Season Two

Episode One: Call To Darkness

By Tree & Kittsbud

Part Three

Unknown location

“Welcome home, Dean!”

Haris remained standing there, his arms wide open as though he expected, maybe willed, Dean to move forward into the embrace. After an appreciable amount of time, accompanied by the sheer insolence that seethed out of every pore and fiber of the young hunter, Haris sighed audibly and dropped his arms. He moved forward, closing the short distance between himself and Dean. Slowly, he began to walk around the man, appraising him like a collector would a work of art. Not missing any aspect of the body in front of him, yellow eyes swirling as Haris took in every detail from the finest strand of short brown hair to the rigid, unyielding stance. The embodiment of defiance!

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Dean snarled, his skin twitching from the nearness of the demon.

Haris laughed, his breath whispering across the back of Dean’s neck, setting the fine hairs at his nape on end.

“I do so appreciate the impudence Dean. It makes it that much more satisfying when you submit.”

When, not if!

Dean tried to hide the shudder that coursed through his body, but Haris caught the involuntary movement and laughed once more.

“What? No snappy Winchester comeback? Why Dean, I’m a little disappointed in you! But no matter, you will submit to me. Sooner or later, easily or painfully. Personally, I’m hoping for the latter.”

Dean remained rigid as Haris walked back around to stand directly before him. Just beyond the demon’s left shoulder, the door to the room had remained open following Haris’ entrance. Dean held his head stiffly forward, but he carefully stole a glance to the right, mentally calculating the distance between the two humongous guards and the temptation of freedom. It was only a quick look, but Haris caught it nonetheless.

“Oh please! Do try to escape. I could use the entertainment this afternoon.” Haris invited.

The two guards smiled in unison, black eyes glowing, large white teeth gleaming in anticipation like two pitbulls waiting for their master to toss them a raw steak. Dean didn’t bother to hide his eye movement this time, looking from the doorway to the guards and back again to the sardonic grin on Haris’ face.

Dean Winchester could be reckless, often was in fact, especially when it came to protecting his family, but these odds were clearly not in his favor and he knew it.

Offering his own acerbic smile back to the demon, he shook his head, backing down, the pent-up tension in his muscles relaxing just a little. “Nah, maybe I’ll wait around to see what you serve for happy hour: I just love those hot chicken wings with an ice cold beer.”

Haris laughed back, recognizing the defeat covered by the sarcasm. He moved closer now, mere inches away from the hunter’s face. Haris locked eyes with the young man. Yellow eyes meeting hazel, hazel glaring back. Still perplexed by the lack of black in the irises before him, Haris stared intently, attempting to bore into the very soul of the human before him.

Why had this young man not succumbed to the demon within him? What was preventing the complete possession? Had he not witnessed the black cloud of his demonic spawn overtake and envelope the young hunter, he might have thought that it had been repelled somehow.

“Dude, I don’t get this close to a chick on the first date. Well, okay, yeah I do, but you’re definitely not my type, and that sulfur breath, dude, I don’t think there’s a mint out there that will take care of that,” Dean snarked, the proximity of the demon’s face to his own unsettling.

Haris backed away laughing. ‘So much defiance in this one!’ he thought to himself. ‘Such a worthwhile adversary and he’ll be an even greater soldier to carry out my will!’

“Still wearing those masks huh Dean? Seems like we played out this little tough guy act of yours before. Oooh! That night at the cabin! What fun memories we created then: A regular Winchester family reunion as I recall!”

“Cut to the chase you bastard! What the hell do you want with me?” Dean snarled, frustration chasing away the ghosts that had been haunting him since that long night. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I’m assembling my troops here Dean. This is where you belong. You belong to me!” Haris calmly stated.

“I don’t belong to anyone!” the young man hissed back defiantly.

“Ah, but you do Dean. You have one of my children on board.”

The young hunter spun away from the yellow-eyed glare.

“What do you think I am? Some freakin’ minivan from hell, hauling your demonic brat all around?” Dean snarled, the question rhetorical, the answer he already knew.

Haris walked around him, seeking out his face once more. Hazel eyes shot to the floor, but the tension in the young man’s body was palpable in the small space.

“Still, it is a curious situation,” Haris continued. “You should be completely under the control of my ‘son’ right now. You certainly submitted to him back at the complex. But now, hmmm, I’m just not certain what’s going on here.”

“Well, so much for the all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful OZ.” Dean shot back. “I hope the curiosity drives you friggin' insane!”

Haris drew his hand back, a split second from lashing out against the defiance being displayed in the taut jaw of the hunter standing before him. Tempted to beat the young man into submission if necessary, the demon restrained itself. There were better and more effective methods to gain compliance and Haris well knew the fears that lay behind the eyes that glared at him now. He knew the words that would chip away at the hardened exterior. He’d used them before and had gained the desired results.

“Dean, why make this so hard? Don’t you see what I have to offer you? It’s everything you ever wanted. Family, belonging, home! All those things that daddy could never give you! You’ve been a soldier all your life. A good and dependable soldier for such a lost cause. With me, you can be a commander on the winning team. I can give you everything you ever wanted, no more sacrifices, no more pain!”

“Give in, let go, have peace!” the voice whispered from within him.

“There is nothing for you to go back to! I am the only future for you now!” the demon continued.

“Sam? My dad?” Dean muttered softly, afraid of the implication in the demon’s last statement.

“Gone!” Haris replied. “Remember Dean? You sacrificed your brother! Your hand held the knife that slid across his throat! And Sammy, he just laid there, staring up at you, all the time believing that his big brother would protect him like he always had, save him, like every other time before. Too bad it was too late for him to realize how wrong he had been.”

Dean’s mind flashed back to the chamber. A mass of candles encircled a prone form. Figures in robes, their faces shrouded, chanting. Someone handed him a knife. Forced it into his open palm and pushed him forward toward the altar. He wanted to resist, should have resisted, but he hadn’t. He moved ahead until he could see the sacrifice. Sam! Dark eyes staring up at him, relief turned to fear which turned to pleading and ended with acceptance.

“It’s not your fault Dean!” Those soulful eyes that had always trusted and relied on him to make things right, now offered forgiveness as the knife kissed against the skin of Sam’s throat.

He remembered the movement, in slow motion, more agonizing because he couldn’t remember any attempt to resist it. Then, the melee began. Gunshots ringing out as the hunters stormed the chamber. Bullets whizzing by his body from every direction as men poured into the large room only to be met by a horde of demons.

Dean flinched in the recollection, his body jerking as he recalled the impact of a bullet into his shoulder. The force of the slug spun him around, knife still in his outstretched hand incriminating him. Then there were more eyes. Dark again, like Sam’s, but these were not forgiving, not accepting. His father’s eyes, saddened as he lowered the still-smoking weapon and watched as his eldest son fell to the ground.

Haris smiled smugly yet again. He saw the resignation in Dean’s body as the young man reached up and touched his right shoulder. Time for another dagger to be thrown.

“See, it’s all true Dean. You killed poor baby brother and John caught you doing it. Why else would Daddy have tried to kill you? But don’t worry. He and all of the hunters paid the price for their audacity.”

“Dad?” Dean breathed.

“Slaughtered, all of them. Screaming like dogs as my troops tore them apart. We bathed in hunter blood that day; so satisfying. And John? I saved him for last. He cried when he saw what you did to poor Sammy. He died hating you. Cursed your name and the day you were born.”

No, No, NO! His very soul screamed out in disbelief. It didn’t happen that way. It couldn’t have happened that way. Demons lie, Haris was lying now, he had to believe that or there was no point in living.

Dean struggled to wipe the memories from his mind. If he could erase the vivid replay, then it hadn’t happened. He could convince himself that his brother and father were still alive and that he wasn’t damned forever. As if in response, his shoulder ached, a deep throb that radiated outward and ate at him far worse than any bullet wound ever could. It affirmed Haris’ story and condemned him.

“Give in, let go, have peace!”

“You’re all alone Dean, but you don’t have to be!” Haris tempted. “There is no one left for you. No Mom, no Dad, no Sam! They’re all gone!”

“Give in, let go, have peace!”

Pain engulfed him and he sunk to his knees, arms wrapped tightly around him as he began to rock back and forth. Twenty-four years of emotional pain, fear, uncertainty, and loss boiled up from inside, a tidal wave that threatened to wash away any semblance of the strong Dean Winchester that he had so cleverly and precisely crafted. His family was gone, the very definition of who he was had been finally and completely wiped off the earth. With no family, who was he really?

“Get up, you’re a Winchester! You’ve never given up on anything in your life! Resist, hold on, stay strong!”

“Dad?” he cried out weakly, inner voice spurring inner hope.

“Gone!” Haris insisted.

‘But Demons lie!’

‘Slaughtered, all of them’

‘It’s not your fault Dean!’

‘Give in … RESIST … let go … HOLD ON … have peace … STAY STRONG!’

Darkness clawed at him, pulling him under! Sam! Help me! Gone! Sam’s eyes, his light, pulling him back to the surface like a lifeguard. Gone!

“All gone Dean! You belong to me now!” Haris restated.

Pain instantly turned to rage. It exploded behind his eyes and enveloped him like a warm blanket. Dean vaulted to his feet, muscles bunching, fist clenching, hazel irises flaring wildly then glazing over black.

In one fluid movement, he was toe to toe with Haris, his hands wrapped around the demon’s neck, fingers clawing into human-like flesh as his forearms bulged with the effort. The two behemoths at the door moved in protectively, ready to peel the puny human from their master’s throat, but Haris waved them off.

Momentarily surprised at the strength of the hands that were clasped about his neck, Haris ignored the attack like the minor irritation it was. Instead, he focused on the black eyes of the form in front of him; black eyes that indicated a change of control, an internal war being waged and won all in the demon’s favor. As the hunter’s grip continued to tighten, Haris smiled.

“That’s it Dean! Feed the anger, embrace all that rage!” the demon encouraged. “You belong to me!”

* * * *

Cabin in the woods - later that evening

It was early evening when John pulled his truck up to the front of the old hunting cabin. The retreating sunlight fought a losing battle with the nearly full moon that was just appearing over the horizon, each in turn casting peculiar shadows across the landscape and amongst the lines of pines just behind the log structure.

He pushed the truck door open and paused momentarily as he swung his feet out and planted them onto the ground. Sighing loudly, he sat there in silence, his weary body reminding his tortured psyche of everything that had transpired that day. What a fool he had been, believing that today could actually have been the end to his crusade and the destruction of his most vilified enemy. Instead, the day started in betrayal and had ended in loss.

John rubbed at reddened, fatigued eyes. ‘Yeah, fatigue! Not tears!’ his mind insisted, but as the base of his palms continued to press into the hard edge of his orbits, the wetness there had nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

Dean! Soldier, son, possessed, missing! Memories of a tousled haired little boy, rambunctious, energetic and full of life, coursed through his mind. A young man, standing by his side, seasoned hunter, true brother, faithful son.

Gone! Maybe lost to him forever by either death or worse. John surged to his feet. Part of him was tempted to shout at the skies until his throat was as raw as the heart in his chest. The other part of him wanted to march inside the cabin and tear Zack Murzak apart with his bare hands and then use the amputated limbs to beat the man to death.

The latter part of John Winchester won out and he flung the truck door shut with as much force as he could muster; the glass in the partially opened window rattled and threatened to shatter. He stormed up the stairs to the covered porch two at a time, leaving no doubt in the occupants mind that he was on his way. Thankfully, the front door was unlocked, since he hit it at full stride, twisting the knob and flinging it open, the wood colliding with the interior wall and knocking a picture to the floor with a loud crash.

Inside, his youngest son sat backwards on a chair, his long legs straddling either side of the seat. Leaning forward, his chest resting against the spindles, Sam rigidly held his .45 aimed directly at Zack’s head. The young man didn’t even glance up as his father’s heavy steps carried him across the short span between the front door and the small kitchen area where the dark haired hunter sat tied to an identical chair.

Without breaking stride, John stalked over to his former friend and stood glaring at him for a few brief seconds, breathing heavily. Suddenly, John lashed out and backhanded him with such force that the restrained man was thrown sideways to the floor, chair and all.

“You sonofabitch!” John roared, reaching down and dragging the stunned man back upright by his shirt front, twin trails of blood trickling from Zack’s nose. “We lost a lot of good men out there today because of you! And on top of that, you serve up my sons on a silver platter to that bastard Haris!” Brown eyes screaming as loudly as his voice, rage overwhelmed him and John backhanded the man once again for good measure.

Watching his father, Sam never flinched; the gun that remained trained on the hunter didn’t drop a fraction. In truth, at that moment, he would have enthusiastically helped his father tear the man to pieces were it not for the information that he fervently prayed Zack would reveal. Instead, he sat silently, content to let his father take out anger and frustration on Zack for the both of them.

Another backhand, another pain-filled grunt, but the former hunter remained silent, each time his nearly glazed-over eyes returned to the floor unable or unwilling to meet the eyes of the two men before him.

John mistook the silence for defiance, and as he released the remnant of his anger and pain, he grabbed Zack’s hair and forced the man’s head up to meet his gaze. Zack gagged as John’s other hand closed around his throat, thumb crushing into his windpipe, but the older hunter never broke his grasp.

“Dammit Zack! Just tell me where he took my son! I don’t care about anything else. I just want Dean back!” John began shouting, but his voiced cracked as he said his eldest son’s name, betraying the desperation he was trying so carefully to hide. He increased the pressure on Zack’s throat, losing control, ignoring Zack’s desperate efforts to get air.

Sam caught the break in his father’s tone. Suddenly realizing that John was losing it and about to kill Zack, he sprang up from the chair and grabbed John’s arm.

“Dad!” It was like trying to move a marble statue, the muscles in his father’s arm were coiled like a python. “ Dad! Stop it!”

John blinked, then blinked again, staring at Sam. Reluctantly, he let go of Zack’s throat, but retained his grasp of the former hunter’s hair. “Last chance,” He warned, face close to Zack’s.

Satisfied, Sam stepped back, watching as Zack gulped for air, lifting his gun once more.

“I don’t know anything!” Voice raw, Murzak screamed back, his bloodshot eyes and bruised face arching forward, pleading ignorance. “I swear to God, John!

John looked long and hard at Zack, searching the beaten hunter’s eyes, carefully considering what he saw. He could see the fear and lies in the rapid movement of Zack’s pupils. John Winchester was never a tolerant man, but he was even less so when it came to lying.

“Bullshit!” John snarled, releasing his grip on Zack's hair with a jerk, straightening angrily. “You were one of the best hunters I’ve ever known!” John narrowed his eyes in disgust. "How the hell does someone like you get possessed? You were too careful. It just doesn’t happen that easily with someone like you!”

Zack shrugged, absolutely unable to meet his former friend and comrade’s eyes. He knew he couldn’t offer a rationale that the indomitable John Winchester would ever accept, especially when he was focused on the welfare of his sons.

John moved away from the shell of the former hunter, pissed off and exasperated at the lack of information coming from the man. Afraid he would actually just kill him and be done with it, but aware that wouldn’t help them find Dean. Pacing across the room, running his hand through his hair and across his face, trying to think, he turned to his youngest, remaining? son.

Despite his posture of readiness, Sam looked exhausted, his face bearing the bruises of Haris’ not-so-gentle guards, his hands swollen, knuckles split and reddened from his futile assault on the cell door as he tried to get back to his older brother.

There was hollowness to the young man’s eyes, and John well knew the underlying cause. While there had always been a brother’s bond between his two sons, Dean stepping naturally into the older brother protector role, Sam was equally, albeit more subtly, his older brother’s guardian as well. If Dean was the rock climber, Sam was his tether to the mountain, always there to prevent the big fall. While John knew - had witnessed firsthand - the devastation to Dean when Sam left for Stanford, then he was currently seeing that same desolation in Sam now that Dean was gone.

'What have I done to my sons?' he groaned inwardly.

John walked to Sam’s side; his hand dropped to rest on the young man’s shoulder, applying a gentle squeeze that he hoped conveyed some sort of optimism. Sam glanced up only briefly, the .45 never wavering from its dead-on aim, the muscles in the forearm holding the weapon taut and tense.

Gently pressing his hand down on the top of the pistol, John eased Sam’s hand downward, feeling the tension ease ever so slightly. Grabbing another of the chairs, John pushed it to Sam and nodded at him to sit. He sank down onto the hard seat Sam had vacated, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion. He was still for a long moment, his mind swirling with thoughts like a five hundred piece puzzle tossed onto a table that he struggled to put together without the picture on the top of the box to guide him. Nervously running a hand through his dirty, sweat slicked hair, he looked from Zack then over to Sam, addressing him.

“Okay son, tell me everything that happened at the compound.” John shot Zack a threatening look. “Since Zack isn’t exactly running off at the mouth with explanations, maybe something you remember will help.”

Torn from his anger and pain, Sam looked up at his father’s face. John was asking him to relive one of the most horrid moments of his young life, but he understood the need and, possibly for the first time in his adult life, he didn’t challenge his dad. He drew a breath, letting it escape in a long sigh.

“Well,” he began, “we got the coordinates that we thought were from you and we headed out to the compound. When we got over the fence, Zack there put a gun to Dean’s neck and escorted us inside the building. Dean said later that Zack had given him a codeword to signal that everything was okay. Once we were inside, Zack said that he had been on a sort of covert ops within the demon’s organization.”

Sam took another deep breath before continuing on with the rest of the story. John didn’t miss the sharp intake of breath nor the shiver that ran through his son as he recalled the events.

“He took us up to this office, said he brought us there under the pretense of making a deal with the demon, so that he could protect his cover and get more answers on how to destroy Haris.” Sam snorted mirthlessly, gesturing at Zack. “He even asked for the fake bullet that you left with Dean; said that was part of the ruse.”

“We get in there and Dean goes to hand over the bullet.” Sam made a face and shook his head. “It was that bastard Haris all along. He grabbed Dean and then he pulls the demon out of Zack and it …”

Sam stopped abruptly, his eyes shooting down to the floor as he recalled what happened next. Over and over, those minutes had replayed in his mind. Dean, surrounded by the black cloud; Dean, barely visible as the thick mass poured down his throat; Dean, as his body tumbled to the floor and began its seizure-like movements as the demon sought control. He could have done something, should have done something, but just like in the cabin in Missouri, all he could do was watch as his brother was made a pawn for demon torture yet again!

John remained silent, sharing in silence, the sheer agony that he knew Sam felt at having witnessed the possession of his brother. His own demons resurfaced and, like Sam, he recalled his own possession at the hands of that yellow-eyed son of a bitch Haris. He writhed inside, the torture of recalling the hateful words he had spat at his sons, of watching his eldest bleed and beg for his life as he was ripped apart, of Sam, as he held the Colt, torn between destroying the demon and losing his father.

“Go on, Sam,” he said gently.

“That was the last I saw of Dean, well, until in the chamber that is. But the demon, he said that he wasn’t done with Zack yet and they hauled us down to a cell.” Sam stared at the floor, giving his unruly hair a habitual tug.

John looked back over at the sullen former comrade. Zack had not lifted his eyes during Sam’s recounting, but his rapid respirations seemed to betray his imposed silence and denial.

“So, apparently your Master had some other plans for you huh?” the elder Winchester snarled, kicking the chair Zack was tied to, causing Zack to glance up briefly, then immediately back to the floor. “But you don’t know anything, you lying son of a bitch, that right?” John kicked the chair again but got no reaction this time.

“Dad,” Sam interrupted, another memory of his captivity scratching at his subconscious. “While we were locked in the cell, Zack said something about our family being cursed. That there was nothing we could do about what was happening, like our whole family was marked in some way.” He raised his eyes and looked directly at John. “Do you know anything about that? Is it true?”

John Winchester paused before answering, his hesitancy alerting Sam to the inevitable ‘half-truth’ that was about to be uttered.

John despised lying and hated that this lifestyle had demanded that he do it on an ongoing basis to achieve necessary results. He also had quickly learned that in order to protect his sometimes over-eager sons, he couldn’t always divulge the complete truth. Worse still, he knew that his boys had grown to be perceptive of his less-than-true answers.

“No son,” John replied, looking back steadily. “Our family is not cursed. You are not cursed.”

From his restrained position, Murzak ‘humpfed’ air, his disdain apparent in that single breath. John responded instantly, intent on silencing the man, his anger resurfacing.

“And what the hell would you know about my family? Huh?” he shouted. “What did that bastard Haris tell you?”

“Nothing!” Zack responded, his voice brazen despite cringing from the physical abuse he knew was inevitable.

Provoked, John stood once more. “Oh, you know plenty!” he hissed as the barrage of questions began.

“Why did Haris let you live? What did he want with you?

“I don’t know!” a soft statement.

“Where is Haris?” demanding.

“I don’t know!” more insistant.

“Why did he take Dean?” intensity growing.

“I don’t know!” pleading ignorance.

“WHERE IS MY SON?” shouting each syllable.

“I told you I DON’T KNOW!” matching the tone.

John Winchester felt his heart pounding against his ribcage as he repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists. A bevy of emotions coursed through him like an electrical current, frustration, anger, pain, desperation. He couldn’t focus, could barely speak for fear that his brain would only allow a stuttering grumble of curses. So he did the one thing still available to him, he acted. Years of hunting taught him how to be a predator and the predator in him knew what had to be done. Moving over to his green rucksack, his hand closed on the needed object.

Sam saw the glint of light on stainless steel but he rose too slowly to intervene. The flash of light on metal also caught Zack’s eye too, but the ropes that bound him to the chair prevented him from reacting.

Unimpeded, John casually moved to face the former demon hunter turned demon collaborator. Panic filled Zack’s eyes, the realization that his resistance might be about to cost him the ultimate price as the huge hunting knife waved just inches from his nose.

“I want answers!” John sneered, eyes glaring. “And you’re gonna give 'em to me!” he promised, as the well-honed edge of the blade sliced through the air, hungry for human flesh.

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