull and pierced through the wall. Dean reeled back, in control once more.

"Kill him!" Nick screamed, "Goddamn it, do it now!"

Dean fought with everything he had left. The pressure built dramatically until he was sure his head was going to explode. Yellow dots pocketed his vision, obscuring even the collection of vague shapes he had previously been able to make out with his wrecked eyes. No! He shrieked, unsure if the words passed through his lips or were only ghosts manifested in his mind, I won't! You bastard, you can't make me do that, not Sam, I won't—

The sharp BLAM of a rifle shattered through the crowded attic space. Eerie silence descended, followed by a terrible moment in which Dean's mind raced—did he have a gun, had he fired it, was Sam…was he…

Nick cried out, stumbled. Dean's head cleared a fraction, the heaviness lifted. A second shot rang out, this time splashing onto the floor in a clear miss. Silence pounded and then someone ran, followed by a second set of footsteps. Dean's head cleared further and he dropped weakly to his knees, gasping for breath. In the back of his mind he heard his brother shout out for someone to stop.

SNSNSN

"Brandon! Don't!"

Brandon ignored Sam's warning and pressed forward down the stairs, pursuing Nick with all he had. No way was that bastard getting out, not when he had caused so much irreversible damage to an innocent town. Eyes hardened, he hit the hardwood floors at the bottom and rounded the bend, nearly falling in his waterlogged chucks as he followed the spots of blood and thudding footsteps of the murderous Nick.

He cornered the man in a shabby colonial style bedroom and halted, realizing his mistake. Nick held a pistol aimed at his chest; a small closet full of guns was thrown open at his back. Brandon stumbled, keeping his own gun pointed. They glared at each other around the metal. Brandon tightened his finger on the trigger, fully aware that he could kill Nick with a single shot at this range. One second and it would be over; the man would never hurt anyone again. His finger twitched, squeezed, and twitched again. Shaking, he stared at Nick, aimed at his heart.

Seconds ticked by.

Shit.

Nick must've seen something in his face, because he laughed and lowered his pistol. "Can't do it, can you kid?" he said, "Guess I got lucky, huh?"

Brandon's lips tightened. "Don't move."

Nick twirled his pistol idly around a finger. "Why? You'll kill me?" he said, relaxing back against the bed stand and smiling at him like they were old friends, "I get it. You're a newbie to this whole psychic thing. No kills yet, no nightmares of headless bodies and blood slicked boots."

Nick's words shot fire through Brandon's spine. He froze, taken aback, but didn't lower the gun. "You…you know about me?"

"You can put the gun down now; face it, it's not like you're actually going to kill me with it—"

"I will! I mean I'm going to…I can…" he stuttered, the gun shaking in his grip. "You're dead if you move, okay?"

"Sure, kid. Whatever."

"How the hell do you know about me?" Brandon demanded, "I was…I was careful!"

Nick shrugged. "I take pride in knowing all the nearby freaks. You're simple enough to spot, kiddo. Patterns don't lie, and every time you move to a town, some supernatural nightmare happens nearby…and you mosey on up to the plate and clean it up."

Brandon tried to keep his breathing steady. Nick knew—holy shit, he knew. No one was supposed to know his secret. No one. He'd tried so hard to cover everything up, hell, his own brother didn't even know.

"I feel I owe you an apology," Nick asked, making a show of loading bullets into his pistol. Slowly. "I may have underestimated you. I never thought that you'd go and help the Winchesters; they're way out of your league, you know."

"I help people," he said. "They needed help."

Nick rolled his eyes, amused, and snapped the case shut. "And who's going to help you?"

SNSNSN

Sam's hands hovered inches above his brother's body as he kneeled beside him in the attic. Dean had succumbed to fatigue and blood loss right after Brandon ran out. He continued to wheeze, a high pitched squeak that wasn't bringing in much air. His face was radiating enough heat to replace a small space heater.

Sam couldn't bring himself to touch him. He was scared to check for a pulse, too scared that there wouldn't be anything left to find. He tried not to speculate how high the fever had gotten. Dean needed to be moved somewhere safe, somewhere clean, but Sam wasn't sure it was smart to jostle him. Unfortunately, there were other problems to attend to.

Brandon was going to get himself shot, Sam thought. Guilt swirled in the air as his breath fogged in dropping temperatures. He tentatively rubbed his hand up and down Dean's torso, trying to awaken some circulation. You let him go, let him fly out that door like his shoes were aflame, after the psycho that started it all.

He has a gun…

Can he use it?

Shouting fluttered up through the floorboards, and Sam recognized Brandon's voice. Grimacing, he shifted his weight and pain jabbed through his ribcage—how many ribs had Dean broken? One? Two? He tapped his brother lightly on the cheek. "C'mon sleeping beauty," he said, trying hard not to grab Dean's arms and shake him as hard as he could, "Rise and shine. I'm not leaving you but you need to get up, Brandon's waist deep in fire ants down there."

Nothing.

More shouting exploded downstairs. Louder.

"Dean…Dean please," Sam said, desperate.

SNSNSN

"Who's going to help you?"

The words burned. Brandon's thoughts instantly flew to his brother—his brother who knew nothing about any of this. Part of him was satisfied—Chris was safe, he was going to live—and the other part, the smaller, frightened part that was still secretly scared of thunderstorms and occasional small spaces, wanted his brother with him, wanted him there more than anything.

Nick nodded toward the ceiling. "So…do you think Dean's gnawing on Sam yet?" he asked, grinning widely, "I'd put a bet on it, but you're not going to live long enough to collect any potential winnings."

Brandon didn't talk. It was pointless; he was going to die sooner or later, depending on when the bastard shut up and got tired of hearing his own voice. He hoped that his death would at least buy the Winchesters some time to escape. He tried once more to pull the trigger—

No. He couldn't. He saved people, he couldn't kill them. Nick had hit it right on the head with his earlier speculations; he had never killed anyone before, at least anyone that had blood pumping through their veins. Ghosts didn't count.

"You wanna hear a funny story before I blow your brains out?" Nick said suddenly, slamming a wall down on Brandon's turmoil.

"Is it a long story?" Brandon asked hopefully. He tried inching toward the door, preparing himself to make a run for it.

"Maybe," Nick said, "Never told it to no one before. It starts out like this…Once upon a time, I burned your house to the ground."

Brandon halted his lame escape maneuver. "You… what?"

Nick chuckled. "You know why I wasn't here when you two assholes broke in? A few hours ago I drove over to Newport Drive and doused your house in gasoline and torch fuel. I thought, well, I'd shot the hell out of Sam, and I had Dean under my control, so I figured what the shit, I'd clean up all the psychic mess in town.

"You should've seen it…the flames reached the fucking sky, man, far above the telephone poles. It was spectacular. And then some shriveled half-dressed grandma wearing this ancient flowered robe came charging onto the street with her walker, shrieking bloody murder through denture-less gums and pointing at the fireball. You have strange neighbors, man. It was better than cable."

Brandon listened, but the words seemed unreal. The twelve or so calls from his brother suddenly made terrible sense.

Nick slapped his thigh, "I thought you were inside, a crispy lump of charred jerky hunkered down in a flaming bed. And then I come here, expecting to have a quiet smoke, watch some crap reality show on MTV, and bam! You're hiding in the closet, helping the legendary Winchester brothers try to cheat me out of my spoils. That's some crazy shit, huh?"

"Yeah," Brandon said, managing to keep his voice relatively calm. He picked a spot on the ceiling a few inches beside Nick's head and stared captivatingly at it as the man continued his animated description of burning his house. Brandon counted to ten slowly in his head, and then counted backwards from ten twice as slowly. He focused on breathing, which was becoming ridiculously difficult with all the death threats snapping at his heels. He told himself that he was an accountant, a normal, boring accountant who didn't have to deal with burning houses, psychic visions, or zombiesrising from their graves. As an accountant, he certainly wasn't expected to break into the home of a voodoo practitioner and threaten him with a gun he didn't actually have the balls to kill with, and he certainly wasn't going to get killed in a stranger's bedroom. Accountants didn't get killed, they aged slowly, becoming balder and fatter each year until they died of old age like the woman on the Titanic.

"Hey!" Nick snapped suddenly, "You listening?"

Brandon took one last look at the spot on the ceiling and then lowered his gaze. He smiled at the madman. "No."

Nick fired, catching Brandon in the chest. The accountant—dully recognizing that this was yet another activity that he, as a boring accountant, wasn't supposed to encounter—staggered back against the wall and dropped his rifle. His left hand flew to his chest, to the hot blood pumping up and spilling over onto his shirt. He couldn't feel it yet—shock, probably, Chris was always talking about people in shock—though he assumed that the pain wouldn't stay away long. "You missed," he said, unable to think of much else to say. "Heart's on the other side. Idiot."

Nick shrugged, aimed. "Nah, just didn't want you dying too quickly. I'm a sucker for suffering—"

A second shot boomed.

Brandon held his breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and waited. After a whole lot of nothing happened, he opened his eyes a little and peeked. Nick was hunched over, clutching his hand, gasping soundlessly like a fish out of water. Fingers were scattered in chunks on the floor next to his pistol.

"Brandon."

Brandon opened his eyes a bit more. Sam loomed above him, hardened and furious. Gone was the desperate little brother, the pleading look, the encouraging smile. This man was a bounty hunter, a member of the mafia, Clint Eastwood out to burn the town and massacre all the gangs who so much as looked at him wrong. He was terrifying in an 'I'd like two servings of fire and an extra side of brimstone, hold the redemption' kind of way.

Brandon gaped, fighting back the urge to hide.

"Come here," Sam hissed, and tugged at his shirt. Brandon understood what he wanted and, employing way more willpower than he should have needed, managed to crawl out of the bedroom. Blood soaked his clothing, and he fought the urge to vomit or face-plant on the floor. Dean was propped up in the hallway; he looked dead, only breathing.

Sam strode into the room and kicked the gun and stray fingers away from Nick. One punch had him kissing the carpet, and a well-placed stomp on his mutilated hand had him shrieking his lungs hoarse.

Coldly, Sam pressed the barrel of his gun to Nick's temple. "Go to hell," he said.

Nick started to laugh. The sound twisted and fused with his unrelenting shrieks of pain, making him sound like the joker in Dark Knight. "Big…big mistake," he choked, voice laced with satisfaction. "Big, big, big, big, big—"

"Shut-up," Sam said darkly, tightening his finger on the trigger.

"You kill me, you kill Dean," Nick said quickly, opening his eyes and peering up triumphantly, "No way you'll figure out how to save him without me, not when he's this far gone."

"I said shut your damn mouth!" Sam spat, "I don't need you for anything!"

"Is dear brother already dead, then?" Brandon prodded, looking at Sam's face. He smirked widely. "Have you checked?"

Sam glared.

Nick shrieked with laughter. "You didn't check—you didn't—you coward—

Sam slammed the bunt of his gun into Nick's temple with force that could have felled a tree. It felled Nick instantly, leaving the room eerily void of noise.

Inhaling slowly, Sam scowled venomously at his immobile body. "Damn it," he said.

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