Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural in any way, shape, or form.

Update 3/06: Fixed some punctuation errors that were making me cringe.

Roy nervously shifted his eyes from the road, over to Walt, and back again. They had been on the road since that morning, stopping only for gas and a quick lunch. It had only been a few hours since the incident with the Winchesters and Roy wasn't able to shake the feeling that something really awful was going to happen to them. Walt had insisted that nothing bad could happen to them if both brothers were dead. It was no secret in the hunter community that Winchesters were highly protective of each other. It was said (though never confirmed) that Dean, in order to save his younger brother, had gone to Hell and then managed to crawl back out again. True or not, most hunters weren't keen to get on the wrong side of Dean Winchester.

Then the apocalypse was started by none other than Sam Winchester, and hunters forgot that the brothers were the stuff of legend. A couple of hunters had found out from one of the Hell-spawn that Sam had been the one to free the devil, and they went after him, looking to use his freak abilities to kill demons. Sam ended up handing them their asses, but he didn't kill them.

That might have been a mistake. Everywhere they went, those two hunters told the story of Sam Winchester and his demon blood and how he was personally responsible for all the deaths that had occurred since the apocalypse started. It didn't take long for hunters to come up with the idea that they didn't need Sam's abilities, they needed to kill him. After all, he wasn't even fully human. A part-demon psychopath that had destroyed the world was no better than the scum hunters killed on a day to day basis, and he most certainly could never be trusted. What was to stop him simply joining up with the demons instead of killing them?

That was the reason Roy and Walt had started hunting the Winchesters, though they were by no means the only ones. Roy wasn't sure how many hunters had undertaken the job, but he knew that there had been dozens at least. He also knew that all of them had been having no luck in tracking down the brothers. He and Walt had always seemed to be several steps behind them, only hearing whispers of them and the tail ends of stories of what they had done. They had heard that nothing could stop them—not demons or angels or any other creature upon the earth. The Winchesters didn't stop hunting whatever was threatening them until the thing was salted and burned.

But now they were both dead, so there should be no reason to feel nervous.

Right?

Walt looked over at Roy and sighed. "Give it a rest, Roy. I already told you. Nothin's gonna happen. They're both dead."

"Yeah, but..." Roy twitched nervously. "You heard what Dean said. And we both heard the stories… how he climbed outta Hell."

Walt scoffed. "Those are just stories, man. I bet Winchester made them up just to give himself a reputation."

Roy swallowed, unconvinced. "Maybe."

Walt eventually suggested they stop at a motel for the night, which Roy was grateful for. He hadn't been the one to do the actual shooting, but he had participated in the killing as a whole. He hadn't wanted to kill Dean. He didn't believe in killing humans—that made a man no better than the monster's that he hunted. Sam had been one thing—he was basically one of those evil things from Hell—but Dean was a whole different story.

But what was done was done, and Roy couldn't change it even if he wanted to.

The motel they ended up at was cheap and dirty—like every other motel they'd ever been in. It smelled like a combination of cigarettes and vomit, the beds creaked ominously, the bathroom wasn't really fit for humans, and there was a stain on the carpet that looked suspiciously like blood.

Roy really couldn't judge the stain seeing how he and Walt had left a few similar ones of their own over the past years. Even just that morning.

Roy tossed his bag on one of the beds and threw himself down in the cleaner looking chair while Walt claimed the bathroom. Roy was grateful for the few brief minutes alone, as it gave him time to think.

Roy and Walt had been hunting together since the beginning of their hunting career. They'd been two neighbor kids in Utah, home from college for the summer, when their neighborhood became a werewolf's hunting ground. Walt's mother and Roy's little sister were both killed—presumably by a wild dog. The entire neighborhood tried to find that dog, but they couldn't. Of course, they happened to be searching during the day. Then when more people started dying, all at night, drastic measures were taken. Walt, Roy, and many of the other men in the neighborhood all went out one night to search for it and to kill it.

But it ended up being a massacre. Walt and Roy both saw their crazy, loner neighbor, Frank Benson, attack their group with fangs and claws, snarling like a wild animal. The men tried to defend themselves but it was no use. Frank ripped quite a few of them to shreds, but ran off just before dawn. Roy and Walt were unscathed but they were among the few.

The moon waned and there were no more attacks, but the damage was done. Families were left grieving and heartbroken, unaware that the danger was still out there.

Frank Benson was still out there.

Roy postponed going back to college, deciding to stay home and console his mother and father, when Walt came knocking on his door, bearing books and spouting off things about werewolves. Roy thought he was crazy—Walt had always seemed a little off to him. They had never really spoken to each other beyond the occasional "Hello" and "How are you?" They lived right next to each other, but they went to separate schools and barely saw each other. Walt was the kind of kid who was confident and cocky and did things himself if you were too slow on the uptake. Roy took the more laid back approach. He preferred waiting and watching, always being sure of what he was doing.

And that's exactly what Roy did after Walt left, taking his thick, ancient books with him. Frank Benson was not a werewolf because werewolves didn't exist. Sure, Walt had shown him a lunar chart, and the attacks did happen to line up with the full moon. But that didn't prove anything. And sure, the attacks only happened at night. But lots of murders happened at night.

But those people, his sister included, had been ripped apart—their hearts missing—and everyone thought it was a dog.

That was the only reason Roy wasn't calling to have Walt committed. He was going to wait and see. Because, even though he was pretty sure that Frank had just been on some killer drugs and was most likely lying dead somewhere from all the injuries he had received, Roy had to be one hundred percent sure that no harm was going to come to his family ever again.

Weeks passed. The first day of the full moon found Roy waiting outside, just in front of his house, a rifle in his hands. He heard the snarling first, and then the growling, and that was when he began to think that Walt wasn't as crazy as he originally thought. Roy came face to face with a werewolf that night, and of course his rifle was of no use. He would have died the same as his sister if Walt hadn't come charging in, pistol loaded with silver bullets at the ready. Roy didn't even ask where Walt had gotten silver bullets. He was just grateful to be alive.

Frank Benson was dead, but there were other werewolves out there. One of them had turned Frank into a monster. They both agreed, on that night, to hunt every werewolf in existence and kill them.

Then there were ghosts.

Then there were shapeshifters.

Then there were demons.

And then there was Sam Winchester.

Which brought Roy back to the present, yet not very pleasant, reality of just having murdered Dean Winchester in his bed.

Walt exited the bathroom and shot Roy a look that clearly said, get over it now before I get really mad.

So Roy said nothing.

The next morning, Roy was still anxious to get on the road. At the moment, he didn't care if Walt was going to be irritated at him for the rest of their short, miserable lives. He just wanted to get as far away from the Winchester's motel as possible. The night had brought nightmares of Winchester spirits and blood splattered walls, but the morning had brought his mind no relief. Roy was nearly at his wit's end.

Walt seemed to sense this, because for once he didn't say anything. Roy knew he must look pretty awful to have silenced Walt.

They were dressed and packed in record time. Walt stuck his gun in the back of his jeans, but Roy left his in his bag. He didn't trust himself not to start shooting at anything that moved. As they prepared to leave, Roy suddenly had the most terrible feeling of dread come upon him.

They opened the motel door and were met with the sight of two very familiar faces. Sam and Dean Winchester had their guns pointed in their faces, and Dean had a blazing look of hatred on his face. Keeping his gun in his right hand, Dean seized Walt's collar and pushed him back into the room. Sam did the same to Roy, kicking the motel door closed behind him and crushing any hope Roy had of seeing tomorrow.

Dean shoved Walt down onto one of the beds and Roy joined him, courtesy of Sam.

"Hey, Walt," said Dean with a sneer. "Long time no see."

Walt gritted his teeth and glared up at the elder brother. Roy saw Walt's hand twitch toward his hidden gun. "Winchester. Didn't I kill you already?"

Dean shrugged. "Didn't take." He and his gun moved a little closer to Walt. Roy glanced at Sam and his gun, still aimed at his heart.

"You see, Walt, I'm going to tell you something that I've learned over a whole life of hunting. It is very hard to kill me, and I mean very hard. Lots of evil sons of bitches have tried it, and I've killed them. Even when they do manage to put me down for a while I just come right back." He smiled darkly. "I don't even know how many times I've died." He shook his head. "Do you know how many times I've died, Sam?"

"A hundred and fifty-five."

Dean, Roy, and Walt all gaped at Sam.

"What?" Sam asked looking at Dean.

Dean furrowed his eyebrows. "How did you manage to keep track of every single time I died? And when did I have time to die 155 times?"

Sam shrugged. "You're my brother, and uh… Mystery Spot."

Deans raised his eyebrows. "Wow. That's a lot of Tuesdays, man."

"You have no idea," Sam said darkly.

Roy, indeed, didn't have any idea what Sam was talking about.

Dean's gaze lingered on Sam a moment longer, before he turned back to Walt.

"Okay, so how many times have I died, not including the mystery spot?"

"… Twice."

"What?" Dean turned back to Sam, arms opened wide, though the gun remained pointed at Walt. "How can it be twice? I've died way more times than that. How many times have you died?"

"Five."

"Five?" Dean tilted his head forward and raised his eyebrows. "Five? You've died more times than I have?" He began wildly gesturing with his arms—though the gun still managed to point at Walt. "When did you die so much? I already know the time you were stabbed in the back by psychic boy."

"Yeah," said Sam. "And I was struck by lightning in that wishing well town."

"The one with the huge bi-polar teddy bear?" Dean asked enthusiastically, and then frowned. "You never told me about that."

Sam shrugged. "Zachariah removed my lungs that once, and Anna stabbed me when we traveled back in time to save our parents… and we were both just shot."

Dean growled at the last one. He stared at Sam and then turned back to Walt saying, "We're counting the Mystery Spot."

Roy saw Sam's fond smile that Dean missed.

Both Roy and Walt had listened to the little exchange between the Winchesters with fear, awe, and downright disbelief. Suddenly all the other rumors about the Winchesters didn't' seem so far-fetched. And no matter if they were making it all up on the spot just to freak them out, Roy knew for certain that he and Walt wouldn't be getting out of this alive.

Dean once again seized Walt's collar and growled right in his face. "So you see, Walt, me and my brother don't really need anybody to help us die… we do enough of that already. And if it were up to me, your brains would be splattered all over the wall by now."

"Dean," said Sam quietly.

Dean glanced at his brother. "But it wasn't just my decision. So you know what we're going to do? We're going to let you live."

Roy felt his jaw drop and saw Walt's do the same.

"You know why we're going to let you live? Because of him," he said, pointing to Sam. "The man that you called evil, the man you killed, convinced me to let you live."

Roy felt an unpleasant weight settle in his stomach.

"We're gonna let you live, and you're gonna tell every single hunter you come across that nobody messes with the Winchesters. You tell them that I went to Hell and back, and nothing and nobody scares me. And you tell them that if they come after me or Sam ever again they won't be as lucky as you two. The last hunter that tried to kill my brother got turned into a vampire and beheaded with razor-wire."

Roy could tell from the look on Sam's face that Dean hadn't been the one to do the beheading during that particular incident. He knew that Walt could see it too.

Dean backed away from the bed—Sam as well. They kept their guns on them until they reached the door and turned away.

That was when Walt made his move. With lightning speed, he had drawn the pistol hidden in the back of his pants and aimed it at Sam.

"No!" Roy yelled, but it was too late.

There was a deafening bang and Roy felt something warm and sticky hit his face and hands. He looked over at Walt and saw him sprawled back on the bed, a vaguely surprised expression on his face and a bullet hole in his head.

Roy turned open-mouthed to the Winchesters. Sam's gun was raised, and a sad yet hard look graced his face. But it wasn't his gun that was smoking.

Dean held the recently fired weapon, staring at Walt's body with disgust. He lowered his gun and looked at Roy. Roy cringed.

Dean clenched his jaw. "You remember what I said, Roy." And with that, he opened the door and disappeared.

Sam made to follow his brother, but he gave Roy one last backward glance; and it looked like he was saying 'I'm sorry' and 'I forgive you' at the same time.

And that hurt more than Roy thought it could.

Walt was no Winchester. He didn't pop right back up off the bed and punch Roy on the arm for thinking he was dead. He didn't show up at Roy's motel door a few weeks later and berate him for moping about his death. He didn't cheat death. Roy was left all alone with no one to watch his back. He had nothing anymore.

So Roy did the only thing he could do. He kept hunting, and he spent the next few months doing exactly what Dean had told him to. Every time he met another hunter or worked a case with one, he would tell them the story of how Walt died (frankly, Roy was surprised at how many guys believed him, but he wasn't the only one who had heard the stories). He did this for months, all while the apocalypse went raging on. Roy expected every day to be the last, but each day was always followed by another. So Roy kept telling the story.

And then one day it just stopped. All the deaths and the freak storms and the reports of demons taking over the earth just ceased. And with the end of the apocalypse came the story of how it was done. Sam Winchester had sacrificed his own life and thrown Lucifer back into Hell. Roy wasn't the only one stunned at the news. All the hunters, who had wanted Sam's head on a plate, suddenly had nothing to say about the man. Roy wondered how many of them would have been able to do what Sam did.

He knew the answer was none.

Sam was dead, for sure this time; the news that Dean had quit hunting reached Roy, and he knew Sam was never coming back. He was locked up in Hell with Lucifer.

So when Roy and some fellow hunters were enjoying a few friendly beers in a bar after a successful hunt, the last thing they expected was Sam Winchester to walk up to the bar, perfectly alive, and order a beer himself.

Which was exactly what happened.

Roy and his fellow hunters watched agape as Sam gave the female bartender a leering smile and took a sip of beer. Sam turned away from the bar and caught sight of the group at their table. His eyes locked on Roy's and he tilted his head, narrowing his eyes slightly as though pondering where he had seen Roy before. And then Sam smiled in sudden recognition—a horrible smile that held no warmth or joy—with eyes that had something dark stirring inside of them.

Roy was frozen stiff. It was the look of a true hunter who saw his prey and knew that he had infinite power over it.

It was the look of a man that had been pulled from Hell and turned into the world's most deadly killing machine.

It was the kind of look Roy had expected from the Sam Winchester he had thought to be evil.

Smile still in place, Sam inclined his head to Roy, took his beer, and left.

Roy switched to whiskey, grateful for the burning sensation it left as it traveled down his throat. He had never been so scared in all his life, and all Sam had done was look at him.

Roy knew in that moment that not only were Winchesters a whole different breed of crazy, but also that nothing—nothing—could ever kill them.

Not even the devil, himself.

[A/N: Thanks for reading! I couldn't really see Dean letting getting shot lie, and in my opinion, I think he was planning on killing Walt all along; he just wanted to give him a chance for Sam's sake.

The quote: "Didn't I kill you already?" "Didn't take" is from Heroes, another one of my favorite shows.

If you've read this far, I would love a review.]