Hi guys! So, I'm aware most of you have probably already read a lot of this, but MJ and I have agreed that I will continue it, but with it on my account. Please be assured that this is being done with MJ's full blessing and I'm not changing anything that's already been done. We had 90% of the story mapped out already so, while I may be the one writing it, it is still MJ's work too. But I completely understand and respect her decision to pull back and concentrate on her family.

I'll be reposting a few chapters at a time to give myself a chance to catch up with where we were originally, so please bear with me!

SPN

"As mighty as I'm sure your little family is, mine is a juggernaut. We're not ordinary men...What we are is expendable. I go down, there's an army of replacements behind me."

— Eldon Styne

SPN

(Atlanta, Georgia… 26 months ago)

Hands clawed at her dress. Fingers raked over the thin material, grasping, fondling, searching for a way under… Nameless faces closed in around her, ravenous, relentless… She screamed, but her cries were drowned out by the celebratory clamor filling the ballroom. She tried twisting away, but they were everywhere, an oppressive horde competing for dominance. Against so many assailants, only one man could possibly save her.

She heard his regal voice rise above the noise. "Jessica? Where'd you go, darlin'?"

Her tearful eyes searched for him even though he wasn't searching for her. He'd called the wrong name…

When she finally glimpsed him in the crowd, her heart jolted. Hope sparked in her only to be snuffed out by desperation as a large hand clasped her chin, yanking her head around. A drunken reveler plowed his lips against hers, tangling his other hand roughly in her hair. Bile hit the back of her throat, and she thought frantically of Jacob. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

From the corner of her eye, she watched him sauntering away with his back straight, his head held high, his gait proud and confident. He was the strongest man she knew. But he wasn't coming for her; he was going for that other girl…

Despair consumed her as the sea of groping bodies dragged her to the floor, submerging her in a repugnant wave of testosterone and inebriation. Her skirt ripped, but she barely heard it as nails scratched her thighs. She tried turning her head, but couldn't escape the hand snaring her chin. Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut, a terrified whimper bubbling out of her throat.

But then… a voice.

"Dormite."

The world turned blissfully empty; the hands fell away; the fear disappeared as the darkness took hold of her. Daisy Parson found herself floating in a black abyss, suspended in time, free from the wedding guests who saw women as nothing but toys to abuse and throw away. It was a dreamless sleep wrapped in oblivion…

Awareness gradually crawled back through her senses as she began to stir, the cold seeping up from the marble floor. It penetrated the thin chiffon material of her blue dress, sending chills down her spine despite the warmth in the air, and the stifling weight on her stomach. Slowly, she opened her eyes, dazed and sluggish. The domed ceiling came into and back out of focus. She blinked blearily, staring up at it in confusion. Then, her chest heaved in a horrified gasp as the memory crashed back into her mind and she scrambled upright, dumping off the man who had landed on top of her. He too was stirring from unconsciousness, but not as quickly. He looked almost hungover.

Nauseous and terrified, Daisy lurched to her feet. The vile swarm of wedding guests were sprawled out in every direction. Some were still sleeping, but many were starting to rouse, and they might want to renew their drunken carnal activities. Daisy caught her breath, eyes widening in panic, tension balling in her gut.

Get out! Move!

Heedless of the people around her, Daisy hastened across the dance floor, stumbling over arms, legs, and bodies. Fear propelled her forward as the memory of aggressive, groping hands and slobbering mouths filled her mind. By the time she reached the edge of the room, she was sobbing almost uncontrollably. Blinded by her tears, she reached for the wall, feeling its cold solidity beneath her palms, but only for a moment. She didn't want her back to the crowd as they moaned and murmured, regaining their senses, and so she reluctantly turned to face them. In the corner by the bridal stage, a massive vase with a beautiful floral display caught her attention. She scurried over to it before she carefully sank down behind it, cowering, hoping no one would notice her there. All she wanted was to escape: for someone to pull her out of this madness. She wanted Jacob! But he was nowhere to be seen.

"What the hell was that?!" exclaimed a voice with a distinct Swiss accent. Daisy buried her face in her hands, curling herself up in a tiny ball as the voice sent new tremors of fear through her. She wanted no part of this. Not anymore.

The voice belonged to Mortimer Styne, an imposing man in his early fifties, dressed in a tailored tuxedo. His stern face was lined with fury, and his grey eyes flashed with rage as he stared at the debacle before him. He clenched his fists, needing a moment to curb his anger. It didn't suit him. As patriarch of the family's Switzerland branch, he prided himself on his discipline, and did not appreciate being caught off guard.

"William! Victor!" he barked, looking around for his brother and son. William, the gaunt but authoritative father of the bride, appeared in the arched doorway that led to the rest of the house. He stalked purposefully toward Mortimer, his mouth twisting in displeasure as he surveyed the disorientated guests. Mortimer gestured at them with one hand, keeping his voice low and hostile. "What is your wife playing at?!"

William glanced up at the bridal stage and narrowed his eyes. When he saw who was missing, he cursed under his breath. "This wasn't Caroline."

Mortimer scoffed. "In this house, with all its wards? No one else could perform such a spell!"

"Sam could," William replied, continuing when Mortimer's look became questioning. "We made allowances for his training."

"Sam?" Mortimer raised an eyebrow. "You mean Jacob's new favorite toy? You can't be serious."

Instead of answering, William set off for the stairs leading up to the stage. Mortimer followed, his frown deepening when they were cut off by a trusted servant. Giles. Calm, collected, sensible Giles. Except now he was timid, anxious, and sweating. He held up his hands, palms spread wide.

"Sir, it's…" He swallowed, averting his eyes. Mortimer watched him suspiciously, then peered over his shoulder to look up at the stage, focusing for the first time on the bridal party. Or rather, what was left of it.

"Victor!" he roared, shoving past Giles, gaze fixed on the trail of blood that trickled out from under the crisp white tablecloth. Heart pounding, he mounted the stairs and circled around the table, only to find his son dead at the foot of an empty chair. Mortimer dropped to his knees, his hands fluttering uselessly over the lifeless body.

Victor.

He looked almost peaceful: his eyes were closed and for all the world he could've been sleeping if not for the two gaping bullet holes in his forehead. On the floor next to him, in the pool of blood, Mortimer noticed a pair of discarded handcuffs. He reached out and fingered them with a scowl.

Behind him, William turned, barking orders at Giles. "No one is to leave this ballroom without my authorization, do you understand me?" He stepped up to his younger brother and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. "I'm sorry, Mortimer."

Mortimer's jaw clenched hard, his shoulders broadening as he tensed and rose to his full height, so that he towered over his brother. When he turned, eyes livid, William wisely backed away.

"Bring me that whelp!" he hissed. Sam Winchester had Styne blood on his hands.

All deals were off.

"I can imagine where he went," William assured him, turning to leave the ballroom. Mortimer followed, simmering with hatred. As they stormed out, Giles, Arthur Fontaine, and several other servants could be heard restoring order, soothing the guests and, most importantly, containing them inside. The Stynes had a reputation to uphold, and they would control the narrative before letting anyone go.

When they reached the side door that led to the garden, Mortimer slammed it open and stormed out into the midnight darkness. There was no breeze: not even a sliver of wind could penetrate the magic separating the Styne mansion from the real world. The men stalked forwards, moving across the well-lit but empty patio and lawns. A fountain bubbled tranquilly near a domed gazebo. They passed it in silence, taking a gravel pathway that brought them to a courtyard boxed in by tall green hedges. In the center of the courtyard, perched on a prominent pedestal, loomed the monstrous statue of Vita, a two-headed bird with unfurled wings, raised high against the night: the subject of the Styne family crest.

"Uncle William!"

The two brothers turned at the agonized voice of their nephew, Jacob Styne. He was lying in the shadows on his side, ankles bound and wrists cuffed behind his back. Such restraints should not have held him, but he was injured. Mortimer could see the bullet wounds in his arm and leg. How could this have happened?

While he was still processing the implications, his brother shrieked, and when Mortimer followed his gaze, he discovered yet another body: a woman in a shimmering red dress with long blonde hair.

Caroline.

Her throat had been cut.

William flew to her side, pulling her limp form into his arms. Her head lolled as he cradled her to his chest, rocking her back and forth in a rare display of affection.

Of all the Styne men, William had been the only one to truly love his wife.

With renewed indignation, Mortimer stormed over to Jacob and grabbed him by the throat, hauling him to his knees. Jacob gasped for air, writhing helplessly, too hampered by his restraints to resist. Livid grey eyes met cold blue ones.

"Care to explain this, Jacob?" the elder snapped, glowering at his nephew. "For your sake, it'd better be good." He loosened his grip just enough for Jacob to speak. The younger man's eyes stayed trained on his own; not in a display of defiance, but out of respect. The Stynes were taught never to show fear and never wilt at a confrontation.

"The demon…" he began, his voice strained by Mortimer's grip.

"Azazel?" William's head snapped up, his face a blend of anger and agony. "Azazel killed my Caroline?"

"No, but he orchestrated all of it," Jacob rasped, his gaze flitting between the two men as he shifted uncomfortably, the stone chippings of the courtyard digging into his knees. Mortimer's hand loosened infinitesimally — just enough to give Jacob more room to breathe, but not enough to show he was forgiven for his weakness. Staring back up at Mortimer, he continued. "He smuggled John Winchester into the wedding. He must've opened the portal for the rest of them hunters. They killed Aunt Caroline. They took Sam." His final sentence was a livid snarl, much to Mortimer's disgust. A muscle twitched in the elder's jaw. How dare Jacob lament Sam's desertion over his aunt's death? That snivelling wretch was nothing — an amusement, a novelty. Mortimer's piercing grey eyes slid back to his brother, who was still cradling his wife's lifeless form. She deserved more. Victor deserved more…

"Why did they spare you?" he growled, returning his gaze to Jacob. "They clearly knew their bullets wouldn't hamper you. At least, they weren't supposed to." Jacob flushed at the jab; his jaw tightened but, when he spoke, he maintained a civil tone.

"They had no choice. Sam saw to that. We're bound together," he explained, his lips curving into a malicious smirk. Mortimer's eyes narrowed, his ire rising again. He didn't know what their so-called connection was, but the more he observed, the less he approved, particularly after Jacob's next words. "We must retrieve him at all costs. Now."

Fury scorched through the elder Styne, and his grip tightened again around Jacob's neck at the boy's sheer audacity. Sam Winchester was a nobody!

"He killed my son!" Mortimer roared, spittle flying from his mouth. He watched as Jacob's eyes widened, clearly unaware of what had happened back on the stage in the ballroom.

Victor, Jacob wondered, what did you do?

A certain sense of… satisfaction welled up inside Jacob, along with something else. Pride. There was no love lost between the two cousins; Jacob had already pulled Victor, and his wandering hands, off of Sam once before. It was no surprise that the entitled bastard would try again, especially when Jacob had left Sam handcuffed to a chair. The temptation would've been too much for Victor — Jacob knew how overbearing he could be. No. The only surprise was Sam's ability to fight back: to kill Victor and escape those handcuffs. He really was a prodigy… yet these were not sentiments that Jacob could share with his incensed uncle.

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," he appeased, forcing the sincerity into his tone while maintaining a neutral expression. "But Sam cannot be blamed for his actions tonight. We've been over-stimulating him for hours now, and his premonition came true. Aunt Caroline stabbed the girl he loved. He must've felt it. We didn't just break him: we devastated him. And considering his woeful inexperience, sir, if he lost control, it's through no fault of his own. We have to find him. He needs us now more than ever."

"You keep on with this 'we' and 'us.' The only reason we need to find him is to make him pay for his crimes!" Mortimer snapped, finally releasing his grip on Jacob's throat. He stepped away, his hands balling into fists as Jacob watched him, rotating his head to try and relieve the tension which had built in his neck. Knowing he was treading on dangerous ground, Jacob took a moment, waiting for his uncle to cool down before speaking.

"With all due respect, sir, you don't know him. You don't know the destiny that awaits him. After everything we've sacrificed, we can't give up now. He's worth too much, and believe me, we are on the brink of success."

Mortimer scoffed, his expression full of disbelief. He turned his attention to William, who had laid Caroline out reverently, kneeling by her body while resting her hands across her stomach.

"Tell me this is all nonsense, William!" he demanded. "Nothing is worth the death of my heir!" He watched impatiently as his brother stood up, walked over to Jacob, and pulled a knife from a concealed ankle sheath. He sliced through the bonds around his nephew's legs, then wrapped his hand around the chain linking the handcuffs together.

"Intermissum," he invoked, watching as the metal links disintegrated between his fingers, leaving Jacob free. The younger Styne exhaled with relief and brought a hand up to feel the gunshot wound on his arm. It was a through-and-through. Clean. Easily fixed.

Finally, William looked up at Mortimer.

"We are on the brink of war, brother," he explained with quiet gravity. He removed his jacket and tore off his shirt sleeve, which he used to bandage Jacob's arm. "Caroline defied that demon, and now she's dead. He wants Sam alive. If we kill the boy, all of Hell turns against us." He ripped off his other sleeve and bandaged Jacob's leg.

"All of that over some… some… boy?!" Mortimer exclaimed incredulously. Jacob stood up, squaring off against his uncle.

"Sam is not just some boy," he snarled, struggling to keep his temper in check. Mustering all his discipline, he forced himself to relax, loosening his balled fists. "He's the key to everything. Azazel's plan. Our success. Without Sam, we lose it all."

"You keep talking about this demon and his plan," Mortimer said. "So tell me: what is it? Why is this child so damned important?" He glanced from William to Jacob and back again. For the first time, both men paused, a sense of unease radiating out of them.

"We don't know," William admitted.

"You don't know." It wasn't a question.

"All we know," William explained, maintaining his patience, "is that Sam is special. Elizabeth read his palm — called him the Holy Grail. He is destined for something extraordinary. Now, Azazel knows us. He has known our family for centuries, how we operate, how we amass our wealth. And he assures us that Sam will spark a cataclysm the likes of which our world has not seen in several thousand years. Think of the fortune we could make from such an event!"

The more William spoke, the more curious Mortimer's expression became. Nothing appealed to the Stynes as much as power. He turned his attention back to Jacob. "And you know nothing more?"

Jacob shook his head. "No. But we've all seen his potential… his raw talent. Imagine what he'll achieve when he's fully trained and safe in our hands. We'll be unstoppable." Pride unconsciously coloured his tone, and when he saw the greed flare in Mortimer's eyes, he knew they'd won. He wouldn't forget Victor's death, but he was appeasible.

For the moment.

"If I find out you're lying to save your pet…"

"He's not," William interjected, his voice low and stern. "We can't waste anymore time discussing this; we need to think about damage control. This wedding…" He shook his head, disgruntled and heartbroken. "We should release the guests and regroup. It won't take long to retrieve the boy. Then we can worry about mending our reputation."

"No," Mortimer argued. "Our reputation takes priority."

"We split up, then," William insisted. "Divide and conquer. Azazel might not have killed Caroline, but he's the reason she's dead. I will not allow him to find Sam before we do. It's a dangerous game, but I will not lose everything to that demon."

"Very well," Mortimer eventually concurred. "You stay here and fetch your little runaway, if you must. I shall return to Europe with Dario and the others. I expect we'll have better luck exonerating ourselves on familiar soil. But one more thing: when you do find Sam…" His lip curled in a vicious snarl. "I should like a word with him."

The glint in his eye was all too familiar; it was the expression every Styne wore when they knew a reckoning was imminent. Jacob bit his tongue, outwardly indifferent, but inside, his blood boiled. Mortimer would not have the boy.

Sam was his and his alone.

SPN

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