A/N: This is the final chapter for this installment. Keep an eye out for Beyond!

When his eyes were closed, Jason Todd saw his mother.

Bloodied and burning, flames engulfing the room inch by inch, sparing nothing in their path. A shadow slipped across the orange-lit walls, and vanished into the darkness not yet tainted by the fire. He knew this one. He dreamed it plenty as a child. It had been some time since it occupied his thoughts though, and some things had faded over the years. Orange, yellow, and black still flooded his vision, and the shadow's vaguely human shape leered at the red stained corpse.

When he listened, the fire roared.

But nothing felt right.

He shivered, and cold seeped into his bones, unhindered, while the flames grew. The roar wasn't fire, it was wind.

Jason dragged his eyes open, locking his gaze on the dusty cement floor under his body. There was no fire. Only cold and wind beating against the walls of the warehouse. Every breath sent pain flooding through his chest, and the minuscule light source was splitting his head wide open. He blinked, trying to will away the pain.

It didn't work.

I'm fact, somehow, it made it worse.

With a groan, he shifted, trying to adjust his weight distribution so that he wasn't putting all of it on clearly fractured ribs. He didn't have time to contemplate his situation, because it hit him with the same intensity that all the broken bones had as soon as he tried to move.

He followed a lead here. Across the world. A completely bogus lead. And look at him now.

He had blacked out, but not for long. The purple clad maniac waiting with a crowbar wouldn't have been idle for too long with a lone victim unconscious on the ground.

Closing his eyes at all came from a momentary lapse in judgment, and it would cost him dearly. With every second that ticked by, his options were running out. This situation was turning dire, and another blow to his back only cemented that. If he didn't find a way out soon, he wouldn't find one at all.

Jason scanned the room, trying fruitlessly to kick the man's legs out from underneath him. Just to buy some time.

The next blow missed and struck the ground, echoing loudly through the warehouse.

He didn't wait for results, he took the moment and rolled to the side, aggravating every bruise and fracture in the process. He searched the room, focus darting from one pile of rubbish to the stacks of wooden crates. Searching.

No, no, no!

He'd had trouble in the past few years trying to adhere to that godforsaken code, and growing up with the job made him realize that some people, human or not, just didn't deserve to exist. Joker was a prime example of that. Today might finally be the day he could be right.

If he could just break these goddamn binds and find a weapon -!

The flat metal bar cracked across his side, and he tumbled over onto the floor, coughing and gasping for breath. Blood spattered on the floor, and he collapsed, only to be struck again on his jaw.

"Wow, that looked like it really hurt."

He was no fool. There was no worry. Nothing holding Joker back.

Jason curled in on himself and tuned the senseless rambling, trying to protect himself from further injury while Joker reigned blow after blow, only stopping to take a breath. Shame how beating up a kid could knock the wind out of you.

When it finally stopped, he lay there, muttering under his breath, which only seemed to frustrate the clown even more. He couldn't breathe through the blood in his lungs and his throat.

Joker mimicked his gasps for breath, crouching down beside the boy wonder and lifting his head by his hair.

"A little louder, lamb chop. I think you may have a collapsed lung. Always impedes the oratory."

Jason spit in his face, smirking triumphantly when crimson red marred the unnatural white of the man's face. The monologuing continued, but all Jason could offer in response was a flash of red teeth.

He knew better than to think that it was over with that, but his grip on consciousness was slipping away again. He closed his eyes and braced against every impact until he didn't have the strength to anymore, and then he listened.

He heard the door creak open, and the Joker's voice ringing over the sound of the harsh wind blowing through the comparatively small opening. Snow drifted in, past Joker, and scattered around the already cold room. The breeze pushed most into little piles, but he felt some stick to his face, chilling him.

As soon as the door closed, he was moving again. First he rolled backwards, pulling his arms under his body from behind so he could actually use his hands, and then he was crawling across the cold floor. Blood smeared a trail behind him, but he was so close, and it wasn't that far. Still, it took forever.

He made it to the door and used it to lean on while he dragged his knees beneath his body to lift himself up. The handcuffs on his wrist clinked softly against the metal, and he pulled as hard as he could on the handle. If he worked it hard enough, the handle itself might come loose from the door. Been a while since he's had to employ that particular method of lock 'picking', and never in the field, but there was a first for everything.

He gave one more good yank before sliding back down to the floor to breathe, and the silence that filled the room was piercing. Almost as much as the shrill beeping nestled among the crates to his left.

Slowly, he turned his head, green eyes wide with surprise and fear.

Nine seconds.

Eight seconds.

Seven

Six

Shock eased to acceptance. There was no escaping this. That window was small and he didn't take it when he had the chance.

He leaned back against the door and closed his eyes. He could see the fire again, only this time, ihis/i body was among the flames. Battered and broken. At least it wasn't Dick. Or Bruce, or Alfred. They could manage, and they stood a better chance than him anyway.

He took one last deep breath, holding it as long as he could.

Three

Two

One

Years and years would pass unhindered.

.

One death upon millions was nothing the world cared for, much less gave a passing glance. The death of Jason Todd was hardly any different in many ways.

Bruce Wayne, the boy's adoptive father, mourned publicly, as did the first son, Dick Grayson. Emotionally, family never moved on, but publicly, it was necessary.

Within a few weeks, the Joker was delivered to Arkham, beaten nearly to death and hysterical despite it. Laughing about finally breaking the bat like it was a game, and Robin wasn't allowed to play. Not for long, anyway.

News such as that never made it far out of the city, but there were some who kept tabs on it anyway.

John Winchester lost his son long ago, and relinquished any claim he had once he realized his own dire mistake. He had allowed a vengeful witch to get the drop on him, and his slip up lead to nothing but grief and pain. He wasn't strong enough to take responsibility, and if he had just…

If he'd taken Dean home when he found him, none of this would have happened. The damage wouldn't have been done.

It was all his fault, and he would never forgive himself for it.

And when Bobby found out, though, all hell broke loose.

Punches were thrown, and so were some unsavory words. The old man had seen those two boys like family, and when John had come back without Dean, it wedged a rift that they both knew would never be repaired. The man had his chance, and he threw it away.

That fight ended with Bobby chasing the man off his property with a loaded shotgun, only holding himself back because Sam had lost enough already.

John could live with the guilt, the elder hunter decided, or maybe he couldn't. Either way, Bobby wouldn't be the one to make that decision, and rob that poor kid of what little he had left.

And Sam. He was young enough when it happened that he didn't fully understand it. For a long time, he only knew that Dean lived with a safe family, and was happy. Dad would give that to him too, if he could, but there were dangerous things that made it impossible. There was a demon on their tail, and of what little they knew, it had its eyes on Sam in particular.

As he got older, his understanding grew with him. Dean only escaped that life because John let him slip through the cracks. On one hand, he knew that his father couldn't help what the witch had done, and letting Dean stay with a happy family was probably best. But on the other…

His brother was still dead.

There was no fixing it.

And years would pass and only a few people would care.

Only a few cared.

.

.

.

.

That was their first mistake.