This was a fic challenge for BlueEyedDemonLiz over at CWESS

This was a fic challenge for BlueEyedDemonLiz over at CWESS (check us out on my profile!). One that, as always, has Limp!Sam and Overprotective!Dean. Liz, I hope I did the story justice!

The saddest realization came to me the other day. I don't own Sam and Dean, and I make no money writing stories in the world of Supernatural. However, Kripke, if you are hiring…

Set in Season 1, and rated T for some innuendos and Dean's Ka-Ka mouth.


"You really should take better care of your young." Anna smiled, raising her arm and pointing at the lake beyond him.

They were on a witch hunt, literally. In southern Louisiana in a little town that was so fucking humid, it made Florida look like a walk through one of those York Peppermint Patty commercials … complete with the cool breezing running through his hair. The truth of the matter was he was sweating like a stuck pig about to be put on the spit fire, and Dean hated to sweat almost as much as he hated to shiver.

It was times like this that he could see why Sammy had chosen California. Hot though always a cooling breeze … no humidity. And babes. Lots and lots of hot babes in scantily clad bikinis.

It had been six months since they left California, and while Sam's nightmares had come less and less the more time passed, Dean knew something still ate at his brother, still left a hole in his heart that, if you looked deep enough, you could see the shattered pieces in his eyes.

Dean, however, didn't push the issue; partly because Sam didn't want to talk about it, and partly because Dean was not a chick flick sort of guy. He was a charge in guns blazing sort of guy. He was Butch … Sammy was Sundance, and it was with his both barrels loaded attitude that had him facing Anna … just one of a suspected coven of thirteen witches that controlled this sleepy little town.

More like a hot fucking town if you asked him. So damn hot he swiped the sweat off his forehead as it trickled into a slowly arcing brow; which was accompanied by that Dean Winchester trademark smirk.

"I don't know what kind of hojo you've been smoking, lady, but I'm not buying your mumbo jumbo."

Anna's dark eyes glittered with amusement. Dean might later swear that they matched the inky black heart she no doubt had. One that was shriveled and small, much like the famed green monster that stole Christmas from Whoville. Dean doubted there was a Cindy Lou in this story to untaint the bitches heart, and doubted even Sam's puppy dog eyes could sway her from taking what did not belong to her.

Like the lives of Jake Carpenter and Ed Baxter.

The corners of her mouth twitched upward, leaving hardly a line on a face that belied her age; no doubt one of the perks to demon worshipping. Dark hair, nearly as black as those soulless eyes, fanned tanned shoulders as she looked at him with amused humor.

"Your brother is hardly mumbo jumbo, Dean. Baby brother, is he not?"

That trademark smirk faded into something far darker and more dangerous than the witch's eyes, something far more sinister than the things that go bump in the night. This was Dean Winchester, and she had just crossed the line into dangerous, where demon and human alike did not survive. Where anyone that fucked with his family, with his brother … rarely lived to tell about it.


He was supposed to be covering point. He was supposed to be covert while Dean formed a distraction. That was the plan anyway. Dean faced the wicked witch of the south head on while Sam scoped the surroundings, and hopefully found the area where they performed their rituals before the next one was to happen … in two days when the moon was full.


The gun that had been nestled in the back of his pants was pulled free in one swift motion, the muzzle aimed at her brow as it furrowed in amusement. Still he did not look in the direction she had pointed. He was not giving the bitch the satisfaction of seeing him sweat. Though it was a little late for that with this Louisiana heat.

"He can't answer you Dean."

But when no answer came again, not even a cricket of conscious chirping out to tell him to look after Sammy, Dean dared to break his gaze from the Bayou bitch to glance toward the lake. It was there, in the midday heat, that for just a split second, Dean swore he saw the long legs of his brother, as they skimmed atop the water, while he was being dragged across the lake.

Anyone else would have said it was a mirage, that it wasn't just improbable, that it was impossible -- after all, people don't just skim above water. But Dean dealt with the impossible every day. Impossible was getting to your brother's apartment just as his girlfriend bursts into flames on the ceiling and dragging him to safety. Impossible was smashing a mirror just before your brother's eyeballs turned to mush by the spirit haunting it. Impossible was being saved by a crazy bitch that was controlling a reaper.

Impossible was standing here with a gun to some bitches head, and yet she smiled. But that is exactly what Anna McCormack did.

"As I said, you really should take better care of him."

The click was unmistakable as Dean slid the safety off at the same time the hammer kicked back, sending a bullet into the chamber and making his weapon deadly indeed as his finger toyed with the trigger, just itching to put a bullet in her head. And while the click was hard to miss, the malignant intent of his smirk was even harder.

"I'd be more concerned about what I plan to do with you…"

The woman who sat fawned out on her deck chair sitting lakeside gave him a smile that, had he not just been witness to his brother vanishing across a lake, had this woman not killed twelve men in as many months, he might have fallen for; at least as far as one night trysts go. He, after all, had a job, and it did not include being shackled down with some woman who left badgering messages on his cell phone about picking up milk on his way home from his latest hunt … oh and by the way, Bonnie was coming over, so could he make sure Sam came along?

No thank you! Maybe in another life, but in this one Dean was out to save his little corner of the world from demons and other hellspawn. And that included taking this bitch out for snatching his brother from him.

"I'd be more afraid of what they'll do to Sam if I don't show up."

The gun moved in a point toward her, the threat obvious as he held his ground for three seconds … three seconds that they were in check mate before Dean lowered the gun and all but snarled at her.

"How do I know Sam's safe?"

One well sculptured brow arched slowly, as did one side of her mouth in a smirk.

"You don't. What you do have Dean, is two days."

"Two days?"

He dreaded her answer as the witch stood, her petite size nearly dwarfed by Dean's six foot one frame, but she hardly seemed intimidated, even with a gun still held in his hand.

"The full moon … and at midnight, it becomes the thirteenth hour … the witching hour."

"And Sam?"

She turned, but paused to grin over her shoulder at him.

"You're a smart man, you figure it out … Hunter."


It took six of them to carry him in.

Six burdened under the weight of him, and even then his feet dragged behind him as they led him through the abandoned prison that was their hunting grounds. Long deserted after a riot claimed the lives of three guards and 15 prisoners, the coven of witches claimed it for their own, the cells making it ideal for their purpose.

Not to mention it was tainted with the blood of rage. Filled with unsettled souls that begged to seek vengeance on a world that caged them away, left them to die at the hands of their unfeeling captors. It was the perfect breeding ground for satanic worship, and the perfect place to spill the blood of their sacrifice.

So with the shouldered weight of a rather large man, the six witches dragged him through the dusty expanse, leading him to the cell that would be his for two days. And it was with great care that they lowered their unconscious captive down, taking the time to arrange the padding of a mattress and blankets below him before his wrists were fastened to the shackles on the wall.

One blonde lowered down to a squat, a well-manicured hand reaching out to catch his chin, turning his lax face toward her, blue eyes studying the blood that was drying to the side of his head.

"Did you have to hit him so hard, Cindy?"

A brunette just over her shoulder smirked, and while the disdain was clear, so was her curiosity as she too lowered down beside her sister. Fingers reached out to touch the man that was to complete their circle. The thirteenth, he was, important in completing their offering to Sekhmet, in cusping the circle of destruction and blood to bring to life their salvation.

The pads of her fingertips brushed his young cheek, and then moved to trail along the blood that was drying on the side of his face. With a giddy grin that belonged on a girl of 16 and not one of 25 that had long ago lost her innocence, she brought bloodied fingertips to his lips to suckle the crimson stain clean of bronzed flesh.


A giggle was heard behind her, but the dark haired beauty was too intent on their latest conquest to pay any attention to her sister. With her own seductive smile, she leaned in; lips stained with his blood nearly brushing his own before the sharp call behind her startled her back.


The brunette was quick to move back from the unconscious man, her head turning in the direction of the voice, dark eyes landing on those as pitch as night.

"I was just …"

"Overstepping your bounds."

She locked eyes with Anna but a moment before bowing her head and scrambling back to stand as the other five, which had helped carry the dead weight of a man that could have overpowered each and every one of them, moved out of the way as Anna entered with a hardened gaze on each one of them.

They all knew who ran this coven, and while Anna had been playing devil's advocate with the older one, they had played a game of cat and mouse with the younger. It hadn't been the easiest game since this all began; after all, he'd thought he was the cat. But, as the two by four smashed into the side of his head, he learned he might have whiskers and a tail, but he was definitely the prey.

The dark haired beauty looked to the felled man with interest and curiosity before she lowered down beside him. Reaching out, she took his chin and turned his face this way and that, the shift of her eyes roving that inky black gaze over his features.

"I was right, Sam Winchester … you are absolutely scrumptious."


They must have had the crappiest hotel ever out of their entire 22 years of staying in crappy hotels. Sam knew this because someone was jack hammering right outside of their window. It had to be the window, it was far too close to be outside of the door since Dean always took the bed closest to the door.


The riveting sound of five pubescent boys banging on drums as loud as they could just to impress some girl that wasn't really looking anyway joined into that noxious hammering that was happening on the street, only adding to the discomfort in his head as an arm came up to try and cover his face against the invasion.


His throat was scratchy; his tongue felt like he'd licked the bottom of someone's shoe and decided to go back for seconds. But what drew his attention more than the cat litter feel of his tongue, more than the raucous sound that made it feel like his brain spontaneously combusting would be a merciful death, even more than the lack of response from a brother that hadn't ignored him seriously since the Great Prank War of 1999. It was the clank that followed the movement of his arm, the heaviness that weighted down his wrist that had him opening eyes that balked at what little light there was, that had him lifting his head despite the screaming protests from within.


It took a moment. A moment for the realization that he wasn't in any hotel room to filter through the fog of his concussed brain. It was in that confusion, that 60 seconds of time before the graveness of his reality settled in, that had Sam blinking, trying to decipher what he was seeing. Hazels narrowed as he lifted his left hand, the clatter of the chain fastened to it unmistakable, and yet he was staring, as if in disbelief.


"Dean can't help you now."

The soft, feminine voice jerked his head up so fast, stars danced before his eyes, causing him to lower back down. The dragging clang of metal to stone elicited a groan from him as his hand came to rub at his temple to hopefully assuage the dull roar in his head.

"Careful, they hit you pretty hard."

"Who are you?"

He barely recognized the croak of his own voice, the scratchy sound that rumbled past lips that didn't exactly want to cooperate. But the raw feeling in his throat was the least of his worries. He was someplace he didn't recognize, chained to a fucking wall, with some sultry sounding woman giving him the eye.

Freud would have a heyday with this!

"Anything you want me to be, Sam."

His head lifted once more, the cacophony of wildly beating drums having settled to a dull ache; painful but bearable. Hazel eyes, despite the pain he was in, were clear enough to realize one thing … he was in some serious shit.

Unfortunately for Sam, he happened to be a Winchester, and while they tended to lay low in order to be one step ahead of the law, they also tended to be caustic when cornered. Sam, while the mildest of the three Winchester men, had his moments that would make Dean grin and his father shake his head in amusement. Though it was usually John that Sam more often than not butted heads with, perhaps because they were more alike than either cared to admit.

John Winchester would have been quite proud of his son that day when Sam pushed up to level a gaze that was full of that Winchester fire (that either pissed someone one off, or made them back up two quick steps) on the black haired witch that stood assessing him, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sneer that spoke nothing but vehemence.

"Fine … Anthropologist. Dig my ass out of here…"

Nearly black eyes glinted with amusement, the heels of her boots clicking in a soft echo against the concrete as she approached her captive; but Sam, while chained, hardly backed down from that stare that said he was some sort of prize to be won. Lowering in a squat just out of his reach, she tsk'd in such a condescending tone that if he were ever inclined to strike a woman, now would be the time.

But she really wasn't just a woman, was she? She was a witch, and while human, that made her less to Sam. Something almost huntable, even if he'd rather not think of putting a bullet in her.

With a grin that was nothing shy of malicious, she gave him a look that was far too patronizing to be the least bit enjoyable, even if she did look him over as if he were the next course to fill her carnal desires.

Ever since he was seven, and Dean had taken him to see Sleeping Beauty, Sam had seen Malificent in every witch that ever crossed their paths. And wouldn't Dean just snark out some snippet at Sam's shudder as the living, breathing movie come to life reached out to caress his face?

Only Sam had the feeling that once she put him to sleep, he was not waking up. Not even with a kiss. And damn Dean would just bust a gut at the image that brought to mind … Sam's handsome prince coming to rescue him from the evil bitch who had him in chains.

"No need to be rude, Sam, we could have a smashing good time."

"Sorry … cold heartless bitches aren't my type."

The corners of her mouth tugged upward, the delight of his situation (Sam would almost swear that she was enjoying his blatant disdain) hardly hidden in eyes that, now that she was up close and personal, he swore had flecks of yellow, much like the demon that ruined the Winchester's lives.

"Tell me, Sammy, what is your type? Little blonde love dolls that remind you of mommy?"

The world came screeching to a crashing halt, slamming against the ceiling that had been so unkind to both his mother and his girlfriend. Hazels widened for the briefest of moments, the flicker of pain in them hard to mistake even after they were narrowing in nothing shy of fervent hate.

It should have been no secret how she came about the knowledge, after all, she was in cohorts with a demon … but to Sam Winchester, in that moment, all he knew was the raw pain all over again, as if, in that split second following those malicious words he had to watch Jessica Moore burst into flames all over again.

But the moment was over almost as soon as it began, and Sam, king of angst and brooding, did what all good Winchester's did and bottled it up for a later time, a moment that he could allow himself to cry. One second to himself that he could let out the hate, the fear, the pain in one poignant hurricane of sensation. But even that wouldn't be enough, would it? Sam had learned to cover his emotional tracks so well that even he wasn't sure what might burst forth if given the opportunity.

And with that moment come and gone, the black haired witch arched a brow – she had seen the turmoil that welled in hazel green eyes.

"I thought so…"

"Shut up…"

Her gaze danced at the prospect of riling this one. The elder, he'd been easy to bring to a boiling rage, all she had to do was add a dash of stolen brother and a pinch of death by sacrifice, but Sam … he was harder to draw that Winchester heat that she had heard so much about.

Sekhmet had been quite forthcoming about the secrets of the Winchester men when the two brothers had come to town on their little hunt. The older, he called to her, pulled at her darker desires like few men had before. But this one, her captive, there was something about him that made her crave far more than a sweaty romp between tangled sheets.

And while she couldn't say quite what that something was … the thought of tangled sheets around them, with nothing between them but the night and their own sweat had her leaning in with a purr vibrating past full lips.

It was a sound that would have had Dean nudging his shyer younger brother toward the she-devil.

Sam, however, stood his ground. Even as she leaned in within reach, her lips a scant inch from his own. So close he could smell the scent of her perfume – something spicy and exotic – and nearly taste the flavor of her toothpaste – mint with a touch of baking soda. The purr that rumbled from her throat, had Sam not felt total revulsion by the prospect, might have stirred forth a fire that hadn't erupted since Jess.

"Don't worry Sam, in two days, you'll be begging me."