Summary: Sam and Dean are taken by men that claim the boys have something that belongs to them…a dangerous and powerful weapon. Now they must race against the clock to find the weapon and unravel its mysteries before time runs out for one…or both…of them.

Thanks to firstcatfish for beta reading for me. Go check out her new story 'A Shot In Time.'

Disclaimer: Both Winchester boys were harmed during the making of this story…and let's face it, we all like it better that way… Oh, I don't own them, either.

Set mid-season two.

Chapter 1

The door slammed closed with an air of finality, and he was suddenly left alone.

Dean leaned back and ran a trembling hand down his face, amazed that Sam had listened to him, had given him what he asked for. He knew his brother was hurt by it, maybe even a little angry, but he'd still done it, and for that Dean was grateful. His pain was his own, and Sam shouldn't have to carry it, especially when there was nothing he could do to help. Dean had to face this alone…for his own sake as much as his brother's.

His eyes strayed to the clock, and he bit his lip. Despite his best efforts he couldn't hold the fear at bay. It coiled around him, drying out his mouth, tightening his muscles, and forming hard knots in his stomach. He hated it…hated that it had managed to get such a hold on him. There was no putting on a strong game face, no shrugging away his fear as though it didn't matter. He had been stripped of all his defenses, left raw and exposed.

One way or another, it would all be over soon.

With iron determination he forced his thoughts away from what was coming, filling his mind instead with images and memories of the past. Times with Sammy on the road…the places they had seen and the people they had met. There were bad memories there, but there were also plenty of good ones, and he focused on those, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.

The pain took him without warning, crashing down on him like a predator striking out at its prey. Thought and memory fled to be replaced with white hot agony, and he arched backward, his throat closing around a scream

'It will not beat me!'

Somewhere far back in the recesses of his mind he chanted that single mantra, the only flimsy shield he had against the attack on his body. But soon even that was lost to him, swallowed by the waves of agony washing through him, sweeping him away, leaving nothing in its wake.

He didn't even hear himself screaming.

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Three Days Earlier

Just outside of Fort Collins, CO

The spirit's piercing scream echoed throughout the dilapidated remains of the old barn, cold and chilling in its intense rage. Sam felt a shiver slide down his spine as he raced toward the back of the barn, his eyes frantically searching through piles of old tools and other rusty equipment.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, shoving aside some rotted out crates as the scream sounded again. "Where is it?"

He ducked down to peer under a bench, and an old milk pail sailed over his head to strike the back of the barn with a clang. Sam winced as it dropped to the floor, dented almost beyond recognition. At least it hadn't been a rusty pair of sheering scissors like the last time. Dean had come dangerously close to losing an ear.

The blast of a shotgun echoed through the barn, followed almost immediately by his brother's shout.

"Hurry it up, Sam! This isn't the time for window shopping!"

Sam rolled his eyes, not bothering to respond as he hurriedly returned to his search. At last he spotted what he was looking for; an old trunk half buried beneath a pile of boxes. He lunged forward, yanking it free in a rain of dust and other debris, falling to his knees before it. His shotgun dropped to the ground at his side, the weapon useless anyway, shells spent and with no time to reload. He groaned slightly at the sight of the thick and formidable looking padlock securing the trunk closed.

A small wooden box nearby caught his eye and he reached out and grabbed an old hammer from the pile of rusty and ancient looking tools within. Grasping it firmly, he swung down at the lock with all his might. Nothing happened. Twice more he brought the hammer slamming down, but on the fourth swing the handle broke with a snap, sending the head flying off into the darkness.

Sam swore, the temperature in the barn suddenly plummeting once more, marking the return of the spirit. He didn't bother trying to look for it, trusting his brother to watch his back as he searched for something else he might use to break the lock. A moment later he felt a hand grip his shoulder and his brother's curt voice sounded directly behind him.

"Move, Sammy."

Obediently shifting to one side, Sam brought his hands up to cover his ears as Dean's hand appeared in front of him, tightly gripping his favorite pearl handled 911. His brother fired once and the lock fell away with a soft thud onto the dirt floor.

"You sure it's here?" Dean asked, standing back and allowing Sam to resume his position in front of the trunk.

"It's where old man Adels said he put it in his journal," Sam replied, hefting open the heavy lid and groaning aloud at the overflow of junk spilling from the large confines of the trunk.

"Yeah well, just hurry," Dean growled, turning to take up a protective stance at Sam's back as he began hauling the junk from the trunk. "If it's really in there, creepy Miss Creepy isn't going to be too happy about us rummaging around."

As if to punctuate his brother's words, the spirit's scream sounded yet again, this time from very close. Sam heard his brother pump the stock of the shotgun and tensed, waiting for the sound of the shot, but it never came. Instead, he heard Dean let out a sharp grunt, followed almost immediately by a clatter. From the corner of his eye he saw the shotgun tumbling away toward the far end of the barn.

Twisting around, Sam was just in time to see his brother being propelled backward several feet, coming to a sudden stop when his back slammed against one of the barn's support beams. The spirit of Marilyn Adels flickered into view in front of him, one hand pressed against his chest.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, starting to push himself to his feet.

His brother's voice stopped him short. "Just finish it, Sammy!" Dean called, the last part coming out slightly strangled as Marilyn reached out with her other hand and closed an ethereal fist around his throat, lifting him a full foot off the ground and holding him pinned against the support beam.

For a split second Sam froze, his body clenched with indecision. Then he tore his gaze away from the sight of the angry spirit choking his brother and dove back toward the trunk. In a frenzy of panicked motion, he tore the contents from the trunk, scattering old papers, photos and other memorabilia into a haphazard pile around him.

At last he found what he was looking for, a small silver box nestled at the very bottom of the trunk. He yanked the box out, noting dispassionately that it was also locked. Without hesitation he turned and smashed the box down against the ground, breathing a small sigh of relief as it immediately sprang open. A golden lock of hair, tied together with an old piece of string fell from the box to land on the dirt floor.

Resisting the urge to turn around and check on his brother, Sam plunged his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out his lighter. Thumbing it to life in a single flick, he pressed the flame against the lock of hair, holding his breath until it ignited in a flare of flame and smoke.

Sam didn't bother watching it burn. He leapt to his feet, pivoting in time to see Marilyn throw back her head and scream her rage at the rafters one last time before dissipating in a swirling flash of smoke and light. Released from the spirit's hold, Dean slid down the beam to land hard on his backside at its base, his feet splayed out in front of him.

"Dean," Sam called, racing to his brother and bending over him. "You okay?"

Dean blinked blearily up at him, his hand lifting to massage gingerly at his throat. "Yeah," he finally croaked, letting his head fall back against the beam behind him. "That was some crazy strong spirit, Sam."

Sam nodded. "Crazy pissed, too."

"Ya think?" Dean grumbled. "Is it just me, or does it seem to you that the female spirits are just a little more psycho than the male ones?"

Sam shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "They certainly like to throw you around. Maybe it's all that charm and rugged good looks you keep talking about."

"Ah, bite me." Dean growled, before letting his head drop forward with a low moan.

Sam instantly grew serious. "What's wrong?" he asked worriedly, leaning in closer and inspecting his brother's form for any obvious signs of injury.

Dean let out a loud sigh, lifting his head slightly and giving Sam a look of pure misery. "Man, I think I'm sitting in a puddle of water."

Sam blinked, then glanced down, confirming his brother's assessment. He looked up to see a gaping hole in the roof of the barn directly above the support beam, undoubtedly the source of the offending water.

"That sucks," he said evenly, not allowing even a hint of a smile to cross his face. He offered Dean his hand, and after a moment his brother grabbed it, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet with a groan. Sam hovered at his shoulder for a moment, wanting to make sure he was truly alright.

Noticing his perusal, Dean gave him a light shove on his shoulder. "Dude, I'm fine," he grunted, brushing past Sam and heading toward his fallen shotgun. "Let's ditch this place and get back to the hotel. I could use a hot shower and a change of clothes about now."

Sam watched him walk away, then quickly moved to grab up his own gun and follow his brother out of the barn, an open grin on his face now that Dean's back was to him. Not only was his brother's backside completely soaked, but a large glob of mud was smeared down the exact center of the seat of his pants. Sam seriously considered grabbing his cell phone out of his pocket and taking a picture for use as blackmail later, but decided against it.

He did value his life, after all.

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Sunshine Hotel—Fort Collins, CO

1 hour later

Sam glanced over the top of his laptop toward the bathroom door through which his brother had disappeared over thirty minutes prior, his hands tapping impatiently on the desk in front of him. He glanced down at his watch, then back up at the door.

"Hurry up, Dean," he called, "or we're going to be late."

The words were barely out of his mouth when the door swung open and Dean stepped out, a towel wrapped snugly around his waist and droplets of water still clinging to the tips of his hair. A billow of steam drifted out of the door behind him.

"What's the rush, Sammy?" he asked, moving across the room toward his duffel bag. "It's not like the bars will be closing anytime soon."

"We're not going to a bar," Sam answered simply, turning his gaze back to the laptop in front of him and mentally preparing himself for the battle to come.

From the corner of his eye he saw Dean pause at the foot of the bed, one hand hovering over his duffel. "We're not?" he asked, confusion evident. "We always hit the bars at the end of a hunt, Sammy. It's tradition."

"Well, not tonight," Sam answered firmly, working hard to portray an air of unconcerned nonchalance as he randomly stabbed at a few keys on his keyboard. "I have something else planned."

"Okaaay," Dean answered slowly, drawing the single word out. He still hadn't moved from his position at the foot of the bed, towel around his waist and his hand still hovering over his duffel bag. "Care to share there, little brother?"

Sam sighed, suddenly wishing he had waited until Dean was dressed before broaching this topic.

Snapping his laptop shut, he opted not to answer and instead grabbed the small brochure lying next to his computer and tossed it at his brother. Dean caught the fluttering paper against his chest, glancing down at it. Sam bit his bottom lip, watching as his brother's expression changed from curiosity to outright disbelief.

"Uh uh, no way!" Dean growled, looking up from the brochure to level Sam with a glare. "You've got to be kidding me."

It was precisely the reaction Sam had been expecting. He squared his shoulders, not quite meeting Dean's eyes as he reached down and scooped up his laptop, heading toward his bed.

"Nope, not kidding," he replied, keeping his voice as firm as he could as he began working his laptop into its case. "Remember when you dragged me to that awful movie last weekend when I really didn't want to go? You told me you owed me. Well, this is me collecting."

Dean shook his head incredulously. "I meant I owed you the pick of the next movie!"

Sam shrugged. "I checked the listings…there's nothing good on. This is my pick instead."

Dean stared at Sam as though he had sprouted a pair of horns and was wielding a red pitch fork. "But it's a play, Sam. A play. That crap is for chicks and rich snobs."

"No it's not," Sam argued, tossing his laptop case on top of the bed, and sinking down on the edge of the mattress. "I used to go all the time with my friends at Stanford."

Dean snorted. "Way to prove my point, dude."

Sam stifled a sigh. "Look, I'm going to the play, Dean. You don't have to go with me if you don't want to. You can go to the bar, I'll go to the play, and we'll just meet up back here later."

Even as he said it, Sam knew his brother would never go for it. In the last several weeks, Dean had barely let him out of his sight for a few minutes at a time, and then only when absolutely necessary. Sam knew he was to blame for that…he and the demon Meg. Waking up twice within the space of a few months to find Sam missing had left Dean a little spooked.

Sam found the extra attention wearisome, but he didn't fight it. Maybe if his brother didn't manage to shake it off in the next few weeks… Honestly, Sam didn't really mind the extra scrutiny right now. It meant Dean was paying attention, and that was precisely what Sam needed. His brother knew him better than anyone in the world. If Sam started changing…started going dark, Dean would be the first to notice.

With an effort, Sam diverted the direction of his thoughts. He didn't want to think about what the future might hold for him. It was the whole reason he had chosen the play for tonight over a bar in the first place. While Dean might find distraction in drinking and flirting, Sam rarely was able to, especially lately. He usually ended up sitting at a table nursing a beer, dividing his attention between watching Dean's back and brooding over his possible future. He really needed a night to just sit back, relax, and not think.

"Come on Sam…" Dean began, sounding for all the world like a whiney six year old. "You would honestly prefer watching a bunch of grown people dressing up and playing make-believe than sharing a beer and maybe a game or two of pool?"

Sam shrugged. "For tonight? Yeah, I would."

He could clearly remember the few plays he had gone to with Jessica and his friends. He had really enjoyed them, finding it a nice distraction from the stress of school, a few hours escape into another world. That was exactly what Sam was looking for tonight…a few hours escape.

Dean had his lip between his teeth, looking torn, and Sam wondered if the idea of a play was just torture enough in his brother's mind to break him from his watch-dog mode. If so, that hadn't been Sam's intention.

Finally, Dean let out a low growl of defeat, the look he cast Sam promising certain retribution. "Fine, I'll go," he huffed, turning back to his duffel and beginning to rummage through it in search of clean clothes. "But don't expect me to hold your hand and cry with you when Macbeth kills Hamlet."

Sam let out a bark of laughter at that, grinning openly, honestly glad that Dean had decided to join him. "It's not that kind of play, Dean," he commented, rising from the bed and heading toward the bathroom. "Actually, it's a comedy, and the critics have given it really high marks."

"Oh, well if the critics like it, that changes everything," Dean grumbled sarcastically, yanking clothes from his bag with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Make sure you wear a nice shirt and slacks," Sam ordered, quickly slipping into the bathroom and shutting the door. He could have sworn he heard the wood crackling beneath the intense heat of his brother's glare from the other side.

Well, that went well.

Turning on the faucet, he cupped his hand under the spray, then leaned over and splashed the cool water over his face. Reaching for the nearby hand towel, he dried his face and then regarded his reflection in the mirror. Tired eyes looked back at him from beneath a flop of brown hair, and there was no mistaking the dark smudges under his eyes that had become a permanent fixture of late.

He wasn't sleeping well at night, haunted by nameless nightmares that had him waking up sweating and afraid. His father's final words weighed on him constantly, and try as he might he couldn't seem to shake the sense of foreboding they had ignited in him.

His brother was faring little better. As much as Dean liked to dismissively wave away any talk of Sam going dark, he knew his brother was worried. Dean had promised to save him, and Sam knew his brother would do anything in his power to keep that promise. That didn't keep either of them from worrying about the future, though.

I just need one night, Sam thought to himself, still gazing at his reflection in the mirror. One night to relax and forget.

And maybe, if he was lucky, the night would end up being good for his brother, too.

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The play was almost a disaster.

The problems started early when they arrived at the theatre and Dean discovered that there was no concessions stand selling popcorn, drinks, and candy. Apparently this translated into an all-out disaster in his brother's mind, and Dean had no problem making his displeasure known, completely oblivious of the scandalized glances sent their way.

Sam hurriedly steered his brother from the lobby and into the dim theatre, calming Dean slightly by showing him the hidden stash of treats he had slipped into his jacket pocket for just such an emergency. The peace didn't last long, however. In the minutes before the show started, Dean perused the program they had been handed at the door, snickering at the various strange names of the actors and making obnoxious comments in a loud whisper.

Sam cast apologetic looks at those seated near, then turned a fierce glare on his brother. "Dude, how old are you?" he hissed, leaning in close.

Dean didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed. He merely arched one eyebrow and gave a half shrug of his shoulders. Sam was beginning to suspect that his brother was acting up on purpose…some perverse revenge for making him come here. He resolved to ignore Dean for the remainder of the evening, no matter how annoying he acted.

He breathed a silent sigh of relief when the lights finally went out in the theatre, signaling the start of the show. Moments later he felt his brother's hand rooting around in his jacket pocket for the hidden stash of food. He clenched his jaw, allowing Dean to withdraw a handful of treats, then immediately cringed at the loud crinkling of paper as Dean noisily un-wrapped one of them. He cast a glance back toward the doors, eyeing the ushers stationed there and wondering if they were about to be kicked out of the theatre.

He was beginning to think this hadn't been such a great idea after all. Bringing Dean to a polite social function was much like bringing an elephant into a china store…they just didn't fit, and before the evening was out, something was going to get broken.

Gripping the armrest of his chair, Sam sat tense and expectant, waiting for the next disruption. He was surprised when it never came. Instead, a few minutes into the play, Dean settled back in his chair and actually began to watch the show. Sam remained wary, but after a while it became apparent that his brother was truly engrossed in the action taking place on the stage in front of him, even the pile of treats on his lap temporarily forgotten.

Eventually, Sam dared to allow himself to relax as well, his own attention shifting from his brother to the stage before him. It didn't take long before he was also caught up in the story. It was a good play, the acting smooth and natural, the humor sometimes subtle and sometimes outrageous. At one point in time, Sam heard Dean laugh out loud beside him, and he was surprised at the burst of warmth the sound sent flooding through him. It had been too long since he had heard his brother laugh.

From that moment on, Sam's attention was divided as he spent half his time watching the play and the other half stealing covert glances at his brother from the corner of his eye. It was good to see Dean smiling, and Sam felt some of the tension that had been coiling around his chest for the last several weeks finally ease. It was amazing how a single smile from his brother could fill him with a sense of hope in a way that nothing else ever could.

The play was a long one, lasting over two hours with a brief fifteen minutes intermission in the middle, but by the time it was over, Sam couldn't help but wish it had lasted longer. He felt more relaxed than he had in months.

The trip back to the hotel was spent in silence, Dean focused on the road in front of him and Sam half dozing in the seat beside him. It was vastly different from the other times Sam had enjoyed a play with his friends from Stanford. Then, the trip home was always a noisy one, with everyone discussing their opinions on the performance and critiquing the different actors. He didn't mind the silence this time, though. Dean would never admit it, but Sam knew his brother had enjoyed the evening, and that was enough for him.

He allowed his eyes to drift closed, listening to the familiar growl of the Impala and his brother's soft breathing next to him. He felt his thoughts drifting, memories of Stanford and the life he'd once had there filling his mind, but this time strangely absent of the ache that usually accompanied them. He could feel his body growing heavy and didn't bother fighting the sleep that was flirting with the edges of his consciousness. If he was lucky, tonight would be one of those rare nights without dreams.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew he was jerked awake by something slamming forcefully against his chest. His eyes flew open in confused surprise, but he barely had a chance to draw a breath before he felt the Impala shudder and jerk beneath him. He heard his brother swear loudly from the seat next to him, and then the squeal of tires as Dean hit the brakes. The sudden deceleration of the car would have sent Sam straight into the dash if it weren't for the weight across his chest, effectively pinning him back to the seat. A single glance out the windshield revealed the looming tail-lights of a large black van angled across the road right in front of them.

Dean swore again, jerking the wheel of the Impala to the left in an attempt to avoid the van, but Sam could see that it was going to be too late. He barely had a chance to brace himself before the front right corner of the Impala smashed into the left rear fender of the van with a sickening crunch.

Everything came to a sudden, violent halt.

Sam felt his heart beating wildly in his chest, and he quickly glanced over at Dean to make sure his brother was alright. Dean's jaw was set in a tight line, his left hand gripping the top of the steering wheel in a white-knuckled fist, his right arm splayed out and currently holding Sam pinned back against his seat.

"You alright, Sammy?" his brother growled, his eyes still fixed out the front windshield at the tail-end of the van in front of them.

"Yeah," Sam breathed out, still feeling slightly shaky. "Yeah, I think so."

Dean tore his gaze away from the windshield to look at him then, his sharp gaze doing a quick appraisal as if to assure himself that Sam was telling the truth. "Freaking idiot pulled out right in front of me," he growled, his voice low and furious. "If he hurt my baby…"

And suddenly the weight against Sam's chest was gone as Dean released him to reach for the door handle. Sam recognized the look on his brother's face, and hurried to follow him out of the car. He glanced quickly up and down the street, recognizing it as the road that led to their hotel on the outskirts of town. The street was completely empty except for them and the van.

"Hey, Dean," he called after his brother, who was already striding toward the van. Dean paused, turning back to look at him, and Sam quickly cautioned, "Take it easy, man."

Dean scowled, opening his mouth to reply, but at that instant the sliding doors on the side of the van behind him opened, and a couple of rough looking men jumped out. Without pause the men charged toward Dean, the expressions on their faces making it clear they weren't just planning on exchanging insurance information.

Sam opened his mouth to shout a warning, but there was no need. Dean was already turning, his hunter's instinct having alerted him to the approaching danger. One of the men leapt for him, fists raised, and Dean pivoted smoothly, blocking the clumsily thrown punch and bringing his knee up into his opponent's gut. The man let out a sharp grunt, bending over, and Dean dropped him with a well-aimed chop to the back of his neck. But then the second man was on him, barreling into Dean with enough force to send them both careening back into the side of the Impala.

Sam didn't wait to watch the rest of the fight. Two more men had climbed from the back of the van and were heading for his brother, and one of them was holding a bat. Without hesitation, Sam launched himself across the space where the Impala's bumper met that of the van's, sliding across the hood of the car before coming to his feet on the other side. The man with the bat turned to meet him, raising the wooden club in preparation to strike.

Sam never gave him the chance.

Striking out with an open fist, he used his forward momentum to slam the heel of his hand with violent force straight into the man's sternum. The thug stumbled backward, dropping the bat as his hands automatically came in to clutch at his chest. Sam didn't give him a chance to recover, but followed his first strike with a strong right hook, catching the man in the corner of his jaw. Pain exploded through his fingers and hand, but he ignored it, watching in satisfaction as his opponent fell backward to the street in an undignified sprawl.

Thick arms suddenly snaked around from behind him, trapping his arms against his sides. Sam felt hot breath against the back of his neck, and instantly snapped his head back, feeling another burst of pain as his skull connected with that of his second attacker. The arms around him loosened, and Sam instantly drove his elbows backward, drawing a sharp grunt from the man holding him. He wrenched free, pivoting smoothly and sweeping out with one leg, catching the man right below the knee. The guy stumbled backward, landing hard on his backside in the middle of the street. Sam was about to move in to make sure the man stayed down, when his brother's voice brought him up short.

"Sam."

There was something in Dean's tone that put Sam instantly on alert. He quickly turned toward his brother, then froze, his heart picking up speed inside his chest.

Dean stood several paces away, his second opponent a motionless heap on the ground at his feet. His brother was holding his hands carefully away from his sides, and the reason was instantly clear. Another man had appeared from the darkness, this one much older than the thugs who had jumped them, with features that looked as though they had been chiseled from wood and eyes as cold as any winter. It wasn't his appearance, however, that stopped Sam dead in his tracks; it was the 9mm handgun the man currently had pointed at his brother's head.

"Don't," Sam cried out hoarsely, immediately copying his brother's position, spreading his hands out to either side of him in a sign of surrender. He knew that he was too far away to stop the man if he decided to pull the trigger. He glanced around desperately for some source of help, but the street was still deserted, the shops on either side dark and closed up for the night.

"Very impressive, boys" the older man stated conversationally, "but completely pointless."

Sam met his brother's gaze, silent communication passing between them. Until they knew who they were dealing with, they had to play this safe. On the other hand, the two men Dean had dropped were slowly coming round, and from behind him Sam could hear his own two opponents getting to their feet. The odds against them were shifting by the second.

"I knew you boys wouldn't go down easy," the man continued, the gun in his hand still pointing unwaveringly at Dean's head. "Your reputation precedes you. It's a good thing I was able to outsource a little extra help for your capture." His eyes flickered down to the two groaning men at Dean's feet, and his face twisted in a grimace of disgust. "Not that they did a whole lot of good," he added wryly.

Sam felt his stomach give a nauseating twist at the realization that whoever this man was, he knew them, which meant the attack wasn't just the result of some misunderstanding, but something planned.

"Who are you?" he demanded, still painfully aware of the gun pointed at his brother's head. "What do you want?"

The man cocked his head to one side, as though considering whether or not to answer. He finally gave a little shrug. "We'll talk later," he said dismissively. "But for now, I think it's time we move to somewhere a little more private. And since I doubt you boys will be coming along quietly…"

Sam didn't even have a chance to shout a warning before the man took a single step forward and slammed the butt of his gun forcefully into the side of Dean's head. The blow was hard enough to open a small gash over Dean's left eye, and his legs buckled, his eyes rolling up in his head as he collapsed, boneless, to the ground.

"No!" Sam shouted, lurching forward. He didn't get far before something struck him in the back of the head, causing his vision to explode into thousands of sparkling white lights. He had the vague impression of falling before the darkness swept in and claimed him.

He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

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The return journey to consciousness was not a pleasant one for Dean. The first sensation he became aware of was a piercing pain throughout his head, as though someone were trying to shove a poker from one side of his skull to the other. The more he became aware, the sharper the pain became, until he desired nothing more than to sink back into the darkness and escape the agony for a while longer.

Unfortunately, his body had other ideas.

As the darkness receded, several sensations began to barter for his attention. First, he became aware of the fact that he was thirsty, his mouth uncomfortably dry and his throat scratchy. Second, the nausea made itself known, a slow rolling of his stomach that made him feel as though he were about to be sick. Lastly, and perhaps most absurdly, an itch on the left side of his face was growing increasingly annoying, clamoring for his immediate attention.

Dean tried to lift a hand to scratch at the persistant itch, but though his brain clearly sent the command to his arm to move, nothing happened. He blinked open bleary eyes, somewhat startled to find he was staring down into his own lap. A slight move of his head to one side, and he suddenly knew why his hand refused to obey his brain. Both his wrist were tied securely to the arms of his chair, the ropes heavy and tight. A shift of his shoulders told him that more ropes were looped around his chest, binding him securely to the chair.

Well, crap, that can't be good.

As soon as he made this first realization, another came quick on its heels. He recognized the cottony feel to his mouth, the sick churn in his stomach, and the fuzzy quality to his thoughts.

They were all indicators that he had been drugged, and if he was reading his body correctly, that was on top of a knock to the head. Not a good sign at all.

He tried to marshal his thoughts…to pull the sticky fragments of memory from the quagmire of his mind, but before he could make much headway, he was interrupted by a low groan from somewhere close by. He slowly inched his head up, fighting off the pain in his skull and the rolling sickness in his stomach. He was pretty sure he hadn't eaten anything recently, because if he had, he would be wearing it down the front of his shirt by now.

It took a while for his eyes to focus…now that really wasn't good…but eventually his vision cleared and he was able to make out his brother's slumped form in another chair a few feet away. Sam was bound as he was, his head hanging limply down his chest, a curtain of dark hair hiding his features. Even as Dean watched, Sam's head rocked slightly from side to side and another low moan sounded from deep in his throat.

Dean sat up straighter, taking a deep breath and pushing his own discomfort aside as he focused on his brother. "Sam?" He called softly, grimacing as his voice came out sounding rough and gravelly. He cleared his throat and tried again with marginally better results. "Hey Sammy, can you hear me?"

His brother let out another low moan, his head continuing to shake slightly as he struggled toward consciousness. Dean watched him worriedly, trying to coax him on as best he could with his words.

"That's it, Sam. Come on and open your eyes. You can do it. Wake up and look at me, man."

Very slowly Sam's head came up, his bleary eyes searching out and finally focusing on Dean. "D'n" he muttered, swallowing hard and licking his dry lips. "You 'kay?"

Dean smiled at his brother, feeling something caked on the left side of his face pull and crack at the movement. He couldn't see it, but guessed that it was most likely dried blood, which would explain the pain…and the itch. "I was just about to ask you the same thing, little brother. Feeling a bit hazy?"

Sam smacked his lips, rolling his tongue and grimacing in disgust. "Mouth feels bad," he muttered.

Dean nodded, then immediately wished he hadn't as his head and stomach objected violently to the movement. "Yeah, I think we've been drugged," he stated, giving the ropes binding him an experimental tug.

Sam grunted, then began peering blearily around. "Where are we?" he asked, still sounding slightly dazed.

Dean followed his brother's gaze around the large room, noting the dusty crates and boxes lining the walls, a rusty piece of unidentifiable machinery in one corner, and the single heavy metal door directly in front of them. "Not sure," he replied, "but if I had to guess I would say we're in some sort of abandoned warehouse or old storage shed, though I'm drawing a blank on how exactly we got here."

Sam blinked at him, and Dean could practically see his brother's oversized brain struggling to wake up…to remember exactly how they had gotten into this mess. Dean left him to it, his own head hurting too much to put much effort into any kind of thought.

"I think we were in an accident?" Sam stated a moment later, his brow wrinkled in thought.

This certainly woke Dean up. "Accident?" he repeated, even as his memory supplied him with a sudden montage of images; a black van pulling out in front of him, trying to swerve, the sickening crunch of metal on metal… "My car," he groaned, closing his eyes and dropping his head.

"I think we have bigger problems right now, Dean," Sam pointed out, not unkindly. "I remember some thugs jumping us, and then this older guy hit you with his gun."

"Yeah," Dean winced. His memory was slowly starting to return to him, and while he didn't remember the hit that had knocked him out, his head certainly did. "Any idea who they were?"

Sam frowned, his brow knitted in thought. "No, but they seemed to know who we are."

"Not exactly reassuring," Dean sighed. "Did they say anything about what they wanted? You know…after they knocked me senseless."

Sam slowly shook his head, wincing in obvious discomfort. "Afraid not. They knocked me out right after you."

"Huh," Dean grunted. "Well, whatever it is, I'd rather figure it out from the other side of these ropes." He gave another experimental tug against his bonds, disappointed to find that there was no give in the thick cords.

Before he could even feel disappointed, the heavy metal door across from them suddenly swung open with a creaking bang, and two men stepped through the opening and into the room.

Dean immediately recognized the two goons who had been fighting Sam. The first was tall and thin, with long blond hair held back in a simple tie at the nape of his neck. He was in his early thirties, his lips pulled up in what looked to be a permanent sneer. His companion was slightly younger, shorter and more muscular, with thick arms covered in an assortment of tattoos. He too had blond hair, though he wore it cut short. He might have been handsome, if it weren't for the long scar marring the left side of his face, running from just below his eye down to the corner of his mouth. The facial similarities of both men immediately marked them as family…probably brothers. Both sported livid bruises on their faces; Long-Hair on the corner of his jaw and Scar-Face high on his forehead, compliments of Sam, no doubt.

Way to go, little brother

"Well look who's finally awake," Scar-Face drawled, eying the two prisoners with a nasty grin. "Now we can finally get down to business."

Dean felt an instant surge of strong dislike for the man, and his voice was tight as he answered, "Look, Sam, it's Hansel and Gretel, come to say hello." He flashed a quick grin and a wink at Scar-Face, adding, "Looking good there, Gretel."

The taunt was on purpose. Dean had learned long ago that if you could ruffle your enemies' feathers, get them off guard or angry, then you already had an advantage over them; they would talk more, think less, and often act carelessly. The trick was learning how much you could get away with without ending up with a bullet to the brain.

Apparently Scar-Face's threshold for taking insults was pretty low. A look of raw anger swept over his disfigured features, and he stalked forward, a dangerous glint to his eyes. For a moment, Dean thought the man was going to deck him, but instead he merely leaned over, resting his hands on Dean's bound arms and leaning his face in close, causing Dean to draw his head back as far as the chair would allow in an effort to keep some space between them.

"You think your smart there, eh tough guy?" he asked, his hot breath washing over Dean's face.

Dean turned his face away, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "Smarter than you," he shot back, then quickly drove his knee up and out, straight into the man's unprotected groin.

It was a rash move, and Dean knew it, but he couldn't bring himself to care all that much. These goons had hurt Sam, hurt his car, and then trussed them up like two helpless pigs ready for slaughter, and Dean was just plain pissed. So he didn't stop there. As Scar-face stumbled back, doubling over, his hands dropping to cup his crotch, Dean struck out again, this time with his foot, hitting the man right above his left knee. Restricted by his bound position in the chair, the blow wasn't nearly as strong as Dean would have liked, but it was still enough to send the already unbalanced man tumbling backward to the floor.

"Hey!" Seeing his companion go down, Long-Hair lunged forward, dodging around behind Dean's chair and grabbing a handful of his hair, jerking his head back roughly. Dean had to bite his lip to hold back a cry at the fiery spikes of pain that ripped through him at the rough treatment to his already abused skull.

"That was really stupid, asshole," Long-Hair growled from behind, his fingers tightening in Dean's hair. "Really stupid."

"Let him go," Sam shouted, and from the corner of his eye Dean could see his brother struggling wildly against his bonds.

Dean closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing deeply in an effort to get back in control and block out the pain. He had only managed to take a couple of breaths when he felt iron hard fingers gripping his jaw. He opened his eyes to see Scar-face glaring down at him, and this time the man wasn't just angry…he was furious.

"Big mistake, pretty boy," he growled, a knife suddenly appearing in his hand. Dean felt his breath catch in his throat as the knife point came forward, resting right beneath his left eye. "You like my scar, pretty boy?" Scar-Face taunted, pressing the blade tight against Dean's skin. "Your father gave it to me three year ago. Maybe I return the favor, eh?" The blade pressed in.

"Enough!"

The cold voice rang out through the small room, filled with authority. Dean gasped in relief as the blade suddenly lifted, leaving behind a single tear drop of blood that slowly ran down his cheek and off his chin. Long-Hair released him just as Scar-Face took a quick step back, and Dean was able to see past him to the newcomer standing just inside the metal doorway. He was unsurprised to see that it was the older man from earlier…the one to which he owed his current colossal headache. Of course, seeing as the man had just saved him from permanent disfigurement, Dean felt he could probably forgive him the bump to the head.

He flashed a quick glance toward his brother, finding Sam watching him with wide eyes, his muscles straining against the ropes binding him to the chair. Taking in a shaky breath, Dean tried to give him a reassuring smile.

"I believe my instructions were to notify me as soon as they woke up." The newcomer's voice was deceptively calm, but there was an underlining tone of anger that was impossible to miss.

"Sorry, sir," Long-Hair muttered from behind Dean, his voice contrite. "He attacked Joseph so we were just teaching him a little lesson."

"Yeah," Scar-face agreed, still glaring down at Dean with pure hatred, his knife gripped tightly in one fist. "The little punk kicked me in the jewels!"

The older man sighed, moving forward further into the room. "I warned you boys before not to underestimate them," he replied calmly, "and now twice you have almost let them get the best of you. If I hadn't hired those two punks from the bar, we probably wouldn't have managed to capture them at all."

"We had it covered," Scar-Face grumbled, but the older man simply raised his hand sharply, cutting off any further argument.

His cold gaze moved to fix on the two prisoners. "Sam and Dean Winchester," he murmured softly, regarding them critically through narrowed eyes. "I hope my boys weren't too rough with you?"

Dean merely snorted, not bothering to reply as he glared up at the man, his arms flexing against the tight ropes binding him to the chair.

"Who are you?" Sam demanded from beside him. "What the hell do you want with us?"

The older man's gaze shifted to Sam, and he smiled, though the expression never reached his cold eyes. "Well now," he stated, "I can see you want to cut the small talk and get right down to business. I can deal with that." He turned his gaze to Long-Hair. "Eli, would you mind getting me a chair?" he asked.

Long-Hair moved from behind Dean, crossing the room to a stack of wooden chairs piled against the far wall. Pulling one free, he returned and set it down facing Sam and Dean, taking up a protective stance behind it, Scar-Face moving to join him.

"Thank you," the older man murmured, sitting down in the chair and returning his attention to his two prisoners.

"Who are you?" Sam demanded again, his voice harsh and angry.

The older man regarded him for a moment before answering with a slight shrug. "My name is Jeffram Connley," he stated easily. "These are my boys, Joseph and Eli." He nodded his head casually in the direction of first Scar-Face and then Long-Hair. "We're old…acquaintances…of your father."

"That right?" Dean growled. "So what did the old man do? Piss in your Wheaties?"

Jeffram gave Dean a tolerant smile. "Your father stole something from me," he replied coolly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Something of great value. Something that has been with my family for hundreds of years."

Dean arched one eyebrow. "That's too bad," he replied blandly, his face expressionless. "What does that have to do with Sam and me?"

Jeffram gave a small shrug. "I'll admit, I'd much rather be talking with your father right now, but I will have to settle for you two instead. I have to admit, you were easier to track down than your old man. We've been trying to find him for quite some time."

"Yeah?" Dean ground out. "Well, in that case, why don't I tell you exactly where you can find him, and you can go and join him right now." He felt something clench in his gut, just as it always did when he was forced to think of his father's death. He clamped his jaw shut hard and glared at Jeffram, channeling the pain into anger.

Jeffram merely shook his head. "I know your father is dead, Dean. It was how we were finally able to track you down. The hospital where he died had your number on file, and I was able to use it to track you."

"What is it you want?" Sam demanded, his own voice tight with emotion. "Revenge?"

Jeffram pinned Sam with his cold gaze. "I simply want back what your father stole from me. Nothing else."

"What was it?" Dean asked, curiosity rising up to share a place alongside his anger.

Jeffram turned back to look at him, his expression considering. "It was a dagger," he finally stated. "A very old dagger. It had a single red ruby in the hilt, and etched runes along the length of the blade. Your father stole it from us three years ago this past December outside Reno, Nevada. "

"Why?" Dean asked, his voice suspicious. "Why would my dad steal your dagger?"

Jeffram's eyes narrowed and he gave a slight shrug. "Why does anyone steal anything? Greed, probably. As I said before, the dagger is very old and very valuable."

Dean didn't bother holding back his incredulous snort. John Winchester had been many things in life, but greedy was never one of them. The only thing his father had been greedy for was revenge. If he had taken the Connley's dagger, then there had been a reason for it; a reason that Jeffram obviously didn't wish to share.

"Well, I hate to break it to you, pal, but we have no clue where your stupid dagger is," Dean growled, growing impatient. "This might surprise you, but our dad wasn't exactly the sharing and caring type. If he really did take your dagger, he never told us about it."

Jeffram pursed his lips thoughtfully, studying Dean's face intently as though trying to discern if he was telling the truth. "Maybe," he finally replied, "Maybe not. It doesn't really matter at this point. If anyone can find that dagger, it would be you two."

"How do you know our father even kept it?" Sam interjected, his voice earnest. "He could have destroyed it or gotten rid of it."

Jeffram shook his head. "He didn't destroy it," he stated with absolute certainty. "He hid it. We have been trying to track him down for three years, but John always managed to stay a step ahead of us. Until he died, of course. Now I have his boys, and one way or another you two will find that dagger and return it to me."

"Ah, well, since you asked so nicely," Dean ground out sarcastically. "Just untie us and we'll get right on that…"

Jeffram actually smiled, though the expression was far from pleasant on his cold face. "Now, now, Dean. I'm perfectly aware that the only way I'll get you to return my dagger is if I hold something you want equally as bad as a bargaining chip."

"Yeah?" Dean snorted, "And what exactly would that be?"

Jeffram didn't reply, merely smiled, holding his hand out toward his oldest son. "Eli, do you have them?" he asked simply.

The long haired man wordlessly fished in his jacket pocket, pulling out two long vials, one colored green and the other blue. He handed both vials to Jeffram.

What's that?" Sam asked, eying the vials nervously.

"This," Jeffram stated, holding the green bottle up so both men could see it clearly. "This is poison, dear Sam…and a pretty nasty poison at that. My son Eli made it. He's what you might call an alchemist, of sorts. Poisons have been a hobby of his since he was young. It took him years to develop this particular one, and only we have the antidote." He held up the second vial, shaking it tauntingly.

Dean exchanged a quick glance with Sam before returning his gaze to Jeffram. "Look, we really don't know where your dagger is," he insisted forcefully, eyeing the green bottle warily.

Jeffram shrugged. "Then I suggest you find it. Quickly. Consider this…motivation."

"Which one, Dad?" Eli asked, eyeing the two prisoners with a hungry glint in his eyes.

"The older one," Joseph suggested eagerly, giving Dean a nasty smile. "I say we use it on the older one."

Dean felt his muscles tense as Jeffram's gaze settled on him, cold and calculating. The older man gave a small shrug, and Eli and Joseph immediately moved forward, positioning themselves on either side of his chair.

"No," Sam shouted, struggling desperately against his bonds. "Listen, you don't have to do this. We'll find your dagger, you have my word. Just let us go and we'll get it for you. You don't need the poison."

Jeffram shook his head, rising from his chair and slipping the blue vial into his jacket pocket before uncapping the green one. "It doesn't work that way, Sam," he stated dismissively, before turning his attention back to Dean. "Now Dean, we can do this the easy way or the hard."

Dean glared at the man, clenching his jaw firmly shut and raising his chin defiantly.

"Very well," Jeffram said indifferently, motioning to his boys with a wave of one hand. Joseph reached out and grabbed Dean by his hair once again, yanking his head back until it rested on the back of the chair. At the same time, Eli reached out and grabbed Dean's jaw in one hand while the other pinched his nose closed.

"No," Sam cried out, still struggling wildly in his chair. "Stop!"

Dean let out a low growl from the base of his throat, struggling to keep his jaw firmly shut while his body began screaming for oxygen. He tried to shake his head free of the hands holding him, but their grip was too tight.

With his free hand, Joseph reached down and punched Dean forcefully in the side. Dean grunted, the combination of pain and lack of air leaving him reeling. When Joseph punched him a second time, he couldn't help but gasp, the need for air overwhelming all other instincts.

Instantly, Jeffram was there, forcing the neck of the vial into his mouth, splashing acrid liquid across his tongue and down his throat. Dean tried to spit it back out, but a third blow to his side had him chocking and gasping, and without meaning to he found himself swallowing. He immediately gagged, the vile taste of the poison coating his tongue and the back of his mouth. His stomach roiled, bile building in the back of his throat. Again he tried to spit, but Eli held his jaw firmly closed, and a moment later Dean felt a wide strip of duct tape pressed down over his mouth, effectively sealing his lips closed.

Ah, crap!

The hands holding him finally released him, and Dean let his head fall forward wearily, breathing heavily through his nose, his eyes closing tightly as he fought down the nausea building in his stomach. He vaguely heard Sam calling out his name worriedly, but he was too focused on not throwing up to respond.

"Find my dagger," Jeffram ordered harshly. "You have forty-eight hours, give or take a few, before the poison kills him. Get me my dagger before then, and we'll give you the antidote."

"Forty-eight hours?" Sam gasped, his voice desperate. "What if we can't find it before then?"

Dean forced his eyes open, lifting his head to look up at Jeffram. The man stared back down at him coldly, not a hint of pity in his dark eyes. "Then your brother dies, Sam," he replied simply.

Jeffram turned on his heels, walked over to his vacated chair and dropped a slip of paper onto its seat. Then he glanced back over his shoulder. "Once you have my dagger, call the number on the paper and we'll arrange a meeting place. Remember, forty-eight hours."

And with that final warning, he and his sons walked from the room, swinging the iron door shut behind them with a resounding clang.

TBC

A/N—Hope you like so far. Let me know what you think. I love all reviews. This story is mostly complete and I expect to update every week until it is finished.