Season Three

Episode One: Ashes To Ashes

By Kittsbud & Tree

Part Two

Bobby Singer’s Salvage Yard
Several Days Later…

Dean swung down from the roof truss, pulling his bare arm across his forehead and wiping away the sweat droplets that hung precariously from his short hair. He'd forgone his t-shirt earlier, giving in to the heat of the midday sun just as he had the past couple of days while working to raise the frame of Bobby Singer’s new home. Now, stripped bare to the waist, his chest and arms with the beginnings of a slight sunburn and glistening slightly with perspiration, Dean leaned against a sawhorse, tipping back a large bottle of water and watching as Sam approached carrying several more two-by-fours tucked under his uninjured arm.

The younger sibling dropped the lumber to the ground then picked up a framing nail from a box and was about to jam it down into the edge of the cast when Dean strode forward and grabbed it from his hand.

“No scratching, dude,” he warned, tossing the nail into the pouch slung at his hip.

“I’m sweating my ass off in that trailer and its making this cast itch like crazy,” Sam whined, resorting to using his fingernails to flay at whatever skin he could reach underneath the offending fiberglass. “Besides, Bobby kicked me out. Said he wasn’t desperate enough to eat anything I cooked.”

“Yeah, well you’re more than welcome to be out here working your ass off instead,” Dean offered, flexing fatigued muscles in his upper arms.

“Tell that to Dad. After I dropped that wall yesterday, I thought he was going to break each one of my fingers off and use them to nail the frame back together.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, he was pretty pissed. Good thing he had steel-toed boots on or there’d only be me and Bobby working on this place.”

“Hey, I tried to tell him that support wasn’t gonna hold. It was all a matter of engineering and load bearing,” Sam defended himself.

“Ooh, the college boy knows construction now too? Well, I’ll tell you what, you know so much, how ’bout you figure out how I’m ‘sposed to get that next truss up there by myself?”

Sam smiled. “Its not rocket science, Dean. We just gotta build a block and tackle system,” he answered knowingly. “We’ll need some of the lumber, a couple pulleys, and some rope.”

Dean stared at him for a long moment then shook his head. “I swear, Sammy. Sometimes I think you were switched at birth. Somewhere out there my real brother is a roadie for Ozzy,” he groused, taking a final swig from the bottle of water before pouring the remnants over his head, relishing the coolness as it cascaded over his bare skin.

“Hey, if you’d rather do this by yourself, I can go let Bobby abuse me some more,” Sam snapped.

“No, no. You’re not getting out of work that easy. Dad won’t be back from town with more rafter ties for another hour and I’m tired of busting my ass by myself. You can help me nail some of these studs together to frame the interior walls.”

He paused momentarily, a mischievous smile creasing his dirt-smudged face. “Dude, I said nail and stud in the same sentence. Who knew carpentry could be so naughty? ”

“Dean, get your mind out of the gutter,” Sam groaned, his eyes rolling as he watched his older brother’s face reflect the sordid mental images he was sure were running through Dean’s head.

“I’m just saying, Sammy, it’s been a while since…”

“I get it, Dean, don’t need you to draw me picture. Please don’t draw me that picture,” Sam begged jokingly.

“Why don’t we take off into town after dinner? Come on, Sam. We deserve a night out after everything,” Dean insisted.

Sam paused, absently rubbing his casted arm. The throbbing was irritating, but bearable. Still, he just didn’t feel up to carousing around a bar or even watching his older brother prowling like a wolf for some unsuspecting hot bartender.

“I dunno, Dean. My side’s still aching and my arm's been throbbing like a toothache all damn day. I don’t think I’d be the best company,” he exaggerated purposely, hoping to dissuade his brother.

Dean’s face became serious as he looked over his brother’s towering form, scanning Sam for any sign his injuries from Wyoming had worsened. He took a step forward, one hand reaching out towards Sam’s side and the healing gunshot wound.

Sam twisted away before Dean could make contact. “I’m alright, dude. I’m just tired and sore. It wasn’t an invitation for you to go all big-brother on me.”

“Too bad, Sammy. It’s my job. You don’t like it, go find yourself another brother, but until then, you’re stuck with me,” Dean replied authoritatively. He motioned over to the sawhorses with a nod of his head. “Just hold the ends of the boards while I cut them, okay?” he then ordered, picking up two of the ten foot planks and hoisting them onto his shoulder.

“Dean, I can help. Quit treating me…”

“Shut up, Sam. Let’s just get to work,” Dean insisted, dropping one of the two-by-fours across the sawhorses and stretching out the tape measure as he marked the wood to be cut. He tucked the pencil behind his ear before picking up the circular saw.

“Are you pissed at me now or something?” Sam asked, coming to stand at the end of the board, his large hand clamping down on the wood.

Dean triggered the saw, pushing it through the board and sending a shower of sawdust spraying outward while the loud squeal of the blade drowned out Sam’s voice. He made two more cuts with only a quick lull of noise in between, allowing him the opportunity to avoid replying to his younger brother.

“What’s your issue?” Sam dogged after him when the racket ceased.

“I don’t have any issues,” Dean shot back, picking up another piece of lumber and repeating the process of measuring and cutting while Sam looked on in silence.

When he finished, he pulled the hammer from the belt at his side and began nailing the newly cut boards together on the ground. Sam joined him, kneeling down and trying to steady the plank while Dean drove the nails into the framework.

“You gonna tell me what’s bothering you, Dean? And before you try to blow me off, you better know I’m just gonna keep asking till you tell me,” Sam stated matter-of-factly.

Dean looked up from his handiwork, scowling at his brother. “Go away, Sammy. If you aren’t going to help, then just leave me alone,” he grumbled threateningly, the hammer gripped tightly in his hand.

“I am helping, you just don’t see it,” Sam insisted. “I’ve been watching you, Dean. You’ve been brooding around here all week. Hell, the only smile I’ve seen on your face was when Dad was hopping around on one foot when I dropped that wall on him and then again just a minute ago when you were talking about going into town. Otherwise, you haven’t hardly said ten words.”

“Yeah well, there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Bullshit, you talk more than any person I know,” Sam teased, hoping to get his recalcitrant sibling to crack.

Dean rolled his eyes in derision before going back to pounding another nail into the boards. His mind scrambled for any topic to divert his younger brother, while outwardly he took out his frustration at Sam’s badgering on the lumber.

“Dean…”

“Sam!” the older hunter exploded, punctuating his anger with a single swing of his hammer against a nail and burying it deep within the length of wood.

Dean softened slightly when he saw Sam recoil away, immediately feeling guilty when he saw the look of hurt in his younger brother’s eyes. He dropped the hammer to the ground and slowly rose to his feet walking over to the cooler laying at the base of a nearby tree.

Reaching inside, Dean fished out two bottles from within the pool of miniature icebergs. He started to toss it to Sam, but the gleam of the white cast made him reconsider and instead, Dean extended the beer out in a gentle offering.

Kicking the lid shut with his boot, Dean dropped to sit on top of it, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. He twisted off the cap and tilted back the bottle, swallowing nearly half the contents in a single gulp.

Running the back of his hand across his mouth, Dean drew in a deep breath, keeping his head down and avoiding Sam’s seeking gaze. When he looked up, his free hand absently went to the amulet that rested against the hardened muscles of his chest.

“I’ve been stuck out here, working on Bobby’s place everyday, with nothing to do but think,” he began.

“You, thinking? That’s scary,” Sam joked, laughing easily.

When Dean didn’t react, simply continued twirling the golden talisman between his thumb and forefinger, as he stared at the ground, Sam quieted, growing concerned at his brother’s strange solemn shift.

“What is it, Dean?” he asked, squatting down on his haunches to meet his older sibling’s eyes.

“It’s this thing,” Dean answered after a long moment, pulling the amulet forward. “I’ve just been thinking about it, trying to figure it all out. I mean, Dad told me some stuff back in Wisconsin, but I guess I never took the time to really think about it all 'cause of everything that happened after. But, there’s so much I don’t know, so much I need to know.”

“Like what?”

“Like why me? I mean, I get the whole deal about it being passed down through Mom’s side of the family and all, but why me, Sammy? I’m no freakin’ guardian of nothing dude. I’m not made for no special purpose.”

“Why not, Dean? Is it that much of a stretch to believe? ’Cause it’s not to me,” Sam immediately answered.

“Of course it wouldn’t be to you, psychic wonder that you are. You got this whole special purpose thing tattooed all over you. Hell, Sam, even before all this crap with your abilities, you were gonna do something special, be someone important. I never doubted that,” Dean admitted. “It’s just, for me, I never thought…”

“What? Never thought you might possibly have some purpose in life other than being Dad’s second in command? Other than being my self-appointed protector?” Sam threw back sarcastically.

“That’s different.”

“Is it? How’s that?

“Because with you and Dad, its family. It’s my responsibility. It’s just what I’m supposed to do,” Dean said simply.

“That’s such a load of crap, Dean. How many times do we have to go round and round about this? You’ve given so much for this family, for me. Dammit, you just nearly died for me. It’s enough. So, why is this whole guardian thing freaking you out?” Sam asked.

“What if I don’t want it?”

“Don’t want it?

“Don’t want it, don’t deserve it, whatever,” Dean answered, shrugging, before tilting back the beer bottle and finishing the alcohol in one final gulp.

Sam laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t deserve it? Dean, we might not know much about the amulet or how and why it’s in the family or even what its purpose is, but this much I do know. If anyone was ever meant to be a guardian it was you. Hell, Dean, you can deny it all you want, but you give a shit about the people we save. That’s why you do the job. You’re not like Dad, not really. He was all about getting Haris after mom died. And even me too, it was mostly about revenge for Jess. But never you, Dean. You do this job because you give a damn, because you want to help people, you want to protect them, to save them.”

Dean looked up finally, green eyes meeting darker hazel, searching for the reassurance and finding it in Sam’s sincere face. He smiled grimly, shivering slightly as a late afternoon breeze dusted across bare skin cooling down from his earlier activity.

Sensing Dean’s remaining reluctance to accept his words, Sam spoke again. “Dude, whatever it is about the amulet, we figure it out, we’ll find out more. Okay? I know Dad said he researched everything about it, but he isn’t me. Who you gonna trust to know more about research, huh?” he asked, playfully slugging his older brother in the bicep.

Dean chuckled. “My geeky little brother,” he answered, his fingers dropping the golden necklace to lie back against his chest.

Sam rose, walking past Dean toward the old Airstream he paused at his brother’s side. “Just promise me that thing stays round your neck from now on, okay bro?” he chided, patting Dean on the shoulder. “How ’bout we go see if Bobby has dinner done yet? Then maybe after dinner, you can buy me that beer in town. I have a feeling I might need to avoid Dad just a little longer.”

Dean rose, trailing Sam to the small trailer. “Yeah, probably not a bad idea, Sammy. At least stay out of his way until his foot is back to being some shade other than blue or purple,” he agreed, laughing.

… Next morning

Sam came out of the shower, straining to pry his tall frame from the small closet that passed for the Airstream’s bathroom. His broken arm, still wrapped in the oversized plastic garbage bag to keep the cast dry, was competing with his head to see which one could torment him with its own rendition of a Neil Peart drum solo of throbbing pain.

Damn Dean and his Jaegermeister shots!

“Good morning, Sunshine!” Dean beamed cheerfully from the nearby kitchen. “I got bacon. How you want your eggs?”

“Coffee, just coffee,” Sam groaned. “And some Ibuprofen too!”

“Aw, Sammy. Can’t keep up with the big boys? Come on, you gotta eat. How ’bout some nice runny eggs?” Dean taunted, looking up, skillet in hand. “Oh dude, you look like hell, and seriously, can you please get dressed before you ruin my appetite. There’s something so wrong with seeing your brother naked before breakfast.”

“Funny Dean! Do you know how hard it is for me to even squeeze into that shower, much less try to get dressed in there, especially one-handed?” Sam whined.

“Hey, I tried to fix you up with what’s her name last night at the bar. You know, that blonde chick that was in nursing school, Bethany or Belinda or Bridget? Whatever. Anyway, I bet she coulda taken good care of you. Given you bed baths, made sure you were all squeaky clean and feelin’ no pain.”

Sam rolled his eyes, regretting the move when it only made his head pound more fiercely. “Her name was Brianna and she was a phlebotomy tech, Dean,” he answered, pulling the towel around his waist and stalking off toward the bedroom.

He dressed and slowly trudged back out to the kitchen area, dropping into the built in booth and letting his head fall into his hands. Across the table, Dean stopped the rapid shoveling of food into his mouth and retrieved the pot of coffee and a cup, pouring one and setting it in front of Sam.

“Sugar and milk are on the table, princess,” he stated as he twisted open the bottle of ibuprofen and tapped out two, holding them out in his palm. “Here,” he added.

Sam looked up, spotting the tablets and snagging them from his brother’s hand. He swallowed them dry with a look of gratitude. Leveling several spoonfuls of sugar into the cup of coffee and following it with a generous splash of milk, Sam lifted the cup and took a long draw despite the burn to his tongue.

“Where’s Dad and Bobby?” he asked as the coffee began to chase away the cobwebs from his brain.

“Dude, you really need a haircut. Can’t you hear them pounding away? Already got the last of the trusses up and they’ve started on the roof sheathing. Dad will probably be in here any second screaming for us to get out there and help,” Dean replied in between bites.

“I guess I thought all that pounding was just my head,” Sam groaned. “What time is it anyway?”

“Nearly nine.”

“Hmmm. I think I’m gonna call and see how Matt Teller is doing. You got your cell phone handy?”

Dean dug into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out the small cellular before sliding it across the table to Sam. Opening it, the younger man dialed the hospital and was engaged with someone on the other end of the phone when Dean’s prediction came true and John stomped into the trailer.

“Hey, you boys planning on joining us anytime today?” the elder Winchester asked in a booming voice.

Sam looked up with an irritated glare as he continued speaking. “Yeah, I just wanted to check on a patient. Am I family? Uh, no. I’m a reporter for the Gillette Observer, just doing a follow-up about a young man that was hurt in a hit and run. Yeah, that’s him!”

Listening intently, the injured hunter nodded silently before saying his thanks and ending the call. Handing the cellular back to Dean, Sam sucked in a deep breath before updating his waiting family.

“He’s stable, but they said he probably won’t be getting out of the hospital any time soon. And he’ll need more surgery to finish repairing the fractures in his legs,” he reported.

“He’s alive, that’s something,” Dean suggested.

“Yeah, considering how it turned out for David and the others, I ’spose you’re right,” Sam admitted with a sigh, turning to stare solemnly out the nearby window.

“You think Lucifer went after any other of Haris’ special kids? I mean, we know there were others besides the ones that were there,” Dean posed. “Maybe we should check in with ol’ Moses, and what about little Rosy? Should we be worried about her?”

“I don’t think you two need to be thinking of going up against Lucifer right now. How ‘bout we keep you both off his radar?” John interrupted. “Besides, it was Haris that had Sam marked for some ulterior plan. I don’t think the Big Guy is all that concerned with either of you and I’d like to keep it that way,” he quickly added, hoping to be convincing enough his voice didn’t betray the lie.

Sam snapped around, irritation clearly apparent on his face. “People died, Dad. They were slaughtered, horribly. All because of some power struggle in Hell. Pawns, that’s all we were. Objects just to be used or destroyed.”

John carefully considered his son, crossing the small distance between the door and the table in two easy strides. He placed a large hand on his youngest child’s shoulder and squeezed gently, feeling Sam tense under the touch. He recognized the emotions being displayed, had seen them before, had even felt them himself.

“Sam, I know how you’re feeling, I do. And I know you’re sitting there thinking that somehow you should have done something to save them, but survivor’s guilt doesn’t serve any purpose. Trust me, I know,” he said gently.

“You know? How the hell do you know? Were you there listening to David Mitchum beg for his life while he was being crushed to death?” Sam challenged.

Brown eyes cast downward toward the table as John clasped his hands together before him. He paused for a long moment before looking up into the green eyes of his eldest seated across the bench, then turned to look up into Sam’s face next to him.

“No, Sam. I wasn’t there. But, I know how I carried it around for years after the night your mom died. Thinking I should have done more. Thinking I could have saved her somehow. Even sometimes wishing I would have just died with her instead of being left behind to live with the guilt,” John quietly admitted. “I know you both think that all these years have been about nothing but revenge, but the truth is I just never wanted to go through that amount of grief and guilt ever again in my life.”

Sam could see the glassy shine to his father’s eyes as John shared a rare glimpse of emotion. All of his own pent up frustration and anger washed away now, sucked out of him with the mere reminder of his mother’s death. He supposed he’d always known, having gone through the loss of Jess, what his dad must have felt at the loss of their mother. But it never really hit home until now, the full range of feelings, of torment and anguish his father went through.

A half smile creasing his face, his head still pounding, Sam reached his uninjured hand over and clapped John’s shoulder. “I get it, Dad. And like you said before, maybe we really are a lot more alike than either of us ever wants to admit.”

Across from them, Dean coughed nervously, rising from his seat and picking up the remnants of his meal. “Okay, I’m totally gonna lose breakfast now. Is the Winchester family Hallmark moment officially over?” he joked.

“Don’t be an ass, Dean,” John warned, before breaking into warm laugh.

Both brothers joined in the laughter stopping abruptly as the door to the trailer swung open letting in a wash of South Dakota air. Bobby poked his head into the entry, eyes wide as he glanced around at the three jovial hunters.

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re all having such fun in here. I mean, I wouldn’t want to interrupt or anything. After all, its not like the weather isn’t just balmy here in the winter, which might I remind you is only a couple months away,” he complained.

“Oh, don’t get your overalls in a bunch old man. We’re coming,” Dean threw back. “Besides, don’t know what you’re complaining about? You’re gonna have a nice place compared to that rat hole you used to call a house,” he teased, ducking under the older hunter’s arm and dodging outside.

“John Winchester, I’m gonna beat that boy senseless,” the older hunter warned.

“That implies he has sense to begin with,” Sam snarked, rising as well and following his father out of the makeshift abode and into the late morning sun.

***

By late afternoon, the roof was nearly completed and John and Bobby had begun framing interior walls while Dean went to laying shingles. Unable to help with the general construction, Sam was relegated to playing "gofer” to the three others for most of the day, his only reprieve from the somewhat subservient job coming in the form of the “pizza run” he made to retrieve dinner for the group.

As the pounding of hammers on nails slowed, replaced by the burgeoning sound of crickets, the four men ceased their work and gathered around a weathered picnic table. While Dean readily dug into the steaming pie, the others sat back and stared at the young man’s voracious eating habits.

“This is damn good,” Dean mumbled, in between bites of cheese-laden crust. “Hey, Sammy, I need a beer.”

“Do I look like your personal bartender?" Sam immediately replied.

“You’re not my type bro. But since you’re sorry ass has been taking it easy while I’ve been on top of that roof all day baking in the heat, I figured the least you could do was grab me a cold one.”

“Can you be any lazier, Dean?”

“Aw come on, Sammy. My back feels like its one giant knot from being bent over up there all day laying shingles. My knees have third degree burns from the heat pouring off the asphalt and my arms feel like they both weigh a ton. Cut your big brother some slack, huh?” Dean whined.

“Dude, broken arm here… two places… see the cast?” Sam retorted, raising his extremity as evidence.

“Wuss!”

“Whiner!”

“Slacker!”

“STOP! Holy hell you two, I’ll go get the beer if it will just shut the both of you up for five minutes,” Bobby shouted, breaking up the verbal sparring.

The mechanic trudged off toward the long silver trailer, muttering crude epithets under his breath. Sam and Dean watched him walk off, Bobby’s trademark baseball cap disappearing into the RV before they broke into simultaneous laughter.

“It still works,” Dean announced, with a final chortle.

Sam nodded conspiratorially, reaching in for another piece of pizza.

John watched his sons, shaking his head, but chuckling inwardly. After everything they’d been through, both physically and psychologically, it was good to see them still able to act like typical brothers. It was a taste of normalcy, or at least as close to normalcy as his boys might ever know.

Listening absently as Sam and Dean carried on a conversation, reminiscing about another time when they pulled a similar trick on Jim Murphy, he marveled that his sons managed to remain so tightly bonded. He took consolation that despite everything they had lost, the life they’d been robbed of, the opportunities they had been denied, his sons had managed to forge and maintain a relationship stronger than most people every imagined. In a sense, it made them stronger in a way he could have never anticipated. And in the end, he knew it would have made Mary proud.

“Dad… Dad!” Dean’s voice broke through John’s reverie, snapping him back to the present.

He quickly realized both sons had stopped eating. Dean had risen from the picnic table and was moving toward the trailer in obvious hunter mode. Next to him, Sam was warily scanning the perimeter of the salvage yard.

“Sam?” John asked suspiciously. “What’s going on?”

“I dunno. Dean saw Bobby coming out of the Airstream. Said he signaled him to take cover, then ducked around that stack of cars,” the younger man replied, motioning to the mound of wrecks just beyond the trailer.

John’s eyes narrowed as they darted about the junkyard. He couldn’t see his fellow hunter, but knew that Bobby was likely weaving about the maze of old hulks. Several feet beyond the fresh lumber of the new house, Dean moved stealthily toward the trunk of the Impala. Feeling the hair go up on the back of his neck, John rose from the table as well, unconsciously making his way to a place of cover.

The rumble of the SUV as it crept down the dirt driveway drew John’s attention. He then recognized what apparently already alerted both Bobby and Dean. At first impression, he thought it might have been the rogue hunters come back for another attempt at revenge, but as the large black vehicle stopped short of the new construction, two over-sized, dark suited men climbing out, John knew it wasn’t Sid Morrow or any of his bunch.

Moving from his cover, Bobby suddenly appeared at the edge of the driveway, his hands secreted away within the pockets of his jacket.

“Can I help you?” he asked warily.

The lead man sauntered up to the hunter, towering over the man even before he was within reach, menacing in his stature. His partner approached from the passenger’s side but seemingly disinterested in the mechanic, he continued past and toward the others.

“We want nothing with you,” the first man replied brusquely, brown eyes oiling over black. With the barest movement of the man’s head, Bobby was launched through the air, slamming into the nearest stack of rusting cars.

In that instant, hunter instinct kicked into gear as Dean appeared from behind the Impala, simultaneously shouting while tossing a shotgun to John. He boldly strode around the front of the Chevy, brandishing his own weapon and came to stand in front of Sam who had pulled up short on his way to the fallen Bobby Singer. Standing defiantly before the massive demon, the elder brother pumped the shotgun he was holding with his right hand, while pushing his brother behind him.

“I think you two might be a little lost. You’re supposed to make a left turn at Albuquerque to get to Hell,” he snarked.

“Where is she?” the demon asked, ignoring Dean’s sarcastic taunt.

“She? See Sammy, I told you that long, shaggy hair was gonna get you mistaken for a woman sooner or later. Gee buddy, I don’t think I know what you’re talking about and quite frankly, I don’t seem to care,” Dean answered, leveling the shotgun at the man’s chest. “How ’bout you and your overgrown pal there head back to whatever pit you crawled out of before we open up a can of Winchester whoop ass?”

A wide grin slowly spread across the large man’s face and before Dean could react and fire the weapon, he felt himself knocked to the ground as the demon slammed both fists into the young man’s chest. The young hunter sprawled on his back, dazed and breathless as he fought to rise.

Sam grabbed his brother’s lost shotgun, lifting it and preparing to fire when John shouted out a warning, firing his own weapon and moving in to place himself between the demons and his sons. Distracted by the elder Winchester’s intervening, the lead demon turned away from the brothers and advanced on the older hunter.

“Tell your boss he isn’t getting my sons,” John shouted, firing the shotgun at the nearest suited thug.

The impact of the blast threw the demon backwards against the SUV as the hunter continued unabated toward the second behemoth. Tossing the spent double-barrel to the side, John pulled a silver flask from the back pocket of his jeans. Unscrewing the cap as he confidently strode forward, the senior Winchester was determined to send the hellspawn back to their master.

“Where is she?” the second demon demanded, steadfastly holding his ground as the hunter approached.

“Dean, get Sam and Bobby the hell out of here,” John ordered, ignoring the demon’s question as he finished uncapping the container and lashed out with the holy water.

The liquid struck the demon across the face and upper chest, steam roiling off its body as it recoiled protectively and hissed in anger. It recuperated quickly from the sacred water, staggering forward as it lunged toward John.

“It doesn’t matter, we’ll get her soon enough. We just would have made your deaths less painful if you would have cooperated,” it threatened.

“That’ll be pretty hard to do if you’re back in hell,” John roared back, preparing to toss a second volley of holy water at the massive man.

Before he could throw the flask forward the demon reached out and grabbed John by the throat, lifting him and spinning around to slam the hunter down against the hood of the SUV. John struggled to get his arms up underneath the strong grasp of the muscular demon, fighting against the stranglehold wrapped around his throat.

With a surge of desperation, John managed to douse the last of the holy water across the demon’s hands at his neck. The creature screeched as the skin smoldered, releasing its grasp of the hunter as it recoiled defensively from the attack. It moved backwards a half step, just enough to allow John to level a solid fist at the demon’s face.

In a splatter of blood, the giant man’s nose erupted as the hunter’s knuckles connected. John stepped in, unrelenting as he followed through with several more punches to the body of the creature.

With his attention focused on the second of the two gigantic men, John didn’t see the first dark-suited thug clamber back up from the shotgun blast and approach from behind. The demon grabbed him, pulling him away from its associate and tossing John back against the windshield of the SUV, smashing the tempered glass as the hunter’s body made impact.

The demon pulled John from the hood of the vehicle only to slam him back down again with a resounding crash of flesh and bone against metal. The hunter grunted with pain, his vision darkening as his head bounced off the top of the truck. A rock-hard fist landed solidly on his jaw, followed by a duplicate left to John’s mouth that tore open his bottom lip.

Dazed, John couldn’t prevent the half dozen blows that railed in next, each one rocking his head harder than the one before, leaving behind fresh blood in their wake. He weakly raised an arm to stop the onslaught, but the demon merely brushed the feeble defense aside as it continued to pummel him unmercifully.

As the beating moved down to his chest, the hunter fought to draw in air feeling his ribs begin to give in to the behemoth’s onslaught. John tried to see past the blood that was trickling into his eyes, seeking out his sons, and silently praying they managed to escape.

John’s prayer went unanswered as the demon suddenly stopped its attack, its body propelling forward nearly on top of him. He tried to squirm out from underneath the muscular frame even as the creature scrambled to retaliate against the new threat. John struggled to see beyond its bulky frame, grimacing when he spotted Dean raising a long crow bar to strike once again. He tried to shout out a warning to his eldest, desperate to protect Dean from Hell’s minions, but the young fighter was already fully engaged, swinging the metal wildly.

Seeing his father being beaten by the stocky assailant, Dean sent Sam over to help Bobby who was still lying silently at the base of a rusted out pickup. Quickly returning to the Impala’s trunk, he retrieved the pry bar and rushed over to the SUV where his father was now dazed and bleeding. He called out to his dad, yelling reassurance even as he screamed determined threats at the demon, slamming the crowbar across the creature’s spine with all the force he could muster.

Not allowing the demon a chance to recover, Dean struck again and again, wailing on the man’s back, ignoring the protest from the already aching muscles in his shoulders and arms. The metal connected once more, tearing through the material of the suit and into the flesh beneath laying open a strip of flesh, yet the demon barely grunted in response. Instead, it spun around to face the young man, a sadistic smile spreading across its face as it convulsively clenched its fists.

“What the hell? Don’t you know how bad steroids can be for you? All that anger and rage building up inside…” Dean taunted.

The demon laughed, unfazed even as Dean swung the crowbar again, aiming for its head. It effortlessly blocked the attack one-handed, while grabbing the weapon with the other and stripping it away from the hunter. Flinging the crowbar off into distance, it then turned back on Dean.

Grinning and weaponless, Dean stood his ground, hoping to distract attention away from his dad and allowing him a chance to recover and escape. Impudent bravado in full effect, he took a step forward, intent on meeting the demon head on.

“Bring it on, Arnold,” Dean goaded the black-eyed man, motioning him forward.

He threw a roundhouse right, catching the demon squarely on the jaw but just as quickly drawing his hand to his chest as his knuckles throbbed from the impact against the unyielding bones of the brute. Before Dean had the chance to add a left hook, the demon answered with a powerful backhand.

Dean’s head twisted sideways from the blow, the force of it spinning his body around as well. He started to sag to one knee, mouth bloodied and vision blurred, but the demon reached out and snagged his outer shirt, preventing the descent.

“Where is she? Tell us now and I’ll snap your neck quickly and painlessly,” the demon snarled, hauling up the young hunter, large hands encircling his throat as he had John’s a short time before.

“Dude,” Dean began, struggling to speak as his windpipe was constricted. “I’ve been with a lot of women. What can I say? I just can’t seem to keep ‘em off me. So you’re gonna have to narrow it down some…”

The demon growled, low and deep, silencing Dean as he hefted the eldest Winchester brother up and over his shoulder, throwing him through the air with ease. Dean landed against a stack of lumber, grunting with the impact as he slammed into the wood before slumping unconscious.

From across the yard, Sam watched his father and brother take on the demonic tandem. He dropped to Bobby’s side, tugging the older man to his feet and holding him steady as he wavered. Blood coursed from a laceration above the mechanic's eye, coating his face and matting his thick beard. He staggered slightly, trying to get his bearings and nearly falling back down to the dirt.

Sam was torn, part of him wanting to join in on the melee ensuing between his family and the demons, but knowing that Bobby wasn’t able to stand on his own either. Deciding to get the injured hunter to safety, Sam snagged Bobby by the arm and began to pull him through the maze of discarded vehicles.

Behind him, Sam could hear the muffled grunts of his dad and Dean as they fought against the larger attackers. Weaving amongst the wrecks, the sounds of the fighting quickly diminished, punctuated by a loud crash of tumbling wood before silencing altogether. Sam fought the urge to panic, hoping the sudden quiet was a sign that his father and brother had been victorious, but somehow knowing in his gut that it wasn’t likely the case.

Searching out a safe place to deposit Bobby so he could go back to help, Sam spun past the burned out remains of an old station wagon. Pushing the injured hunter ahead of him, his attention was abruptly caught as Bobby was torn from his hold and sent airborne.

Sam screamed out in rage, scrambling in vain to maintain a hold on his mentor even as the demon appeared from behind the nearby mountain of abandoned cars. He startled at first, then reacted as he’d been trained, lifting the shotgun he’d recovered from Dean before, he leveled it at the demon’s head.

“Do you think that’s gonna stop me?” the demon asked incredulously.

“No, but I doubt you’re gonna be able to catch me when I make hamburger out of your face,” Sam replied defiantly.

The demon paused at the threat, seeming to assess the seriousness in the young man’s tone and posture. The large man smiled, a mouthful of teeth gleaming at Sam while solid black orbs glared in stark comparison.

“Last chance. Where is she?”

Sam snickered, his finger tensing slightly on the trigger. “Boy, you guys should put more effort on brains and less on brawn. You sure aren’t getting it. I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he answered.

“Enough of your games. We know she was coming here. We’ll find her, wherever you’re hiding her,” it hissed.

The youngest of the Winchesters twitched, responding subconsciously to the barely perceivable movement of the possessed man before him. The shotgun exploded, the spray of pellets flying outward seeking flesh but not finding any because at the last moment, Sam was propelled backwards against one of the many wrecks adorning Singer Salvage.

Sam cried out in pain as his still healing body slammed into unyielding metal. He fought against the unseen force holding him, despising the feeling of panic that was threatening to overtake him. Memories flooded him and for the briefest second, when Sam closed his eyes, the screams of the other psychics filled his ears as they were tortured to death by Eli.

But Eli was dead and gone, just like Haris. So who did these demons work for and what did they want with some girl?

The young hunter thrashed wildly, but to no avail. His body invisibly pinned to the rusted car behind him, Sam couldn’t prevent the massive man as he slowly closed the distance and buried his fist in the young man’s abdomen.

“I’ve heard you Winchesters can be pretty pigheaded,” the demon mocked.

“Nah, Pigheaded’s my brother, I prefer to think of myself as selectively obstinate,” Sam snarked back breathlessly.

The demon answered with another strike, connecting with Sam’s face, opening a small cut at the side of his left eye. “I also heard that it was the older one that had the smart mouth. I already shut him up, now I guess I have to shut you up too,” he goaded.

Sam tensed, the mention of Dean worrying him since he’d heard the sounds of his father and brother fighting the demons, but considering the one before him now, the outcome must not have been in the Winchester's favor. He could only hope that his dad and Dean were alright.

“Better than you have tried,” Sam finally replied in a tone of voice he hoped would have made his older brother proud.

With deliberate slowness, the demon reached down and grasped the white fiberglass encasing Sam’s fractured arm. “Maybe I’ll make you scream instead,” he hissed, jerking the arm upward and smashing it into body of the car.

Unable to prevent what happened next, Sam couldn’t stop the cry of pain as the demon slammed the door shut on the casted wrist. Held immobile by the entrapped extremity, Sam fought to stay conscious against the tide of utter agony that was enveloping him. He was vaguely aware of the rain of punches that showered in on his body, those smaller hurts barely registering above the focus of his arm.

“What? Not so much to say now?” the creature asked. “Are you ready to tell me where the girl is or shall I rip that arm from your shoulder?”

“I… don’t know… who…you’re talking about… you… dumb sonofabitch!” Sam gasped.

“Have it your way then...” the demon began, claw-like fingers digging into the joint.

Sam steeled himself, determined not to give the bastard the satisfaction. Dimly, his mind registered the rumble of an engine revving higher as it seemed to draw closer. He looked up, searching for the source of the noise, but finding only the pitch blackness of the demon’s eyes glaring back smugly.

But the pain never came and the demon’s arrogant smirk suddenly faded as it spun around reacting to the clamor. Distracted, it released Sam, who managed to drop and roll out of the way a split second before the flatbed slammed into the demon, flipping it up onto the hood of the truck before impaling it between the front bumper and the nearby stack of wrecks.

Rolling to his knees, Sam squinted through the haze of pain, coughing past the settling dust and looked up to see Dean suddenly appear at his side. His older sibling was sporting a new scalp laceration, the tell-tale trail of blood down the side of his face still freely flowing, along with a patch alongside his throat that was already starting to turn purple.

Dean wasted no time as he checked Sam over, hands turning his brother’s face to the side as he grimaced at the obvious signs of the demon’s abuse. “You gonna be okay?” he asked, gently placing his hands underneath Sam’s arms and lifting him to his feet. When Sam nodded weakly, Dean warily watched him a second longer before darting off to the flatbed.

Pulling open the damaged door, Dean then set about repeating the same procedure on his dad. In the driver’s seat, a dazed John waved his eldest off, grimacing as he pushed out of the cab and dropped to the ground.

“You okay? Sammy?” he asked, limping heavily as he headed toward the front of the flatbed.

“We’re good, Dad,” Dean answered, trailing behind him as he approached the trapped demon.

Cradling his arm, Sam drew up a few steps behind them, cautiously remaining just off to the side as his father and brother advanced on.

“Alright, you bastard, I told your boss he wasn’t getting my boys, not back in Wyoming, not ever,” John shouted in fury. “So what the hell are you doing here now?”

“We were just looking for the girl, nothing more,” the man gasped back, thrashing weakly against the hood of the truck.

“Already told you, no chicks here. Not that I couldn’t go for a little action,” Dean added in.

“What girl, what’s her name? Why do you want her?” John demanded, ignoring his eldest's suggestive comment.

“It’s not my job to know. We were just sent here to take her out,” the demon answered.

“Not high enough on the food chain, huh?” Dean threw back. “Sucks to be expendable.”

“Laugh now, Winchester, but you won’t stop us.”

John reached out and grabbed a handful of the giant man’s hair, slamming his head down against the hood of the truck repeatedly and leaving behind a gooey smear of blood on the metal as the demon’s face shattered.

“Wanna bet?” John snarled, finally letting go, allowing the bloodied head to drop limply on the hood. He turned back to his sons, nodding to Sam. “You up to sending this sonofabitch back to hell where he belongs, Sammy?”

The youngest hunter nodded in reply, moving forward even as a haggard Bobby Singer reappeared by the trio.

“Just saw his buddy haulin’ ass outta here. Must not have liked the odds, but I’m betting he’s going back to tell his boss,” Bobby reported, absently wiping at the congealing blood on his face.

“Yeah, well this one will be right behind him,” Dean added. “Sammy? You got this?”

Sam nodded once more, his mind fighting to recall the Latin while the pain in his right arm threatened to drop him to his knees. He sucked in a deep breath, knowing Dean was watching him and looking for any sign that he wasn’t one-hundred percent.

He broke into the Rituale Romanum, the Latin rolling off his tongue with practiced ease despite the throbbing that tried to distract his concentration. Sam was well into the second stanza when the demon inside the massive man bellowed loudly.

“This won’t stop us. She won’t save him. And when we finish with her, we’ll kill all of you too,” it screeched.

Dean stepped up closer to his brother, resting a hand on Sam’s back. “Shut him up, bro. I’m sick and tired of listening to these bastards and their empty threats,” he softly muttered.

Sam dropped back into the Latin, watching as the body before them writhed; the demon beginning to tear out of the shell it had been possessing. As he drew to the end of the exorcism, a thick black mist slowly began to seep from the mouth of the giant man. With a final scream, the demon was expelled, the lifeless body of the former innocent collapsing back against the flatbed.

For a moment, absolute quiet returned to the South Dakota landscape as the hunters exchanged restless glances. Beaten and bruised, both Bobby and John sagged wearily against the flatbed.

“What the hell was that all about?” the salvage yard owner asked, rubbing his shoulder.

John sighed, shifting the weight off his left leg. Lucifer’s words still haunting him, the not so veiled threats aimed at his boys chewing away at his gut. With the demise of Haris, he had thought the bullseye on his son’s backs had been erased, but with the appearance of these two demons, he had to question whether or not an even greater threat was now gunning for Sam and Dean.

“I don’t know, Bobby. Damn things just kept going on and on about finding some girl. Dean, do you know anything about this?” John asked.

The young man looked over from where he was standing next to his brother. He made no attempt to hide the indignation from his face at the implication of his father’s question.

“What? I mean, yeah, I know the ladies can’t get enough of me, but do you think I’d honestly hang out with demon-bait?” he answered in a huff. “I have my standards after all.”

“And those would be what? Breathing with a pulse?” Bobby teased.

Dean began to reply when a barely stifled groan from Sam drew his attention. Ever the watchful protector, all thoughts of retaliation were forgotten when he spotted the paling face of his brother.

“Sammy?” he asked tentatively. “You okay, dude?”

“M’ fine, Dean.” Sam answered quickly, brushing away his brother’s hand as Dean began tugging at clothing searching for any new signs of injury.

“You gotta stop stealin’ my lines, dude. Besides, if you’re gonna use them, then you ought to at least lie better when you say them, ’cause no Oscar for you right now. What gives?” Dean pestered.

“Its nothing,” Sam insisted, withdrawing once again, protectively tucking his arm to his chest.

“Yeah, bullshit. I saw what that bastard did. It’s the arm again isn’t it?”

Sam looked down at the cast then back up at his brother’s green eyes. While he’d always been the master at the puppy-dog face, Dean had always been able to stare right through him with a fierce, piercing sort of glare that could as easily intimidate an adversary as weaken the knees of a young woman.

In the end, Sam simply couldn’t hide the pain. “It’s messed up, Dean,” he admitted woefully, eyes seeking relief, begging help, pulling strength from his brother as he cradled the damaged appendage.

Without hesitation, Dean rose and headed for the Impala, hesitating as he reached John and Bobby. The Winchester patriarch glanced up at his eldest, knowing without speaking that Dean was already determined to take care of his brother. Like a hellhound on a scent, there was stopping Dean once he was focused on protecting or caring for Sam.

“Go on, take care of Sam. Bobby and I will get rid of the body while you’re gone,” he instructed, gingerly rising to his feet and suppressing a groan of his own.

“Your leg?” Dean asked, noticing the crimson stain seeping through the denim on his father’s thigh.

“It’s okay. Bobby can take care of it. Not like we haven’t traded needle work before,”

Dean nodded reluctantly, but darted off into the encroaching darkness toward the waiting Chevy.

***

Later…

Dean paced the small waiting room of the emergency department for the fifteenth time in the past several hours. He could have blamed his nervous activity on the lack of decent television programming currently streaming across the small thirteen inch screen. He could have blamed it on the lack of magazines scattered about the room. He could have even blamed it on the one-too-many cups of coffee he’d drank or the pounding headache that made him want to smash his head against the wall until he was blissfully unconscious.

But…

Truth be told, Dean paced because short of storming back into the treatment area and demanding information on Sam, there simply wasn’t anything else to do but wait… and pace.

Looking at the watch on his wrist, he groaned. Nearly three hours had gone by and not a single word, or even glimpse, of his brother. Deep down, he knew it couldn’t be good, a strange sense of foreboding filling him even though he tried to chase the haunting whispers from his mind. The ER had been reasonably empty since their arrival, so any delay hadn’t been due to an overabundance of patients.

Heading toward the vending machine, Dean fished into the pockets of his jeans, flinching as the torn skin and bruised flesh of his knuckles caught on the rough fabric. He hissed, wringing his hand in the air, foregoing the beverage as he dropped into a nearby chair in a tirade of obscenities.

“Stupid, sonofabitch, goddamn, pain-in-the-ass, friggin’…”

“Dean?”

He stopped his rant mid-curse, looking up to see Sam standing above him. His own discomfort forgotten, Dean jumped to his feet, hands immediately reaching out to his brother.

His eyes took in Sam from head to toe in a fast once-over, noting the stark new cast that now stretched from fingertips to elbow as well as the downcast face his brother tried to hide underneath the shaggy mop of hair.

“What did the doc say, Sam? How’s your arm? You were in the forever. Hell, I thought they were doing a transplant or something, turn you into Steve Austin,” he rambled nervously, the feeling of dread returning as Sam continued to look away.

“Nothing new, Dean,” Sam answered quietly. “Look, I’m tired. Can we just head back to Bobby’s?”

Dean watched him carefully, trying to see beyond the brown hair that strategically hid hazel eyes. Sam’s body language was not much of a clue either, held taut, Dean knew his brother was in pain, but that much he’d expected. Beyond that, there was something else, something his baby brother was hiding.

Deciding that getting Sam back and squared away was the first step, Dean conceded, wrapping an arm around his brother’s back and guiding him toward the exit. Once outside, he raced ahead, opening the passenger’s side door of the Impala and waiting patiently while Sam folded his long body into the front seat.

The drive back to the secluded salvage yard was cloaked in a suffocating silence. For a while, Dean was content to simply let Sam rest, glancing over on occasion and seeing that his gangly sibling had somehow managed to nearly curl into a ball on the seat beside him, injured arm held protectively within the cocoon of his six foot four frame. His eyes closed, Dean thought maybe the docs had given Sam something for pain, but the occasional barely-stifled groan soon gave away that his brother was still awake.

“So, got yourself a new cast? And a nice white one too,” Dean opened, breaking the oppressive quiet. “Guess I’ll have to break out the colored sharpies while you’re sleeping tonight.”

Sam’s eyes flicked open, but he remained ominously quiet.

“You in there, Sammy?” Dean asked again.

“Tired, Dean,” his brother’s clipped answer came back through the darkness of the Impala’s interior.

“Yeah, yeah, I know you are, but I’m not as dumb as you think I am,” Dean countered, foot pressing on the brake as he slowed the car, gently pulling it over to the shoulder of the road and throwing the gearshift into park.

He swiveled in the seat, turning so he could look directly at Sam who was already reacting to his brother’s sudden choice of parking spots.

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam exclaimed, scooting to sit upright in the seat.

“Give it up, bro. What did the doc say about your arm?” Dean demanded.

“I told you, nothing new. Now can we please get back to Bobby’s?”

“You can’t lie to me, Sammy. I know that look. What did the doc say? Why is it in a different cast? Did that demonic bastard break it worse or something?”

Frustration tinged with panic crept into Dean’s tone. He knew Sam was hurt, but every fiber in his being could tell there was more to it than simple pain. Sam had been hurt before, had broken bones before, there was something else going on to account for why his brother was acting withdrawn, trying, albeit poorly, to hide something from him.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice held the timbre that warned physical harm if not heeded.

“It can’t be fixed, Dean!” Sam blurted out.

“What? What are you talking about?” the elder hunter asked confused.

Sam sighed, his face turned downward as he stared at the injured appendage lying uselessly in his lap.

“They said it wasn’t set right to begin with and it started to heal wrong…”

“Sonofabitch, I’m gonna kill him…” Dean reacted violently, hands slamming into the steering wheel.

“Dean, no! It wasn’t Garrett’s fault,” Sam intervened. “It was a small fracture in my wrist. The ortho doc said anyone could have missed it. But once they did, and then, well having it smashed up again by that demon didn’t help much. Anyway, it’s too late now. The doc said stuff about osteonecrosis and the bones fusing together. They can do some sort of bone graft surgery but even then the chance of success is only like sixteen percent and even with that I’ll have limited use.”

Dean sat stunned in silence as Sam sucked in a breath that bordered on a sob. Wanting to reach out to his brother, tempted to drive to Pine Haven and perform his own sort of neutering on one Garrett Wade, even more tempted to go back to Bobby’s and just break the nearest two-by-four with his bare hands, but ultimately Dean simply spoke softly.

“Sam, we’ll just find another doc, a better one. Hell, they do all kinds of stuff for baseball players and crap…”

“No, Dean…”

“No? Why the hell not, Sammy?”

With his head down and his voice scarcely above a whisper, Dean could barely hear his brother’s next words, but when he did, the finality and brokenness nearly tore out the older sibling’s heart.

“They said I’ll never be able to use it again, Dean…”

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The Winchester Chronicles