Chapter Text

The Disciple

Part 1

 John the Baptist

(7) ¶And as they departed, Jesus began to say unto the multitudes concerning John, What went ye out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken with the wind? (8) But what went ye out for to see? A man clothed in soft raiment? behold, they that wear soft clothing are in kings’ houses. (9) But what went ye out for to see? A prophet? yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophet.

Matthew 11

I

 In those days came John the Baptist, preaching in the wilderness of Judæa, 2 And saying, Repent ye: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand. 5 Then went out to him Jerusalem, and all Judæa, and all the region round about Jordan,

Matthew 3

Around the time he turned fourteen, Dean Winchester crafted the “48 hour rule.”

It went like this. He could tolerate being in any town, anywhere, for any reason, for 48 hours. If, however, by the end of that time he had run out of girls to nail, jerks to hustle, and/or monsters to kill, each additional minute there was only slightly less torturous than the fires of hell.  

The rule had been tested hundreds of times by hundreds of one-light towns in 48 States over the course of thirteen years, and it held true every time.

For example, Little Missouri was a no-name, po-dunk, dead-end town stuck in the south-west end of Montana within shooting distance of Wyoming and South Dakota. However, within the first 48 hours Dean successfully hooked up with a waitress at the diner, tried all the other restaurants in town, relieved a couple of truckers of their money and their pride, ensured that no there was no signs of supernatural activity, and saw the latest Spiderman remake.

Forty-eight hours . . . not too bad.

Except for the three and a half years that followed it.

Dean glowered at the dust-colored, one-story ranch house as he turned off the highway and onto the gravel path up to the driveway. Some days, he could pretend he did not hate every civilian inch of the place. Other days, not so much.

He knew, at least John constantly reminded him, that they were damned lucky to have the stupid thing. Once John finally got out of the hospital, they were facing life trapped as quasi-civilians, quasi-hunters, which seemed to leave them the entirely unappealing option of camping in Bobby Singer’s living room for the foreseeable future. Despite his previous, nearly violent, falling out with John, Bobby immediately responded to Dean’s desperate call once John had been wheeled into an operating room with a mangled chest and leg and looking like he was not coming back out. Then, once they learned that John would live, if crippled, Bobby spent several weeks handling doctors, cajoling John through physical therapy, and pressing coffee, fast food, and beer into Dean’s hands. Once John was finally released, they’d crashed at Bobby’s, but the truce would have ended quickly, and badly, if they had stayed more than—of course—forty-eight hours.

So it was lucky, it was god-damned miraculous, actually, that Bobby’s old partner Rufus had a place ten miles outside of Little Missouri, Montana, that was quiet, easily navigable for someone with a mangled leg, and had certain . . . features . . . that allowed Dean and Dad to still stay --somewhat-- in the game.

In fact, Dean thought he and John might be the first hunters in all of history to turn a profit. It turned out hunters—newbies and veterans alike—were willing to pay, and pay well, for the expertise of the famed John Winchester and the . . . emerging research . . . of his son, Dean. That combined with the barter/pawn/trade of weapons, amulets, and books on lore based from their living room actually gave them something the closest thing to sustainable income they had enjoyed since before the fire.

That did not change the fact that, aside from the occasional hunt, Dean was trapped in a house in the middle of nowhere with only his Dad, and sometimes, their guests, for company.

Speaking of . . .

John’s truck was missing from the driveway, so Dean parked, pulled his duffle bag out of the back seat, let himself in, tossed the bag blindly in the living room, then walked through the kitchen without bothering to turn on any of the lights. He unlocked a door leading to a cement set of stairs, carefully locked that door behind him, descended the steps, used a different key to unlock another door at the bottom of the stairs, locked that behind him before turning and addressing the room at large.

“Darling!” he called, “I’m hooome!”

He was met by the faint clinking of chains and a hissed expletive. Dean chuckled at the noise, and pulled yet another key out of his keyring, “Yep, girl. I missed you too.”

He unlocked the door, steeling his face against the onslaught of blood, filth, and misery that met him on the other side.

A shifter, in the form of a blonde-haired, middle-aged woman (and yea, she did remind Dean of someone) glared up at him. She was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, but both articles of clothing were bloody and torn to the point of uselessness, revealing dozens of shallow cuts. It hung in heavy, silver manacles from the ceiling, while similar silver shackles—added by Dean to curb the shifter’s kicking habit—bound its feet together.

“I’m sorry I don’t have dinner ready for you,” it said, managing to sound pissed to hell, despite its rasp from screaming and dehydration.

Dean did not bother holding back a laugh, “Me too. I’m going to have to microwave my frozen burritos on my own.”

The shifter’s eyes widened. Dean could practically hear its stomach growl. Dad said he had not fed it in three days. Dean pretended to consider the shifter for a few seconds, “I could heat up a couple more, if you could happen to remember the answer to the question we were discussing before I went away.”

It took a couple of seconds, but the shifter finally worked its face up into something resembling a leer, “My last meal sure as hell’d better be more than frozen burritos.”

“That’s entirely up to you,” Dean said, “I could be talked into arranging something nicer, if I like what I hear.”

“And I don’t suppose you’d like to hear that I have absolutely no idea what the hell an Alpha is?” it said, shooting him a simpering smile.

“Not quite what I had in mind,” Dean shut the door to the shifter’s cell, “But I’ll be sure to let you enjoy the smell of my humble meal.”

He turned and left the basement, careful to relock each door behind him.

John was pulling off his boots and sagging onto the couch when Dean reemerged into the kitchen.

“Hey Dad!” he called, grabbing two beers from the fridge and setting them down on the coffee table before sitting on the couch and wrapping his father in a bear hug. John returned the embrace, giving Dean a couple, final claps on the shoulder before pulling away and popping open his beer.

“How’s it going, kid?” he asked, leaning against the couch with a grunt as he stretched his bad leg. Dean averted his eyes from the mass of muscle and scar tissue by habit, even if it was hidden under a pair of the athletic pants John now favored over jeans.

“Not bad,” Dean said, opening his own beer, “Wrapped up that hunt in Idaho easily enough.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Poltergeist,” he shrugged, “Pretty straightforward.”

“Glad to hear it. And our visitor?”

“Same as before. Sassy pain in my ass, but not inclined to give up anything soon. I was planning on waving some frozen burritos in front of its nose in a few.”

“That’s what always worked on you,” John agreed with a small smile that quickly descended back into his usual grimace, “When are you thinking of pulling the cord on it?”

“I’m still willing to give it a couple weeks more. S’not like we’ve got anything better to do.”

“Would like to know more about that Alpha thing the last vamp let slip.”

“Yea, but that’s still curiosity more than anything. We’re a long way from being able to publish that for the hunting community, ‘specially since most of their focus is still on demons.”

“As it should be,” John growled with half a glance at his bum leg.

They drank in the nearest thing to companionable silence that John’s perpetual brooding allowed before Dean finally went and stuck a couple of those damn burritos in the microwave. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but after three-and-a-half years of interrogating things that go bump in the night, he knew hunger and sleep deprivation were two of the most effective tortures out there.

He grunted. Dean Winchester. Monster torturer. Sure, he was only torturing things that he would have killed without a question on a hunt, and the knowledge he extracted had saved dozens of lives . . .

Still, he was a messed-up bastard.

Thankfully, his cellphone interrupted the pity party, so Dean only scowled a little when he saw the caller id.

“Yes, Walker,” he said without preamble.

“Hey Dean,” Gordon said, clearly unperturbed by the less-than-friendly greeting. Dean figured that Gordon was used to it, or at least too caught up in blood-lust to care. “Heard you just cleaned up a nasty poltergeist in Boise.”

“Wasn’t much trouble,” he replied curtly.

“It’s nice to hear you can get back in the game every once in a while.”

Dean gritted his teeth against the condescension in the Gordon’s voice, “I’m assuming you wanted more than to shoot the breeze, Walker.”

“That I do,” Gordon agreed, “I’m at your local motel. Got something I thought you might be interested in purchasing.”

“Depends what it is.” A strange economy centered around Dean’s hell house. At first, just Dean, Bobby, and Rufus had brought the odd monster or demon in for interrogation, but now, hunters across the country sold their shifters, vamps, gouls, and even the occasional demon to Dean in exchange for a couple hundred bucks and insider’s scoop on whatever information he extracted.

“This is something I guarantee you’ve never seen before. It’s demonic.”

“We don’t take demons unless we know the host is dead.” They’d only made that rule after they’d killed yellow-eyes, but still, Dean needed to pretend there were limits.

“I didn’t say it was a demon. I said it was demonic. There’s no host, but this thing’s straight out of hell. Trust me, you want to come.”

Dean hesitated, flicking his eyes over to Dad, who had undoubtedly overheard the entire exchange. Sure enough, after a moment’s hesitation, Dad nodded, and Dean said, “I’ll be right over.”

“Bring a little extra cash. I expect more than a couple measly Ben Franklin’s for this one.”

Dean didn’t bother to answer.

II

(29) The next day John seeth Jesus coming unto him, and saith, Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world. (30) This is he of whom I said, After me cometh a man which is preferred before me: for he was before me.

 John 1

Gordon answered before Dean had a chance to knock, “Winchester,” he smiled, “Glad you came.”

“What you got for me?”

“I’ll be honest, Dean-o, I’m not sure it’s got a name yet”. Gordon pulled the door open just wide enough for Dean slip through before closing and locking it behind him.

Dean blinked in the dim light before his eyes focused on the figure kneeling on the floor, between the single bed and old radiator. Its hands and ankles were chained behind its with shackles inscribed with anti-demon wards one of Dean’s—guests—had told him about just a few months after settling in Little Missouri. Whatever demonic powers this thing had, the cuffs shut them down. A short length of chain connected the chains at the things wrists and ankles, pulling its arms uncomfortably close to the floor and making it impossible for it to stand. A metal collar hung around its neck and a chain extended from it to the radiator. That precaution seemed a little redundant seeing as it was kneeling on a tarp with a devil’s trap painted on it, surrounded by a salt line, but Dean could not blame Gordon for being cautious.

Satisfied that Gordon secured it well enough, Dean turned his attention to the thing itself. It looked like (was?) a young man, twenty-four, twenty-five at the most, with long features, shaggy brown hair, hazel eyes and a wide nose. Gordon had removed everything excepts the thing’s jeans, so Dean could tell its body was fit, even looked a little bit like out of a magazine, with well-defined muscles and tanned skin. However, the scars that riddled the things arms, chest, and back marred the movie-star image, as well as the handful of bruises, cuts, and welts the thing had accumulated during (and undoubtedly after) its encounter with Gordon.

The thing was gagged, but it turned its head at Dean and Gordon’s appearance and surveyed them calmly. It scanned Dean up and down with cold, appraising eyes before returning its attention to the wall, leaving Dean with the distinct impression that he had been judged and found wanting.

He had seen dozens of tough-guy acts from nearly every sentient monster out there, but this was the first time Dean honestly believed the monster was not afraid.

“Well, there you go,” Gordon said, “What do you think?”

“I think it looks a hell of a lot like a demon.”

“That’s what I thought too, until I tried every exorcism I knew, including some from you and your Daddy, and none of them did more than make this thing blink.”

“I’m listening,” Dean said slowly. He stepped closer to the creature. It looked vaguely bored.

“Here’s something else I found interesting,” Gordon opened a flask of what Dean instantly recognized as holy water and splashed it in the thing’s face. It flinched at the contact, but the whole sizzling, steaming, screaming effect holy water usually had was notably absent.

“Now I know holy water didn’t bother yellow-eyes,” Gordon said, “But have you ever seen anything else react like that? Like it was just an nuisance?”

“No,” Dean admitted.

“You’ll be glad to know, though, that dumping this stuff,” Gordon shook the flask, “down its gullet or injecting it with a syringe produces much more satisfying results. Might not scream quite like a demon, but it’s still mighty painful.”

“Seems like you’re doing my job for me,” Dean’s stomach clenched uncomfortably at the unabashed pleasure in Gordon’s eyes. However, the thing seemed unperturbed by the discussion of its own torture.

“Maybe someday,” Gordon said, “For now, the open road still calls. Now come here. There’s something else I want to show you.”

He crossed over the devil’s trap and salt line to the creature and, reluctantly, Dean followed.

“Make sure to hold it down,” Gordon instructed, turning to unlock the chain from the radiator. Sure enough, the thing, started squirming immediately, but settled down relatively quickly once Dean locked his arm around its neck.

“That’s right, buddy,” Gordon said, “You be good, and this shouldn’t hurt too badly.” He unlocked the chain connecting the thing’s wrist and ankle shackles, but only on the wrist end, allowing the end of the chain to fall around its ankles. Then Gordon stood, wrapping the collar chain around his wrist a couple times, he said, “You know the drill you demonic bitch. Hands and knees.”

The thing glared up at Gordon. Where they were bored before, the things eyes were now ferocious, and it bared its teeth through the gag. Dean wondered if those anti-demon wards were actually as good as the lore said.

Gordon didn’t seem to mind the thing’s fury. Instead, he swiftly kicked its chest, ass, and side, sending it face-forward to the floor.

“That’s a good doggie” he cooed, as the thing slowly rose to its hands and knees, “Now come with your master.”

He tugged on the chain, and the thing growled, but followed, crawling as quickly as its shackles allowed. Dean raised his eyebrows as it crawled out of the devil’s trap and through the salt line, shuddering both times, but otherwise without hesitation.

“Interesting, right?” Gordon said, “Come on, boy,” he tugged at the chain, “Time for dinner.” He glanced back at Dean, “There’s one more thing.”

Dean obliged, following Gordon and the thing across the room to the far corner where there was a plastic bowl holding a small amount of what looked like . . .

“It’s blood alright,” Gordon confirmed, stopping a few feet from the bowl “Demon blood, actually. My informant told me that’s the only stuff this thing can stomach. Says that’s where it gets its power from. Seems true, too, I shoved soup and booze down its throat and it threw it up almost immediately, sick as a dog.” Gordon chuckled and ruffled a hand through the thing’s hair, “Ain’t that right, boy?”

The thing closed its eyes, as if trying to pretend Gordon’s hand was not there before opening them again and fixing all its attention on the plastic bowl. It was only then Dean noticed it had started trembling, and its back and face suddenly glistened with sweat.

“It hasn’t eaten for thirty-six hours,” Gordon explained. Dean watched as it pulled as hard as it could against the chain in Gordon’s hand, reaching for the bowl and falling only a few inches short.

“The blood’s more than water and food to this bastard,” Gordan sneered at it as it still strained and panted for the bowl, “Take blood away from a vampire and it’s like taking food and water from a human. But this thing? This thing feels a lot more than stomach cramps without its demon juice.”

“So it’s basically a demon blood junkie,” Dean said.

“Exactly. A junkie with the withdrawal from hell. And that, my friend, is your way in.” Gordon returned his attention to the thing at his feet, “Alright, doggie, are you hungry?”

The thing froze, closed its eyes, and, after a second, nodded.

“Good doggie,” Gordon’s eyes glittered with pleasure, “If you want to eat, then I want you to beg.”

The thing kept its eyes closed.

“Common doggie, beg!”

Once again, the thing ignored him.

Dean raised an eyebrow and glanced at Gordon, but he did not seem perturbed. “Guess I was wrong, Dean,” he said, “It’s not hungry after all. Would you mind washing out the bowl for me?”

Dean decided to follow the play, “No problem.” He walked to the corner and picked up the bowl.

The thing’s eyes snapped open and it shot a wild, almost frantic, glance at Dean before turning, falling on its face in front of Gordon, sticking its butt in the air, and whimpering . . . like a dog.

“Well look at that,” Gordon jeered, “Guess it’s decided to change its mind. Would you mind bringing us the bowl, Dean?”

“Will do,” Dean said, setting the bowl at Gordon’s feet. Gordon removed the gag, and the next second, the thing launched for the bowl, desperately licking the blood out. Within a few seconds, the bowl was spotless.

“I never give it more than a couple of tablespoons,” Gordon said, handing Dean the collar chain and retying the gag. He took the chain back, jostled the things neck a couple of times and said, “Keeping it starved keeps it docile, and, like I said, it gets its power from this crap, and my informant assures me that, charged up, this thing can do some batshit crazy stuff.

“And your informant is?”

“Demon by the name of Ruby.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, “And you’re taking the word of a demon.”

“Demons have politics just like the rest of us,” Gordon jerked on the chain again, “This puppy was a hot-shot. His faction was ready to take over the throne in hell from a bitch named Lilith.”

Dean nodded, “A couple of demons have mentioned her, yea.”

“Like I said,” Gordon nodded, “Apparently this Ruby chick wormed his way into this thing’s inner circle, even into its pants. Then, right when it was ready to take a shot at Lilith, she turned on him, trussed it up like a Christmas present for the Queen of hell.”

“So how did you get him?”

“I noticed some omens. Standard lightning strikes, cow mutilation type stuff, tracked them down to the motel they were staying at. Overpowered the Ruby bitch, found out what I needed to know, and sent her back to the pit. Then I ran my own tests on the bastard, and decided to turn it over to you.”

The thing was on its hands and knees again. It stared stoically ahead, as if the last ten minutes of humiliation never happened.

“I see,” Dean said slowly.

“Best I can figure, this thing’s some sort of demon/human/vampire hybrid,” Gordon continued, “Don’t know how they hell they made it, but it’s obviously a major player.”

“Not arguing with you there,” Dean said, circling the thing slowly to get a better look. He adopted a Gordon like jeer, “I think the two of us will have lots of fun together.”

The thing did not react.

“I thought you might,” Gordon flashed him a sadistic smile, “I figure you give me a cool thousand, and we will both be on our merry way.”

“A thousand,” Dean shook his head, “You’re right, this things a treasure trove of new info, but I never pay more than three hundred for a monster.”

“This is hardly just a monster.”

Dean considered the thing at Gordon’s feet, “Which is why I’m willing to take it up to five.”

“Now Dean, you can see how much fun me and this thing have been having together,” Gordon said, running his fingers through the thing’s hair, “For a measly five hundred, I might as well set up shop and interrogate it myself.”

Dean set his jaw, “I won’t pay more than six. After that, go ahead and have your own fun.”

“Oh Dean,” Gordon chuckled, “I don’t think you mean that. You see, Ruby told me one more thing before I sent her ass back to the pit.”

“And that is?”

Gordon’s smile widened, “Before this boy was looking to overthrow hell, he had a mentor, almost like a father. He was the bastard’s second-in-command until he was killed, a few years ago, by you.”

It took several seconds for Dean to process Gordon’s words, but finally, he said, “Are you saying that this bastard’s yellow-eyes’ kid?”

“Son and heir-apparent,” Gordon agreed, “Now tell me, Dean, are you really going to let a few hundred dollars stand in the way of one hundred percent access to the right-hand man of the bastard who killed your mother . . . and baby Sammy?”

Gordon was kind enough to, as part of his thousand-dollar deal, help Dean get the creature home and into the basement using all of Gordon’s chains, placing a black bag over its head, and frog marching it under the cover of night into the house. Dean went ahead, unlocking and locking doors as Gordon led the creature into through the house and down the stairs into the basement, kicking it down the last couple of steps once Dean had opened the second door.

“That’s not a burrito,” the shifter called after hearing the thunk of the thing’s body hitting the concrete.

“You break it, you buy it,” Dean growled.

“Just having a bit of fun,” Gordon said, “It’s my way of saying goodbye.”

Deciding not to deign that with a response, Dean grabbed the things arms and pulled it to its feet. It thrashed a little, but settled surprisingly quickly after Dean said, “Alright buddy, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. The choice is yours.”

He led the thing to the second cell, eyeing a pair of iron manacles, also inscribed with demon wards, hanging from the ceiling. Rufus had been disturbingly thorough while planning his dungeon, installing shackles with adjustable chains at ever side in of the room that could be vaguely useful.

“Grab me those stools,” Dean said, nodding at the corner farthest from the shifter’s cell, where a large supply shelf, a small foldable table, and a couple of short stools surrounded a large, old-fashioned, wood-burning furnace.

“I like the way you think,” Gordon said, glancing at the manacles. He quickly grabbed the stools, setting one in front of Dean and the creature, respectively.

“Up!” Dean barked, slapping the thing’s stool and climbing on his own. It obeyed and raised its arms at Dean’s command. Dean waited until Gordon had a blade pressed against the creature’s throat before unlocking its left shackle and relocking it’s wrist into one of the manacles before repeating the process with the right wrist. He left the ankle shackles be and unlocked the chain connected to the collar, but, after a moment’s hesitation, left the collar itself on. He could always use the extra warding.

After double-checking all the creature’s locks, Dean hopped off his stool and kicked the thing’s stool away. It fell with a grunt, its toes barely brushing the cement.

“Looks good to me,” Gordon smiled, “So I’ll be off.”

It took Dean five minutes to see Gordon out then return to the basement. “Keep the chains,” Gordon said, “I’ve also got three gallons of demon blood in my trunk. I’ll leave them on the porch before I head out . . . should be enough for you, I think.”

“More than enough, if it only needs feeding every thirty-six hours.”

“In that case,” Gordon said. “Good doing business with you, Winchester.”

“Gordon,” Dean replied tacitly. He didn’t bother watching Gordon leave, but was careful to lock the door behind him.

“Do I have a new roommate!” the shifter squealed, as much as its parched throat would allow, as Dean headed back down the stairs.

“Looks like,” Dean agreed, “’fraid I still don’t have those burritos for you, by the way.”

“Maybe next time.”

He unlocked the shifter’s cell door, “Not for a while,” he said, drawing a length of cloth from his pocket and gagging it. He felt the shifter tense as he approached. Good. Maybe he was finally drilling the fear of God, or at least of Dean Winchester, in it. “No need to become prison buddies just yet,” he muttered before locking the cell door behind him.

Quickly pushing any lingering thoughts of the shifter behind, he focused his attention on the thing swinging slowly in the next cell. It was only now, as Dean saw it extended to its full body weight, that he realized how tall the thing was—well over six feet—with muscle mass that doubled his bulk. Beaten, half-naked, blindfolded, and hanging from the ceiling, the thing still exuded an air of danger far deeper than the petty power plays Gordon found so titillating.

“Name’s Dean Winchester,” Dean finally said, after a couple more minutes of contemplation, “I figure you picked up on that. You’re on my turf, and you will remain here for the rest of your life. How long and peaceful that life is, is entirely up to you.”

He drew a small knife from his pocket and approached the thing, laying a hand on its back to steady it a little. Without another word, he cut through the creature’s jeans from its waistband to its ankle and pulled the denim off. He did the same to the thing’s boxers, leaving it completely exposed, except for the hood over its head.

“I’m not going to lie,” he said, tracing the knife gently up the thing’s back, around it’s chest, and up its neck, “This is going to hurt. You’re going to be in pain. You’re going to be starving, or freezing, or burning, or bleeding, or screaming until the day I finally decide I’m bored and put you out of your misery. The only choice you have left, is deciding how easy this is for you. Me? I’m going to be having fun no matter what.”

Dean drew a shot glass and a small flask from his pocket and poured a little over a teaspoon of the red, viscous liquid into the glass and setting it in the far corner of the cell.

“I won’t have time for a proper chat for a few days,” he said, “So I’ll leave you here for a bit to ponder what tone you think our new relationship should take.”

He shoved the thing so that it was swinging again, exited the cell and locked the door behind him, and heaped several logs of wood into the furnace next to the supply shelf in the far corner of the room.

“Enjoy the sauna, you two!” he shouted before finally heading upstairs.

Dad was waiting for him when Dean came back upstairs, eyes fixed to the camera feed from the basement streaming to his laptop.

“So, what the hell is it?” he asked without preamble as Dean poured himself a generous glass of scotch and seated himself next to his father.

“Well, Gordon was right when he said it was something new,” Dean said, “Seems to be some sort of demon-human hybrid. Not sure how or why it was created, but it sounds like the real deal.”

“And your great plan to break it is take its clothes off?” John said drily.

Biting back a harsh retort, Dean shrugged, “That thing’s got scars all over its body, I don’t think pain by itself will get us far, but from what I saw with Gordon, humiliation seems to rattle it . . . just not nearly as much as Gordon liked to think.”

“That man is one sadistic son-of-a-bitch,” John growled.

“He hasn’t tortured half as many monsters as I have.” Dean looked away from the screen in favor of pouring himself another shot of whiskey.

He felt his father’s gaze bearing down on him, “Don’t be a moody teenager, Dean. You’re not Gordon. That bastard gets off on pain. You just do what needs to be done, and you’ve saved a hell of a lot of lives doing it too.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Dead said dryly and drained his glass, “I’m gonna grab a few hours shut-eye before I put some more wood in the stove.”

“Sweat ‘em out,” John chuckled humorlessly, “I’ll keep an eye on things,” he nodded at the screen, “Let you know if anything changes.”

Nodding, Dean stood. He opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it again, and headed toward the hall, “Goodnight Dad,”

“Goodnight son,” came the reply.

Not bothering to brush his teeth or change, Dean flipped on the light on his nightstand and sank onto his bed. This was not how the evening was supposed to go.

He had planned on getting a lot drunker, for one thing.

Dean closed his eyes and ran a hand down his face, then shook his head, trying to dislodge the image of that thing . . . whatever it whatever it was . . . bound and gagged on the floor of Gordon’s motel room.

His first thought had been that this thing looked exactly Sammy’s age.

Except Sammy died. Yellow-eyes burned him alive. Dad tried to save him, grabbed him out of the crib and shoving him into your arms while shouting for you to get outside, but it was too late. When you reached the lawn and unwrapped the blankets, you only found a burned corpse.

Dean swallowed back a mouthful of bile and whiskey and opened his eyes, reaching for the small, framed photograph on his nightstand. He brushed his fingers over the glass, tracing the outline of his mother and the small bundle she held in her arms.

Closing his eyes again, he brushed his forehead against the glass for a moment before setting the frame back down on the table and switching the lamp off. He swung his legs onto the bed, not bothering with the covers and stared up at the ceiling.

Three and a half years ago, Dean Winchester shot and killed the yellow-eyed demon that murdered his mother and brother with the last bullet of an invincible gun, and it didn't change a fucking thing.

“Happy Birthday, Sammy,” he said to the blackness.

III

 (5)Then went out to [John] Jerusalem, and all Judæa, and all the region round about Jordan, (6) And were baptized of him in Jordan, confessing their sins. . . . (13) Then cometh Jesus from Galilee to Jordan unto John, to be baptized of him. (14) But John forbad him, saying, I have need to be baptized of thee, and comest thou to me? (15) And Jesus answering said unto him, Suffer it to be so now: for thus it becometh us to fulfil all righteousness. Then he suffered him.

Matthew 3

After several hours making half-hearted attempts at sleep, Dean emerged from his room. John Winchester had not moved; only the near-empty whiskey bottle on the table indicated any time had passed.

 Dean almost regretted not telling his father about the thing’s connection to yellow-eyes yet, but he could not risk driving the man berserk, not tonight.

“I’ll take over,” he said quietly, clapping John on the shoulder.

John nodded and stood, a little unsteadily, “He would have been twenty-four today.”

“I know, Dad,” Dean forced a smile, “And probably a total dweeb.”

John attempted a chuckle that came out a littler closer to a sob then glanced back at the screen, “You really think this thing is the holy grail of demon lore?”

“Might be, yea.”

John nodded, “Then I want you to break the son-of-a-bitch.”

After John stumbled to his room, Dean headed back down to the basement. Once there, he immediately crossed to the supply shelf and turned on the CD player, cranking the volume all the way up as “Heat of the Moment” blasted through the room. Then he shoved a few more logs into the furnace. The basement was already heating up nicely; beads of sweat were collecting at his neck and brow, and the air had lost its dank, wet basement smell.

Once done stoking the furnace, he switched off the radio, grabbed a whip from the shelf, and unlocked the thing’s cell door, “Rise and shine sleeping beauty!” he called, snapping the whip across the creature’s chest. It jerked a little, probably from surprise, mostly.

At this point, Dean usually would start spouting macho crap like “I didn’t want you to get bored, so I thought I’d drop by,” but he cheap tricks would not work on this beast, so he stayed silent, snapping the whip a couple times on its legs and back before exiting the cell again.

On his way out, he dropped by the shifter’s cell. It glared at him, but he also noticed its trembling limbs and slightly hysterical edge to its eyes as dripping sweat trickled into its open wounds.

He drew near it and said quietly, “I’m gonna be honest, sweetheart. I’m about to recreate hell for the son-of-a-bitch next to you. Now, it’s easy for me to take your sorry hide along for the ride. Or, you can tell me what you know and get off this train.”

He snapped the whip in front of the shifter, and sure enough, it flinched violently.

“Think about it,” he said, and left without a second glance.

He repeated the process a few hours later: blasting “Heat of the Moment,” loading wood in the furnace (by now his face and chest were drenched with sweat after a couple minutes), greeting the creature with “Rise and shine sleeping beauty!,” whipping it a couple times on its chest and back, and visiting the shifter. Although this time, he brought a bottle of ice water into the shifter’s cell with him.

“Thought you might be thirsty,” he said by way of greeting. He opened the bottle, and sure enough, the shifter’s eyes widened, fixating on the liquid.

“I’ve got plenty,” he said, “And I’d be happy to share, if you had anything to offer in return.”

The shifter’s eyes lingered on the bottle, but when it did not respond immediately, Dean shrugged, “suit yourself,” opened the bottle, dumped its contents on the floor, and walked away.

The third time, instead of using a whip, Dean jabbed the thing in the chest with a cattle prod. It trembled a little, but no sound escaped the gag.

He did not visit the shifter.

The fourth time, heat waves assaulted Dean the moment he opened the second door into the room. He used the cattle prod again, this time pressing it against the back of the creature’s thighs. He skipped the shifter again.

The fifth time, Deean returned to the whip, slapping it across the front and back of the thing’s knees. Its legs did not crumple like he hoped they would, and Dean noticed that the welts from the first beating had nearly disappeared.

“So I’m interrogating wolverine,” he said, “Good to know.” Yet another thing that made the monster less human.

Afterwards, he finally returned to the shifter, this time bearing a bottle of luck-warm water and the whip.

“I decided not to let you die of dehydration,” he said, “But for every sip I give you, “I’m also going to give you five lashes, unless you can make my generosity worth my while.”

The shifter shook its head fiercely.

“Suit yourself.”

By the time he was done, he had forced three sips of water down the shifter’s throat and whipped the rest of the shirt off its back.

The sixth time, he used the whip on the beast’s shoulders. Then he noticed angry burns on its ankles, wrists, and neck, under the shackles.

“Not a fan of iron,” he said, “Alright.”

He didn’t bother speaking to the shifter, choosing just to beat it again instead.

The room was hot enough after the sixth time that Dean actually had time for some uninterrupted sleep.

“How’s it going?” John asked as Dean stumbled to the kitchen.

“Too early to say with the demonic bastard,” Dean tried unsuccessfully to rub the sleep from his eyes, reminding himself bizarrely of the times he’d wake in the middle of the night at Bobby’s as a kid and asked where his daddy had gone. He shook the memory away, forced his mind on the monsters in the basement, “But I think I’ve finally got the shifter rattled.”

“Good,” John nodded, “Bobby called. Heard about our new project, told me to ask how you’re holding up.”

Dean shrugged, “Hot. Tired. Tell the old man not to get his boxers in a twist. I’m fine.”

“He always was a mother hen,” Dad agreed, “But let me know if you need any help . . . I can actually make it down those steps on one good leg.”

Choosing to ignore the rebuke in those words, Dean chuckled, “Sure thing, Dad. Maybe you should dress up as Captain Hook, threaten them with a parrot to throw them off the plank.”

John smiled a little, “Thought Hook had a bum arm.”.

“Arm, leg, what’s the difference? Monsters eat ‘em both up.”

John laughed, actually laughed, at that. “Get some sleep you insolent bastard!”

Chuckling, Dean was still happy to oblige.

He fell asleep with “Heat of the Moment” ringing through his head.

The seventh time, after giving the thing another few lashes, Dean brought the small table into the shifter’s cell then deliberately laid out a whip, a flog, and an array of gleaming knives on it.

“Alright sweetheart,” he said, taking of his shirt and folding it neatly before setting it on the table and picking up a knife, “I’m getting a little tired of waiting, so do you want to do this the long way, or the short way?”

He cut away the gag, and the shifter sneered at him, “You don’t give a shit about what I know, you just want to scare him!” She nodded at the other cell.

Dean drew his knife across the shifter’s collarbone, just hard enough to draw blood. Its breath quickened, and its eyes widened as it stared down at the knife.

Stubbornly pushing away thoughts of the photo on his nightstand, Dean traced the knife again under the shifter’s collarbone, “Maybe you’re right,” he admitted. “Maybe this is all for show. But you know what sucks for you? It changes absolutely nothing at all.”

Forty-five minutes later, Dad walked into the kitchen as Dean stood at the sink, scrubbing blood from underneath his fingernails.

“Walt and Roy stopped by,” Dad said by way of greeting, “Sold them a couple of machetes.”

“Going after vamps?”

“Probably. Said they were meeting up with Gordon in Nebraska.”

“Because the world needs more Gordons,” Dean said viciously.

He saw Dad nod out of the corner of his eye, “Any news from your end?”

“Shifter opened up.”

“That was faster than you were guessing,” John said.

Dean shrugged. “Its cellmate ratcheted the volume up. The shifter was just along for the ride. Info’s not as good as I’d normally like, but it’s good enough.”

“What’d you learn?”

“Apparently it’s not just vamps that got an Alpha, all monsters the shifter’s heard of have one. They’re immortal, from what I can tell, and more powerful than most demons. Not sure we’re equipped to hold one.”

“Anything else?”

“Shifter was very loyal, almost seemed to think of this Alpha as a Father, even though it’d never met the thing.”

“Explains why it held out so long,” John nodded, “How’d you finally break it?”

Dean stared at the water tumbling over his hands and into the drain. It was not pink anymore, but there were still flecks of red under his fingernails, “Heat and thirst with a couple of whippings weakened it,” he said finally, “Then, when I pulled out the knives, it broke  fast.”

“Like that?” Dean heard John’s frown.

“Started spilling almost immediately.” He squirted a glob of dish soap into his palm and started scrubbing beneath his nails, “I broke a couple fingers to make sure it was telling me everything it knew, then I ganked it.”

“Should have tortured it to death.”

Dean remembered the shifter’s fingers, small and bent and crusted with blood. “I’m sure it gave us almost all it knew.”

Shaking his head, John said, “I’m don’t give a damn about what the shifter might have known. I’m talking about the demon. You should have shown it what you were capable of.”

He could not see his hands under the froth of the soap, but Dean felt the rawness of his wrinkled fingers. He might draw blood (again) soon. “It needs to think giving up info will do it any good.” When John did not respond, he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it knows how far I’m willing to go.”

“Either way,” John’s voice went hard as flint, “That shifter got off lucky. The same’s not going to be said of that demonic bastard.”

Dean thought of the body burning in the furnace downstairs, erasing the broken bones, the bruises, the cuts, and the emaciated body forever. He thought of his hands and the blood he washed down the drain.

The shifter had killed three people when Bobby caught it, and was gunning for more. It did not stop Dean from wondering where monsters went after they died.

Then again, he did not really know where Mom and Sammy had went either, and they’d never killed a damned thing. 

“Don’t worry,” Dean finally said, “It won’t.”