WARNING! Contains suicide, graphic descriptions of violence, and the heavily implied rape of a child, though the scene itself has been edited out to comply with FFN's rating standards. If you'd like to read the full, uncensored story, it's available on my archiveofourown account Sedentary_Wordsmith. (And don't be shy about leaving comments or kudos as a guest!) http(colon)(slash)(slash) (slash)users(slash)Sedentary_Wordsmith(slash)works

Takes place somewhere early- to mid-season 3, definitely before Jus in Bello.

In the Small Places

The sudden silence brought Dean back to awareness after five hours of the Impala's comforting rumble. He slowly sat up straighter in the passenger seat, grimacing and pressing a hand to the bandaged gash in his side as he glanced around. A white stucco wall with numbered doors sat directly in front of the hood. "Where are we?"

"Dunno. Motel somewhere over the Wisconsin border. Couldn't drive any further tonight." Sam rubbed his eyes wearily and Dean thought he looked almost as bad as he himself felt. "C'mon, I already checked us in."

Dean dragged himself from the car, worriedly eyeing Sam's limp that seemed to be worse than it had been five hours ago when they had made their hurried escape. It could just be stiffness from the long car ride, but with their kind of luck it was best to keep an eye on it.

Sam was watching him just as worriedly when they met at the trunk to gather their duffels. "Just stiff," Dean headed him off.

"I still want to check it when we get inside and bandage it properly since I didn't get a chance earlier when we were busy running from the cops."

Dean rolled his eyes theatrically to hide the small grimace when he lifted his bag. "Yes, Dad." He turned and started shuffling the short distance to their room. "But don't think you're getting out of me checking that bite, either."

Sam huffed. "I think I'm capable of checking my own leg and cleaning one little bite."

But when they got inside, the two hunters had barely enough energy to wash the dried blood from their faces before they collapsed on their beds, out for the night.

oOoOo

Dean woke to late morning sunshine cheerily streaming through the window's open curtains directly onto his face. He shifted his head away, blinking heavily as he mentally cursed the sun and curtains in general. Biting back a long groan, he slowly pushed himself upright, lifting his shirt to check the bandage beneath. Blood had soaked the once-white wrapping, but it appeared to be all dried now. Dean was counting that one as a win.

He glanced at Sam on the neighboring bed, but his brother was still sleeping, curled up in a ball on his side and breathing heavily. Dean quietly dug for some clean clothes in his duffel and headed for the motel room's tiny bathroom. With the door closed behind him, he carefully peeled off yesterday's ruined shirt and tossed it to the floor before slowly unwinding his makeshift bandage. In the privacy of the locked room, he let a small hiss of pain escape as the last of the wrap came away, pulling flakes of dried blood with it.

He prodded gently at the long gash that ran across his right side under his ribs, nodding in satisfaction. It wasn't as bad as he had feared it might be last night when there wasn't time to get a good look at it after the hunt. It had already stopped bleeding several hours earlier and looked well on its way to scabbing over and knitting itself closed. Dean still kept it carefully turned away from the spray of water as he showered, gently soaping it and covering it with a clean bandage when he got out.

Clean and dressed and ready to start turning his thoughts toward breakfast, Dean was slightly annoyed to find Sam still sleeping in the same position he had left him in. After briefly debating whether or not to wake him and how rudely to do so, Dean took pity and scrawled a quick note on the motel stationery, leaving it on the nightstand between their beds where Sam would be able to find it easily. He laced up his boots and grabbed the car and room keys, slipping out the door as silently as the ghosts they hunted.

Dean locked the door behind him and turned, taking one step toward the car before freezing in his tracks. His eyes went wide and his breath hitched as he took in the motel's familiar front office and conjoined tavern in front of him. He stumbled back, hands shaking as he stuffed the key in the lock and nearly fell back into the room, not taking care to shut the door quietly behind him. One quick glance confirmed the room's tacky bowling theme that he'd been too tired to notice last night and had tuned out this morning as just another unfortunate décor choice among thousands.

"Sam, wake up," he demanded, injecting sternness into his tone to cover the old fear. "Why are we here?"

Sam made no reply, not having reacted at all to the sudden noises.

"Sam?" Instantly, worry for his brother overrode Dean's own panic as he strode forward and dropped to a crouch by Sam's bed. "Sam?" he asked again, shaking his brother's shoulder and noticing for the first time the sweat that dotted his forehead under floppy bangs.

Sam groaned lowly and peeled open fever-bright eyes. "Dean. I think…maybe it got infected."

Dean huffed out a worried breath. "Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Lemme see." He threw back the covers, making the younger man shiver at the sudden draft, which Dean ignored as he rolled up Sam's pant leg and examined the bite on his calf. Puffy red skin, hot to the touch, surrounded each of the many small punctures that delineated a vampire's bite mark.

"Yep, that's infected, all right," Dean informed him. Sam groaned. "I'll go see what antibiotics we've got in the med kit." Dean turned to the door, immediately remembering his reason for coming back inside in the first place. He glanced back down at Sam, miserably shifting in a futile attempt to get comfortable, and steeled himself.

No monsters lurked around the corner as he stepped out of the room, which Dean took as a good sign. He still hurried to the Impala's trunk, scanning the parking lot every few seconds as he searched through their med kit, coming up disappointingly empty. He sighed deeply, hanging his head for a moment before slamming the trunk closed, straightening and striding back into their room.

"Good news, kid. Looks like you get a free ride to the hospital," Dean declared, hastily gathering up their things. There wasn't a lot to stuff back into their duffels, as they hadn't had the chance to unpack much the night before.

Sam stirred in his bed. "What? No, we can't."

"Gotta. We're out of antibiotics. You need treatment before your leg falls off."

"No, Dean, we can't," Sam retorted, coming more awake and ignoring Dean's attempt at black humor. "The police got a good look at our faces last night. We'll be lucky if we're not on wanted posters between here and Texas with Henriksen back on our trail. They're probably pinning all the vamp's victims on us, too."

"Okay, so it doesn't have to be a hospital," Dean bargained. "We can find one of those little free clinics."

"Dean," Sam said, and Dean marveled at the amount of condescension Sam could put into one word, "it's a vampire bite. Even a country bumpkin doctor will be able to tell it's not from a dog."

"So we'll say you fell on a porcupine. We'll come up with something," Dean reasoned.

"Why can't you just go grab some more meds?" Sam huffed, rolling over and grimacing at the pain radiating up from his leg. "We need it for the kit anyway."

"Because it's first thing in the morning and you can't wait until after dark for me to go rob a pharmacy."

"Figure it out then," Sam commanded, groaning into his pillow. "No hospitals. I'm going back to sleep."

Dean rolled his eyes hard enough that he hoped Sam could hear it. "Only you would manage to get bitten by a vampire on your leg of all places, anyway," he muttered. "Fine. I'll be back. Don't die while I'm gone."

In the car, Dean had to fight the urge to check the rearview mirror as he drove out of the motel's parking lot, shoulders hunching inward as the slimy feeling of being watched prickled up his spine. He knew he was overreacting. The odds of the same man being there after all these years were at least somewhat unlikely. Probably.

oOo

Sam was still sleeping when Dean returned an hour later, though he at least stirred awake at the sound of the door opening.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. I've got your magic potion," Dean called, waving a small glass bottle and packaged syringe.

"Mmph…What took you so long?" Sam muttered, words slurred and voice worrisomely weak.

"How would you know how long it took me? You were sleeping the whole time," Dean replied, definitely not adding that he had driven past their motel twice before forcing himself to pull into the lot and park. Only the knowledge that Sam was sick and waiting for him had finally convinced him to return.

"Felt like…a long time," Sam answered blearily, closing his eyes again.

"Hey, wake up," Dean ordered, coming to sit on the side of Sam's bed next to him. "I don't want it to be a surprise when I stick you with this needle and end up with your fist in my face."

Sam obediently dragged his eyes open, watching as Dean tore open the new syringe and filled it from the vial of medicine. "What is it?"

"Ampicillin." Dean rolled up Sam's shirtsleeve and carefully jabbed the needle into his shoulder muscle.

Sam fought a wince at the tiny pinch. "Where'd you end up getting it?"

"Dog pound. Told them my brother was bit by a radioactive Rottweiler and they gave me everything I needed." Dean brushed his sleeve back down, standing and tossing the used needle into the small trashcan across the room.

"Really, Dean."

"Little vet clinic in the town up the road a ways. You're lucky it's a Sunday and they were closed today." He retrieved a glass of water and helped Sam drink it before tucking the covers back around him. "Get some more sleep. You'll need another dose in a few hours and then we'll see about maybe getting out of here tomorrow morning. I'm gonna go get us some breakfast."

"I want pancakes."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean made sure Sam's cell phone was in easy reach before heading back out the door. He locked it securely behind him and glared for a moment at the motel office in front of him before stalking towards it.

The little bell on the door tinkled when he entered and the man behind the desk looked up with a pleasant smile. He was in his late middle years with balding grey hair and small brown eyes, dressed in khakis and an old knit sweater over a button-up plaid shirt. "Yes, sir, how can I help you?"

Dean pasted an amicable expression on his face. "Need to renew room 517 for another night," he said, slapping the cash down on the counter. "And I was wondering if you could tell me where a good place might be to get breakfast around here."

The motel owner smiled cheerfully, showing off slightly crooked teeth. "Of course! There's Mickey's Diner just a mile up the road, best French toast in the state." He held out a flyer. "Tell them the Roadside Motel and Tavern sent you and get ten percent off your bill."

Dean didn't reach to take the flyer. "Awesome. Thanks."

oOo

Dean returned half an hour later with pancakes and an egg white omelette for Sam, claiming that he'd already eaten in the car on the way back since it was now well past both breakfast and lunch time. He kept a careful eye on Sam throughout the day, cleaning and bandaging the bite mark and administering another dose of the antibiotic, relieved to see that it seemed to be working as Sam's fever was slowly coming down.

"I think you should be well enough to travel by morning," Dean told him that evening over their dinner of delivered pizza. Sam had already scarfed down four slices, always a good sign. "Provided we wait a few days before actually taking on a new case."

"It's probably best to get away from the Midwest before we do another job, anyway," Sam replied, gulping down half a bottle of Gatorade in one long draught. "Let the manhunt die down before we come back this way."

Dean nodded in agreement. "Get some sleep while you can. We've got a long drive tomorrow."

Six hours later, Dean stared up at the dark ceiling above him, one hand behind his head with fingers resting on the hilt of the hunting knife under his pillow. Sam's breaths nearby were deep and even, marking his rejuvenating rest. The hours crawled by in the dim red numbers of the clock radio, but Dean couldn't sleep. Didn't want to. This was a place of nightmares.

oOoOo

1989

"It only takes one mistake, you got that?" John had said. "Lock the doors and windows and watch out for Sammy," John had said, and Dean had had every intention of obeying him, he had, but it's been days and Dean is going to start climbing the walls if he doesn't get out of here soon. He barely forces himself to stay inside until Sammy's asleep before he slips out, taking a deep breath of fresh air and feeling freedom wash over him as soon as he locks the door behind him.

He won't go too far, of course, even if there were some other place to go on this barren stretch of highway, so he heads for the motel's office and adjoining tavern. There's always a pool table somewhere in places like this, and maybe, if he's lucky, an old Pac-Man station stuck in some dark corner.

He's very lucky, and finds a rec room filled with various arcade games behind the office, down the hallway and around the corner from the tavern. The bar's country music is a distant twang and the room is blissfully empty of other visitors. Though it might have been nice to have some interaction with a person over the age of six for the first time in three days, Dean relishes the rare opportunity to let his guard down and just be a kid for a few minutes before he has to return to guard duty. He pops a quarter into Andro Dunos and starts mashing at the controls. He's never played this one before, but the rocket on the side looks promising.

Time slips away unnoticed as he blasts space ships, burning through most of his spare change without noticing. He can replace it easily enough—he's always finding pennies and dimes by the gas pumps, under the convenience store shelves, in the small, dirty places that other people don't look.

"Hey, kid."

The sudden voice at the doorway startles him and he fights the urge to reach for a gun that isn't there.

"We're closing up," the motel owner informs him.

Dean sighs a little but doesn't complain. He knows he was lucky to steal this time away as it is. He turns back to the game to finish the last round he's on and doesn't notice as the owner hesitates and turns back toward him.

"Hey, how old are you, kid?"

On the screen, his rocket is shot and explodes in a fiery blast as Dean's attention is diverted again. "Thirteen," he lies easily, and at the man's frown, hastens to add, "My parents are in the tavern."

"And they let you wander off by yourself?" Dean can only shrug in response, not entirely sure what normal parents let their kids get away with at any time, much less while they're off drinking in a shady motel tavern. The owner takes a step into the room, and Dean is keenly aware that his much larger body is now blocking the only exit.

The man's eyes narrow a bit in thought as he wags a finger in Dean's direction. "No, I remember you. You came in a few days ago with your old man in that big black car. Car like that's hard to forget." A switch seems to click in the man's head and Dean's spine tightens. He knows that look. It's the look that precedes phone calls to CPS and a hasty relocation over state lines. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen that car in the parking lot for a few days now." He takes another step forward, now fully in the room. "Did your old man leave you here alone?"

"Of course not," Dean answers swiftly, and it's true enough, even if Sammy hardly counts as proper supervision.

The owner's not buying it. He crosses his arms, adopting a stern expression. "I think he did. He can get in a lot of trouble with the government for that, you know."

"I'm old enough to look after myself—"

The man scoffs. "Kid, if you're thirteen then I'm Janet Jackson. And your little brother is even younger than you are."

Dean feels his defenses rise at the mention of Sammy, but there's little he can do at this point other than beg. "Look, Mister, you don't hafta call anyone. My dad's due back any time now, and we've got plenty of food and the room's paid up through the end of the week. We're fine on our own."

The owner frowns, though Dean thinks his small brown eyes are grinning. "I don't know about that. It would be irresponsible of me not to report your father's negligence. It can be dangerous for two little boys to be on their own. What if something happened to you?"

Dean can feel his heart rate kick up a notch. He knows what would happen if Child Protective Services ever actually caught up with them—his father's drilled it into him often enough. John would be thrown in jail for neglect and probably abuse, the boys would be taken from him and sent to separate foster homes, and Dean would lose the only two people that matter to him in one fell swoop. He won't let that happen.

He also has no idea how to stop it.

The owner can see the fear on Dean's face, and the grin escapes from his eyes to tug at a corner of his thin lips. "Of course, I might be persuaded not to call the cops, but you have to do something for me."

At Dean's hesitant nod, the owner closes the rec room door behind him and locks it. The sound of the deadbolt thudding into place echoes Dean's heart dropping into his stomach. "Come here."

Dean has to force his heavy feet forward, trudging through invisible molasses to stand in front of the motel owner. The middle-aged man seems to be studying him, running his eyes up and down his body and reaching out one hand to finger the open flannel shirt at his chest. "I'm going to do something you may not like," the owner tells him, "but you're going to do whatever I say, because if you don't, I'm gonna call the cops and they'll come arrest your daddy for child endangerment, got it?"

Dean can't bring himself to speak, all the spit in his mouth dried up. He nods jerkily. He does things he doesn't like all the time. His whole life is doing one thing he doesn't like after another. If it protects John and Sammy, what's one more?

The man's grin spreads over the rest of his mouth, showing his crooked teeth. "Good. Now get on your knees."

oOo

"You did well, kid," the owner tells him some agonizingly long minutes later, and Dean finds himself cringing away from the hated voice. "You protected your family. I won't call the cops."

At the news, Dean feels the first faint stirrings of hope in his heart. It paid off after all. The horrible nightmare is over and everything can go back now to the way it should be. John and Sammy are safe and as soon as John gets back from his hunt, they can leave this place far behind them and Dean can forget any of this ever happened.

"Clean yourself up and get out of here now," the man orders and Dean hastens to comply. He scrubs his arm over his face to rid it of tears and roughly yanks his underwear and pants up, fumbling with shaky fingers to close the button. The material smears the sticky come on his ass unpleasantly, but Dean ignores it. Everything hurts to move, but he's not about to let that slow his escape from this awful place. He keeps his head down as he tries to dart around the owner, but a quick hand shoots out and grabs him roughly around the bicep. Dean gasps and looks up to meet the owner's dark eyes in fear.

"If you ever tell your dad or anyone else about this, I'll make sure the cops and CPS know all about how your dad left you two alone in a motel room for days on end. He'll go to jail for child neglect and then I'm gonna find that sweet little brother of yours and do the same thing I just did to you to him. Got it?"

Terrified, Dean can only nod in mute horror. He's hurt and scared enough at the moment to believe him. The man releases his arm and Dean scrambles for the door, throwing open the lock and nearly tripping in his haste to escape. The cool night air on his face is like a blast of freedom. He remembers thinking the same thing when he left the motel room earlier that night, but now the confining walls seem almost like a safe haven away from the motel office building.

Dean fights not to limp as he quickly crosses the parking lot, casting furtive glances around him. He lets himself into the motel room and locks it securely behind him, breathing a small sigh of relief against the solid wood before he realizes something's wrong. The light in the bedroom is on though he knows it was off when he left. The Impala's not in the parking lot, so John's not back, but if Sammy woke up to find Dean gone, he could still get in trouble. The idea of being punished for his disobedience after the ordeal he just endured is almost unbearable.

He slowly creeps forward, silently pushing open the bedroom door to find all of his nightmares incarnate leaning over an unresponsive Sammy on the bed. Instantly forgetting his own pain, Dean reaches down to lift the shotgun next to the doorway, shakily aiming it at the robed figure. The sound of the gun cocking draws the creature's attention and it rises up to hiss threateningly at the intruder. Dean freezes, fumbling with the gun, when the front door squeaks open behind him. He spins to face it, terrified that his newest nightmare has followed him back to the room.

"Get out of the way!" His father's voice is a crashing relief even as it jerks him into motion, spinning out of the doorway and ducking for cover as John lets loose a hail of bullets. There's the crash of breaking glass followed by more gunshots and the clicking of an empty magazine before Dean hears John worriedly calling Sammy's name. He pokes his head out around the edge of the doorway, relieved beyond words to see the creature gone and Sammy sitting up in their father's arms with his eyes open. Dean sets the gun down and steps forward, heart beating frantically, before his father's angry gaze suddenly pins him in place.

"What happened?"

"I—I just went out," Dean stammers, unable and unwilling to put words to the night's full activities. He shuffles forward, desperately needing the comfort of his father's strong arms around him.

John's face is disbelieving. "What?"

Dean can feel panic and vomit rising in his throat. Please don't be mad at me. I've already paid so much for my mistake. "J—j—just for a second," he says instead. "I'm sorry." More sorry than you'll ever know.

"I told you not to leave this room."

Dean looks at Sammy, clutched tightly, protectively, in John's arms. Please, Dad, can't you see I'm hurt too?

"I told you not to let him out of your sight."

Please.

("It only takes one mistake, you got that?")

His father's baleful glare is all Dean receives before John turns his full attention to Sammy, leaving Dean standing silent and alone in the middle of the room. His carpet burns sting where they brush against his clothing, his underwear is drying scratchy and stiff against his skin, his whole body aches with the pain shooting up his spine, and he knows with certainty that he'll never disobey another one of his father's orders as long as he lives.

oOoOo

Dean sat up with a gasp, ragged breaths harsh in the stillness of the dark room. He glanced to the side, but Sam lay still, sleep undisturbed by the nightmares in his brother's head. Dean slowly lowered the hunting knife in his hand, retrieving its scabbard from under his pillow and resheathing it as he struggled to bring his uneven breathing back under control. He slipped out of bed, slinking to the window and peering through a crack in the curtains to the parking lot outside. All was silent and still. He dragged a chair in front of the door and sat with his knife in his lap, keeping watch until the sun rose.

"It only takes one mistake," John had said. "You got that?"

Dean got it.

oOo

Sam finally dragged himself out of bed shortly after sunrise the next morning, claiming dire need for a shower after rolling around in sweat-soaked sheets all day and night. Dean waited until the bathroom door was closed before knocking on it, calling in a light voice, "Go ahead and pack up once you're out. I'm gonna go check the fluid levels in the car and check us out."

"What about breakfast?" Sam asked, voice slightly muffled through the thin wooden door.

"We can pick something up once we're down the road a ways. I want to hurry and put some distance between us and Chicago."

Sam's displeased grumbling floated through the doorway but he didn't argue the logic. Dean waited until he heard the water running and then grabbed his keys and the motel stationery and pen, locking the room's door behind him. Instead of popping the Impala's hood, he unlocked the trunk and lifted the false bottom, sifting through knives, shotguns, and bags of salt until he found a long, sturdy length of rough brown rope. He shut the trunk and turned toward the motel's front office.

Already knowing the lack of security cameras from his previous reconnaissance, Dean slipped in through the quiet tavern's front entrance, passing the empty tables and untended bar towards the hallway that would lead to the back of the front office. He listened carefully and peered around corners before rounding them, meeting no one on his way. Most of the motel's weekend customers had already checked out the day before and new ones, few as they were, weren't likely to start arriving for several hours yet.

The office and check-in desk were similarly empty, the owner likely having breakfast in the break room or checking on some small problem elsewhere. Dean was relying on the motel's small size and low income to guarantee a minimal staff and long hours for the owner.

He slipped through the door behind the office and glanced around at the room from his nightmares. Everything was just as he remembered it, down to the Andro Dunos game sitting tall in the corner, now dark and dusty with disuse. Dean tossed the coiled rope onto the foosball table in the middle of the room and backtracked a few steps to grab the rolling desk chair from the office. He pushed the chair up under the room's large ceiling fan and carefully stood on the seat, giving the fan a solid two-handed tug where it connected with the ceiling. Satisfied, he hopped down and wheeled the chair to be visible from the doorway before moving to stand in the corner behind the door.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number he had memorized that morning, though he didn't bring the phone to his ear. After a few rings, there was the distant tinkling of a bell over a door swinging open and hurried steps rushing for the office.

"Coming, coming," a man's voice muttered to himself, and it was exactly as Dean remembered. The office receiver was picked up and the voice chirped out, "Fort Douglas Roadside Motel and Tavern, how can I help you?"

Dean hung up.

"Hello? Hel—oh, well." A short pause. "Wha—where did my chair get off to?" Clothing rustled as the man shuffled around and then quick steps fell on the rough carpet toward the game room. "How did it get in here?"

The owner spun in surprise at the sound of the door swinging closed behind him, his face displaying open confusion as he caught sight of Dean. "May I help you?" he asked carefully.

Dean didn't answer, holding eye contact as he slid the deadbolt home. He closed his eyes for just a moment as the dull thud sounded like a child's heart dropping into his stomach. "There it is. I dreamed of that sound for years."

"Do…do I know you?" the owner asked, wariness and a little fear beginning to replace the confusion on his face.

"Oh yes. Very well. You should have remembered me and started running for your life as soon as that big black car pulled back into your parking lot. After all, a car like that's hard to forget, right?"

"I—I have no idea what you're talking about," the man stammered, though Dean could see a slow light of understanding beginning to dawn in the small brown eyes.

He shook his head. "Well that's even worse. That means there were others. Tell me, Doug—is it all right if I call you Doug? I've always hated the name Douglas." The man didn't reply and Dean continued. "So tell me, how many other little kids have you raped over the years?"

The owner immediately paled, all blood draining from his face as he wobbled a little on his feet, before he flushed and gestured angrily at the door. "Get out of here right now. I'm calling the cops!"

"Yeah, that's what you threatened back then, too," Dean mused. "And I was dumb enough to believe you. You really think it's wise to call the cops to come sniffing around the home of a child molester? I may have been a victim of opportunity, but I'm betting there were others, and I'm betting you keep some kind of souvenirs from most of them, am I right?"

The man swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the door and, presumably, the locked file cabinet sitting innocently in the office.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Dean answered himself. "See, I know guys like you. You're all the same."

"I don't have to stand here and listen to this," the owner spat, marching angrily for the door. He pulled up short as Dean unsheathed his long hunting knife from inside his jacket and pointed it loosely at him.

"Yes, you do. We're playing by my rules now. This time, you're going to do exactly as I say." Dean gestured with the knife to the rolling chair. "Why don't you have a seat?"

The man hesitantly sat, completely rigid and looking ready to spring up at a moment's notice. Dean stalked the few feet toward him, slowly running the point of his knife from his paunchy belly up to his flabby neck. Not much had changed about the man's appearance over the years, only the greyness of his hair and the number of wrinkles on his soft face. He even wore the same type of woven brown sweater Dean remembered from that night. The look of terror was new, however, and Dean relished it.

"I should gut you for what you did," he hissed in the man's ear, sliding the razor sharp tip of his knife between the buttons on his shirt. "My brother and I—you remember my baby brother, don't you? The sweet little kid you threatened to rape if I ever told anyone about what you did to me? Well, my brother and I have become quite proficient over the years at the art of pain and death. Who knows? Maybe it was always in my blood, or maybe you put it there that night twenty years ago."

The man's arms were frozen to his sides, gripping the seat of the chair under him with white knuckles. "P—please. That was so long ago. I'm sorry for what I did to you. Just, please, let me go and I'll never touch anyone again, I swear!"

Dean chuckled darkly. "I wish I could believe that. But monsters like you, you don't change. And the only way to protect people from a monster is to destroy it."

"What…what are you going to do to me?" The man's shaky voice was a mere rasp.

Dean roughly fisted his fingers into the owner's short grey hair, pulling his head back and exposing his neck. His other hand brought the huge hunting knife up to his throat, scraping against the skin but not cutting, not yet. "I should slit you from ear to ear. Nothing would make me happier than to see your blood spraying out like a waterfall onto the fucking carpet." He dragged the knife tip down over his belly. "Or maybe I should gut you like the animal you are, let you feel your intestines spill out over your hands as you try to hold them in." He dropped the knife lower, resting lightly over the man's crotch. "Or maybe I should just chop off your dick, let you bleed out nice and slow while you think about all the innocent kids you've hurt over the years."

The owner whimpered, terror making his body tremble as tears sprang to his eyes.

Dean abruptly pulled the knife away. "Unfortunately, I'm already wanted for murder in twelve other states and don't want to add Wisconsin to the list," Dean informed him, lying even easier now than he did back then. "We're on the run now for a triple homicide in Chicago and I don't want to point the cops onto our trail."

The man dared to lift his head to meet Dean's eyes, the first tendrils of hope beginning to blossom in their dark depths. "Y—you're letting me go?"

Dean smiled, the sharp grin of a predator. "No. You're just going to kill yourself for me."

The owner's mouth fell open. "What? No, I'm not doing that!"

Dean gave a longsuffering sigh. "Look, Doug, there's only one way this is gonna end, and only two ways of getting there." He gestured at the length of rope atop the foosball table, and the noose he'd knotted at the end of it. The other man's eyes bulged, only just now noticing it. "One, you do it yourself, and it's over nice and quick, nearly painless." Dean brandished the knife. "Or two, I do it myself, slowly, and damn the cops. We've got lots of experience running away."

When no answer was immediately forthcoming, he leaned forward and rested the razor edge of his knife on the man's right index finger. "I think I'll start with the hands that touched me, and work my way up from there."

"Stop! Stop!" the owner cried, terrified sobs bubbling out from his throat. "I'll do it. Just please don't hurt me."

Dean nodded. "Good choice. Oh, one more thing." He pulled the pen and pad of motel stationery from his back pocket and tossed them at the man's face. "Make it poetic. Something like, 'I'm sorry for all the children I've ruined. May the devil have mercy on my soul.'"

The man scratched out a brief message with shaky hands and Dean took the pad back from him to read it. "'Sorry for all the people I've hurt. Please forgive me.'" He shrugged and tossed the paper onto the corner of the foosball table. "Not quite the admission I was looking for, but it'll do. The cops will find your stash eventually when they tear through here and then they'll know. Now, stand up."

The owner stood slowly, eyeing the knife that Dean waved in an impatient gesture. The hunter recognized the look in his desperate eyes and before the owner could take more than one rushing step forward, Dean's ivory grip gun was in his free hand, aimed at the other man's face and stopping him in his tracks. "Didn't know you were in such a rush to die slowly."

Dean pointed the knife again at the rope and the man hesitantly picked it up in trembling fingers. "Tie the other end around the top of the ceiling fan," Dean instructed, kicking the rolling chair over for the man to stand on. "Tie it good. I promise you'll be in more pain if the knot comes loose and you strangle to death instead of breaking your neck quick."

The owner slowly climbed on top of the swiveling chair, wobbling dangerously. Dean steadied the seat with one foot. "Careful, now. Wouldn't want you to fall and bump your head."

The man slowly tied a thick knot around the base of the fan where it connected with the ceiling, sobbing all the while. "Please don't do this. You don't have to kill me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please don't kill me."

Dean ignored him, only gesturing with the gun again when the man hesitated to slip the noose over his head. Everything ready, Dean asked, "Well? Any last words?"

A wave of desperate anger washed over the man's blotchy red face. "Go to hell!"

Dean laughed sharply. "I'll see you there." He kicked the chair out from under the man's feet.

The owner's full weight crashed downward, cracking the plaster ceiling and jerking the fan down an inch, but the old construction held. His eyes widened and bulged and his hands made an aborted move to come up to his throat before they dropped back down, his feet twitching and eyes dimming.

Dean watched the man's body sway for a long minute before he resheathed his knife and tucked his gun back into the waist of his jeans. He strode over to the door and let himself out, locking it behind him again with the keys he found on the office desk. He tossed them back onto the paper-littered surface and stuck his hands in his pockets, humming to himself as he strolled back to their motel room.

Sam looked up as he entered, hair still damp from his shower as he tucked his toiletry bag back into his duffle. "Get us checked out?"

"Yep. Ready to go?" Dean asked, grabbing his own duffle that he had packed before Sam woke that morning.

"Yep." Sam hefted his bag, wincing just a little as he put his weight on his still-sore leg.

"All right then, let's blow this popsicle stand." Dean wedged his shoulder under Sam's arm, wordlessly offering his support as they shuffled out to the car. He didn't glance back once as he revved the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.

oOoOo

Thirty-one years later, the quivering soul of a paunchy older man cowers on the rack beneath Alastair's caressing palms.

"P-please," the man whimpers.

Alastair shushes him with one finger drawn across thin chapped lips. He smiles. "I brought a present for you, Deano, as a reward for being so good."

In the darkness of the doorway, white teeth gleam in a predatory grin. "Well, ain't this just my lucky day."

End.

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