*Hey Guys, I know I haven't posted for a while, work-work-chop-chop-busy-busy.

This story is set between 5.01 and 5.02 – although there is only supposed to be about 3 days between them according to Show...however, not in MY world. ;) Shouldn't be longer than 4 or 5 chapters. See what you think.

For All I Know



They'd walked right into it.

It could have been the cumulative exhaustion of the fight over the past three months to stop the rising at the convent.

It could have been the fact that they were over occupied by the spike in tension between them and the effort it took not to fight.

More than likely, it was the alcohol.

It kindly dulled the senses and blunted the pain. Alcohol was considerate that way. Drink enough of her and she'd bathe you in a momentary flood of optimism and of course, apathy regarding your present situation.

And so, Dean had said nothing when he'd noticed Sam hesitate at the door. Like he didn't want to leave the warm fug of the bar. Instead, he'd forced the decision and pushed his arm past Sam and shoved the door open for him.

Outside, needles of rain made them both exhale. Heads down, they'd pulled their jackets closed and turned into the wind.

There was no one there to save them.

No one to see the baseball bat smash into Dean's chest, as they rounded the corner.

No one saw him get savagely pulled so that his face smacked against the unforgiving brick wall, his nose spraying blood against it like some weird Jackson Pollock homage.

No one heard the shouts and the groans as they both managed to swing wildly in delayed retaliation. Dean's fist connected with a bristled chin, but the baseball bat had the advantage as it was rammed into his ribs with an accompanying grunt. Suddenly Sam was down, and so was his hooded attacker, but the hulking figure towering above them delivered a series of determined kicks to Sam's chest winding him long enough for his attacker to break free from his grasp.

The glint of a knife caught Dean's eye, and the savage jerk of Sam's head as the knife dug perilously into the soft skin on his neck. Two sets of eyes stared at Dean, half smirking, half goading him to make a move so they could slice open his brother's jugular. Sam's legs bicycled across the ground as he was pulled back by the hair, the knife digging in deeper. They dragged him back, further into the gloom of the alley. In the distance, a waiting car, all doors open. Sam's serious face, grimacing but maintaining eye contact with his brother.

"Leave him alone...Sam!" He launched himself towards them.

And Dean would've levelled them. He would've destroyed them all.

The adrenalin in his blood and the extra volumes of oxygen in his lungs told him so. He would've ripped them to shreds, pummelled seven shades of shit out of every one of 'em... but for the baseball bat. It's very existence absent from his mind until the moment it slammed into the back of his head and sent him face forward onto the concrete.


Six hours later.


Dean pushed his head back onto the wooden crate. His only option against a profusely bleeding nose and his arms tied back at the elbows.

Sitting still didn't help. Pressing his nose against his knee didn't help. Tipping his head back and feeling the blood drip down the back of his throat was as good as it was going to get, apparently.

He looked across at Sam through the darkness.

No movement.

Lying on his front, head turned away. Knuckles grazed. Wet clothes.

This would be the life he'd face alone if Dean wasn't with him, he told himself. Although he had been with him. And his presence had provided no help whatsoever.

He considered how Sam was going to approach the subject. Because he would. And soon.

He remembered being in the bar.

That it was warm and inviting.

That the three girls over in the corner were very easy on the eye.

That Sam had uncharacteristically closed his lap top and had slumped into a resigned position and actually looked like he was relaxing into his beer. That he'd felt a slight release on the continual alert Sam was on for Dean's approval. Watched Dean like a hawk. Waiting for absolution. Or recrimination. Or blame. It was beginning to get on Dean's last nerve and he welcomed the respite the booze seemed to afford him.

So, they'd obviously been jumped. And here they were.

A rigged up store room with the window's blanked out save for a slim chink of light, wooden crates and pallets and a substantial wire fence between them.

Two cells for two prisoners.

"Sam." Quietly.

No movement.

"Sam, wake up." Not so quietly.

No movement. No answer.

Dean pushed his head back against the wooden crate. The familiar feeling of blood still dripping from his nose and down his throat.


Three hours later.


When the door opened the light fell on Dean's face like a laser beam, making him squint and flinch out of the way. He blinked frantically trying to gain a visual on whoever it was that stood in the doorway. It wasn't until he'd closed the door behind him, that Dean could make out his features.

A square face, open, with sharp eyes. A hunters face. In his 50's, and tall. Heavy set. A regular powerhouse in his day. Dean lifted his face and stilled as a sudden recognition hit him.

"Fulmer..." he said quietly. "Fulmer Backhouse."

He remembered Fulmer...but not in a good way. In fact, he remembered he'd disliked him intensely and the feelings had been returned.

Which meant he wasn't there to save them.

Which meant he was probably their jailer.

Fulmer pulled a dead-eyed smile. He fisted his hand around a paper bag he carried. His eyes rested onto Sam's limp form.

"What'd you do to him?" Dean spat out.

"Nothin' more than you got. You not been feedin' him lately?" Fulmer asked. He fumbled with a set of keys from his jacket pocket.

"Yeah...we were just about to go for a happy meal when you dicks jumped us."

Fulmer suppressed a chuckle. Dean moved to get up, his ribs pulling him back with a monumental stab of pain. The noise of the key in the lock seemed to boom out into the silence of the room.

"What the hell are you doing, Fulmer?"

"Just checkin' on him," he answered quite innocently.

Dean made it to his feet. Leant back on the wooden crates.

The cage door now open, Fulmer walked towards Sam.

"No, why did you take us...what do you want, for God's sake?"

Fulmer bent down to look at Sam's face. Dean waited.

Seemingly dissatisfied with what he saw, Fulmer jabbed a kick to Sam's ribs.

"Hey! Get up!"

Dean grimaced at the sight.

"Fucking Winchester's." Fulmer bent down again. "Wake up, you demonic piece of shit!"

Dean's blood iced in his veins.

He knew.

Somehow, that dumb- fuck who had the gall to call himself a hunter who was presently lording it over them knew about Sam. His mind fought for a way to control the situation.

"What?" he snorted. "What are you talking about?" Even he could hear the key change in his voice.

Another steel cap into Sam's ribs, only this time it provoked a moan from the young brother.

Fulmer stepped back and looked over at Dean.

"No need to pretend to me. I know what your brother is. I know what he did to himself."

Dean maintained eye contact – a short sharp image formed in his mind of him smashing the butt of his shotgun right into that smiling, smug face. Teeth and blood splattering everywhere. The fantasy did little to reduce the spike of anxiety that he felt.

Fulmer threw down the bag onto the floor. Sam shifted slightly, making Fulmer smirk with satisfaction.

"What are you doing, Fulmer?"

He turned and closed the cage door.

"At least tell us what you want."

Dean leant a shoulder against the wire fencing, hoping it would be lax. But it wasn't. It was strong and taught and as well constructed as it looked. He waited for eye contact but it wasn't returned. Instead, Fulmer turned his back to Dean and gently closed the door on him, immediately reducing the room to darkness again.


Three hours later.


Dean opened his eyes.

A black beetle scurried across the grey cement in front of him, and he grimaced as he lifted his head up from the puddle of blood near his face.

Still. His nose had stopped bleeding.

Things were looking up.

He looked across at Sam. He'd moved. Or had been moved. He was now on his side.

With a grunt, Sam raised his head off the cement and the sudden movement made Dean flinch. He waited Sam to see him.

"Hey..." he croaked.

"Hey, yourself." Dean groaned at the effort to lift himself up into a sitting position. The cable ties dug viciously into his arms and his shoulders screamed at any kind of movement.

"Where...where are we?" Sam whispered, his eyes flicking around the room. A blackened left eye and a clean cut to the bridge of his nose...apart from that, he looked reasonable.

"Town, city or state?"

Sam pushed himself up off the floor and turned towards his brother, blinking against the darkness.

"God, you're covered in blood...are you OK?"

Dean shuffled back so he could lean on the wooden pallet again.

"We took a beating...my nose bled and... he gestured towards his back, letting Sam see his arms. Sam nodded, his eyebrows furrowed at the sight of his brother. He used the wire fence to pull himself up and surveyed his surroundings.

"How long have we been here?"

"A day...I think."

He pulled at his wired confines. The fence didn't yield at all.

"What the fuck, Dean?" A sudden exhaustion to his voice. Dean snorted gently.

"You remember the idiot cousins we helped in Oklahoma...about a year ago..? The chicken farm outside Tulsa?"

Sam frowned at the thought. Then he nodded.

"The Backhouse boys."

"That's the ones."

"Straight from the 'Fuck-tards R us' stable...what about them? " Sam pulled a hand through his hair, flinching at a particular spot.

"It's Fulmer Backhouse that holds the keys on us." Even in the darkness, Dean could see Sam's eyes widen.

"You're kidding?" Dean shook his head gently. "Well, what the hell do they want with us?"

"You remember Deliverance, dontcha?"

Sam's head snapped around, just to check Dean was actually joking.

"Now, you're really kidding."

"Yeah, well let's hope so. Not much I could do if they do decide to make me their bitch."

Sam sat down again, his shoulder against the fence.

"So, you've seen them. Did they say anything to you?"

Dean shifted his position. There was no point in keeping it from him. This was the very scenario he'd considered the day he'd discovered Sam was using his powers. This might be the first time they'd been confronted by another hunter knowing Sam's business... but it probably wouldn't be the last.

"He didn't say why they'd jumped us...but...they do know about you." Dean held Sam's gaze, and saw his mouth fall open at the revelation.

"They know about me?"

Shame, doubt, fear...it was all there in his brother's face. Dean cleared his throat.

"Fulmer said...he knows about you and what you did to yourself."


Dean pursed his lips. "He called you 'demonic'."

Sam suddenly looked defeated. "Right." He muttered, almost to himself.

Dean let the silence settle between them. It had all turned to shit after the panic room. As if there would be any other outcome to discovering your brother sucked demon blood and preferred a demon over you. And of course, incarcerating said brother and leaving him alone to deal with his devastating withdrawal was hardly the mark of a responsible older brother either.

And then there was Lucifer.

The devil. It seemed ludicrous to believe that it had even happened and yet they'd worked so hard to prevent it. Thanks to the odd bent angel and the odd skank demon, all their efforts had been next to useless. And everyone had gotten what they wanted in the end. Except the humans, of course.

"What's in the bag?" He gestured with his chin. The question jolted Sam out of his thoughts and he slid over to grab the bag.

"Food...and water," he said, pulling the bottle out and opening it straight away. "Come here," he said, holding it up to the fence.

Dean shuffled across the floor. He lifted his face against the fence and allowed Sam to rest the neck of the bottle against his lips so he could drink. He gulped the first few mouthfuls not realising how thirsty he was and then nodded for Sam to lower the bottle. Sam drank some himself. A satisfying sigh at the sudden rehydration.

He turned out the bag - a ham bagel and a chocolate muffin rolled onto the cement.

"Bagsy the muffin," Dean said. Sam frowned.

"It's a meal for one."

"I noticed. I'm not taking it personally though." Dean leant against the fence while Sam tipped the bottle against his lips again. Dean nodded gently, and Sam finished the rest. He looked down at the empty bottle in his hand.

"Should've kept some," he admitted. "Too late now."

"At least you've got something to pee into."

Sam scanned the room once again.

"Hey, you're right. There's nothing here. Probably have to give us toilet breaks. Gives us a chance to reccy the place." His voice lightened at the prospect.

"You are your father's son, Sam."

He smiled and picked up the muffin. Picked off a piece and tasted it. Another piece and this time, he held it out towards Dean. He considered it for a beat, the thought of being hand fed by his brother, an action too intimate for the state of their relationship it seemed. He sighed, and opened his mouth anyway.

They both settled back and ate the muffin.

Sam thought back to Fulmer and Figgis Backhouse and the revenant that stalked their farm. The damn thing had killed a farm hand a state away, and Fulmer had phoned Bobby boasting that he was killing it. Wannabe hunters, the Backhouse boys were uneducated in the Supernatural, ill prepared and usually unwilling to do any background checks either. Then there were two revenants, and the panicked phone call to Bobby held none of the bravado of the previous call. So, Sam and Dean were sent over to clean up. They were lazy and ungrateful, and couldn't quite grasp the severity of their inactions. Their procrastinations had resulted in the death of a young farmer next to their land.

"God, I can still smell Figgis Backhouse," Sam said out loud. He pushed another wedge of muffin into Dean's mouth.

"Don't remind me," Dean mumbled.

"Well, we killed the revenants, we even let them take the damn credit for it..." he trailed off, thoughtfully. "I mean, maybe they think I'm a demon and they want me dead too."

Dean remained silent.

"But then... they could have killed me back at the bar."

Dean agreed with a single nod. A sudden frown returned him to a similar theory. His stomach suddenly soured at the memory.

"If I didn't know you, I'd wanna hunt you."

Sam scooped up the last of the muffin. Dean turned his head away.

"Keep it. I've had enough."

"You want some bagel?"

Dean shook his head.

"Can't fight back if we're too weak, Dean." Again with his father's voice.

Dean pulled at the muffin sticking to his teeth and wished they'd kept some of that water back.

Then they heard it.

An unearthly scream. Followed by a roar of rage and hate. The brothers looked at each other, waiting for the next noise.

A fight. A rumble of furniture and something being dragged.

More screaming. Someone shouting obscenities and threats.

"They've got someone else," Sam said, a trace of wonder to his voice.

The noise got louder. The door shook with the strain of being rammed and both boys shuffled themselves against the back wall.

The sound of keys against wood.

The door being opened.

The light shining in and distorting the figures in the doorway. The screaming rage filled the room, their captive's hate filled rants revealing a slight slur. As if he'd been drugged. Fulmer and Figgis pulled his legs away from him, his face smacking off the cement as he fell. Fulmer jammed the key into the lock of Sam's cage, while Figgis launched the man inside.

Instead of staying down the man lunged back at the partly opened cage door – forcing Figgis and Fulmer to brace themselves against the onslaught. This guy had chutzpah, Dean thought. Either that or he was on crack.

And it wasn't until Fulmer looked past the new captive to look at Sam - and it wasn't until Figgis smiled that yellowing grin at the newbie's vicious threats, that it began to dawn on Dean.

"There ya go, Sam," Fulmer shouted above the noise. "He's all yours."

Sam moved to stand up, poised, ready - level in height with the man now trying to beat his way out of the cage.

Finally securing the cage door, Figgis grinned back at Sam, as the man slowly turned to face him.

His eyes were blacker than coal. His sneer as sickly as any demon's. His chest heaving with the effort it took to fight his incarceration with the mighty Sam Winchester.

"Now, boy. Let's see if the rumours are true," Fulmer said with menace. "Let's see you kill me some demons."