Not mine. I'm re-posting several stories because of lack of page breaks. Bye…


She was smiling at him, the sadistic smile she always wore no matter whose body she inhabited. In her hands was a long, pointed, blood stained knife. None of the red liquid was his, but he shared some DNA with it. His eyes swept across the room landing on his barely conscious brother, chained to a wall. Blood splattered his brother's tattered shirt, small, deep gouges across his chest.

Not for the first time, he tried to break the bindings that bound him to the chair. It was useless, the rope just slicing into his wrists again, blood slowly dripping onto the floor.

"You brought this upon yourself, Winchester," Ava said turning back to his brother.

"Use me, you hate me," he tried to beg, but she ignored him as she ran the knife down his brother's face. The cut immediately began dripping blood, the red liquid sliding down his face like a tear.

"You're beginning to become boring," Ava grumbled to her strung up captive. "At least when you were conscious you screamed." Sighing she called, "Joshua, big brother, take him away."

A brunette man, taller than six-four, weighing more than either Winchester brother, came walking in. So different from the red head he used to possess, the demon unchained the unconscious brother and carried him out of the room.

"Where are you taking him," the other one asked making his wrists bleed worse as he fought to break free again.

"Don't you worry about him," Ava purred wiping her knife on a handkerchief she extracted from her skirt pocket. "You should be worrying about yourself." She walked toward him, the knife gleaming in the lone light bulb above his head, and his eyes widened. As much as Ava hated his brother, he had nothing on the Winchester tied to the chair. Bracing himself for pain, wondering if he was about to scream like his brother, he felt the knife slice across his chest…


35 hours earlier

Alastair was strung up in the devil's trap the angels stuck him in. He had been taunting Dean the entire time he was being tortured, every word working Dean's last nerve. As much as Dean tried to block it out, he caught small portions of the demon's words. Dean just wished Alastair would shut up and answer his question, the torturing slowly getting to him. But he continued to periodically torture the demon, even when every moral fiber of his being screamed at him not to.

Then Alastair's words got to a point where Dean couldn't block them, not even a little. "Oh, the first time you picked up my razor. The first time you sliced into that weeping bitch. That was the first seal."

"You're lying," Dean said masking his panic. He has to be lying.

"'And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break.' We had to break the first seal before we could break any others. Get the dominoes to fall, right? Topple the one at the front of the line. When we win…when we bring on the apocalypse and burn this earth down…we'll owe it all to you. Dean Winchester. Believe me son, I wouldn't lie about that. It's kind of a religious sort of thing with me."

Dean turned his back on Alastair, Ruby's knife clenched in his fist, in full blown panic mode. No, he couldn't have. There was no way he'd be that careless, he couldn't bring on the apocalypse. But, deep down, he knew it was true. There was no other explanation. Demons may lie ninety-seven percent of the time, but this time was one of the rare three percent.

"No," Dean finally said looking down at Ruby's knife, "I don't think you are lying. But even if the demons do win, you won't be around to see it." He turned around, ready to drill Ruby's knife through Alastair's heart and be done with him. Except, Alastair wasn't tied up anymore, he was right behind Dean. "You should talk to your plumber about the pipes," the demon said as he drilled his fist into the hunter's face.

Dean lost count of the number of hits he took to the face-it was somewhere between five or six. He was in and out of consciousness, somehow finding himself up against the trap that Alastair managed to get out of. "You've got a lot to learn boy," Alastair said squeezing Dean's windpipe, air was an impossibility for the helpless hunter. "So, I'll see you in class, bright and early, Monday morning."

Dean knew Castiel came in at that point, the angel was going to save him, except the dark haired angel never showed; Alastair continued to tightened his hold on Dean's throat, air was just a luxury for people who didn't jumpstart the apocalypse. Everything was going black; Dean was going to die…

He jerked awake, knife already in hand. His frantic eyes darted back and forth, expecting Alastair to attack. It took a moment for him to calm down, to see that no demon was able to cross the salt lines he put down. Breathing a sigh of relief, feeling like an idiot because he was shaking and being stupid, he put his knife back and rolled over to check his watch.

"Another nightmare," a familiar voice asked making Dean jump again. His heart was going a mile a second, something that was probably not healthy, as he flipped on the light to see Sam watching him from his own bed. Dean realized the TV was on, a dude trying to sell knives to all the insomnia victims out there.

"You get any sleep," Dean asked, ignoring Sam's question. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get the sleep out of them.

"We just got in a few hours ago, so I thought I'd do some research, but that got boring so I'm just watching infomercials." His brother seemed more wired than usual, almost like he had been jacked up on Red Bull and energy pills. He had been acting weird ever since they snapped out of the angel induced memories. Not that Sam remembered any of that, Dean had brought it up several times and his brother just gave him a blank stare. Great, more memories for only me to dwell on, Dean had thought. It also didn't help that Sam had memories of the three weeks that Dean couldn't account for. Like Dean recovering at Bobby's for a week before him and Sam helped the older hunter with a vampire nest and a demon infestation. But, neither brother questioned it and just shoved it into the mental file that was their weird lives.

Now, they were just coming back from burning some bones. Mr. Carl J. Kimble went crazy back in 1954 and killed his wife and two daughters before doing away with himself. Since then every family that moved into the Kimble estate was terrorized by the malevolent spirit, the recent family almost losing their son when he was thrown through a window. For hunts it was relatively easy, if Dean counted twisting his ankle after being thrown into a gravestone and Sam getting pushed into the un-dug grave as easy.

"You have an unhealthy obsession with those things," Dean commented nodding his head toward the television.

"What can I say…," Sam started as Dean finished with him, "…it's riveting TV." Rolling his eyes, knowing there was no way in hell he was going back to sleep, he rolled out of bed.

When he put pressure on his ankle it hurt, but he had been in worse pain than that and ignored it. He limped toward his bag, pulling out some clean clothes, and headed toward the bathroom mumbling to Sam about taking a shower. His brother merely grunted in response as he flipped the channel. Dean closed the door on an Andy Griffith rerun, the whistling tune getting automatically stuck in his head.

He placed his clean clothes on the toilet lid. Stripping his dirty clothes off, he stepped into the shower and turned the knob until the water was as hot as he could take. He let the crystal clear droplets roll down his skin and let his mind wander.

At first he didn't really believe Alastair, there was just no way God would want him out of Hell if he started the apocalypse. Of course, that's before he found out about the real reason behind it.

Waking up in hospitals sucked, the smell alone was enough to make Dean want to kill something. The nasal canal was another thing that really had him wanting to just take out his Bowie knife and go at it. The only good thing about the hospital was the medication they gave out. It's gotta be good stuff when you can't feel any of the pain a lone demon's fist can make, Dean had thought.

"Are you alright," a familiar voice said making him jump. He glanced over to see Cass, any trace of a fight with Alastair gone, sitting in the chair by Dean's bed.

"No thanks to you," Dean had replied trying to sound harsh, but only managing slightly less upset.

"You need to be more careful."

Thank you Captain Obvious, Dean's thoughts had snapped as his mouth, in turn, snapped, "You need to learn how to manage a damn devil's trap."

"That's not what I mean. Uriel is dead."

Junkless died, well that is a relief. He was getting on my nerves anyway, Dean wanted to say, but ended up saying, "Was it the demons?" Is one more angel dead because I started the apocalypse and brought them down to earth to be killed?

"It was disobedience." Cass had replied slowly. "He was working against us." They sat in silence for a few seconds, Dean trying to determine what exactly that meant, when Alastair's words came back to him. "'And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break.'"

"Is it true?" Dean had to know there was no letting it go until he found out. "Did I break the first seal? Did I start all this?"

"Yes," Castiel responded, there was no sugar coating with this guy. "When we discovered Lilith's plan for you, we laid siege to Hell and fought our way to get to you before you…"

"Jump started the apocalypse," Dean finished in a small voice. He had started it, he was the reason everyone could die. Some hero I am, he thought bitterly.

"And we were too late," Castiel said emotionlessly. Would it kill him to show some fricking emotion, I am the reason the world could end. Be pissed, man. Punch me, do something.

"Why didn't you just leave me there, then," Dean asked trying to keep every emotion but anger out of his voice.

"It's not blame that falls on you, Dean… it's fate." What the hell does that mean? "'The righteous man who begins it… is the only one who can finish it.' You have to stop it."

"Lucifer," Dean whispered not even trying to mask his fear anymore. "The apocalypse? What does that mean?" he knew that look, Cass was going to try and bail. That just made Dean angry. "Hey, don't go disappearing on me you son of a bitch, what does that mean?"

"I don't know," Cass said calmly.

"Bull," Dean tried to yell, but his voice only managed to go just above a whisper.

"I don't. Dean, they don't tell me much. I know our fate rests with you."

"Well then, you guys are screwed." Royally fucked, Dean tacked on. "I can't do it, Cass. It's too big." He was really trying to hold in his tears, but it was only a manner of time before they escaped. "Alastair was right, I'm not all here. I'm not stro…strong enough." I'm scared, he wanted to say.

Trying to joke, but knowing it was futile, he said, "Well, I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be." Tears slowly trekked down his face as he finished with a, "Find someone else, it's not me." And the next day he woke up as Dean Smith, working at Sandover, and having no recollection of ever being a hunter.

Dean came back to reality when he started shivering. He didn't realize the water had gone cold. He turned the knob to off and stepped out of the shower. He dried off quickly, the shivering subsiding ever so slightly, and started to get dressed.

He looked in the mirror once he was dressed. He saw no black eyes, which he should have. Only complete evil could jumpstart the apocalypse. To keep from looking at his reflection a second longer, he nabbed his toothbrush out of his tote bag-or a toothbrush, he could never quite remember which toothbrush was his and which was Sam's-and the toothpaste.

He brushed his teeth without looking at himself, slightly nervous that he'd see that his normal hazel-green eyes had been taken over by black. He spit the toothpaste in the sink, filled the glass, sitting by the complementary soap, with water, and rinsed his mouth out. He cleaned the remaining toothpaste off his brush, stored both toothbrush and paste into the tote bag, collected his dirty clothes, and headed out of the bathroom.

Sam was sleeping, the television playing I Love Lucy. Dean picked up the remote and flipped off the show. He threw the remote back on the nightstand, picked up his watch, and put it on. He headed over to his bag-Sam having moved it from the floor to the table sometime in the middle of the night/early morning-shoved his dirty clothes amongst the other dirty and clean garments-mostly dirty which made Dean make a mental note to stop at the next laundry mat they passed-and pulled out some socks.

He settled on his bed, pulling his boots out from under it, and began the process of getting his sock and boot onto his already sore ankle. That took all of thirty seconds, the second boot less, and he stood up.

It was a quarter to five, he was hungry, and he remembered passing a twenty-four hour diner on the way into town. Figuring he'd pick up breakfast now, both of them could eat when Sam finally decided to wake up, and be on the road before any cops found out about the body they dug up, he decided to get food. With a plan in mind, he scribbled a note to Sam on the stationary sitting on the desk.


Went to get food, be back in no less than twenty minutes. Don't do anything I wouldn't do because I don't feel like adding a cleaning charge to Abe Packer's credit card. Stupid name by the way.


Note left where Sam could find it, keys in his leather jacket pocket, Dean left the room, closing the door with a silent click. It was cold, white fog escaping his lips every time he exhaled. He had decided a long time ago that cold weather was just unavoidable in his line of work and complaining about it was completely inane, but he still hated it just the same.

His car was parked away from the room, the motel parking lot already full of rental cars. There was a dental convention going on in the town. The dentists were supposed to be staying in the town inn-a place Dean would never be able to afford no matter how much he won hustling pool or playing poker-but that was completely booked. When the stragglers showed up they were forced to stay at the same motel as the Winchesters. So, six dentists, three of which had their entire families with them, had already parked their cars close to the motel and Dean was forced to walk, in the cold, to his car.

Twice he almost fell on ice but managed to catch himself. The perks of being in a state where it still snowed in March. God, Illinois sucks, he thought carefully trekking across another patch of ice. Halfway across the winter slip-and-slide, the hair on his neck stood on end. Someone was watching him.

He froze, sweeping his eyes across the parking lot. There were only a few places anyone could hide: either behind a set of trees planted on the edge of the highway or in one of the cars scattered across the parking lot. One look at the six or seven vehicles told Dean that they were out. So, he started toward the trees.

And one look at the trees told him all he needed to know. He was getting paranoid in his old age and it was probably a squirrel that was watching him. He turned to walk back to the Impala but froze when a pair of headlights trained on him. How could I miss a car following me, he thought squinting to see past the lights to get a glimpse at the driver.

The car started moving, heading towards him. Dean dove out of the way seconds before the hood could slam into him. He landed on the ground, rolling to his feet. He turned in time to see the car door fly open and a huge, brunette guy get out.

"Hey, if I had sex with your wife or girlfriend, I apologize," Dean said backing up several steps. The guy just kept coming, never saying a word. The hunter readied himself for the inevitable fight, this guy obviously a man of action instead of words.

The man swung his fist at Dean's head, but the hunter ducked feeling the air blow his hair. He threw his whole body into a tackle, hoping to catch the guy off guard, but ended up slamming into the ground. Dean bit his tongue, the tangy taste of blood the only flavor in the back of his throat.

"Okay, you're faster than I thought," Dean commented pushing himself to his feet. A foot flew at his face, nearly colliding with his nose. Dean leaned back, the breeze from the appendage nearly knocking him off his feet.

"Holy crap, dude," he said jumping back as a second kick was aimed at his face. "Stop trying to kick me." A third kick actually hit its mark, right to his stomach. He doubled over, all the breath leaving his lungs with an audible whoosh.

The guy wasn't done. Using Dean's momentary weakness, he grabbed the hunter by the head and slammed his knee into his face. Dean saw stars as he fell to the ground. Blood was obviously pouring out of his nose, but he ignored it as he struggled to his feet.

"Okay, you obviously are really pissed about something. I tried to apologize…" he cut off when the guy threw his entire weight into a tackle. It was like being hit by a dump truck, the ground hard against his back.

Dean barely had time to take in a wheezing breath when the guy's shovel like fists slammed into his face. Once, twice, three times: it was like being beaten up by Alastair all over again. Finally the big guy got to his feet, shuffling away from Dean. The hunter rolled over onto his stomach, tried to crawl away, but the guy was back in record time.

He grabbed the hunter by the leg, knocking Dean back into the ground. Air was just a distant memory as it was knocked out of him again. Struggling to breathe, Dean was vaguely aware of someone pulling his arms behind his back.

"I…I so don't roll that way," he wheezed out, but only received a harder tug on his arms. A rope was tied tightly around his wrists, biting into his flesh with each knot. Finally, he was left tied on the road as the big guy disappeared a second time. Dean tried to get up by using his knees but the big guy appeared again. His foot connected with the side of Dean's head sending the hunter into a sea of darkness.