Chapter 19 Dead Man Walking

Sam drove automatically, his fingers curled tightly around the wheel, his gaze fixed to the road in front of the car, his mind worrying over a mish-mash of thoughts and memories that weren't making any sense, all thrown together, like a dog with a particularly large, juicy bone.

It cannot have been the right decision to leave her, he thought. If it had, he wouldn't be feeling this aching longing, like a low-grade electrical charge, filling him all the time and getting worse.

I know part of her loves me. And now ... part of her loves you. But the only one that knows what's best for Amelia is Amelia.

He'd been surprised by her husband, expecting fury or bitterness, the man had been clear in his head, rational and – and fair. It'd made him realise that no matter how much he might want to pretend that Don was a bad guy, or even the wrong guy for her, he couldn't. Don'd been thinking of what Amelia needed. Nothing else. That'd been a slap. A wake-up call.

He was distantly aware that Martin was still mumbling to himself, in the passenger seat beside him, but he was easy to tune out and ignore. He saw the turning for the backwoods road and slowed down, hearing the pop and crunch as the tyres rolled over the gravel. Two or three miles along, Dean'd said.

And Don had reminded him a little of his brother, he recognised, a touch bitterly. Dean had that same wide streak of justice running through him. Dean would turn away from what he wanted if it was the right thing to do. Wouldn't look back. Would bury his feelings and never show them again. He remembered clearly what his brother done, asking Cas to remove the memories of him from Lisa and Ben. At the time he'd thought his brother was being a coward, trying to escape from his feelings of responsibility. It hadn't been until later, a lot later, that he'd realised Dean's intentions hadn't been to protect them from the monsters that were seeking leverage over him. They'd been to protect the woman and her son from him. From his ever being able to go back, in a moment of weakness, and put them into that danger again.

There was a difference, he thought suddenly. His brother had spent his entire life believing that he would never get what he wanted, had hardened himself to that idea. It was a difference – one of the many, he amended – between them. He still believed that he could have what he longed for. Had found it. Didn't want to give it up. Did that make it right or wrong?

Dean woke to a throbbing ache in his head, the jingle and sharp bite of metal around his wrist and the raw, scraping knowledge that whatever happened now, he was on his own.

He opened an eye and looked around, knowing that the room was empty. He could feel stickiness on the side of his face, and he lifted his free hand, the fingertips coming away red. Sonofabitch had hit him pretty hard. He was cuffed to the gas fitting, he saw when he lifted his head gingerly and turning to look. They'd taken his coat and it lay on the bed, a few feet away. Might as well have been on the fucking moon for all the good it could do him.

Pushing himself slowly upright, he eased himself back against the wall, shifting to one hip and digging in his back pocket for the over-sized paper clip he habitually carried there. Not much of a search, boys, he thought as his fingertips snagged the smooth metal wire. Or maybe Sam hadn't thought of it. Whatever.

He bent it out with his teeth and slid the end into the lock, feeling for the latch.

"Come on," he muttered softly to the cuff, swivelling his wrist around again. He could feel it, but it was stiff. Sometimes it was easier to do by feel. Sometimes not, he thought, looking down at the recalcitrant metal bracelet. There was a slight ratcheting sound and he lifted, pulled the arm free and letting the clip and cuff fall to the floor as he rolled onto his knees and got up.

From his coat pocket, he pulled out his phone and dialled Benny's number, picking up the coat and pulling it on one-handed as he listened to it ring. "Pick up, man."

"What'd they say?" Benny said without preamble.

"They didn't go for it," Dean answered, yanking at his shirt under the shoulders of the coat to settle it. "They're on their way to you. I'd get scarce."

"No offence, Dean, but your little brother doesn't exactly put chills up my spine," Benny's tone was gently mocking.

"Benny, listen to me," he said, going to the sink and grabbing a towel from the edge. "Do not underestimate my little brother, okay? He can and will kill you given the chance." He looked at the blood on the side of his head and wiped at it.

"All right. So, what now?"

Dean turned away from the mirror and headed for the door. "I go find Desmond."

"You take me with."

"Hey, I just told you – best thing you can do is lay low." Dean scowled as he walked down the hall, veering to the right to avoid the cart of the cleaning lady coming up the other way.

"That ain't gonna work this time, cher," Benny said, the drawl more pronounced. "You take me with, or I don't tell you where he is."

Dean frowned as he strode down the hall. "You know where he is?"

"He said he's not gonna stop the killing 'til I join his little nest. Two bodies are enough. I told him I'm in."

Dean pushed open the front door, relieved to see the car still parked right outside. "Benny," he said warningly.

"Dean, this is my fight," Benny said. "Are you in or are you out?"

Nothing was ever easy, Dean thought as he stood beside the black car. Alright, Plan B.

"I'm in."

Sam looked around the clearing in frustration. The tyre tracks leading in – and out – had been fresh. There were still clothes hanging on the makeshift rope line suspended between a couple of the saplings. But the vampire had gone, and probably a while ago, he thought.

"Something spooked him," Martin said softly, the point of his machete swinging back and forth as he stared around. His gaze stopped as he saw the light square on the ground, and he walked to it, bending to pick up the scrap of paper.

Sam's phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out. The message was bright against the darkness and he stared at it disbelievingly.

No.

His reaction was immediate and without thought. He turned and ran soundlessly from the clearing, wrenching open the door of Martin's station wagon and twisting the key frantically.

"Sam," Martin looked up from the small photograph of Roy and Elizabeth he held, his gaze swivelling around at the sound of the engine up the track. "Sam!"

He started to run, hearing the vehicle shift into gear as he broke free of the woods and barrelled onto the road. "Sam! SAM!"

Martin watched the taillights of his car disappear around the next bend, and hunched into his coat. "Winchesters! Mad!"

His fingers tightened around the machete in his hand and he looked down the dark ribbon of tar apprehensively. Just leave him here, he thought, in the middle of a vamp's territory, in the middle of the night. If they'd wanted to kill him, why not just shoot him? At least that would've been quick.

Pulling his collar higher around his neck, he started walking.

The Impala grumbled as he drove her along the rough gravel road, headlights showing the boats tied up alongside the river bank, then the chalky-looking light blue peeling paint, rust and dents of the vampire's camper. He stopped and turned off the engine, picking up the machete on the seat beside him as he got out and looked at Benny.

"What is this place?" he asked, walking back to the trunk and opening it.

Benny looked around. "Boat-builders yard," he said, gesturing at the large building behind the vehicles. "They do some small work here, mechanical repairs. Building's a mess, a lot of shadows to hide in."

'Course it was, Dean thought caustically, picking up the shotgun that held up the false floor and propping it in place. He unrolled a soft case and pulled out a syringe of blood from the dozen tucked into the cloth pockets, checking the amount and the cover. The syringe went into his coat pocket. "So, what's the plan? I hang back while you guys do some trust falls and binge-drinking?"

Behind him, Benny laughed softly. "Man, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you have an extremely low opinion of us vamps."

Dean snorted, closing the trunk and looking over his shoulder at him. "Call it healthy scepticism."

The door opened easily and Dean walked in, taking point. Benny hadn't exaggerated, he thought, looking around the chaotic workshop. Marine diesels, outboards, stacks of lumber, piles of rope, cans and drums of god-knew-what stacked were stacked above head height around the walls and along the floor space. Hide-and-seek was going to be real interesting in here.

Benny moved out to his left, turning the flashlight off and ghosting across the board floor. Dean walked straight ahead, his soles silent, his feet automatically testing and shifting on the timber floor. His gaze swept the rooms, not focussed on anything in particular, following the beam of his flashlight and looking for movement. Compared to Purgatory, night hunting here was a piece of cake, generally speaking. Even in the darkest of places there was almost always a little ambient light, enough for his eyes to see differences. To see motion.

He stopped and turned as he felt the air behind him change, the flashlight raking the walls and floor at the end of the room. Something had moved. Soundless but still discernible. He was aware that the razor-sharpness of his senses had been dulling steadily since he'd gotten out. They were still better than any other human he knew of, but they weren't as sensitive as they'd been down in the land of monsters. He didn't know what he could do about it, if there was anything he could do about it.

The faint breeze that played over the river came in through the door they'd left open, and he stopped as the scent wafted past him. Rotting flowers and rotten meat.

He spun around, the machete's broad blade singing as it split the air in a shallow curve, the edge precisely in line with the vampire's neck. His wrist creaked as it was met by the vamp's forearm, the block like hitting a tree, numbing his arm from fingertips to shoulder.

Dean's eyes narrowed as he dropped the point, aiming for the vampire's chest and seeing the tip tear through the white shirt, feeling it skate over the ribs. The vampire roared and he was in the air, keeping the arm holding the machete out wide as he hit the floorboards, the back of his head smacking hard into the wood. The light bent in front of him and he let go of the blade as knees hit his chest, driving the air from his lungs, his hands scrabbling on the smooth leather of the vampire's jacket as fingers closed around the neck of his coat, lifting and slamming him down onto the floor again.

The vampire stilled, looking down at him. "Benny never told me he was bringing a friend."

Dean caught a glimpse of a young man's face, dirty blonde hair falling over it, dark eyes set deep in shadowed sockets as the creature's breath gusted over his face and he had to breathe it in.

"You're not gonna talk a lot, are you?" he asked, keeping one hand on the vampire's wrists while the other searched frantically for the syringe in his pocket. He found the end and drew it out, flicking the cap off with a thumbnail. "I been dealing with crazy all day."

Its hand caught his fist as he drove the syringe toward its chest, and he shifted under it, swinging his weight over to one hip. For a second, he thought he'd made it, the vamp's knee sliding off his chest, its weight listing to one side, then its fingers closed tightly around his hand and he felt the syringe shatter against his palm, the bones of his fingers and hand ground together, the grip of the monster an inexorably tightening vice.

It regained its balance and released his hand, slashing a fingernail across his neck, the biting sting of the cut counterpoint to the suspected broken finger or fingers he could feel throbbing in his hand. Move your fucking head, he told himself furiously, or there's going to be more than a goddamned scratch on your neck.

The vampire's breath was on him, hot and moist over his skin and Dean pushed against the chest futilely, waiting for the bite. Then it was gone, and he saw the flicker of Benny's blade in the dim light, rolling himself sharply to the side as the head fell toward him. It bounced away on impact, and he let himself roll back.

"Son of a ... it took you long enough," Dean wheezed, trying to get a deep breath back into his lungs. Just bruising, he thought sourly. Ribcage and underneath, from the vamp's crash landing on him.

"You've lost a step, friend." Benny looked down at him thoughtfully, stretching out his hand, and pulling Dean to his feet. "You need to lay off the junk food."

Dean's retort died as the cut in his neck stretched open and he lifted his head, touching his fingertips lightly to it and grimacing at the sharp stab of pain.

Benny stared at it, the blood bright red against his friend's skin, the sweetish-biting coppery scent flooding his nose, the sound of Dean's heart, pounding in his chest, loud in his ears. Inside his mouth, he felt the fangs descend a little, a flush of heat flux through his body.

Dean's gaze shifted from the blood on his fingers to the vampire beside him as the back of his neck began to prickle furiously. Benny's gaze was fixed on his throat, the vampire's lips twitching slightly. He'd seen that stare before. Seen that hunger before.

"You okay?" he asked warily, his fingers tightening involuntarily around the haft of his machete.

Benny's gaze lifted incrementally to meet Dean's, slowly measured, as if the movement was being controlled muscle by muscle.

"I'm fine," the vampire slurred and forced himself to turn, to walk away from the man whose blood was calling to him, whose heartbeat was so loud he could hardly hear anything else.

Dean watched him go. Nothing was ever easy, he thought uneasily. And it would be worse, now, for Benny.

On the river bank, the night air was still, the vagaries of the breeze had died and the water that flowed slowly between the banks was smooth.

Dean saw the vampire standing by the fence and walked to him, holding a mostly clean cloth over the scratch on his neck. He could move his fingers, so he'd gotten lucky there. The pain of dragging in a deep breath had slowly eased, no ribs broken or fractured. Still young enough to take a hundred and fifty pounds dropping straight on top of him, he thought with an inward humourless laugh.

"My life here is over, isn't it?" Benny said softly, staring through the chain link to the distantly twinkling lights of the town.

"Afraid so," Dean confirmed, hearing the resignation in Benny's voice. "Once word gets out ... the machete swingers that'll come for you – you can't take them all. It's impossible. And even if you could ..." he let the end of that sentence remain unfinished.

Benny nodded. "We'd have a problem."

Dean looked away. They would. He knew what the vampire was facing – was trying to face. A life lived on the run, always moving, always the stranger, the outcast. It was the same for him. He might pretend to himself, every once in a while, that there was more, but it was just a dream, just a little dream to soften the ragged edges when everything else looked too bleak. It would never happen for him. And it would never happen for Benny.

"Guys like us, we don't get a home," he said, tasting the gall of those words even as they came out. "We don't get family."

"You got Sam," Benny said, an edge of wistfulness to his voice.

Dean closed his eyes. No, he didn't, he wanted to tell the vampire. Not any more. My brother … will always be my brother. But he wasn't sure that they were still family. Blood wasn't enough. And Sam … he pushed it aside, shoved it down.

"Yeah."

He drew in a breath. "Benny, you got to go deep underground, where nobody knows who you are."

Benny nodded, turning to him. "Yeah. I got one last thing I got to do."

Dean knew what that was. The vampire was very human, filled with human feelings, human desires. How many more heartbreaks could he face, he wondered, looking down as Benny walked away, before that humanity was burned out of him? He tipped his head back, looking at the stars in the blackness over him. Probably not too many more. Not too many more at all.

I-40, Louisiana

Nine or ten hours, Sam thought, lifting his hand from the wheel and shaking his fingers, trying to loosen the tension in them. At the minimum. He glanced to the seat beside him and picked up his phone, thumb hitting the number without the need to look.

"The person you are trying to reach is unavailable."

Fuck! He threw the phone onto the seat and heard it bounce off onto the floor. He was too far. She'd said 'come quick' … nine hours wasn't quick. He pushed his foot down harder and the wagon accelerated along the smooth road. Why was her phone off? Or was she moving around? What the hell could've happened?

Don't, he warned himself tersely. Don't speculate. Just switch off until you get there or you'll be a mess and not fit to take care of whatever it is. But his thoughts wouldn't slow down, wouldn't back off, wouldn't stay contained.

This morning, you and I were the right thing, remember?

Pain flowered in his chest, as the memory returned. He hadn't given her the time she'd asked for, had just decided for both of them. Had it been the right thing? Or should he have stayed, fought for her? How the fuck was he supposed to know what the right fucking thing was?

You took the easy way out, Sam.

No, he hadn't. He'd wanted to give them a chance.

It was still easier for you, to go, to not have to see it, see them. To make her think that you could leave so she wouldn't know how badly it was all hurting.

No. That wasn't why he'd gone, he argued with himself, teeth clenched tightly together. He didn't have any rights in this situation. She needed to make a choice without being distracted.

You told her you'd come back.

And he was. Going back. The speedometer rose a little more. Just as fast as he could get there.

The signs for Shreveport flashed by and he eased back a little, looking for the bypass.

Carencro, Louisiana

The café was lit up, the interior clearly visible as Benny stood by his truck, watching. She moved so gracefully, he thought, watching her smile and turn, put the dishes down and tilt her head back slightly as she laughed.

All he'd wanted was to stay here and watch over her. Make sure she stayed safe and happy. That's all. It didn't seem like much of an ambition. But it had kept him calm. Kept the hunger far away.

The smell of Dean's blood, the sound of his heart, had been a reminder. Perhaps any ambition was too much of a reach. Perhaps he would give in to that hunger one day, and that would be the end. Back to Purgatory for eternity. Knowing he'd never get out again. Knowing that as the time passed he would care less about fighting, about surviving and would turn into one of those pathetic creatures that were preyed on by the others.

And for what? He turned and looked at the man who stood a couple of feet from him, the contentment that had been in his face, gone.

"Why'd your brother send that hunter to find me?"

Dean closed his eyes. It was the question that he'd hoped Benny would overlook. He turned to look at the vampire.

"I don't know, not exactly," he said quietly, looking at the brightly-lit room across the parking lot.

"But you have an idea," Benny pressed. "You have a pretty good idea."

Dean looked at him. "There was a lot about my life, about me and Sam, I didn't tell you, and … yeah, it's made problems. Some of those problems, most of those problems, were my fault, not Sam's."

"Don't," Benny said abruptly. "You can lie to yourself, cher, but don't lie to me."

Dean sighed. "It doesn't matter, Benny." He gestured around them vaguely. "It's done. Nothing can undo what's been done. Not now."

The vampire studied him for a long moment. "I was wrong about you having family, wasn't I?"

"Yeah," Dean said, looking away. "I told you, we don't get to have family."

Benny turned away, looking back into the interior of the café. "As long as she's alive, and safe, and happy, I got family, Dean."

He turned back, holding out his hand. Dean took it, feeling the vamp's fingers tighten slightly around his own.

"Thanks for not giving up on me, brother."

"Don't give me a reason to," Dean said. The warning was there, and both knew that it was probably only a matter of time before their friendship would face a real test. A test of loyalties and honour, of trust and their reasons for living.

The vampire smiled slightly and walked to his truck, opening the door and getting in. Dean moved off the drive as the engine started and the lights came on, holding up a hand as Benny drove past.

He looked back at the brightly-lit room. Standing outside, in the dark, looking in at the life and movement inside. His mouth twisted up on one side in a derisive smile as he turned and walked to the car.

He'd had a taste of normal. It had been what had changed him the most, he thought. Had been what had forced him into growing up. That year, with its stultifying boredom, the frustration and fury of not being able to find anything to help Sam, the agonies of knowing – or believing that he'd known – what had been happening to his brother. Unable to face it. Unable to stop it. Unable to feel any of the things he'd thought he'd wanted. Normal had come at too high a cost and the benefits hadn't outweighed the pain.

His brother had destroyed Benny's hopes of being able to sublimate his hunger in the easy life he'd found here. The vampire might be able to let that go, or he might not. He didn't know. He didn't know what he might be forced to do if that came up.

He hadn't been lying when he'd told Benny that a lot of what was driving Sam was his fault, he thought, starting the engine. He should've done a lot of things differently with his brother. But he hadn't, and where they were was where they were. He couldn't see a way of changing anything now. He glanced at his watch. Sam would be across into Texas by now. Another six or seven hours before he got to Kermit.

Twisting the key, listening critically to the engine as it rumbled into life, he thought about the other thing he had to do. He pulled out of the café's parking lot and turned onto the road, then picked up his phone, punching in the numbers. He listened to it ring.

"Hey, Dean," Martin said.

"Look, I'm just calling to let you know that the situation is resolved. Benny was not lying. There was another vamp, and we ganked him," he said. "Together."

"Oh. That's good, Dean."

Dean frowned at the tone in the hunter's voice. A little sing-song, like he wasn't paying attention. Or was out of it.

"Yeah, shut up and listen to me. Benny's long gone, and he won't be coming back, ever," he said, his voice deepening slightly. "So for your own sake, do not follow him. Are we clear?"

"You don't have to worry about me, Dean. I'm long gone, too."

I hope so, Dean thought sourly. "Oh, and Martin?"

"Yeah?"

"Find a new line of work."

He hit the end button and put the phone on the seat beside him.

Martin looked at the phone in his hand. Goddamned Winchesters and their high-and-mighty decisions, he thought blackly.

One of them stealing his car – his car – and leaving him in the middle of the swamp to walk back to town with a known vampire hunting here. And the other telling him what he could and couldn't do, hunting with a vamp, protecting a vamp, as if that was all hunky-dory and perfectly normal.

Only hunter here was him, he thought, staring ahead at the black road, his fingers tightening around his machete hilt.

Well, the vamp wasn't going to get away with it. And Dean Winchester couldn't tell him to find another job with that smooth-as-silk threat in his voice. He'd take the vamp down and go … and go … and go north somewhere, he thought. Or south, maybe. Somewhere else, anyway.

If he got his car back. He frowned. He could take Benny's camper, once the vamp was dead. Get himself over to San Antonio and get it fixed up. He nodded to himself, satisfied by the idea.

Benny turned right automatically, following the small roads north and slightly west. He had it mind to head for San Diego, pick up a job somewhere on the coast. He could work crew for any vessel, pleasure or commercial, maybe leave the country and see what the rest of the world had to offer. He needed something, some plan.

The shrill ring of the phone shattered his thoughts and he pulled out the cell from his pocket, flipping it open and looking at the screen.

"Hey, Liz," he said softly. "How's your shift going?"

"Mm. I'd say she's covering for you just fine ... Benny. But us regulars – we miss you."

He knew the voice. The half-wit hunter who'd brought this misery down on him, driven him out of his town and his home and away from his family.

No.

"Who is this?" Benny asked, struggling to keep his hand from crushing the phone.

"I think you know who this is," Martin said quietly.

"How the hell you get her phone?" He looked down at the dash, calculating the distance he'd come from the café.

In the background, he heard her voice, warm and alive. "You enjoy the cherry?"

"No! Sorry. Not quite done yet."

Benny tensed at the tone in the hunter's voice, his ears straining to hear everything that was happening there, his imagination filling his mind with images he didn't want to see.

"Oh. Did you, uh, reach your friend okay?"

He could hear the nervousness in her voice, not overt but underneath, as if she could sense that the hunter was trouble, but couldn't work out how much yet. He pushed his foot down on the brake pedal and came to a stop.

"I did. Thanks," Martin said, his voice soft and conciliatory now. "I can't believe I left my cell on the bus. Wife says I'd lose my own head if it wasn't screwed on. I'll just be another minute."

"Well, you take your time."

A little of the nervousness had gone from her as she'd moved away, Benny thought uneasily. She was so vulnerable. She believed the best in people. Such an easy target for a monster.

"Thank you," Martin said, and under the voice he heard the scrape of a fork over the thick china of the café's plates. "She's a nice girl. Takes kindly to strangers."

"You leave her alone. Now," Benny ground out. He shoved hard against the thought of what the hunter might have it mind to do.

"How far away are you?"

"An hour," Benny said.

"You got forty-five minutes," Martin told him.

The vampire shut the phone and turned the wheel sharply, hearing the screak of the low branches beside the road scraping over the camper roof as he forced the turn on the narrow road.

The café was dark and Benny drove straight up to the porch, turning off the engine and lights and getting out without any effort at silence or stealth. The hunter held the cards, for now. He couldn't think of a way to take him down without knowing the situation first.

He stepped onto the porch and reached for the screen door, pulling it wide and opening the door behind it, gaze shifting smoothly around the room as he looked for her.

He saw her as he closed the door, the bells jingling beside him. She was close by the counter, tied to a chair, staring at him, her face frightened and bewildered. He took a breath, forcing his fear away.

"Lay down your arms, you unholy thing!" Martin said loudly, his head appearing from behind Elizabeth as he rose from his crouch. Benny stopped, spreading his arms slightly wide, hands open, watching the man settle a long knife against Liz's throat.

"You got me here, now," Benny said, moving around the table between them slowly. "Why don't you just let her go and walk away?"

"I don't think so."

Benny looked at him. "You realize I'm not asking."

"I realize that completely," Martin said, his voice shaking slightly.

In the chair, Elizabeth lifted her head a little higher as the edge of the knife pressed against her skin, her breath catching as she stared at him. "Roy, what's going on?"

"It's okay, Lizzie," Benny said, edging closer to the counter. "He ain't gonna hurt you. Ain't that right?"

He shifted his gaze to Martin, seeing the way the man's hand gripped Liz's shoulder, fingers curled into claws and still shaking. "Come on now. I got no beef with you. You got no beef with me."

"I got plenty of beef with your kind," Martin snarled, the edge of the knife trembling against the woman's throat.

"All right," Benny allowed softly, forcing himself not to look at the shiver of light along the metal, so close to the big artery in her neck. "That may be so, but not for anything that happened here. I did not kill those people."

"I heard," Martin said. "You and Dean had a little Purgatory reunion. Touching."

Benny looked at him, watching the hunter trying to cover his fear with anger, trying to find something that would burn inside of him, work him up enough to be able to attack. Had a hell of a beef with Dean and his brother, he thought distantly, wondering how much of that was driving what he was doing now.

"Roy ... please just tell me what's going on here," Elizabeth said, her gaze flicking from side to side helplessly. Benny felt his chest constrict at her fear.

He looked back to Martin, not caring that he was going to beg, to plead, only caring that she walked out, alive. "Please. I'm asking you – do not do this. The bad guy is gone, okay?"

"She doesn't know ..." Martin said wonderingly as he watched the vampire. "Benny."

Don't, he said, inside of himself, knowing it showed on his face. Please. Don't. He saw the hunter see it and smile.

"Roy?" She looked up at him, bewildered. "Who's Benny?"

"Who's Benny?" Martin asked, an edge of hysteria in his voice. "Let's find out, shall we?"

He crouched behind the chair, hand fisted in the shoulder of her sweater and hair, the carving knife scraping against her skin, as the vampire got slowly closer.

"You- you stay back!" he yelled, drawing the blade in a short slice over the side of Elizabeth's neck.

Benny smelled the blood as the skin opened. It was, to him, a rich and complex smell, living blood, filled with oxygen and minerals, filled with the life of the human, intoxicating and irresistible and maddening.

Both Liz and Martin were glowing with light, the details of their skin, the weave and weft of the fabric of their clothing, every hair, every line, every edge of flesh and muscle and tendon, delineated in light to his eyes.

"Look," Martin said to Elizabeth. "See that?! Dilated pupils! Hair standing! Signs of hunger!"

The vampire turned away as he felt his fangs descend. He could hear the beating of their hearts, Liz's a little slower than Martin's. He could hear the rush of the blood through their veins and the slurring hiss of their sweat, sliding down their skin. He could hear the creak of the tendons in Martin's hand, as he gripped the knife. Could hear the elastic twang of his great-granddaughter's muscles as she tensed in the chair.

The hunger pulled at him, raking his organs with claws of fire, burning through his blood vessels with the vicious bite of acid, crackling along his nervous system, a lit fuse that would detonate everything he'd struggled and bled and killed to have.

"Don't worry," Martin said to Elizabeth, his voice booming in Benny's ears. "He won't feed off his own flesh and blood."

"Flesh and blood?" she repeated in confusion, and Benny tipped his head back, the cords and muscles of his body standing out in bold relief as he tried to hold back the red tide rising inside of him.

Martin straightened, standing up behind her, watching the vampire as his voice filled with triumph. "Tell her, Benny. Tell her how you're her long-lost grandpappy. Tell her about all the dead you left behind. Tell her about the monster that you are!"

Over.

The single word penetrated deeply and it short-circuited everything else. Rage and hunger disappeared together, washed away by a sorrow that felt too big for his mind or body to hold. He'd dreamed of love, in the flat grey land on another plane. And that had gone, its memory stained forever when he'd seen her again and she'd been hard and pale and perfect, but not herself. He'd dreamed of contentment, of a life lived small, filled with the moments of happiness from just knowing that he shared something with one other person.

Now that was gone too.

The fangs retracted as the hunger dissolved and he turned back to Martin, no trace of fight left in him.

"What do you want?"

"Isn't it obvious? I want your head on a stake," Martin snarled, drawing a machete from the sheath behind his hip.

Benny nodded, walking to the counter top and bending, laying his head on the smooth wooden surface. He looked at Liz, hoping that he could take that memory down with him, remember every detail.

"Oh ... Roy, no," Elizabeth stared at him, blinking away the tears that filled her eyes as she realised what he was doing.

"I'm sorry," Benny whispered to her. He'd wanted her to be safe. He'd wanted to be left alone. He'd never gotten what he'd wanted. Her face was full of regret, full of sorrow and he felt himself, the old part of himself, the human part of himself, reaching out to her, to tell her it would be okay, maybe. He didn't know.

"Well, hope they're saving a special place for you –", Martin said, picking his way around the chair to the end of the countertop. "– wherever it is you come from."

He leaned forward, sweeping the pie plate off the end as he lunged forward, the machete's blade hissing down.

Benny kept his eyes on Liz. He saw her rise slightly in the chair, her mouth open in a scream, saw her shift her weight into the hunter.

"No!"

Kermit, Texas

Sam pulled over onto the verge, cutting the engine and the headlights and coasting to a stop outside of the house. He racked the slide on the Taurus, loading a round into the chamber and opened the door silently, latching it but not closing it fully.

He'd made good time, and it was still dark, although dawn wasn't too far away. He slipped in through the driveway gate and made his way around the house, hesitating when he saw the light shining from the living room window, the curtains only partly drawn, the brightness spilling onto the lawn in front of him.

He walked over to the window, careful to avoid the light and looked in. Don sat alone on the long, red sofa, the coffee table in front of him holding a couple of glasses, resting on coasters. Sam straightened up slightly as he watched the other man shift to the edge, leaning forward and hunching up slightly.

From the side of the room, Amelia came in, carrying a longneck. She walked around the coffee table and sat down next to Don, handing him the beer. Sam saw Don lift his hand, taking the bottle and setting it down on the table, reaching out and gently pushing a loose strand of dark curl back off her face. He saw her lift her hand and cover her husband's, her expression warm with feeling, her eyes fluttering closed as she held his hand against her skin.

Not in trouble. The thought flitted through Sam's mind irrelevantly. He turned away from the tormenting intimacy inside the room, and walked back to the car, his thumb automatically finding the safety on his gun and flicking it back on.

Getting back into the car, he put the gun into the glove box, then sat, staring at the wheel. He'd driven nine hours straight, breaking every speed limit in between Carencro and Kermit to get here, to save her. To be with her. What'd that tell him?

Leaving hadn't been the right thing to do – for him. But maybe, he thought, remembering her smile, the way her lashes had fluttered down, maybe it had been for her. He'd told her, before he'd left, that she'd saved him. It'd been the truth. She had. He thought he might've saved her too. Stopped her from heading down a more destructive path than she'd already been on. He wasn't too sure about that. But he'd been running blind when he'd hit Riot, and that would've gone on until he'd stopped taking precautions, stopped caring, stopped thinking at all.

It wasn't enough. She'd stopped the headlong rush but all the problems that had driven him, they were all still there. A lifetime of choices. Of things that bent him and twisted him and distorted him until he didn't know who he was. He'd thought he did. Thought that the core Sam, the real Sam, had never changed. But when he looked back, when he looked back to Stanford or even the year of trying to find his father … he wasn't the same as he'd been then. Things that he'd taken for granted were still there … they weren't, not anymore. He wasn't sure when, exactly, they'd disappeared but he couldn't feel that strength in himself anymore. That surety of knowing what was right and what was wrong. And he knew he'd had that. Back then.

Carencro, Louisiana

"No!" Elizabeth screamed, adrenalin flooding her body as she thrust down with her feet and tipped the chair into the man beside her.

"Fucking bitch!"

She lay on her side on the floor, her weight resting on one arm where it was tied behind the chair, and looked up in terror as the man staggered back toward her, the long carving knife winking in the dim light, its sharp point aimed at her.

A deep, guttural roar filled the room and he was gone, so fast that she wasn't sure that she hadn't lost consciousness for a moment. Somewhere behind her she could hear the roar rise and fall, the sounds moving around her, the crash of furniture knocked over, broken and splintered and screechingly shoved aside across the wooden floors, the man's voice, louder and softer … and a scream cut hideously short, followed by sticky, wet sounds, like someone mopping a floor. She could smell the reek of blood, a lot of blood, filling the air.

Her hair was over one side of her face and she tried to twist around when she heard the footfall behind her. The rope around her wrists tightened for a second then fell free and the chair was pulled away from her, a hand, slick and wet, gripping her own, and pulling her up.

Roy stood there, holding her hand, looking at her, his face and neck and chest covered with blood. She looked, unseeing, at the rents and tears in his shirt and coat, at the deep wounds that patterned his chest, the long, thin line halfway up his neck. Her gaze skittered down past him to the floor, and she saw legs, lying there, unmoving.

"Liz," Benny said. "I'm so sorry." He let go of her hand as he saw what she was looking at.

She shook her head, looking back up at him. It was still Roy – the sad, gentle eyes and the wry, gentle humour and the solid, reliable strength of him. She watched him lift his arm, wiping the blood from his face, could see the stain of it, caught in his stubble, in the cracks and lines on his face.

"W-w-was what he said true, Roy?" she asked, searching his face. The man had sounded so sure, but he'd been a madman, hadn't he? A-a-a psychopath, escaped from somewhere?

Benny looked down and sighed. He could lie now, and she would believe him. She wanted to believe, he could see it in her eyes. But lies had a bad habit of rising, down the line.

Lifting his head, he looked into her eyes, his expression unknowingly softening as he committed them to memory, to the deepest safety of his mind.

"Yeah, Liz, it's true."

Elizabeth looked down at the body on the floor, feeling her legs wobbling, her shoulders trembling. Benny saw it too and he stepped forward automatically, wrapping her in his arms, holding her tightly for a moment.

"I'm goin'," he said against her hair. "You won't have this kind of trouble again."

He stepped back, grimacing inwardly as he saw that he'd covered her in blood. She followed his gaze, looking down at her front and then up again. And he was gone. A moment later the engine started out the front and she turned slowly to see the truck back up and turn, pulling out of the lot and back onto the road, taillights shining red against the blackness of the night.

The road was a two lane blacktop and Dean drove west, his fingers tapping lightly on the wheel as the song played. He sang softly along with the chorus, his voice husky, feeling all right tonight.

His phone rang twice before he registered the sound over the music, and he picked it up off the seat, glancing at the caller.

"Yeah?"

"Dean?"

"Hang on." He could barely hear the voice on the other end, and he shifted the phone to his left, reaching out to turn the stereo down. "Elizabeth?"

"Y-you told me to call you if I saw ... him," she said, her voice high and shaking.

"What do you mean? Roy? Is – is he there right now?" Dean asked. "Elizabeth, what's going on?"

There was a silence on the other end of the line for a moment and he heard her voice lift higher. "Just come."

Dean dropped the phone and spun the wheel, stamping on the brake as the car began to turn, the back end sliding smoothly out and completing the u-turn under the weight of the car. He pushed down on the accelerator and the Impala surged forward, straightening out as he headed back to town, the engine revs rising as his foot pressed harder.

The headlights lit up the building as he turned onto the road, and he saw her sitting on the porch steps. In the wash of the beams, her face looked white, but it might have been just the contrast to the brilliance of the red that soaked her clothes, covered her chest and hands. Dean stopped the car and got out, walking quickly toward her, slowing as he saw her expression.

She was staring straight ahead, holding her phone in one hand. She pointed behind her to the doorway, and he glanced at the dark interior then back to her. She was covered in blood, but he didn't think it was hers, at least not all of it. Along the side of her neck, a short, thin cut was still bleeding slightly, and he pulled a small cloth from his pocket, pressing it against the cut on her neck until her hand lifted and held it there for herself.

What the fuck had happened here?

Dean walked up the steps, past Elizabeth and opened the screen door. The main door was already open, pushed wide, and he looked at the pools and smears of blood that patterned the floor, moving slowly inside. Chairs and tables had been overturned, white china gleamed in the beam of his flashlight, shards scattered over the floor. The blood trail led to the back of the room, behind the counter.

He saw the legs first; dark jeans, work boots, and slowed as he looked around the end of the counter, seeing the distinctive plaid shirt, and the pool of blood that surrounded it. Martin lay on his back, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Just under the jaw, there was a long, straight cut, but below that, the man's neck had been torn apart, the cartilage of the windpipe ripped out, the sinews to either side gleaming white, shining in the flashlight's beam against the dark red and black of the rent flesh. A carving knife, perhaps eight inches long, lay at one edge of the blood pool, most of its length red.

The volume of blood that had spread out from the body was at least four quarts, Dean estimated automatically, taking into account had much had been soaked up by the clothing. Benny hadn't drained him. He didn't know what that meant. He glanced over his shoulder at the woman still sitting motionless on the steps. She would know, if he could get her to talk about it.

Before he even thought of that, he had another job to get done first. He walked back to the porch, and crouched down beside Elizabeth.

"I need to clean this up," he said quietly to her. "I need a tarp or a sheet, or a blanket."

She turned to look at him slowly, and nodded. Dean straightened up and held his hand out, pulling her to her feet as she took it.

He lit the fire behind the café, using the furniture too broken to be repaired, and packing crates, and soaking it all with a can of gasoline that Elizabeth kept out the back for burning the rubbish.

When the debris had been cleared away and the body wrapped up and taken outside, she'd started to come out of the shock, filling a bucket with hot water and detergent and taking an old-fashioned scrubbing brush, getting down on her knees to wash the floors. There'd been something in her face when she'd done it, something hard and private and filled with pain, and she'd ignored him standing there watching, so he'd left her to it.

The flames had died down and the bones were indistinguishable from the charred timbers and Dean turned and walked back around the building. Inside, a couple of lights were on, the room smelling strongly of equal parts detergent and disinfectant. Elizabeth sat at the counter, both hands curled around a cup of coffee, staring at the grill.

Dean walked over to her, wincing inwardly when he saw that she was still covered in blood.

"You got any spare clothes here?" he asked, leaning on the counter next to her. She looked up at him blankly for a moment then looked down at herself and nodded slowly.

"Get them," he said gently, gesturing to the restrooms on the other side of the room. "Get cleaned up."

He'd burn her clothes on the remains of the fire, he thought distractedly, looking around the room. A few less tables but it looked reasonably clean, ordered.

Elizabeth came out of the ladies restroom ten minutes later, her hair damp and pulled back from her face, her skin slightly reddened from being scrubbed. She sat down at the counter and Dean retrieved the bloodied clothes from the bathroom, taking them out to the fire and throwing them on.

"You – you know all about this, don't you?" she asked him when he returned.

He shrugged, pouring himself a coffee from the pot she'd made and sitting on the seat next to her.

"I know some of it," he hedged, turning to face her. "Can you tell me what happened, here?"

"That man …" she started and stopped, looking down at her cup. "He grabbed me, just before closing."

Dean watched her as she told him about it in fits and starts, letting her get it out on her own, without prompting. What she could remember. What she'd heard. What she'd seen. The pieces fit together and he sipped his coffee, forcing the hot liquid down his throat when he felt himself tensing up.

"Was Roy a monster, Dean?" she asked, finally looking at him. He made himself look up, turning his head to meet her eyes. Behind her bewilderment, he saw the shadows of pain she hadn't yet looked at.

"He was more human than most people I've met," he said. "But yeah, he was also a vampire."

"But he was your friend? You and him, you were friends?"

"Yes." He dropped his gaze, wondering if Benny was still that. "Yeah, we're friends."

Kermit, Texas

Sam looked moodily along the countertop, his half-eaten breakfast pushed aside. He wasn't sure what he should be doing next. He had Martin's car, but he had the feeling that the hunter would be gone by the time he got back to Carencro, and he wasn't sure he wanted to meet up with the man again anyway. He could dump the car here, pick himself up something, but that seemed like – it didn't seem much like taking the road he wanted to be on.

He could call Dean … the thought fizzled out as he realised that Dean hadn't called. It would have to be the first time in a long time that his brother hadn't called to see where he was, make sure he was okay. And unless his brother had somehow been killed on the vampire hunt, there was only one other reason he could think of for that.

He pulled out his phone and dialled the number under Amelia's message.

I-10, Louisiana

He should really be thinking of finding someplace to crash for a while, Dean thought, his hands light on the wheel, the car moving smooth and steadily. He didn't feel especially tired, despite the twenty-four hours of action. He'd keep going until he needed to stop. Behind him, the sun was above the horizon and the car's shadow stretched out long in front of the car.

The ringing sounded was muffled and he looked around, then leaned over, popping the glove box and pulling out a cell.

"Sammy?"

"'Sam, I need your help. Come quick.' Nice one. Spoofing the number, sending a distress signal ... you got me good. When did you do that?" Sam said, not quite able to believe he'd been taken in by it. The timing had been perfect, why hadn't he noticed that?

"Can't take all the credit for that, I had some help. But it seemed like a reasonable precaution. Looks like I made the right call," Dean said casually. "So, did you see her?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I saw her," Sam said, his expression hardening as he recognised his words thrown back at him. "And she's doing just fine. But, of course, you know that."

"Actually, I didn't," Dean said. Sam sounded pissed, which was only to be expected. But there was something else under that, something he couldn't get a handle on. "I did know it was the only way to get you to lay off."

"So? Is it done?"

"Yeah, it's done."

"Any casualties?" Sam stared blankly at the special board in front of him.

"Martin," Dean answered neutrally.

Sam closed his eyes, his mouth compressing. Goddamn it. Goddamn it all to hell. You brought him into this and he got killed. His face screwed up for a moment. No. Benny killed him. Dean's friend, Benny, killed him.

He dragged in a breath, knowing what the next answer would be, but needing to hear Dean say it. "Was it Benny?"

"He had it coming, Sam," Dean said, skating around the edge of the answer. "I'll tell you what happened."

"I know what happened, Dean," Sam ground out, his fingers closing around the edge of the countertop and holding onto it. Another mistake. Another choice. Another reason to go.

Dean heard the deep anger in his brother's voice. "Okay, you want to listen to me or not?"

The call cut out.

Dean looked down at the phone and flipped it shut. "Damn it."

Sam wasn't going to listen to him because he'd already pushed aside his own responsibility for it, he thought. Already laid the blame for Martin's death at Benny's feet. Had his brother been so desperate that he'd really thought that Martin had been up for a job like this? He shook his head. That was the least of it. The very least of it. He'd made a choice to bring the hunter in and he wasn't facing that either.

The eleven months that his brother had hunted and lived without a soul had done something, Dean thought tiredly. Given him a chance to push all the rest back and pretend it had nothing to do with him, maybe? A chance to live without morality, without conscience or repercussions or accountability? He wasn't sure of how it'd all worked in Sammy's freaky head, but there'd been a change. A fundamental change.

Look, I'm not saying Sam ain't ass-full of character defects … but, I watched that kid pull one civilian out after another. Must have saved ten people. Never stopped. Never slowed down. We're hard on him, Dean. We've always been. But in the meantime... he's been running into burning buildings since he was, what? Twelve? Sam's got a darkness in him. I'm not saying he don't. But he's got a hell of a lot of good in him, too.

Bobby's words flooded back and his fingers tightened on the wheel. It'd been after, he thought uneasily. After he'd gotten out. After Cas had pulled him out without his soul. After he'd tried to integrate himself and face the memories of the cage and what the archangels had done to him. A piece was missing. Or maybe buried. He wasn't sure.

The last eighteen months had brought back the old anger. But Sam wasn't dealing. And he had no idea of what the hell he could about that.

Kermit, Texas

10 a.m.

Sam drew the curtains on the windows of the room and stripped down, lying on his back on the bed. He didn't think he could sleep. Behind his eyelids, images came and went, in no order, random events, people, places.

He'd paid. He'd gone down into the earth holding onto a fallen angel, and the memories of being there, with Lucifer and Michael, were thick and gravid and clung to him when he went anywhere near them. He'd paid for all his mistakes, all his choices.

11 a.m.

Sam lay rigid on the bed, every muscle contracted into immovability. His heart was pounding fast in his chest, his respiration accelerated, behind his closed lids, his eyes moved rapidly. The dream was endless, and it wouldn't stop, wouldn't slow down, wouldn't let him go.

I'm not handicapped. I'm not saddled with a soul. In fact, I used to skipper this meatboat for a while. It was smooth sailing. I was sharp, strong. That is, 'til they crammed your soul back in. Now look at you. Same misty-eyed milksop you always were. That's because souls are weak. They're a liability. Now, nothing personal, but run the numbers. Someone's got to take charge around here, before it's too late.

You're not me, he said desperately, turning as the black hole at the end of the barrel rose up. I'm not you.

Of course you are, I'm the part of you that you never acknowledged, Sam, all those years hunting with your father and brother, the part that liked it. The part that was good at it, and wanted to be just like Daddy, just like Dean.

NO!

He twisted away as the roar of the gun filled his ears, falling. Not to the ground. He was still falling. He opened his eyes and he was in darkness, falling. Far, far below him, a thin red line meandered and he couldn't think what it was, what it could be.

Heat rose up around him and he screamed.

He was in Bobby's kitchen. He looked around wildly, staring at himself.

I have to know what you know. What happened in the cage?

Sam, you can't imagine. Stay here, go back, find that bartender, go find Jess, but don't do this. I know you. You're not strong enough.

He stepped toward himself and drove the knife in, head thrown back as the memories came back.

Ah Sammy, look at you, full of anger and fear, just about the perfect combination for what we needed, wasn't he?

The glowing archangel turned and looked his brother. Michael nodded, and Sam closed his eyes tightly against the sight of what was left of his half-brother.

You did everything by the book, kid. I don't think I could have designed anything better than what you did all on your ownsome. Pride and wrath, envy and lust, you just about put the seven out of business.

He curled up on the ground, his head tucked into his arms. I didn't. That's not true. I didn't. I didn't.

'Course you did, Sammy, the devil's voice whispered into his mind, drilling down deep. You were driven by rage, seduced by the thought of power, consumed with the desire for it. Did you ever stop to think about what you were doing, Sammy? Even once? No, son, you let it roll right through, let it feed off those emotions until it was too late, until you couldn't see Hell for the demons.

It was all Dean's fault, of course. If he'd been strong enough to just let you die, then none of it would've happened, would it? No Hell. No Apocalypse. No torture for poor old Sam. If he'd been as strong as your dad, even. But Dean, he was weak and he let you down, left you alone to deal with the world as best you could.

And what did it mean, Sam, at the end of it all? Did Dean die for a reason? Did he keep you safe? Was his cowardly sacrifice worth anything at all? Why no, because you went straight out and started chugging the demon blood and turned into the very thing he died to stop. Hilarious, really.

I can see why you can't live with it, but you know that not facing things never helped anyone. Embrace your past, Sammy. You followed your desires and it all went to Hell. Remember it, Sam, remember it and glorify in it 'cos you know, if you're gonna be a bear, you might as well be a fucking grizzly, eh?

Sam sat up in the bed, eyes staring at the shadowed room around him, his lungs burning as they heaved frantically in and out trying to get air. He lifted his hand and wiped it over his face, looking down at the sweat that coated it, coated him, had soaked into the linen and left the sheets under him cold and damp.

Slowly, his breathing settled. Slowly, his pulse dropped. He shivered as the sweat cooled on his skin.

4 p.m.

The bar was quiet when he walked in and he sat at the polished timber counter and ordered a beer.

He had no thoughts, sitting at the counter, staring vacantly at the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. He was empty and quiescent, calm and not-there. The bartender brought the beer and set it down in front of him and he nodded slightly, picking up the bottle and tipping it up, the cold, bubbling brew filling his mouth and throat.

He needed a car. He wanted to drive along the open roads and not be.

8 p.m.

Sam looked at the glass in front of him. It held perhaps a mouthful of amber liquid. He picked it up and drained it, setting it back on the bar. The bar had filled up, music playing quietly somewhere, people talking, laughing. He couldn't hear them very well, inside his force-field. But he could feel them, their energy had begun to press up against him, making him itch.

He stood up, and dug his hand into his pocket, pulling out a small wad of notes, peeling one off and putting it on the bar next to the glass. Time to go.

Turning around, his head lifted and he saw her standing behind him. And everything came crashing back into him, memory and thought and feeling, filling him up and shattering the bubble, driving out the calm and nothingness, making him remember. Making him think. Making him feel.

"I knew that was you," Amelia said, her face lit up with hope and nervousness.

Sam stared at her, distantly aware that his heart was thumping against his ribs, that he couldn't get a deep breath into his lungs, that the walls that had held it all back had gone. That he was here.