The Ties That Bind, Spoilers for season 4

[jessalyn]

DISCLAIMER:I don't own any of the characters(ok maybe one or two)
but the main guys belong to Kripke. Just borrowing for a while

SUMMARY: Sam and Dean are drawn to New York city after a hunter's son goes missing, another vicitm of serial dissapearances that have racked the city in the past few months. But will they succeed when they find themselves pitted against an ancient demon, a woman with a secret and ultimately each other?

I just wanna say a big shout out to Trickie who was kind enough (and patient enough) to be my beta. Thanks T

Ok, guys.

Lets go

ACT ONE: IS THIS THE REAL LIFE?

CHAPTER 1

It was ok. She could take slower steps now.

Becky Yeager looked upwards into the night, taking in the pitch-black as her heels click-clacked on the concrete sidewalk. A cool breeze sent goose pimples sprawling up and down her bare arms, forcing her to wrap them around her small frame.
The lace edge of her plunging V-neck blouse scratched against her skin, making her pull away while a small sigh escape from behind her lips. She hated this top with its plunging neck line and see through netting, but it served its purpose. It always did.

“Are you ok?” a voice whispered beside her. Male. Husky.

Hush, she thought. Don’t make this harder.

“Are you ok?Are you cold?” he repeated, the roughness falling away, as if made aware of the sham it was.

She looked up, turning her head to the man beside her. His attractive face looking concerned in the cool burn of the yellow streetlights. So young. What a shame.

“You’re cold,” he repeated, the concern in his eyes growing as his fingers reached for the edges of his jacket, his thumbs stroking the large buttons. “Here…take…”

“No…” she said quickly, putting her hand against his chest, feeling the warmth there. His answering tremor. “Don’t do that.” My voice is trembling, she thought.

Then stop trembling, Becky.
And don’t forget to smile.

Stopping, she placed her other hand to his face, taking his lean face in hers. Feeling her lips widen as she tried to smile.“You can do that later…” she said, her voice soft. Quiet. Did he like that? Did that sound right?

The answering lust in his eyes told her it did. She took his big hand in hers, taking in its warmth and softness; he was obviously rich. Most of the others didn’t have smooth hands. They were mostly working-class stiffs, their palms always chafed and chapped. Always gripping hers with fists of iron.

And don’t forget to smile.

She glanced at the street as it spread outwards to the right of them, empty and deserted. No white sedans with the words ‘NYPD’ inscribed on them roared past. No honking taxis. No joyriding teenagers. The Lower East Side was quiet tonight.

“I never figured you for the adventurous type,” he said, his grin boyish and vapid , his hand gripping hers even tighter. It just slid through hers, like butter. “I mean Derek gave the impression you were …well…”

She stared at the graffiti filled walls, the pavement stretching on forever in front of them. The air getting thinner. “Well…?” she said, not as quickly as before.

He rubbed his hair suddenly, his beautiful face screwed up in confusion. Dark locks falling over his forehead while his boyish grin wavered. “You know…a prude…”

Something burned on the inside of her, like a match had been lit in her throat. Great timing, Gorgeous. I was just feeling sorry for you…then you go and say that.

Looking up at him, a wave of sadness flooded her as she saw his uncertain smile. Staring at him as he rubbed his head harder still, saying nothing as her smile tightened in the darkness.

She said nothing as they walked on, the darkness thickening around them,the streetlights getting further apart. Funky smelling mattresses lined the sidewalks with broken bottles and old pieces of cardboard. Sirens echoed in the distance, forcing visions of ambulances tearing through Manhattan; zigzagging through the dead traffic. Their victims probably already dead.

Like you, she thought sadly, something catching in her throat as she watched his shrinking grin.
Calm him, now.
You’re almost there.

She tried to close more of her small palm around his, her smile ever-widening as she tossed her hair back, the long strands tickling the back of her neck.

“I’m…I’m…are you sure about this…?” the man beside her whispered, his brown loafers making shuffling noises on the cracked pavement. Lines appeared beside his eyes, making him look much older instantly. His grin was gone now, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

She said nothing, her nose wrinkling instinctively at the stench of urine stealing through the air. Gagging, she gripped his hand even tighter, pulling him further along while concentrating on the secured iron grates lodged in between graffiti-splattered walls. They past the last streetlamp minutes ago, its reflection glinting dimly on the side of a dumpster a few feet away.

The smell of ammonia filled her nostrils.

His voice seem to come from far away. “I mean …I’m all for spontaneity, but…”
She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Not yet. Not until she was sure.

Moving faster, she tugged at his reluctant hand, her eyes peeled on the dumpster in front of him. Black bags and faded newspapers cluttered the ground in front of her. Something squeaked.

Where are you?

[jessalyn]

She could feel his fear.

“Becky, are you…?” he muttered, his voice distant and afraid.

She came to a sharp stop, her heart thudding against her chest as she felt the cold close around her neck.

“I think we should go,” he said, his voice irritable. “I wanna go back. I’ve got work in the morning.”

One…no...two, three fingers closing around her throat, digging into her flesh, invisible.

Calm him.

Her heels made loud click-clack sounds as she turned toward him, her palm still firmly gripping his. “I don’t want you to go back.” She put her other hand to his face again, leaning into him. The scent of his cologne tickling her nostrils. Subtle yet strong. “Please stay.”

I mustn’t cry.

Features softening, the fear left his eyes for an instant. But only an instant. “Look…I think you’re really cute …but…”
She leaned in further, feeling his warmth, wishing it was enough to drive the cold away. Enough to make her forget the invisible slivers wrapping themselves around her neck.

They dug deeper in response.

She pushed her fingers into his hair, fluffing up his well trussed locks. “Stay,” her voice sounded unnatural. Robotic. She tried again.“Please stay.”

But it was too late. She could feel the dread flooding through him, his muscles tensing. Fear stark in his eyes. “Get away from me,” he stammered, pushing at her violently.

She fell back, her backside slamming against the concrete, arms scraping against the uneven floor. Pain shot through her like lightening as she rolled on the ground, something barely resembling a squeal coming from inside her.

Fingers clawed at her neck.

Moaning now, she forced herself to an upright position just in time to see the man running back the way they came, his silhouette racing toward bright lights and home. He’s so young, she thought, the tears falling free now. So young.

The man’s form got further and further away, the sound of brown loafers pounding the pavement gone. He was almost a spot in the distance.

A lick of hope flickered inside her. Maybe…just maybe..this time he’ll let this one go.

The dark spot jerked upwards, rising nearly four feet in the air.

Exhaling sharply, she reached for her neck . Trying to prevent the inevitable wrench on her wind-pipe, knowing at the same time she could do nothing to stop it. But she couldn’t feel the fingers anymore.

A piercing scream tore through the air toward her, forcing her to look up at her companion’s arms and legs flailing furiously in the distant glow of the streetlamps.

There was another high-pitched yell.

And then another.

She covered her eyes, her heart thrusting forward against her chest. Oh no…Oh no…

Falling forward, the sidewalk’s jagged surface tore at her face, her arms folded in front of her. Screaming at the concrete. NO. NO. NO.

A whooshing sound thundered above her, sending her hair billowing off her neck.
Another scream tore itself from her lips while she removed her hands from her face and looked up.
Her date was above her. Almost three feet.

Limbs thrashed while his jacket swelled around him. His lips rounded , getting ready for another scream. The whites of his eyes stark. Desolate. Lost.

He soared over her, past the dumpster; disappearing into the darkness beyond it. Choked screams heralding his flight bounced against defaced walls and empty asphalt.

Silence.

She stayed still for a few minutes, too shocked to get up. Her hand trembling as she wiped the slick sweat from her forehead. The cold was gone. He...it had its boon.
Her sister will live.

A small ball of fur scurried from under the dumpster, squeaking noises breaking the silence of the quiet street. It stopped in front of her, taking in her disheveled hair and scratched arms. Its squeaking ceasing momentarily as if wondering what she was doing there, then it took off in the opposite direction. Its tail slithering behind it as it headed for the lights in the distance.

It’s time to go, she thought to herself as she rose slowly off the ground, the pain dulling as she stood to her feet. It’ll be better next time.
She looked around her for the last time, rubbing her palms across her neck, her eyes scanning the darkness behind her.

It’ll be better.

She followed the rat and limped toward the lights.

[LaughtersMelody]

You are a wonderful writer! You have a fantastic way with words, and your descriptions are all very vivid and haunting. I thought you captured Becky's reluctance very well, and even if it isn't clear just yet what she's involved in, her guilt is tangible.

I very much look forward to seeing where this will go!

Incredible work!

-Laughter

[trickie]

^^ what she said

No seriously, great start to an interesting story Jess, waiting for more

Trace

[doppleganger]

You are a very talented writer. Have you ever been published? You should really try to get published. There is a book called the Writer's Market. It is pretty expensive to buy but you can look at it at the local bookstore. Barnes & Noble usually has it. It gives information about how to submit stories, how to get an agent and listings of publishers, what they publish and how to submit your work to them.

You can also watch for freelance job ads for your local newspapers. I just freelanced for my local paper, it is my first paid writing job. I've only written one news story ever and that was for a college class so I just tried to follow what I did for that paper and it worked! I'm sure there are writing guides for newspaper writing on the internet.

Really, I love this story and your writing. The story has momentum, it flows very well, the descriptions are vivid. I could smell the urine at the dumpster's! Your female character is just intriguing and I want to read more. You packed so much action and emotion into your story. I will be back to read more. Hope the next installment is coming soon! Thanks for sharing this with us!

Keep up the great work!

[jessalyn]

Thank you Laughtersmelody and Doppleganger . Thank you so very very very much for your comments and you guys are absolutely wondeful.Thank you.
And thanks to to the silent readers, the fact that you even looked at my story when there are so many AWESOME writers on this site is humbling. Thank you again.

But I have to say if not for Trickie's polishing and looking over again and again and again, I won't even have the courage to do this. Thanks T.

And I've said it before, but I'm definitely going to say it again. Chasidern's banners are awesome. AND YOU CAN SEE WHY

[jessalyn]

CHAPTER 2:

Sam leaned back against the wall of the narrow stairwell, the palms of his hands flattening against the cool surface as the fat woman came abreast of him, heat radiating off her obese frame.

Her arms were weighed down by four or five shopping bags with tins and cartons pushing their way through the cellophane; their transparent handles dug into thick folds of cellulite.

I should help, Sam thought, pushing himself off the wall just in time to see her waddle her way off the landing, down the second flight. I should help her. But he stayed still, watching as she trudged on; her breaths came and went in rasping puffs as she struggled to stretch out a flabby arm toward the sleek banister.

With a heavy sigh, he made his way up the stairs. His legs felt stone-like as he dragged himself upwards, the brownstone and brick trapping in the thick summer heat that swirled up and down the stairs of the three-story walk-up.

Sam could feel the moisture mounting inside his shirt and down the legs of his jeans as he reached the second floor. He then remembered the creaking noises of the hulking, pre-historic a/c unit sitting in the living-room, the image of the thick ice forming beneath its plastic frame doing nothing to ease his suffering.

But then again, nothing ever will.

He sighed again, feeling in both jeans’ pockets for the jangle of keys, as a small twinge of pain spiraled through his lower back. His head hurt too, the thudding at his left temple intensifying as he got nearer the apartment. The long ride in the Impala had finally taken its toll.
It was bad enough trying to avoid his brother throughout the whole trip, but watching Dean’s apprehensive glances as he looked out for teeming pedestrians and windshield-cleaning winos made it unbearable. Especially when Dean had leaned out of the car window and yelled, ‘Touch my car and die’, every five seconds.

He rounded the stairwell and climbed the last flight. Using the metal banister as leverage, he pulled himself up the soot-colored stairs. As he sighted the narrow hallway with its dim lights and infinite doorways, he felt relief flooding through him.
He walked past the five doors that preceded Ron Skilling’s apartment on the left. Room 410.Home sweet home.

He slotted the key into the brownish-yellow lock, the stench of rotten wood mixed with smelly furniture seeping through the door. He gagged slightly, wondering why Ron Skilling lived in such a dump.

Wait Sam, there’s more.

The door creaked open, rusty hinges welcoming Sam with loud shrieks as he closed the door behind him. A few cockroaches rushed across the scuffed, hardwood flooring. The sofa stared at him accusingly with its unraveling threads, a few cane chairs lay abandoned around it. The floor still lay littered with duffel bags and pizza boxes he and Dean left there the night before, about to collapse from exhaustion.

They had driven all day, all night because of Ron Skilling. Ron, who’d, arrived at Bobby’s place two days ago, his eyes wild with grief while he moaned into Bobby’s dusty carpets. The heart wrenching sounds of a parent that had lost his only son.

Everyone knew he was a tad emotional. And he was well known for his over-the-top Pacino-like performances when he needed help from other hunters; but Sam couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity as he saw the older man bury his face in his hands. His heart going numb as he watched Ron’s shock of bright-red hair fall over his face, guilt clawing at the older hunter’s soul.

This was the reason Dean and Sam tore past the lolling fields of South Dakota into the confusion of Manhattan, avoiding right turns on reds, keeping eyes peeled for street signs while shunning fire hydrants. Looking back, Sam had to admit that Dean had done all that alone. The only thing he’d done was stare at the pre-war architecture that sprawled upward into the sky, wondering how many people milled behind glinting windows. Trembling as he wondered how many days it would take Lucifer to destroy it all.

Dean was right. This was the worst time in the world to take a case.

He walked past the sofa, through a minute passage as he headed for the huddled kitchen. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds as he stared at the one fridge, stove and microwave. The 20th century items looking out of place amidst the cracked Formica, old cupboards and two chairs plunked in the middle. Despite the rising damp on the walls and the cracked tiles, it was the cleanest part of the apartment. Ron had obviously spent a lot of time here, judging by the sleeping bag under the window and the green tooth brush on the sill.

Maybe I’ll sleep in here tonight, he thought dryly as he headed for the fridge. The cool air bathing his face as he pulled it open, reaching for piece of pizza wrapped in cellophane. Thrusting the meaty slice into the battered microwave on the kitchen table, he remembered how both he and Dean sunk to the floor, duffel bags and all. Scuffed oak-paneling tearing into their backs as they tried to get to sleep. Inevitable images of blinding white light and Ruby’s triumphant smile tearing through his mind, forcing him awake, with a silent scream behind his lips.

The world will burn. The world will burn and it’s all my fault.

The clicking noises of a door opening startled him. He looked up sharply, the pizza slice steaming in one hand while he gripped the grimy handle of the microwave in the other.

“Sammy…” the voice was deep. Tired.

Sam felt his back stiffen, closing the microwave quickly as he hurried to one of the only two chairs in the room. As he felt his back ease onto the horizontal wooden planks that made up the back of the chair, he forced a welcoming smile to his face. He had to make Dean think everything was okay.

“Sammy…” the scuffing noises of leather boots against oak flooring got louder. “ Where are you?”

“In here.”

He watched Dean amble into the kitchen, his earth-toned jacket with stonewash Levi’s hanging over his narrow frame while he lugged black duffel over his shoulder. Sam knew his brother had lost quite a few pounds over the past few weeks. But in the harsh rays that filtered through the window behind them, he hadn’t been prepared for the haggard lines that were etched into his brother’s face. The newly formed wrinkles at the corner of his eyes were evident as his eyes stared wearily around the kitchen.

I did this to him. And all he did was save my life.

Dean’s eyes finally rested on Sam, more specifically on the half-eaten pizza in his hand.

“Well…you’ve been having fun,” he said, his voice terse as he pulled up a chair. “Didn’t think of keeping a slice for your big bro, did ya?”

Sam snorted. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you ate everything but the box this morning,” he said, his voice a little too cheerful. That’s it. Let him think everything is alright.

Dean shrugged, leaning back while he rested the long black bag with a dull thud beside him. “I left you that slice, didn’t I?”

“Thanks.”

Dean sneered in response, running his hand through his close-cropped hair in one quick movement. “Left some beers this morning too. They’re still there, right?”

Sam curled his lips into a mischievous smile. “Maybe,”

Dean rose up sharply, ripping the fridge door open as he thrust his head into its inner recesses. The cold air billowing all around him in a cloud as he muttered a sigh of relief. Sam forced a snicker as he watched his brother uncoil himself from the fridge’s innards, a triumphant smile creeping across his face as he curled his fingers across a Heineken can. Pulling the tab with a slight pop, he put the can to his lips, brown liquid escaping down his two-day stubble.

It’s taken its toll, Sam thought as he watched his brother free the can from his lips. On both of us.

Dean took another swill, his eyes looking less weary now as he sat back down, the tired lines around his eyes disappearing. “Never…” he said slowly. Never trust a chick with a beard.”

Sam coughed slightly, bits of cheese sticking at the back of his throat. “What?” he sputtered as he waved away his brother’s proffered beer.

“Remember where we parked last night? The lot that took us forever to find.”

“Yeah?”

Dean sneered. “The ‘five dollar all day one’? With that guy who looked like some kind of washed-up car salesman?”

Sam remembered Dean’s sigh of relief when they’d seen the parking lot last night, his even greater cry when the attendant-with one of the deepest voices he’d ever heard-had let them in.

“Yeah…the fat guy with the beard.”

“You mean the fat chick with a beard.”

Sam sputtered again, reaching out and taking the beer this time.

“Well, I get there this morning and guess what?” Dean spat, his eyes narrowing as he recalled the memory. “She slams me with a sixty dollar tab. And that was before she charged me with the extra sixty that comes with overnight parking. Obviously we didn’t read the small print,” he finished with a snarl.

Sam felt his eyes widen. “What? What did you do?”

“What else? I yelled. I threatened,” he shrugged. “I begged.”

“So…she let us off, right?”

“Nope. I paid.”

Sam stared dumbfounded as his brother slid back into the chair and as he took back the beer can. “D-Dean…” he stammered. “We don’t have that much money. The only reason we’re in Ron Skilling’s apartment at all is because we can’t afford anywhere else.”

Dean looked straight into Sam’s eyes for a few seconds, his lips tightening into a straight line. “She said she could arrange something…” he sat up. “If I followed her home.”

“Oh.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs across broken tiles. “I hate New York.” He looked up suddenly, his expression changing to one of concern.

He’s going to say it, Sam thought, feeling a cold flood rush through him.

“We shouldn’t have come,” Dean said quietly. “Not yet. Not until we heard from Castiel. Bobby was wrong.”

[jessalyn]

Sam sighed heavily, the cold still prickling at his skin even though the heat hung heavily around them. The last thing he needed was this. Dean’s face twisted with perpetual concern, his green eyes watching every movement he made while he tried to figure this out. Ever since that first night when Dean had been all up in his face with his ‘Are you ok, Sammy?’, ‘It’s going to be ok, Sammy’, he knew he had to stop him. He knew he had to stop him or he would go completely mad or worse.

Much worse.

“I think we should’ve let things lie a while, you know? Go underground.” he heard Dean say. “Wait to see if …wait to see if you-know-who shows up.”

Sam suddenly felt very tired. Images of shafts of light tearing through a circle of Lilith’s blood scuttled through his head. “You mean when, Dean.”

“Yeah.”

Sam looked at his brother’s haunted eyes, watching the creases at the corners of his eyes deepen; worlds away from the mischievous grin that turned up in Stanford five years before.

You did that to him, Sam. You sent him to hell. Now the whole world will follow.

Sam smiled, feeling its tightness against his face as he leaned back into the harsh ridges of the wooden chair. “We’ve got to help Ron Skilling find his kid, Dean. You saw him,”

He watched as Dean arched his eyebrows, knowing he was seeing the same thing in his mind’s eye that Sam was. The image of the older hunter hunched over his crooked frame on Bobby’s couch, his shock of red hair long and matted as he begged the Winchester brothers find his only son. Jonathan Spade. The son he gave up all rights to years ago when his wife left him.

“Yeah, but why us?” Dean asked his tone irritable. “We’re not police.We're hunters. It’s possible the guy just took off, right? It’s not like he’s twelve.”

Sam snorted. “He promised he’d meet his Dad and never showed up.”

“Yeah. Ron shows up out of the blue after like…a gazillion years and he’s shocked that his kid doesn't wanna to know.”

Sam took another bite out of his pizza. “Well, Bobby asked us to help. Ron’s an old friend of his and he couldn’t just ignore him, could he? And anyway, he felt it would be good for us. Help us forget…” he faltered, feeling his words trail off into the distance. The grizzly hunter’s words echoing in his mind.

“Ron’s crazy as a loon,” Bobby had whispered, his trucker’s hat off-kilter. “But he’s good people. And he’s been troubled for a long time. His ex-wife really did a number on him. Just help him find his snot-nosed kid, huh?” He looked straight at Sam that time. “And be careful.”

Too late for that, Sam thought as he looked up at his brother.

Dean lips tightened into a frown. “Yeah, I know. But he’s a hunter, why can’t he do it himself?”

“You saw him, Dean. He cried the whole night. He’s broken.”

“Ron’s always been broken. And a sap,” Dean snapped. “And that’s another thing. Giving up all rights to your kid just because you don’t want him to become a hunter or somehow think he’ll be safe…” Dean shook his head, his face twisted in disapproval. “That’s just crap. Dad had his faults, but he’d never have done that. He’d never have abandoned us with anyone else.”

Sam looked down at the pizza slice in his hand, the crumbs twirling down to the floor; memories of his father forcing something small and tight into his throat. He knew that was another reason Dean hated taking this case. The fact that another hunter had done something different from his dad, preferring to give his son up than share this life with him, irritated Dean. That would mean their Dad was wrong. Or worse still, their whole lives were wrong. Dean wouldn’t…couldn’t accept that.

“And another thing,” Dean snapped. “If he was so sure his kid was safe without him, why did he –out of the freaking blue- want to see the guy now? I mean…what changed?”

“Maybe he missed his son.”

Dean said nothing, swilling down the contents of the aluminum can, the crinkling sound getting louder as he increased his grip on it.

“It’s too late to moan about it now,” Sam said, looking into his brother’s tired eyes. “If we don’t find him, Bobby’ll kill us. “

A small smile flitted across Dean’s face. “Yeah, he’s going out of his mind. Called me this morning. Ron’s eaten everything but the kitchen sink.” Then just as suddenly, the smile disappeared. “You've been here all morning?”

“Yeah,” Sam lied quickly, recognizing the sharpness in his own tone. “Been waiting for you.”

Dean looked at him, his eyes searching. “Nothing else? Just been waiting , huh?”

Uh-oh. Sam got up quickly, striding across the room over to the window. The air all around him had gone stale again. It was stifling. Choking. Just like it had been this morning. Change the subject.

“Ron still lives with his mom in their townhouse on the Upper East Side. I figured we’d go there first and see what else we can find out. ” He whirled round, his eyes searching Dean’s for any signs of suspicion. “What do you think?”

Dean got up slowly, tossing the can into the small bin by the fridge, the noise deafening despite the rumble of traffic from beyond the window. Sam watched as the can rolled around in the blue basket, the spinning noise getting softer and softer as the seconds past. Of course he wouldn’t miss. He’s perfect. A warrior.

“Ok,” Dean said his tone managing to sound both soft and tight at the same time.

He saw right through Ruby. Right through. I couldn’t . It’s all my fault.

“I’ll just hit the shower…”

Now the world will burn.

“Then we go.” Dean finished with a smirk as he bent to pick up the bag. He tossed it over his shoulder and sauntered back through the narrow doorway; he hummed a shaky version of Three Dog night’s Shambala as he rounded the kitchen door jamb, disappearing behind crumbling wallpaper, heading further into apartment.

Sam turned back to the window sill, watching the cars outside speed along the asphalt, trying to still his trembling hands, praying his brother didn’t see.
I have to make it right. Right for Dean. Right for everyone.
Even if it kills me.

[LaughtersMelody]

Again, I love your descriptions! You did a fantastic job conveying how tired both Sam and Dean are.

I also loved the small bits of humor you used throughout:

Especially when Dean had leaned out of the car window and yelled, ‘Touch my car and die’, every five seconds.

Lol, I can so picture that!

“Sammy…” the voice was deep. Tired.

That's a great line. So very simple, but it really says so much.

Sam's thoughts about Dean are wonderful. The guilt and the pain he feels, and how determined he is to pretend that everything's okay, is just heartbreaking.

Incredible, incredible work!

-Laughter

[jessalyn]

Thanks , LM . Yes Sam and Dean really need a time-out. The apocalypse is really pushing a humongous wedge between them. And it's just going to get worse.

Thanks T. You're awesome
And thanks to all you who take the time to read this. You're the best.


Chapter 3.

When in New York-walk, Dean thought, remembering the words of the faded copy of the New York guide that sat abandoned in the glove compartment. Walk whenever possible. Walking allows you to avoid the inevitable traffic jams that occur at all hours of the day.

The Impala nudged forward an inch, and then growled to a halt.

Take the subway. New York’s subway is over 700-miles long and runs all day. Great , huh?

Dean switched on the ignition, heaving a heavy sigh of relief as the grid-lock in front of him roared to life,the yellow cab in front of him showing signs of promise as it jerked forward. Then it stopped. Again.
He cursed under his breath. I really hate New York.

Take the bus. It’s slow. Real slow. But it’s better than being stuck in the middle of Manhattan with Sammy who’s acting like everything is just peachy, when you know ….when you know it isn’t.

He patted the dash, his eyes still focused on the taxi in front of him. You and me forever, baby.

Peering out his window, Dean looked around at the block of cars that hemmed him in: UPS trucks, yellow cabs, sleek sedans, the faces behind the wheels looking just as depressed as he did. He was thankful for the sun that hid behind the too-tall, too-expensive luxury boutiques and designer shops that lined the sidewalk, his eyes getting a breather from its harsh yellow glare.

He switched off the ignition, sighing heavily as he did so. It looked like they were going to be here for a while.

The midget pine trees stretched down the smooth concrete -a world away from the cracked pavement outside their apartment building- thin slivers of green swaying overhead. Just a few feet away from the clogged street, well tended hedges sat delicately at the foot of pre-war architecture, while large mesh-like scaffolding clung to some buildings; men in plastic hats milling around underneath.

The Upper East Side, he thought. New York’s Gold coast. Home of old money, high society and Madison Avenue. No demon hunters allowed.

Dean looked over at his brother again, his brows rising questioningly while he watched Sammy smile into his Blackberry.

“Yeah…Bobby,” Sammy said, his voice both annoying and cheerful. “Yeah? Well you know how Dean feels about the subway...” he chuckled. “Yeah …yeah… and the bus.”

Dean gripped the wheel even tighter, rolling his eyes as he turned back to the road. Ok, ok I’ll play along for now. “We’re not taking the bus, Sammy.” he said, his voice taking on a mock chiding tone. “You and the other kids can see the Empire State building some other time.”

Sam snorted and then laughed into the phone again. “I know… we should have taken a plane.”

We’re laughing, Dean thought. It’s the damn apocalypse…the end of the world. And we’re laughing. We must be nuts.

Let him alone, Dean. Bobby had said, his grizzly face looking a hundred years older. Let him deal with this his own way. Let him heal.

Yeah, we’ve done that before. See how well it turned out.

Sam nodded sharply, pushing his brown hair aside quickly, the lines on his forehead deepening. The smile was gone. “Uh…no….yeah…”

Dean looked back at his brother, feeling the worry twist inside him again. What now?

“Well...I’m okay. So is Dean.” Sam glanced at him, catching his older brother’s gaze. He turned away just as quickly. “We should be there soon, if we get through this traffic. Yeah, it’s murder…”

Dean snorted. Even Bobby couldn’t follow his own advice. He was also trying his best to figure out where Sam’s head was at. No-one had ever been able to do that, not even Dad.

“Yeah, we’ll be there soon…” Sam sighed, a sudden tired, despairing sound. “Yeah…well…we’ll be there soon…”

Dean didn't shift his gaze, searching Sam's gaze for something. Anything. Maybe he’s ready to talk now. Maybe…God knows I am…

He still remembered the shell-shocked look in his brother’s face, the way he had to practically drag Sam out of that chapel; the day everything went wrong, wrong, wrong.

He’d searched for the large metal doorway like a mad man. It seemed to have disappeared in the searing white lights that enveloped the chapel, blinding him ; the blood pumping at his temples as Sam kept on repeating the words,’ He’s coming…He’s coming …’ over and over again.

“C’mon, Sammy! C’m…C’mon…” he’d yelled, yanking his brother along, feeling the cold waves of fear waft off his brother’s frame. His own form trembled as he tore past halls of stone which shone white and hot, barely hearing Sammy’s desperate strides behind him.

Then the lights went out.

And there was just silence.

A damned silence that echoed in the woods as they both jumped into the battered Datsun, following them while the car shook and groaned over rocks and hidden roots, tearing past trees and wild bushes.

You will stop it…

“Dean…c’mon…”

You’re going to stop Lucifer…

“Dean… we’re moving…”

God has left the building…

“DEAN!”

Dean felt his body jerk forward sharply, stopping himself just in time before knocking his head against the steering wheel. He turned to his brother, staring into Sam’s wide-eyed look of surprise while loud honks piped behind and around them.

Did I black out?

“Dean…” Sam said, his brown eyes worried. “What’s wrong?”

Dean rubbed the back of his head, shaking his head slightly. His heart thumped against his chest while the horns blared even louder. He looked over at Sam, something sinking inside him as he saw the hidden plea in his younger brother's eyes.

Say something, he thought angrily. We have to talk.

He looked back at the road.

Tonight. We’ll talk tonight.

“Nothing,” he muttered, his voice cold as he slotted the key into the ignition. He avoided Sam’s gaze while he fixed his own on the yellow cab in front of him, the Impala purring past the traffic lights.

[jessalyn]

Becky rubbed at her eyes again; the fourth time in fifteen minutes while the computer screen flickered. A series of white boxes and pixilated lines filled the monitor’s frame. She sighed. I’m so… exhausted.

She tapped at the keyboard again, her other hand reaching toward the table lamp switch, the white light hurting her eyes. There was no need for it anymore, the over head lights had been turned on.

She’d left their studio apartment before dark, showering and dressing in record time. She still remembered how her fingers trembled as they closed over the metal knob, closing the door softly behind her. She didn’t want to wake Rachel up.

God knew her sister needed the rest.

These past few nights had been the worst.

Rachel was propped up in bed, three sodden pillows behind her. Her blonde hair matted to her forehead with sweat, her limbs thrashing.

“Becky…” she’d rasped, her hands gripping the sweat-drenched sheets. “Becky…I’m burning…help…”

She hurried to her older sister’s side, and perch on the bed beside her. Her sister’s head was hot. “Don’t worry, Rachel,” she said, feeling the tears run down her face. “I’m here…Becky’s here…”

Rachel coughed, red mist spraying into the air and dotting the sheets. “Becky…don’t…”

“Hush…” Becky said, cradling her sister’s full face in her hands. She’s so beautiful. Even now. “Don’t say anything…okay…”

But Rachel pushed her hands away, her eyes wild while she struggled to get up. “You’re not going to do it…” she persisted, trying to turn her face upwards. “I won’t let you.”

Becky’s hands hung in mid-air, the familiar cold wrapping itself around her. She had to get Rachel back to sleep. And quickly. “You’re delirious.” She made as if to get up. “I’ll get you some water.”

The hand that gripped her wrist wasn’t weak. It dug into her flesh, making her wince.

“Don’t go to him, Becky.” Her sister’s eyes were pale blue, her breaths coming and going in desperate heaves, chapped lips trying to form words. “Don’t let Dalzell make…make you do anything.”

Becky looked at her sister, her lips trembling as she remembered the way she’d once been. The way her blond hair fell down in loose waves to her shoulders, the pleasant fullness of her v-shaped face, her blue eyes crinkling when she smiled. The way she’d hated her. This is my fault.

Rachel grasped her palm. Her grip was weakening. “Please…Becky…no more...” She coughed, a gurgling sound bubbling up in her throat; she was drowning in her own blood.

Give Dalzell another offering. Give it to him now.

And your sister will live.

Rachel’s eyes rolled upwards, her irises no longer visible. Her mouth was rounding into a shuddering ‘O’. “I…I’m…cold.”

Becky gripped her sister’s face again, gagging as the foul stench of sweat and blood thrust itself up her nostrils. The cold wrapped itself around her again as she pulled at the covers, spreading it over her sister’s quivering form.

“Don’t worry, Rachel,” she muttered, her sister’s lids falling slowly. “I’ll take care of everything. It’s going to be fine.” She waited for her sister’s grunts to ease, her trembling hands to fall from hers.

Hesitating for a few more seconds, she took one last look at her sister and headed for their small kitchen. Making sure the door was shut tight behind her, she grabbed her silvery Nokia off the fridge and quickly dialed a series of numbers.

Her eyes could barely make out the red colors twirling on the screen in the darkness. All she could see was the guy with the brilliant smile who wouldn’t stop flirting, his grey eyes teasing as he placed his phone number on her desk. Jonathan Spade...



‘


“Becky…”

She looked up sharply, long brown strands falling in front of her face. The unexpected tug forced them to unravel from the top of her head. She reached for the lamp switch in a panic, half-expecting to see Dalzell’s tall, decaying form; the maggots still wriggling around the demon’s pale flaps.

“Becky…”

More light flooded the cubicle. The single fluorescent tube illuminated her pile of papers, with its plastic potted ferns, no-smoking posters pasted to the lime-green walls and Derek, her co-worker.

She heaved a sigh of relief, the thudding in her heart returning to normal. Gripping her chest, she tilted backwards in her swivel chair while she pushed back the brown strands from her face with her other hand.

The short man with the mop of blond hair falling over his face gave her a curious look. “Sorry,” he said, his voice, shrill and whiny. “Didn’t mean to startle you, Becks.”

She nodded quickly, her mouth dry. Don’t worry, Derek, she thought, anger replacing fear. You just gave me a heart attack, that’s all.

She smiled instead, her eyes narrowing as she looked up at her co-worker of three years. “It’s okay, Derek. I…”

“Yeah…I’m glad I saw you though.” He came closer, his grey eyes fixed on her as he shoved away some papers on her desk. “You took off early yesterday.”

She groaned inwardly. Oh, no. He wants to talk.

The desk creaked as Derek sat down heavily, the computer monitor shuddering while he crossed one beige rayon trouser leg over the other. “Just wanted to know if you saw Jonathan.”

Becky froze. How did he…how did he know?

“Jonathan…” she said finally, swallowing hard. “Who’s that?

Derek smiled, his grey eyes still fixed on her face. “Aw, c’mon Becks. My friend…Jonathan… who came in last Wednesday? Who wouldn’t leave you alone?”

Be careful, Becky

She sat forward, the chair landing on the tiled floor with a slight click as she pivoted toward her desk. “I remember…” she said quickly, forcing irritation into her tone. “The guy who uses way too much mousse.”

Derek laughed nervously, but she didn’t look up. Instead she focused on arranging the papers in front of her. Be calm, Becky.

“Well, I’ve been calling you for the past couple of days…”

She shuffled the papers again, louder this time.

“And…” Derek coughed. “And …um…I just wanted to…”

The chair creaked again as she pivoted sharply. She stared at short man. “I really want to get some work done before things get crazy around here,” she snapped. “What do you want to know?”

Derek slid off the desk, his eyes narrowing. “Jeez…Sorry, Becks…”

“My name is Becky.”

Derek cocked his head to one side, his mouth half-parted as if to say something, and then shook his head. “Well… “his voice was low now and embarrassed. “He told me you called him…”

What... “What?”

“Yeah,” Derek said his voice irritable now. “He said you guys were going to The Eclectic…”

“Look…Derek. I’ve work to do.” she said sharply, putting her hands under the desk, so he wouldn’t see the trembling. My God, he knows…

“Look, Becks…Becky,” his tone was entreating now. “I just want to know...Did he stand you up? Because Jonathan can be a real jerk sometimes.”

The overhead lights flickered.

Derek shut up, his eyes surprised as he stared at the sputtering fluorescent tubes. “What’s...” he said, his shoulder-length mane falling over his face. He then shrugged. “Maybe…it’s a surge or something.”

They flickered again.

She wheeled her chair round, her jaw clenched. She was actually surprised at how good it felt to see the hidden fear leap into her co-worker’s eyes. “Look. I don’t where your friend is, okay? The last I saw him, he was acting like an idiot. And if I remember correctly, you were encouraging him.”

“C’mon…Becks…Becky…”

The lights flickered again.

Blood pounded against her temples. Something’s wrong.

Stiffening suddenly, she heard the hum of voices drift around the shaky cubicle coinciding with the ping of the elevator; the tired shuffling of feet as a succession of cell phones whirred in the distance.

She smiled. “Leave me alone, Derek. Or I’m going to scream.”

Derek snorted, edging his way out of the cubicle, his hands raised in mock surrender. Becky held her breath, waiting till she no longer heard his shuffling feet. Go away, Derek. Go away before…She didn’t notice the buzzing at first, her eyes still fixed on her co-worker’s retreating figure. It buzzed again, angrily this time, forcing her out of her reverie.

“Oh…no…Rachel…” she whispered, tears threatening as she fumbled inside her enormous tote bag for her phone. “Rachel…please God…let her be alright…”

Fixing the phone to her ear, she pushed back the strands from her face, her eyes fixed on the ‘No smoking’ sign on the board in front of her. “Hello…Rachel? What’s wrong?” the words tumbled out of her- her mind screaming. She was better this morning. I did everything you asked…

She froze as the invisible fingers tickled at her neck.

“Your pickings have been slim, Becky Yeager,” the voice said, sounding both cruel and ancient, the gender indistinguishable. “Insufficient.”

The Nokia shuddered in her palm, but she held it tighter. “My…my Lord Dalzell…”

“Slim.”There was a pause. “Insignificant.”

Her heart thudded in her chest as the cold fingers curved themselves around her neck, the pressure increasing slightly. Calm down, Becky. Explain.

"I…” She swallowed again, bending her head, trying to drown out the noise which was increasing steadily around her. “I thought you’d be happy. He was young. Powerful and strong.”

The voice grunted, a low chilling sound. “Powerful? Strong? Don’t make me laugh, Becky Yeager. I know you are not exactly a ‘catch’ among your dimunitive social circle, but even you could have done better. That boy-child was nothing, hardly a sufficient boon. The worst you’ve ever brought before me.”

Becky licked her lips, looking over her shoulder as she slid off her seat to the icy cold tiles. She fixed her eyes on the open gap in her cubicle. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, trying to stop her body from trembling.

“You’re sorry?”

Her neck burned while the grey walls seemed to get closer, moving forward, vowing to fall on her any second.

He laughed. “How is your sister? Is she puking blood yet?”

Please no…

“Have her eyeballs popped? Are insects eating through her flesh?”

She wiped at the tears in her eyes, seeing the dark smudges of mascara against her knuckles. In her mind’s eye, she could see her sister lying in her bed with paper-white skin, her dead eyes staring at the cracked ceiling boards. She pushed the image away.

“I’ll do anything you say,” she whispered. Her bun had completely unraveled now, brown strands lying freely on her starched shirt. “Anything.”

There was a heavy scratching noise,like fine static, filtering through thr tiny speakers. As if sandpaper was being dragged sharply against the phone’s surface.

“Today, one of your colleague’s will receive a visitor. An Agent Hamill. He’ll come inquiring about the boy-runt you brought me,” this last part was said with contempt.

“Agent Hamill…: she repeated blankly. “What do you want me to…?”

The fingers released their grip.

“I want you to bring him to me.”

She nodded, looking up, the noise outside the cubicle deafening. A new sacrifice. A new boon, so what?

The voice seemed less taunting now. “You’ll do what you normally do, only better. Get his confidence, get him to trust you. And then bring him.”

“Agent Hamill…” she exhaled sharply, realization hitting her. “Wait…isn’t that ...?”

“Don’t worry, he’s not FBI. Far from it. Hamill is not even his real name.”

She stood up slowly, her fingers reaching for the desk, pulling at its edge while she got back into her chair. Leaning back, she gripped the phone tighter in between her lean fingers.

“His real name…” the voice rasped, the scratching sound tearing itself through her. “…is Sam Winchester.”

[trickie]

Oh no! Sam! Okay Sammy here's the thing, if you see a cute girl that takes a fancy to you..run!

Poor Becky, what happened to her sister? What is this monster Dalzell doing to Rachel to make Becky bring him his sacrifices? And Sam is next on the list? I tink Dalzell has upped his game if he is starting to tell her who to go after. I hope Dean comes with Sam. I think things are gonna get scary for the boys

Great stuff hun, waiting for more
Trace

[jessalyn]

Thanks T. Will bring on the next chap as soon as I can

[LaughtersMelody]

The Impala nudged forward an inch, and then growled to a halt.

You capture the frustration of a traffic jam really well, lol. Poor Dean...

He patted the dash, his eyes still focused on the taxi in front of him. You and me forever, baby..

I love this moment. It has a wonderfully sad feel to it, even while it makes you smile.

Let him alone, Dean. Bobby had said, his grizzly face looking a hundred years older. Let him deal with this his own way. Let him heal.

Yeah, we’ve done that before. See how well it turned out.

This is a great description of Bobby. The bitterness in Dean's thought it heartbreaking too, but so understandable.

“Nothing,” he muttered, his voice cold as he slotted the key into the ignition. He avoided Sam’s gaze while he fixed his own on the yellow cab in front of him, the Impala purring past the traffic lights.

I'm really curious about what happened to Dean there...and once again, you did a great job showing the distance between Sam and Dean. And the scene with Becky and her sister is amazing, as is thescene in the office. So very eerie!

I look forward to the next part!

-Laughter

[hotdean]

So far so good, Jess. Great work. I cant wait for the next chapters. Please update soon