Garth comes by with food and soap and stuff every couple of weeks, or sends Charlie in his place if he can't make it. Both of them kind of have a tendency to drop in unannounced before these scheduled deliveries, just to make sure that I'm doing okay. Other hunters come out to give me monsters or books or artifacts they've found, or to talk to me in person and ask my advice on stuff. People call me. They e-mail me. They text me. They write letters. But I guess that all of that's just not enough, for some reason.

I guess I can admit it, even if it's just on paper: I'm lonely.

This kind of isolation – a one-man cabin out in the middle of the woods with no other people for miles – would be heaven for a lot of hunters, but I guess I'm just not like them. Probably because I'm not a psychopath and I don't have reactive attachment disorder. I miss talking to people every day. I miss living with somebody. I mean, yeah, I know, me and Dad fought like cats and dogs while he was still alive, and even when we were on good terms, the guy was hardly my best friend. But he was somebody.

I've got the monsters. That new wraith kid is finally starting to open up; it took him a while, but I guess he did manage to figure out that I'm not going to hurt him. As near as I can tell, the guys who brought him in treated him fine on the way, but it's still got to be traumatic, and I understand why he was so scared for so long. We talk every day now. Exchange a few words whenever I bring him his food, and I guess that, technically, he lives with me. They all do. It's just not the same, though. Especially because he's basically a kid.

I don't know. It's completely useless to be feeling like this. All that matters is my work, since it's the only worthwhile thing that I can do anymore with my leg like it is, and this can only distract me from it. But I want to be able to talk to someone for hours, and feel like they really know me. Not like Garth and Charlie. I want to eat breakfast with someone every morning. I want someone to tell me that what I do here is right in a way that means I'm almost guaranteed to believe it.

And I know that that's way too much to ask. What I really want here is a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Or a husband or a wife. A life partner. But I'm officially off the market, since I haven't left this place in years. I'm alone. And I'm going to stay that way, since it isn't like someone is going to deliver a lover to me.

- Personal journal of Sam Winchester

Sam's leg was wonderfully, mercifully quiet as he bent once to dig a handful of comic books out of the chest in his closet, took a few steps, then bent again to retrieve a blank journal from a neat stack at the foot of his bed. The muscles twitched with strain, and of course it hurt, but the pain was a distant, shadowy echo of what he'd felt the day after the demon had kicked him. Arms laden with paper, Sam shot a triumphant glance at his cane, where it was leaning against the wall. He didn't need it today. In fact, he didn't even need painkillers today, and he counted both as enormous victories on his part.

After leaving his room, Sam felt his lips press into a thin line, as a shock of bright red hair ducked back into Vaughn's cell and the door clicked rapidly closed. He reached it in a few steps and opened it back up just in time to see Vaughn flop hastily onto his cot.

"Oh, hi, Sam," he exclaimed, feigning complete innocence. "What're you doing here?"

"Stop," Sam replied very firmly, closing the door behind him, "messing around in the kitchen. There's nothing in there for you to eat, anyway."

"How do you know?" Vaughn challenged, arching a bright eyebrow.

"Maybe 'cause it's my damn kitchen." Sam walked over to his cot. "Having your door unlocked is a privilege, not a right. The only reason it started was so that you could come and get me if you needed me." And also so that he could make it to the bathroom if he ever felt sick again, rather than throwing up in the corner of his cell like he had last time. Sam had dealt with bodily fluids much worse than vomit over the years but, given a choice, he'd still rather not have to clean it up. "Not so you could rearrange my fridge."

"Your fridge is a mess," Vaughn protested.

"It sure is," Sam agreed. "Aaaaand whose fault is that?" He widened his eyes at Vaughn. "Not mine, I don't think. 'Cause I organize that thing like a file cabinet."

Vaughn made a face at him. Definitely not the worse one he could make, given what he looked like in the mirror. Sam just rolled his eyes in response.

"Here, he said, handing over the stack of comics with the vinyl-bound journal sitting proudly on top. "Maybe this'll keep you in your room for a while."

"But…" Vaughn took what he'd been offered with a mixture of confusion and eagerness. "It's not time yet."

"Well," Sam began with a shrug, "these past few days have been kinda rough of both of us. Especially you. Like I said before, you're not used to this kinda stuff – not like I am." He sank down onto the foot of Vaughn's cot. Just because his leg was feeling better didn't mean that it was strong. "So I figured you could use a pick-me-up."

"Okay." Vaughn picked up the journal and showed it to Sam, looking skeptical. "So what's this for?"

Sam shrugged again. "You've been into comic books for as long as I've known you. I figured that maybe it was time for you to start writing and drawing one of your own. That journal doesn't have any lines in it, so it's really more like a sketchbook."

Vaughn squinted at him, then shook his head. "I can't draw, Sam."

"Yeah, well, neither can I," Sam replied, pushing himself back to his feet with a grunt of effort. "And I do it for a living." He headed for the door. "There are pens and pencils out on my desk. I'm sure you know where to find them – since, y'know, you've already been through pretty much all my stuff."

"Sorry," Vaughn called sheepishly, and Sam allowed himself a smile as he pushed the door closed. Maybe it did bother him a little bit, to have Vaughn running around the cabin, but only because he'd never allowed a monster so much freedom before. Months spent locked up in a single small room had to result in at least a little curiosity, so he was found to fumble through everything he could find. All the fragile, valuable thing were in Sam's bedroom, where they were probably safe, since he hadn't ventured in there yet. He probably never would. Wraiths respected others' territory, and a juvenile like Vaughn wouldn't even consider challenging Sam for the right to enter it.

"How come you give him stuff to read?"

The rough voice of the demon, casual and honestly curious, broke into Sam's thoughts. He stepped away from Vaughn's door and walked over to where he could see through the iron gate, into the specialized cell. The demon's eyes were green, just as they had been since the day before yesterday, when Sam had promised not to torture him anymore.

"Actually, forget that question, I don't care," the demon backtracked. "How come you let him wander around your cabin? You never let the djinn do that. And I think I would've enjoyed watching her sashay around the kitchen a lot more than him."

He leered. It wasn't too effective, considering the bandages that swathed his torso and the fact that one of his legs was still up on a chair to keep his damaged knee straight. So Sam didn't react.

"You better not've been talking to him," he replied, taking a few steps closer to the gate. The demon shook his head.

"Nah, of course not," he assured. "I only talk to you. Since, y'know, we're friends now." The sarcasm on that last part was heavy, but it was completely gone when, after a pause, he continued with, "He's really shaken up. By what – happened. What he saw."

"Yep," Sam replied, seeing no harm in agreeing with that statement.

"But why the hell would something like that freak him out?" The demon made a face. "Kid's a wraith, isn't he? Even a baby like that'd be eating brains. Punching holes in people's heads and sucking 'em out." He made a loud, wet slurping noise that bordered on obscene, and Sam had to resist the urge to stare at his crotch in shock and betrayal for reacting the way it had. Instead, he watched the demon think about it before speaking again. "Was it…because he knew her? Or because you did it?"

Sam was less surprised by the question than by the lack of cruelty in it. Well, okay, sure, there was some, but it wasn't anything like what he would've expected. Maybe the demon just wasn't capable of asking a question that wasn't at least a tiny bit malicious. Because he was a demon and all. That didn't mean that he was going to answer him, though.

"Why d'you wanna know?" he asked, taking another step forward to lean on the gate's bars. They were pleasantly cool.

"'Cause I am honestly curious," the demon replied. "D'you have any idea how boring it is to be me right now? I sit in this chair, and I stare at that wall." He nodded, presumably, to the wall directly opposite his cell. "I can't move. I can't use my super-special demon powers to mess with the stuff on your desk. Hell, I can't even sleep to break the monotony." He shook his head, looking genuinely frustrated for a second. "You coming in here to change my bandages is the highlight of my whole damn day." He glanced down at his knee. "Speaking of which. It's about time for that, isn't it?"

Sam caught himself smiling, and clamped down on it as he pushed off the gate and limped over to the bathroom to get his first-aid kit. It was apparently pretty tough for him to remember, but this thing wasn't his friend and couldn't be trusted. Normal demons were paragons of violent psychopathy who would beat him to death with one of his own severed limbs without hesitation if they ever got half a chance, and a Knight of Hell had to be about a million times worse, as one of their leaders.

"No cane today," that Knight noted as Sam unlocked the door and walked into the cell, kit dangling from one hand. "Your leg must be feeling better."

"Yeah, it is, actually," Sam agreed. The demon might not be his friend, but it wasn't as if making casual conversation with him would give him the tools he needed to break out and kill him. "It tends to bounce back pretty fast. Probably because it doesn't have much to bounce back to." He raised his eyebrows sarcastically as he reached the demon. "How's your leg feeling?"

"Healed," the demon replied, wiggling his leg where it lay on the kitchen chair.

"No way." Sam shook his head.

"Well, yeah, hey, don't take my word for it," the demon agreed. "Take my leg down, cop a squat here, and feel for yourself."

Sam was skeptical, pulling the chair out and gently lowering the heel of the demon's boot to the concrete floor. His knee was currently in much better shape than it had been, but parts of it had still been displaced and broken yesterday. Nothing but angels healed that fast, despite the neat trick that the demon had pulled with his fingers a while back. Sam lowered himself into the chair, leaned forward, and began to gently press at the knee with his fingertips, feeling it through the fresh wrap that he had put on it yesterday.

"…huh." He couldn't believe it. The tendon that had still been flopping around loosely twenty-four hours ago was reattached, and the few bone fragments he'd been able to find were either gone or back in their places. There wasn't even any swelling left, or bruising. He started to unwrap the bandages, trying not to let the demon see how surprised he was – or how impressed.

"Told you, didn't I?" the demon asked, grinning down at him.

"You sure did." Sam tossed the bandages aside, and of course he didn't bother replacing them. "How's your stab wound doing?" He peeled tape and a pad of gauze off of that as the demon's grin faded.

"Yeah…that one might take a little longer," he admitted.

"Well, it's not bleeding anymore. Or oozing pus." Sam reached for a tube of antiseptic cream anyway. "That's a good thing."

The demon licked his full, pink lips, watching as Sam gently rubbed the cream onto him. Abruptly, he said, "Tell me about the wraith kid."

Sam glanced up at him. "His name is Vaughn."

"Vaughn, then. Go ahead and tell me about Vaughn." The demon waited, then continued when Sam didn't answer. "If he's off-limits, then tell me about the djinn. Or the banshee. Just tell me about somebody. Talk to me."

Sam blew out a deep, half-exasperated breath, as he tore open the paper wrapper of a gauze pad. He pressed it to the demon's stab wound and taped it firmly in place. It probably still needed to be covered, in his opinion.

"Vaughn's never hunted," he said, after a few seconds of silence had passed. "He's never killed anybody. Pretty much every other monster I've ever had here has taken blood and guts in stride, but he's not familiar with it."

"Overprotective parents?" the demon guessed. He looked pretty proud of himself, now that Sam was talking.

"Uh…no. Not really." Sam cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, throwing one leg over the other. His bad one protested. He ignored it. "There are several different kinds of people who know about all of…this." He gestured to the demon, who frowned. "There's the hunters. The buffer between humans and monsters, who interfere whenever something is eating or torturing or raping people. There's the people like me." He put a hand on his chest. "Researchers. There's people who just pretend it doesn't even exist. And then there's the collectors." He swallowed. "Which is where Vaughn came from."

The demon leaned forward as far as the tight straps of his chair would let him, intrigued. "A collector. He was seriously part of some freak's collection?"

Reluctantly, Sam nodded. Maybe he should have asked Vaughn's permission before spilling his life story to a demon. But, if he had his way, the two of them would never talk to each other, and it wasn't as if Vaughn's origins were a secret. The entire hunting community (those who read Sam's books and his website, at any rate) knew where he'd come from and what had happened to him.

"The guy had a thing for shapeshifters," he told the Knight, who nodded, completely focused on him. Which wasn't surprising, considering that this had to be the most interesting thing he'd heard in weeks. "He had a…big old family farm. Barns, root cellars, farmhouse with a huge basement. He kept a handful of every species he could find out there. He wanted…" He sighed a little. "To figure out how they did it. How they changed. Actually, he wanted to know everything about them – which is why he was breeding them. Against their will, during the wrong seasons, and in the wrong conditions."

"So there're a lot like Vaughn out there," the demon interrupted. "Baby shapeshifters, bred in captivity. Werewolves, skinwalkers…" He trailed off when Sam started to shake his head.

"No," he said. "Vaughn was the best result. Which is probably why he treated him better than all the others: he taught him to read, he fed him human brains, he didn't chain him up or put him in a little cage. He was found in one of the barns. Two horse stables had been converted into a pretty comfortable cell. He was healthy. Curious. Not a mark on him. The guy'd been taking good care of him." Sam felt his upper lip twitch in remembered disgust. "He had something planned for him. No idea what."

"So who put this guy outta business?" the demon asked.

"Well, hunters," Sam replied. "One of his werewolves got out and basically went batshit in the nearest town. A group I know brought it down, and then tracked it back to him. I still don't really know what they did to him, and I'm pretty sure that I don't want to, either." No one had any pity for collectors, but Sam made a face anyway. "Most of his wild-caught monsters were dead by then, from experiments and starvation and stress and stuff like that. The rest, and their offspring, they were…sick. Feral, mutilated. The hunters killed most of them and burned the farm." He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest and feeling his face settle into an expressionless mask as memories from eight months ago came flooding back. "Then they came up here and gave me Vaughn, 'cause he was pretty much domesticated, and about ten boxes' worth of notes."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," the demon commented, sounding impressed. And there was perfect proof right there that he was a Knight of Hell, since Sam was pretty sure he'd never come across a demon who could say the name of God before. Or even profane it. "Ten whole boxes?"

"He was thorough," Sam replied, grimly. "He wrote down everything that he did to his shapeshifters. None of what he wanted to do, but everything he did. Which is…how I know what happened to Vaughn's mom."

The demon widened his eyes expectantly, and Sam immediately shook his head.

"Uh, no," he said. "I don't think so. That's not something that you need to know about. Mostly because Vaughn doesn't need to know about it. I'm pretty sure that he doesn't even remember her, but he still doesn't need to know."

"Well, does he know she's dead?"

"He's not stupid." That was Sam's response, as he began to gather everything up and get ready to leave the cell. "There. Now you know where he came from. Are you entertained?"

"Well, it's a hell of a lot more interesting than my origin story," the demon admitted. "And, uh, yours, too, probably." He nodded, casually, to Sam's leg, but didn't ask what'd happened to hurt it, like he'd been expecting him to.

"Maybe just a little," Sam agreed, then got to his feet. "I'll check that again tomorrow, okay?" He pointed to the gauze pad that covered the messy stab wound that Gordon had inflicted before turning to the doorway and limping towards it. The demon's voice stopped him before he could leave the cell, though.

"Hey. Wait up a minute." Sam glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head.

"I'm not gonna tell you anything else," he told him. He pushed open the gate.

"Yeah, I got tha – Sam. Hey." Sam paused. Mostly because he was pretty sure that this was the first time that the demon had called him by his real name. He turned around in order to look at him, and he rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "Jeez. I'm just trying to talk to you, here – you've got a real problem with listening, you know?"

"So I've heard," Sam replied. "You don't wanna apologize again, do you?"

"No," the demon said with a snort. "I just wanted to tell you…" He sat up straight in his chair. "That you're doing a really great job with that kid. Now, I'm definitely no wraith expert, but he looks healthy enough. And what I am," he made eye contact with Sam, "is an empath. All demons are. So I can tell you for sure that he's happy, and that he cares about you." He coughed. "You're taking good care of him. Whole lot better than the asshat you just told me about." A smirk flickered along the edges of his full pink lips. "You're just really not anything like I thought you were, at first."

Sam was surprised. Maybe not quite as surprised as he had been when the demon had said he was sorry for kicking him in his crippled leg, but still pretty surprised. He didn't receive a whole lot of praise (and, definitely, no one had ever congratulated him on his gentle treatment of the monsters he kept), and this was probably the last place he'd ever expect it to come from.

"Thanks," he said after a little while, making an effort to take the compliments well. "That really means a lot." Carrying the first-aid kit, he turned back to the open gate, adding offhand, "Even coming from a demon."

"My name's Dean."

Sam stopped again. At this rate, there was no way that he was ever going to make it out of this cell. He set the first aid kit down on the wooden floorboards beyond the gate, then turned around once more and walked back to the demon in his chair. To Dean.

"What'd you say?" he asked, just wanting to make sure that he'd heard correctly.

"I'm Dean," Dean replied, placing an emphasis on his name. "You gave me your name and then you asked me for mine, back when I couldn't talk. And you said that you were gonna give me one if I didn't tell you, but I'm not sure you ever did. No idea what you've been calling me in that gigantic head of yours, but no way is it my real name, so. I'm Dean." He widened his eyes. "You're welcome."

"'Dean' isn't a very traditional name for a Knight of Hell," Sam pointed out. "Abbadon, Beelzebub, Baal – "

"Yeah, well, I'm the baby of the family, so I'm special," Dean replied, cutting him off. "They actually did give me a new name, but, trust me, you don't wanna hear it. Makes me sound all flowery and Biblical and shit. I like 'Dean' a whole lot better – it was the name that I was born with, and it's the name I'm keeping."

Sam licked his lips as, instantly, he realized what that meant. "It's the name you had as a human, you mean."

"Don't hurt yourself, Einstein," Dean replied. "Yeah. Pretty sure I'm not supposed to remember it, but…" He batted dark golden eyelashes at Sam. "You're not gonna tell anybody, are you?"

Sam felt a light, breathy, incredulous sound that was almost a laugh bubble out of him. He stepped closer to Dean, and began to work at the buckle of the leather strap that crossed his chest. He shifted under his hands.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." His chains rattled. "What're you doing there?"

"What d'you think I'm doing?" Sam replied, letting that strap fall loose as he moved down to the next one. He glanced up at Dean with a raised eyebrow. "Y'know, for a smartass, you're actually not all that smart, are you?"

Dean scowled fiercely down at him. "Watch it." A second strap fell open. "I just don't understand why the hell you're letting me go."

"I'm not letting you go." Now the only straps holding Dean to the solid wood of the chair were on his lower legs. Or, well, leg, since Sam had just left his right one free even though it was healed now. "I'm just gonna get you outta this stupid chair. It's practically a torture device." Sam had to crouch in order to unbuckle the last strap, around Dean's left ankle. "And…there you go."

He'd been worried that the demon would stand when fully free. Either try to make it out of the cell or just kick Sam to death where he sat helpless on the floor. But Dean didn't make a move, so Sam grabbed onto the arm of the chair and hauled himself up, then took hold of his bicep and helped him to his feet.

The legs of his vessel wouldn't support him at first, and Sam found himself holding up almost all of what had to be around a hundred and ninety pounds of muscle. He had to stagger to keep from collapsing. He guessed it was understandable, since Dean had been sitting for over two weeks, but he couldn't help thinking that someone with a demon calling the shots inside of them shouldn't be prone to human weakness like this.

Dean eventually regained his strength and stood on his own. When Sam hesitantly let go of him, he nodded reassuringly at him. He couldn't wave him away, since his wrists were still in the handcuffs and his arms were still bound to his upper body by the chain.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," he promised. "I'm fine." He suddenly stretched as best he could with a loud groan, green eyes fluttering shut, and Sam winced heavily as a cacophony of pops and cracks erupted along his spine. "Oh, my god, that feels good."

"Don't pop your stitches," Sam warned as he dragged the heavy binding chair off to one side. Dean, still standing in the middle of the Circle of Solomon, turned to watch him.

"Wouldn't matter all that much if I did," he pointed out with half a smile. Sam limped back and grabbed the kitchen chair, glad that he didn't have that much else to do here. His leg was really starting to hurt, silently bitching him out for all the unwanted physical activity. "I still don't get why you're doing this, by the way."

"Because," Sam answered, setting the kitchen chair where Gordon's binding chair used to be, "you're just really not anything like I thought you were, at first."

Dean regarded him for a few seconds, looking almost amused, then cocked his head to the side. His eyes turned black and empty, and he smiled. "You a hundred percent sure about that, Sammy?"

Sam just stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and left the cell. He locked the gate before taking the first-aid kit back to the bathroom. "See you tomorrow, Dean." He heard boots scuff over concrete as he walked around in his cell for the first time. "And don't bother Vaughn."

"No promises," Dean replied.