Warning: Don't be fooled by what you read. Just keep reading, and trust me. Rated for language and vague adult situations. Usual disclaimers apply. This is for fun only. Or agony, depending on your side of the writing spectrum.

This is a completed story posted in parts, as I'm still tweaking. Therefore the mistakes are mine. Please review! It helps.


"The soul is perfect. Perfect beauty, perfect agony. The world shows truth in one plane of existence, and to the soul, it is the only one that matters." -Kamelion


I roam the night unseen. Fragrances are flung at me almost abusively, too much for my mortal senses to handle. I ceased being human ages ago, a lifetime ago. I crawled out of that hell hole with the rest of them, and found myself overrun with the sensation of being alive.

Only I'm not. Not really.

There are those that would put me back. I won't let them. I worked too hard to get here, this is my right.

I am not evil. I never asked for this to happen.

I have to fight. I have to find someone to help me.


He's been hanging around the bar a lot. Downing the beers, asking for something stronger, bitching at the bartender whose saying he's has enough. I can feel the burn of liquor in his throat as it slides down to torture his chest. He winces a lot too, like the drink is distasteful to him, but he picks up another shot and throws it back. Women are noticing him, and he gives them a mild smile, but it is a smile that wards them off, and he does nothing. I know that's not in his nature, that something is seriously wrong.

There isn't much to do about it, other than watch.

His fingers play along the rim of the glass, his vivid eyes watching his own slow movement as the tip circles the edge. Around and around, mesmerizing, he's hypnotizing himself, distracting himself from whatever thoughts are going on in that lovely head of his. His eyes draw me to him, and I let my sight slide down the bridge of his nose to the full lips beneath, and wonder how many women he's made very, very happy with that pout. I love him before meeting him, and yet I've known him for so long.

I'm an abomination. Heaven cast me out, hell spat me back. I'm a mere thing. I shouldn't be capable of this emotion.

But he looks so damn needy. And as the saying goes, I'm a sucker for kicked puppies.

Not that he's incapable. I've seen him work. Even now he sits in the corner like a coiled tiger, waiting, ready to pounce, every muscles taut under that sleek skin of his. Even in his inebriated state, he's watching. Not closely, but he's watching.

His eyes find mine for the third time that evening. This time I lock gazes with him, those moss-gold eyes connecting with my own. They widen slightly, and I know why. First, it's disconcerting to be stared at, particularly by one of your own sex. Two, my eyes are as striking as his, more so. Gold and brown and green and blue, all flecked together like a bewildered gemstone. A result of too many centuries of not knowing who I am. My eyes are as confused as the dark blond and russet tones of my hair. As confused as my soul.

He tilts his chin up towards me in acknowledgment, hiding his discomfort, and returns to his drink. After a moment, he see that I'm still staring at him, and this time the response is more bitter. His eyes speak to me, what the fuck do you want?

So eloquent.

I raise my own shot glass to him and down it, hanging on to his gaze the whole time. His fear fuels me, his uncertainty is like a narcotic. His determination is palpable. He's a walking high.

And he's finished. I've throughly freaked him out. He slams his glass down on the table top and stands, not as wobbly as one might think for someone who seems to have consumed half his body weight in liquor. He fumbles in his wallet and pulls out some bills, crumples them slightly, and tosses them onto the table, obviously not caring if it went to the proper person or was snatched up by a pool hawk. Not his problem. More pressing issues concern him, and drinking himself into a near stupor has pissed him off and brought him no closer to his answer.

How do I know all this?

I'm just good like that.

I rise to follow him. He prides himself on knowing what's in the dark, but on this night he isn't safe.

He doesn't linger at the doorway of the bar, but swiftly chooses a direction and takes it, his boots clomping and scuffing heavily on the cracked sidewalk. Neon lights sail over his head and down his back, and he hunches against it uncomfortably, like he doesn't belong here.

I walk behind him, my hands tucked into my long leather coat. I walk with a confidence that he once had.

He turns into an alley. I know where he's headed. Some rat-hole dump forced into a grimy wall on Stalin Street. The proprietor is a shit-faced hag of a species. I'm not sure he's human. The alley is long and dark, and this young man navigates it like an old friend. He's used to dark places. And he hears me behind him, and picks up his pace.

He's out of time.

I sail forward, my long coat flapping behind me, and knock him into the brick wall as a black figure dives down from the fire escape above us. Its shrill cry hurts my sensitive ears, and pisses me off. I fling my arms at it, driving it back into the sky, and pull the hunter down beside me as it dives again. The sharp beak turns into a gaping mouth, and a long, snake-like tongue flashes out and wraps around my wrist, stinging like acid. I yell out, I can't help it.

He's on it in an instant, flashing a knife that he'd pulled from one of his many hiding places, plunging it towards the bird. It caws and releases me, only to go for his eyes. I grab it by the throat and break it's neck. There is no sound of death other than the crack, and it disappears.

He's laying on his side, propped on one elbow, half-hidden within my cloak. He looks up at me, wide-eyed, breathing hard. He scans the alley quickly. "You okay?" he asks, as though I'm the one on the ground and he's on his feet.

"I'll live." With me, it's merely a figure of speech.

"What the hell was that thing?"

"That," I say with equanimity, "was a Spurt."

His frown tightens, and his voice raises a pitch. "A what?"

"Spurt. As in a spurt of negative energy."

"That was a bird."

I smile. "Yes, that was a bird. If you knew the answer, why did you ask?"

He was coming to his senses. His gasps lessen as he looks at me. "Who the hell are you?"

"You can call me Zach."

He's not sure what to make of the suddenness of the situation, or of the fact that he's met someone who isn't freaking out about what just happened. He nods faintly. "You were in the bar."

"I was."

"You followed me." He glanced around the alley. "You knew this would happen."

"I did."


"I've been watching you."

Those eyes, those wonderful, insightful, torrid eyes, narrow at me in suspicion. "Why?"

"To help you."

He hasn't made a move to rise. I have that effect on people, locking them down, making myself the only thing they are concerned with. "Help me with what?"

"You know."

Unfortunately the effect doesn't last long. He shoves me aside, what strength! and pushes to his feet. "I don't need your help."

"Apparently you do."

"I could have handled that!"

"I'm sure. But at least give me the illusion that I saved your life. It helps my ego."

His expression is incredulous. I love it.

"At the least you could offer me a drink."

"I've had enough to drink," he mutters, and I know he's still questioning what has happened.

"Unfortunately, I haven't." I gesture with an outstretched arm down the alley.

"I don't have anything to offer you." His meaning is obvious: in other words, butt out.

"You've bought enough beer to last you another month. Which surprises me. Why are you at a bar if you already have drink?"

But my first sentence stops him. "Anothermonth?"

He's fast. I raise my brows, and meet his sudden defiance with an open stare. "I'll tell you what. You give me a beer, and I'll give you an explanation."

"Look. I appreciate your help, but forget it." He starts to turn away.

"Sam's life depends on it."

He stops breathing. I wait for his chest to rise and fall. It takes forever. "What do you know?" he asks in a low, threatening voice. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'll explain. Over a beer."

Such distrust. Such confusion, such pain. "Fine," he mutters, and turns away.

I follow.


I've seen him come and go from his temporary residence many times, but never stepped foot inside his room. I can't help but wrinkle my nose at the dank smell, and flash him a look.

"Smelled like this when I got here," he says, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over a crate.

The room is depressing. A single bulb hangs from a cord. Neon lights send crazy, psychotic designs across the concrete floor. It is cold, cheap, and totally unsuitable for this young gentleman.

He walks across the floor and bends before a small refrigerator unit. Pulls out an amber bottle, and pops off the top. Hands it to me warily. "You talk," he says. "I have to sit down."

I accept the bottle. "No more motels for you, Dean Winchester?"

He glares at me as he flops on the worn, dusty sofa. Jerks at his laces and removes his boots.

"Sam disappeared near here, didn't he?" I walk the room, feeling his eyes on me like a hot knife between my shoulder blades. It gives me a delightful chill. "You can't make yourself leave."

He's so angry. I can feel it, and I can't blame him.

I raise the bottle to my lips. "You're a better man than me. I'd of given up by now."

"It's only been a month."

"All the more reason."

My chest meets the wall, the bottle crashing to the floor, his heavy body behind me. His voice hisses in my ear as my arm twists painfully into my back. I don't remember hearing him rise. "Where is he?" Dean demands in the rough voice that I know so well, that I have heard so often during his interrogations. "God damn you,where is he?"

He is intoxicating. He always has been, just like his father. Like his mother, his brother. "I don't know. But I have an idea. If you'd just. . .ngh." I grunt as my arm is jacked higher behind me.

His voice is low and menacing in my ear. "You tell me now, and I might let you live."

I feel my lips curl into a semblance of humor. "What make you think I'm alive, Dean?"

I'm released with a thrust. I turn slowly, making a show of rubbing my shoulder. Dean's backing away, shaking slightly. His breath quickens, and I can see this is becoming too much for him. "You're a demon?" he asks.

"Not one to beat around the bush, are you? No. I'm not a demon. Not quite."


I raise my eyebrows at him.

He is confused, angry. "What the hell are you?"

"A thing. An abomination." I feel a sudden sadness sweep over me. "A mistake."

His eyes roam my fine clothing, my body, my face. When he finally meets my eyes, I see the old Dean Winchester. "You have a lot of confidence for a freak."

"Now, Dean. I didn't say I didn't like myself." I push away from the wall with my good shoulder. "What about you?"

"What about me?" he asks, his defenses once again on the rise.

I walk right up to him. Look down at him. My eyes lock with his, and I know the colors swirling within are pinning him. "Do you like yourself?" I ask, low with seduction. I can't help it. There is so much energy there, so much angst and helplessness and strength residing in Dean Winchester. My face lowers to his, I have to be a good five inches taller than him without his boots on. I study his lips, rich and full. I find his eyes. Green and disturbed.

He steps back, breaking the spell. Shaken. "What the fuck, man?"

"I'm sorry." I am. I don't want to hurt this young treat. "I mean nothing by it. It's who I am."

"Well, it's who I'm not, so forget it."

He's angry. I don't blame him. "I swear to you, I have no ill intentions toward you. You...mesmerize me, and I'm not going to deny it. But I'm not going to abuse it. I have too much respect for you."

"Really? That's nice." He's sulking now, and it's adorable. I can see the drink swimming around him, trying to pull him under. He's growing more unsteady on his feet.

"Unless you want it. . ."

"NO! Now, what about my brother?"

I smile and reach to the table for his own beer, and take a long, slow sip. He watches my throat move as I swallow, shakes his head, and looks away. "Please," he says in a tired, defeated voice.

He's broken. Exhausted. Out of options. He's been searching for a month, maybe a little longer. Sam disappeared two streets down. Literally snatched from Dean's fingers as he held on to his little brother. Snatched away into red light, and thin air, leaving the nightlife blinking around Dean, ignorant of his sobs.

He's a shell. But that fire still burns brightly inside. Somewhere.

"I know who took him."

"Well?" He sits on his sofa, his white socked feet braced on the stack of milk crates that forms a haphazard table in front of him. His socks are marked from the insides of his boots, outlining the curve of his arch, smudging the bottoms of his toes.

"You know as well as I, Dean. Demons."

"How the hell do you know us?"

"I've been watching you. You know this."

He's not happy. "Demons, huh?"

"Well, something similar." No point in spouting details until I know he's going to listen.

"I think I can find him."

"And what's in it for you?" he asks.

It was a good question. A fair question. Part of the reason is simply because I first saw this young man, and loved him. I saw his brother, and loved him as well. I saw them together, and I fell into sin.


But as always, there is more than that. "I might need your help someday. You have connections."

Dean laughs. It's short, more like a bark and full of distrust, but for a moment his eyes sparkle. "What connections?"

"I'll tell you should I need them. Do you want Sam back, or not?"

"You know I do."

"Then let me help you."

He's considering. His brows raise lightly. "I must be more drunk than I thought."

I walk over to him casually, and set the beer bottle right beside his feet. "You need to rest. You haven't had a good night's sleep since Sam vanished. I'll watch over you." I raise his legs and swing him so that he's laying back on the sofa. He lets me, and seems confused by the action.

"What are you doing to me?" he asks. I know he's not referring to my action.

I bend over him, and give him a kiss on the forehead. "Go to sleep."

"God! The fuck – you kissed me!"

"You're drunk. Go to sleep." I walk to the door, secure it, and snatch his jacket from the crate, then spread it over him. "Don't even have a blanket," I criticize.

"Wasn't staying here that long," he mutters, his eyes fluttering shut.

"No one ever plans to stay long."

"I can't trust you."

"You have no choice. Now shut up before I knock the shit out of you."

His lips quirk in a smile. I sound like his brother.


I sit on the windowsill, looking out over the dingy night streets, and wait.

My existence isn't an easy one. I fill my days with the most mundane of activities, only to close my eyes, open them, and start over again. I don't remember when I first came into being; it is as though I always existed. It gives one an odd sense of time, yet I feel like that time is running out. There is something going on that I never predicted, and I find myself in the middle of it as much as these boys, these young men, that I want so desperately to save.

Oh, I have seen Sam Winchester.

He has a power and temper as graceful and slick as the rifle that bears the same name. Though his body is young, his spirit is old. He and his brother have been around as long as time itself. Legends were sung of them in the old days, lifetimes ago, yet they have no clue. This existence is punishment for them, their hell for a past discrepancy, and they have no clue as to what it was, or why they are meant to do what they do. I can't tell them. It is but a whisper of a memory with me. I'm not sure what is fact or fiction. But I know these boys. At one time, I was a mentor to the brothers. I've been aligned with their souls, traveling with them, watching them, yet distancing myself. I am not now what I was then. And for all I know, this is a story I've invented for myself, to bear the passage of time. Designing a connection within my mind.

It is well they have no memory of it. I'm not sure I have.

But I've seen young Samuel's eyes flicker. The demon that tried so hard to ruin his life, has buried his memories so far down that I doubt they will ever be retrieved. Yet it remains in his soul, in his genetic makeup. He will always be the prince, the one who is hunted, the one who is so powerful that the universe itself cringes. He too, is an abomination. And his brother will fight to protect him. This I do know.

Dean is equally powerful. Together they can rent this existence apart to its very fabric.

The demons know this. They don't know the specifics, because like me, it has been too long and the mind can play tricks. But they sense it. And they want to use it. Each one wants to tap into this power and bend it to their will. In doing so, they will destroy themselves.

So why not just let them? All in good time.

Where was I? Oh.


I watched him when he was small, struggling with this thing inside him. Everyone knows they are more than what they make of themselves. Everyone senses that power within them that they are convinced makes them the center of the universe, the reason for its existence. Sam struggled with that. He couldn't understand why this great, grand thing wasn't happening now. He was the most impatient child, quick to anger, quick to want his way and throw a fit when he didn't get it. And poor Dean, poor wonderful, broken Dean, had to put up with the petty whining and crying and slobbering sobs, and had given in much of the time. The adults that knew them, and few they were, thought Dean was a doting big brother. The truth was, he was merely trying to maintain his sanity.

Sam was restless. He always wanted more, wanted what he didn't have. He was envious of Dean, and at one point to near hatred of his older brother because he sensed Dean's control, a feeling that he longed to have for himself. His resentment grew alongside his love. It grew hard to distinguish his brother from his caregiver. And finally, Sam had to leave so he could sort things out in his scattered, resentful, powerful mind.

Fate, and Azazel, brought the brothers back together as equals. As they should be. As they have always been, before. . .

Damn. I have to explain the Earthbound. But not yet. Dean is stirring, the sun is rising, and this short narrative must come to a close.


Coffee is the best drug in the world. That and painkillers, and the ability to single-handedly steer a vomiting man away from you to the rancid corner that holds the temple of the Porcelain God. Dean at least has the decency to put a screen around the toilet to allow privacy, even if he lives in this rat hole alone.

"You deserve better than this, Dean Winchester," I say, bracing his shoulders.

"Go to hell," he mutters.

"You flatter me. Gah!" I step back, waving away the putrid aroma. "Just clean up, then, and get out here."

He gives me an evil look though half-seeing eyes, and vomits violently. All I can do is roll my eyes and go to sit on the long lump that thinks it's a sofa.

A short time later he emerges red-eyed, flushed, and oddly pale. It is a striking combination, one that looks impossible. "You're still here?" he croaks at me while wiping his face with a piece of material that looks like it should be a towel, or part of a rodent.

I shake my head in disgust. "We have got to get you out of this dump."

"I'm fine."

"You'll die in this cesspool!"

"I'm not leaving!"

He always was an ornery cuss. "What do you hope to achieve here?"

"I'm not leaving Sammy!" The towel-thing is flung down. Dean wavers, and grabs the back of a broken metal chair to steady himself.

"You're no good to him like this."

"I know." He sounds defeated. "But I'm no good notlike this."

It is so unlike him. It worries me, and that worry pushes me to action. I leap to my feet, spot his duffel, and start to grab his clothes that are scattered around the room.

He curses, grabs at me, and I shove him on the sofa. He starts to get up, but I stop him by planting my knee into his sternum. "You listen to me." My voice is like ice, hard and cold. "I will help you find your brother. That is a promise. No strings. But you have got to shape up, because right now you are near worthless, and your Sam will die. Do you understand me? He will die, and it will be your fault." I release him and step back, watching him.

He blinks at me for a moment, then rolls off the sofa. Clothes are thrust into the duffel by his hand, not mine.


I take him to my penthouse suite. It rises high above the city, and I can look down it's long nose at the people below with disdain, and without the fear of being seen. My furnishings are lush. Why have the goods if not to take advantage of them?

Don't get any ideas. I admit I do, especially when I see his brows raise at the sight of my king-sized satin-sheeted bed. "Well, ain't you the big shit?" he says.

"Don't forget it," I counter, and snatch his bag from him. I toss it onto a leather-strapped luggage rack, and steer him towards the pristine white kitchenette. "When's the last time you've eaten?"

"When are you going to tell me where Sam is?"

He's as impatient as his brother. It is to be expected. "When you're well enough to deal with it." I pull out a package of bagels and start a pot of coffee to brew.

I can feel him watching me again. I love it. "Who are you?" he asks.

"I told you. You can call me Zach."

"That's your name. I want to know who you are."

I turn to him. "Do you really want to know? Do you reallywant to know?"

Something in my tone stops him. My fallen angel. I want nothing more than to rub the tension from his temples.

We eat and drink in silence. The sunlight pours golden through the window and brings color to his cheeks. By the time he's showered, he looks more like the Dean I first came in contact with, once he was an adult.

Remember, I knew them as children.

"Zach," he says, and I get a thrill hearing my name escape those lips. "Look. You didn't have to do all this."

"You're welcome," I say. I sigh and lean against the counter where I've just finished cleaning the dishes. My appearance is very important to me, and that includes my surroundings. "Do you feel better?"

"Don't know about better. I feel more like myself."

"I'll take that. Sit." I pour him another cup of coffee. "Now. Since you seem to have again grasped the concept of what it means to be human. . .what would you say if I told you we could have your brother back tonight?"

He nearly drops his coffee. "Tonight?"

"Yes." I calmly sit across from him.

"How? Where the hell is he?" He's nearly frantic.

I raise my hand to settle him, then peer into my mug. "Underground. He's a prisoner."

Dean's eyes narrow, slits of violent green ready to erupt. "You know where he is? Right now? How long have you known?" He watches me. I say nothing. I don't want to lose that vibrant attention he's flung at me. It's selfish, I know.

He stands. "How long?" he demands.

"For a while."

"And you're just now telling me?" His fists are clenched, and I'm waiting for the blow.

"I don't want him harmed, Dean."

"He's a fucking prisoner! You've let him be a prisoner! How could you do that to us?"

He's talking with familiarity, and doesn't even realize it. I don't call him on it. "Because for a while I thought I could have you."

"What?" Dean sits heavily, blinking in disbelief. "What the fuck are you saying?"

"I'm jealous of your brother, Dean. Of this bond. I always have been. I will never have one." At least, not again.

He's taken aback, almost disgusted, and yet there is an aura of pleasure around him. "It's a liability."

"And you love it."

"Can we go now?"

He sounds so lost. Physically, he is better. Inside, he is still broken. He isn't ready. I have to get him angry. I have to bring Dean back.

"We'll go. On one condition."


I raise a brow. "You sleep with me."

He freezes. " – the HELL?"

"In that bed. You let me look at you, take you in. I promise not to touch you. I just want to be near you, just for a time. This isn't sex, Dean. This is much deeper."

"You're fucking nuts!" He's standing now, and I stand too. I launch myself around the table before he can blink, grab his wrists, fling him hard back against the wall, hearing his breath gasp out in shock. Press his wrists against it beside his head. Press my chest against his. Feel his heart race against mine.

Only mine no longer beats.

He's struggling hard, trying to squirm away. It isn't possible to feel this aroused, yet I do. Maybe it's a memory, like everything else, tangible only because you know how it used to feel. Sometimes I think my heart tries to beat in an unnatural rhythm, remembering the sensation.

I hold him, pin him, keep him from escaping. Making him mine, even though there is no way I can make him mine. It's an illusion, like everything else. I release his wrists and grab his head, forcing him to lock gazes with me. His hand pry at mine, and I lower my face to his as though to kiss him, and see the repulsion flame in his face. Pure fury. That's more like it.

"I need you, Dean Winchester," I say, "and you need me." And I let him go. Take a few steps back. He's slumped, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort of controlled breath.

"I hate you," he says.

"Good," I say. "You'll need an extra pair of pants, and a shirt. Let's go."