Chapter 10.

Dean ran the cloth along his brother’s forehead again, relieved when Sam moaned and his lashes fluttered against his pale skin. It had been hours since Bird had gone, and Dean was beginning to get antsy. Sam had drifted in and out through the day, drinking more of the tea each time, but as the afternoon quickly gave way to quickly encroaching night his bouts of consciousness seem to grow shorter and more painful, despite the curative herbs Bird had left them with.

“Sam?” He asked softly, placing the compress back in the cold water. “You with me?”

“Dean?” The dark gaze that met his was more lucid this time, but where the drug-induced dullness had been, there was now more than a hint of discomfort.

“You were expecting Florence Nightingale?” He joked, hoping to hold the inevitable at bay for a little longer.

“Where’s…Caleb?” Sam asked, hoarsely.

Dean frowned. “He went to grab us something to eat. He’ll be back soon.”

“Has… he heard from Dad?”

“Yeah, he called a few hours ago. He got the blade. Should be back anytime now.”

“I feel sick.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, probably all that tea on an empty stomach. You want to try for some soup again.” They had already attempted the eating thing once, to the unfortunate demise of Mac’s designer comforter and silk sheets.

Sam closed his eyes and shook his head. “No. I just want it all to stop.”

“I wish I could make that happen for you, kiddo. But it will be over soon. I promise.”

The teen forced his lids up again and looked at his brother. “Are you sure Caleb just went for food?”

“Dude, what’s up with you and the demonic wonder? I know for a fact my bedside manner is a hundred times better than his.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “I…don’t want him doing anything stupid.”

“Like?” Dean frowned. “Getting anchovies on my pizza? ‘cause that would suck and I would so have to kick his ass. He knows I hate the hairy minnows.”

“No,” Sam shook his head, licked his dry lips, “Like... picking up a new body for Scott Kline’s soul.”

Now it made sense. “Sammy,” Dean breathed, “Caleb’s not out hunting for Hughes a victim. The man said he’d trade the blade for the antidote. He didn’t mention a body.”

“He didn’t mention that he was willing to kill me either,” Sam pointed out, weakly.

Dean rolled his eyes. “You made your point, Mister Gloom. But let’s worry about that when we have to.”

The doorbell rang and Sam looked up at his brother. “Like now?”

The twenty-year-old looked towards the hall. “It could be Caleb. Or Dad.”

“They both have keys.”

Dean grabbed his cell from the night stand; hit the key that would dial Caleb. “We’ve got company,” He said as soon as Reaves answered.

Sam watched the older Winchester’s face as he listened to whatever the demon hunter was saying on the other end. “Makes sense.” Dean glanced towards the door again, held the phone tighter to his ear. “He doesn’t want to give us time to regroup-he’s hoping to keep us off balance.”

The doorbell rang again, and Sam heard Caleb’s loud voice as if he were in the room with them. Dean winced and held the phone slightly away from his ear. “Right, I got it. You’ll flay the skin from his bones and send him to hell.” Dean rolled his eyes at his brother and made a mocking motion with his hand. “I’ll be sure and convey the message.”

Dean frowned again and Sam knew that Reaves was getting too close to sounding like their father. “I’m not stupid.”

Sam didn’t have to be privy to both sides of the conversation to know that Caleb had just told Dean not to provoke Hughes, to do the one thing that went against his nature-sit still and wait.

“Whatever, dude.” Dean sighed, his jaw clenching. “I said I would, damn it!”

Dean cut the connection and shot Sam a frustrated glance. “Do I have idiot tattooed on my forehead?”

Sam forced a half-grin. “Is that a trick question?”

“Funny,” Dean smirked, pushing off the bed and putting the cell in his brother’s hand. “If I’m not back in two minutes, call Caleb again. Or better yet-9-1-1.”

“Be careful.” Sam ordered, with more energy than he could spare. He didn’t want to let his brother out of his sight, but the doorbell was ringing again, and whoever was waiting had resorted to pounding on the wooden structure. “And don’t do anything stupid.”

“Now you sound like Hell Boy,” Dean shook his head. “I can control myself when I have to.”

“Can…yes,” Sam raised a brow. “Will…unlikely.”

Dean ignored him and walked out of the room, drawing the door shut behind him, as he left the room. It was a short walk through the hallway into the massive, open living room, but he took his time getting to the door.

He’d be damned if he gave Hughes the pleasure of looking shaken, even though that was exactly how he felt. The cold metal of his gun pressing against his back was somewhat reassuring, but the fact that he couldn’t actually kill Duran without hurting Sam was still an annoying fact.

“What, no donuts this time?” Dean said once the door was open, revealing Hughes and a tall, gray-haired man in an expensive suit. “Or is this guy your personal chef?”

“This is Mr. Kline.” Duran replied, crossing the threshold before Dean could offer. “He wanted to be present for the exchange.”

The twenty-year-old hunter eyed the business man. “And here I thought he was a rich coward, afraid to get blood on his hands.”

“And this fine specimen of testosterone and sinew is Dean Winchester,” Hughes explained to Kline, whose face had reddened at the boy’s insult. “John’s first born-a chip off the old block.”

Dean ignored them, glancing out into the hallway. “Where’s your lap dog?”

When Duran tilted his head in question, Dean shut the door. “You know, pit bull disguised as a French poodle?”

“Syria,” Hughes smiled, “will be here soon.”

“Had to wait for the sun to go down to leave her coffin, huh?”

“Actually, she was finishing the elixir that will save young Sam’s life.”

“A life she put in danger in the first place.”

“Semantics,” Duran waved his hand in the air, his gaze darting around the room. “How’s he doing by the way?”

Dean felt his pulse quicken, and tried to control his flaring anger. So much for remaining calm. “What the hell are you doing here, Hughes? Caleb said he would call you when Dad got back with the blade.”

Duran’s ice blue eyes locked on Dean. “Where is Caleb?”

“You didn’t answer my question. Why should I answer yours?”

“I know he’s not here, because he wouldn’t have allowed you in the same room with me, not without him here to chaperone.”

“Caleb isn’t my keeper.”

Hughes shot a look to Kline, who looked more impatient than interested in their dialogue. “He has spirit, doesn’t he? I like that.” Duran moved around Mac’s living room, eyeing the artwork and sculptures. “That was one of the first things that I noticed about Caleb when Mac first brought him into our exclusive little club. I knew we’d be fast friends.”

“Yeah, he said to tell you hello, by the way.” Dean smirked. “Actually he said to tell you he was going to enjoy peeling the flesh from your bones and watching you burn in hell, but hey, semantics…right?”

Duran leaned against the sofa and laughed. “I’m really not as bad as he makes me out to be.” He took a step closer to Dean. “I feel that he’s poisoned you against me, before we even had a chance to get to know one another. After all, Caleb has his dark side, too. Perhaps when this is all over, we can start fresh-almost like entirely different people.”

“Oh, I don’t communicate with the dead. That’s more of a medium thing, isn’t it?”

Before Hughes could comment further on the barely veiled threat on his life, a loud crash from the bedroom drew everyone’s attention.

“Sammy,” Dean swore under his breath, torn between going to his brother and keeping Duran as far away as possible.

“Sounds like young Sam might be in trouble.”

“Stay here.” Dean ordered, pointing a finger at Hughes before quickly making his way back to Sam. He pushed open the door and let out a sigh, laced both with relief and irritation.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His brother’s lanky body was twisted on the floor by the bed, entangled with broken glass, books, and blankets.

“Coming to find you,” Sam replied, still trying to extricate himself from the mess he’d made of the plates and cups on the nightstand.

Dean stalked over and with a touch that belied the angry look on his face, levered his brother off the floor and back onto the edge of the bed. “Damn it, Sammy, I told you to call for help if there was trouble-which there is not.”

Sam’s eyes stung both from the constant pain now assaulting his body and from the frustration of feeling so completely helpless. “I…was worried.”

“Are you hurt?” Dean asked, noticing the watery, hazel gaze. His eyes searched Sam’s pale face and hands. “Did you cut yourself?”

“No,” Sam shook his head. He shoved meekly at the touch ghosting over his body, flaring up even more sensations from his frayed nerves. “I’m…okay. Only thing hurt…is my pride.”

Dean snorted. “You’re as clumsy as a newborn giraffe on a good day, Legs. No need to get all self-conscious now.”

“You’re a lot of help,” Sam grunted. “I…feel so much better now.”

“Good,” Dean eased him back against the pillows that he’d propped up. “I can go play the happy host and entertain the psychos until Caleb and Dad get here.”

“No need to put yourself out,” Duran purred, skulking in the entrance of the bedroom. He was nursing a glass of Mac’s favorite Scotch. “I’ve helped myself and Mr. Kline has gone to the little boy’s room.”

Dean felt his brother tense through the hand he still had on Sam’s arm, at the same time his cell phone rang from somewhere on the floor.

“Better answer that,” Hughes drifted into the room, leaned against the bureau. “Don’t want Caleb to worry. He might kill himself trying to get back here in time to save you two.”

The oldest Winchester considered letting the thing ring, but Hughes was probably right. It was Caleb. He bent in the floor, using his hand to feel for the cell, while keeping Duran pinned with a threatening gaze.

Finally his fingers closed around it and a large piece of glass from a saucer as well. He hissed, his eyes instinctively leaving Duran going to the guilty culprit. Dean winced as he opened his hand enough for the porcelain shard to slip from his palm, but managed to keep a hold on the cell.

“Yeah,” He snapped into the phone, bracing it between his ear and shoulder, as blood dripped from his finger tips onto the floor. Dean felt more than saw his brother’s concerned gaze as he grabbed the cloth from the bowl of water and twisted it around the cut across his hand.

“I’m fine!” He snapped into the cell, but glanced at Sam to let him know that the sentiment was aimed at him, also. “Stay out of my head,” Dean added, softer, shooting a glance in Duran’s direction, who smiled knowingly.

“How the hell do you know I’m bleeding?” Sam heard his brother ask in exasperation and wasn’t surprised when Dean’s face twisted in irritation, before he favored him with another appraising look. “He’s hanging in there.”

Sam rolled his eyes and Dean moved his gaze to Duran. “He’s right here.”

“Tell him I said hello,” Hughes grinned.

“He said fuck you.” Dean replied, not even giving Caleb time to answer.

“That sounds much nicer than the flaying skin thing, I have to say.” Duran lifted his drink in a jested toast. “Cheers.”

Dean ignored him, as he tied the make-shift bandage off, speaking into the phone once more. “Right. Five minutes. I think I can hold off that long.”

He hit the end button, and glanced back to Hughes. “Caleb’s in the parking garage. Dad just pulled in, too.”

“Perfect timing.” Duran nodded. “The board is almost set.”

“What about your queen?” The younger hunter asked. “There won’t be any play unless she shows up.”

“She’ll be here.” Duran had wandered over to the balcony doors, opened them and glanced out at the reddened horizon. The city was bustling below. “It will be dark soon.”

“Maybe you weren’t so off on that whole Elvira thing, Sammy,” Dean muttered to his brother, who had grown quiet during the whole exchange with Caleb and Duran.

“Told you,” He replied finally, with a slight shudder.

Dean reached down and pulled one of the blankets from the floor, shaking it free of any glass before slipping it over his brother. “Try to get some rest okay. This is almost over.”

Duran walked back towards them, leaving the French doors agape, allowing the summer air into the room. “I really didn’t want it to come to this, you know.”

“Save your breath, Hughes.” Dean still stood in front of Sam, watching the medium like he would a circling vulture. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Still-I had hoped John would be more receptive to my idea. Things could have gone so differently if he’d only helped me. If Caleb would have been willing to put our past behind him-forgiven my slight.”

"That's not going to happen."

"I suppose. He isn't exactly the forgiving type."

"Neither am I." Dean made his way closer to Hughes. "Especially when my family is involved."

"Family is very important to you," Duran looked towards the door as Kline entered, appearing even more shaken and agitated than before. "I assumed that you of all people would be sympathetic to his cause-would want to help."

"You're not helping him, Duran. Or his kid." The younger hunter shook his head. "You're just helping yourself to the old man's money."

"You make it seem so black and white, cut and dry." Hughes smile melted. "So much of life and death is in the gray, Dean. Good little soldiers like you only make matters harder on yourselves by adhering to your strict moral standards. In reality, rigid lines get blurred, unyielding barriers get crossed. It's the way of the real world."

"There's only good and evil, Hughes." Dean didn't even flinch as the man invaded more of his personal space. "There is no supernatural Sweden to hide in."

Before Duran could reply, a door slammed in the front of the apartment, heralding the arrival of the rest of the players. A breathless John and Caleb burst into the bedroom as if ferocious demon dogs were close on their tails. The two hunters zeroed in on Duran and Dean didn't miss that the man actually looked somewhat hesitant as he took a step back away from him. "So glad you two could finally join us." Hughes regained his cocky front. "Although I must say, John, you have looked better."

Dean had to agree with the man. His father's eyes were bloodshot, his skin starkly ashen in the areas not covered by clothes or days growth of beard. Despite the palpable adrenaline rolling off him in waves, Dean instantly saw through the intensity, picking up on the sheer exhaustion underneath. The oldest Winchester barely glanced in their direction as he made his way to Sam, completely focused on his youngest son. "You okay?"

Dean imagined his brother was fighting the urge to roll his eyes, but he heard the quiet affirmative reply of 'yes, sir' instead.

Caleb had placed himself near Kline, but was ignoring him completely in a way Dean recognized, had seen the older hunter do countless times. Caleb didn't deal well with people, in fact he ignored most, unless they were of the feminine persuasion, and that was merely a physical connection.

"Someone left the door open," Syria's soft voice interrupted, sending more electrical charge into the already explosive room.

"And look what the cat dragged in," Dean said in return, eliciting a dour look from the woman.

"I thought you'd be happy to see me?" She glanced down at her white tank top and short, tight red skirt, and then up at Dean. "I dressed up for the occasion."

"You could have come in nothing but the little anklet with the bells on it, and I still wouldn't have been keen on seeing you, sweetheart."

"She is here to help," Duran pointed out. "That is...as soon as I get what I need." He looked expectantly at John, who stepped away from Sam. Winchester pushed back his jacket, withdrew a package wrapped in old newspaper.

"I have what you want." John tore the paper away and let it drop to the floor.

He stepped toe to toe with the medium, handed him the blade.

Duran eyed the simple, iron structure with an appraising gaze. “Echnon was apparently a man of dull artistic sense.”

“I guess you would have added some tacky jewels,” Dean smirked at the man. “Maybe a fur-covered handle and shiny leather sheath?”

Hughes smiled. “You really shouldn’t mock your elders, young Winchester.”

“You’ve gotten what you came for, Duran.” John gestured to where Sam was. “Now give my son what you promised.”

Hughes glanced towards Syria, who lifted the bottom of her skirt to remove an ornate flask that was strapped high on the inside of her thigh. She held the silver container out to the teen, but Dean intercepted it first. “How do we know this is what you say it is?”

“You will have to trust me.” Syria grinned, but then gasped, bringing a hand up to her head. “What…”

“I hope you don’t mind, darlin’, but I think we’ll check for ourselves.” Caleb said casually, moving closer to the woman, who had now dropped to her knees by the bed, and was glaring at him. “My, my, the sorted things you just leave lying around,” He taunted, as he roughly scavenged the witch’s thoughts, filtering through information he didn’t need to find what he was looking for.

The psychic glanced at Dean. “Better than naughty amateur video hour, Deuce. You’d be impressed.” For some reason the woman’s barricades were weaker than before, but there was one area she had reinforced. It didn’t seem too important and Caleb ignored the fact that she was protecting it like a lioness with her cub, and instead sought out what he needed.

Caleb’s intense training and powerful abilities gave him the know how to probe gently, take without being sensed, but Syria deserved no such consideration. After a few more moments, he looked away, leaving the woman to slump against the mattress, panting harshly as if she had been roughly held by her slender throat.

Reaves cut his gaze to the oldest Winchester. “I don’t sense that she’s lying-at least not about the potion.”

Hughes yawned as if he was bored, used the blade to pick at his fingernails. “It’s your call, John. But poor little Sammy isn’t looking too good.”

John looked at his eldest son, who seemed ready to launch himself at Hughes at any moment. He nodded. “Go ahead, Dean.”

Dean hesitated, but then sat on the bed next to his brother. Sam was still hanging on to consciousness, staring at him now, but from the dazed look in his brown eyes, Dean wasn’t sure how much he was actually comprehending. “Drink this, Sammy.”

The younger boy complied allowing Dean to help him, wincing at the bitter-tasting brew. “I’m never… drinking tea again,” Sam vowed, softly, and Dean grinned slightly as he squeezed his brother’s arm reassuringly.

“Good thing you’re not southern.”

“Can we get on with this?” Kline spoke up finally from his voyeuristic spot in the far corner of the room, and everyone’s gaze fell on him. “I’m tired of this cat and mouse game, Hughes. Either do the job I’m paying you for or let me get the hell away from this insanity. I have a business to run.”

“Sorry your latest venture into attempted murder is such an inconvenience for you, Kline,” John growled. “Hughes should have told you that violating the delicate laws of nature can be a tedious bitch.”

“Mr. Kline has no time for your good and evil sermons, Winchester. He has a son to be reunited with. Besides it's akin to the bastard drunkard preaching to the choir, isn’t it?” Duran looked at Sam. “After all, you have your boy back, now he should have his.”

“The only difference being his son has crossed over.” John snapped, his dark eyes latching onto Kline’s once more. “I hope you realize that what you’re calling back may not be what you lost. You’ve heard the old saying about looking into the abyss-trust me, it’s true.”

“I’ve talked to my boy,” Kline reasoned. “He wants to come back to me-no matter the cost. His time came before it was suppose to. There are loop holes when that happens.”

“Loop holes?” Caleb snorted. “I didn’t know life and death was based on a contract.”

“You just have never met the right broker,” Duran offered. “I’ve shown Mr. Kline what’s behind door number two-allowed him to converse with his child.”

“Meaning you did a séance?” Reaves shot Hughes an incredulous look. “Who did you let channel Scott? Syria? Because I’m guessing she has the ability to be a host, and the power to keep some control.”

“I am merely the vessel for young Scott-allowing him a short refuge within my body. I have not swayed his decision.”

“Vessel?” Caleb shot her a look, and then his handsome face grew grim as the truth sank it. “My God, you didn’t just do a séance, you did a binding ritual.”

“What?” John and Dean looked at Caleb.

He pointed to Syria. “She’s got the kid’s spirit in there with her, locked away neatly in a little compartment of her own mind.” Caleb pointed to the woman, who merely grinned. “She’s binding him to this plane until they can do the transfer. I sensed it before when I read her. It’s taking most of her energy to hold onto him.”

“She can do that?” Dean looked to Reaves.

“Yeah, she can hold him for a short time-like a possession. I’ve seen Mac do it with a displaced spirit, until the body could be torched. Too long though and somebody has to go, or the host body will die.”

“Enough of this,” Kline demanded, but his voice shook with a small tremor of fear. “Just do it, Hughes. I’m tired of waiting. I want my son back. Use the damn knife.”

“Do you even know how that works?” John asked, nodding to the blade.

“I do.” Duran smiled, turning the knife over in his palm. “It works like a very powerful conduit, a spiritual lightning rod.” He looked up at John. “I place it where I want the displaced spirit to go. I’ve already done the hard work guiding Scott back from the beyond, placing him in Syria’s care. When she touches Echnon’s blade, its power to restore the dead will do the rest.”

“Meaning you forced the dead kid into Pandora’s lock box, until you could find a bigger, more vacant cage?” Dean shook his head, glanced at Kline. “Trust me, dude, this is not going to get you any votes for father of the year.”

“And what happens to the soul already in the body?” John demanded, his eyes going from Hughes to the businessman. “You might want to pay close attention to this yourself, Mr. Kline.”

Duran sighed. “Yes, the spirit will be evicted so to speak,” He made quotes in the air, “but I will gladly guide them towards the light. Yada, yada, yada.”

“Who says your boy’s life is more important than the person Hughes is going to kill?”

Kline opened his mouth to answer John’s question but Duran quickly interrupted. “This isn’t murder. It’s justice. Whomever I choose will be a fair exchange, I assure you.”

Caleb and Dean shared a quick look, before the older hunter voiced what was on their collective minds. “You already have this unsuspecting victim lined up?”

Hughes looked at them, his eyes briefly flicking to Caleb before he grinned. “Actually, I do.”

In that moment, it was easy for Caleb to realize that there was a reason that hindsight was touted as being damn near perfect. Because looking back it was easy to see the mistake they made.

Although Duran was showy and obnoxious, he was not merely a medium.

Even if he was underhanded enough to manipulate others into doing the job for him, he was still a very capable hunter. His cowardly tactics thus far had lulled them into believing he wasn’t a direct physical threat. But they had been so very wrong.

He was dangerous on so many levels. He had led them into his snare like amateurs.

Caleb didn’t even have time to register Duran’s intentions before the knife left his hand, before it was hurdling through the air towards them.

The psychic didn’t have the chance to move, let alone shout a warning, before the blade was buried hilt-deep in Dean’s stomach.

Dean staggered backwards against the bed, a forceful rush of air leaving his lungs, his hands going to the blade protruding from him. His wide, shocked gaze lifted from the surreal image to briefly meet Caleb’s horror filled eyes and then he stumbled forward.

Sam screamed his brother’s name, the roughness of it mixing with the sharp resounding bark of Caleb’s cry of “No!”

“You son of a bitch!” John yelled, leveling his 9mm at the other hunter’s head, the barrel of it pressed close to Duran’s temple. “What the hell did you do?”

Caleb reached out and caught the younger man as he fell, taking both of them to their knees. “Oh God!” Dean gasped, as his legs met the floor and his whole body was jarred. He practically collapsed against Caleb, with a muffled cry.

“Deuce?” Caleb heard himself say, even as his mind tried to register another threat.

From the corner of his eye, he could make out Sam crawling his way towards them, pulling himself to the side of the bed where his brother had fallen but Syria was on him like a pouncing cat.

The witch dug her claws into Sam’s shoulders, jerked him to a stop. In his weakened state, he was unable to resist the momentum, falling back against the mattress where she made easy work of straddling him.

Sam put up a fight, but suddenly found himself faced with Dean’s knife, now held precariously to the soft under-side of his throat. “Turn about is fair play, Sammy,” Syria purred. “You’ve been a naughty boy.”

“Sam,” Dean struggled to stand, but Caleb tightened his hold. The boy looked up at him, pain and fear bringing tears to his green eyes, like jade shimmering under water. “Help… him.”

“Don’t move,” Caleb said forcefully, keeping Dean in place, glancing to Sam.

“Don’t even try it,” Syria hissed, and Caleb held back on the mental assault he had planned, as a thin line of blood blossomed from where the steel blade was pressed against the teen’s throat. “You might cause me to accidentally cut his head off.”

“I should kill you now!” John was shouting and Caleb found himself slowing fading out as emotions exploded around him like deadly mortar. Sam’s fear, John’s anger, Dean’s pain, Kline’s shock, and Duran’s sick arousal. It was dizzying, and was only intensified by Caleb’s own foreign feeling of helplessness.

“Caleb?” Dean’s soft voice, his fingers wrapped in the hunter’s shirt sleeve. “Don’t…zone out on me man,” He whispered, through clenched teeth and the older hunter blinked, grounding himself as best he could.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Duran was saying in that infuriating calm tone of his, as if John was reacting to a simple misunderstanding instead of the fact that Hughes had just used his son as target practice, had every intention of taking his life. “Why kill one son to save another?”

“You shoot me and Syria will kill Sam.” Hughes looked to where Dean was slumped in the floor, his back now resting against the bed, where Caleb had propped him so he could assess the damage. “Dean wouldn’t want that.”

“Dean?” Sam managed to speak, despite the threat sitting atop him.

“I’m…okay, Sammy,” His older brother ground out, and Caleb rolled his eyes at the kid’s stubbornness. “Let me see,” Reaves breathed as he eased Dean’s hands away and moved the younger hunter’s over-shirt back to get a look at the wound.

“Don’t move,” Caleb ordered again, as his sensitive fingers skimmed around the blade, amazed, yet thankful, at the small amount of blood that poured from around the sharp edges that had pierced Dean’s skin.

“Caleb?” John’s sharp voice had him looking up, meeting his friend’s questioning gaze.

“I don’t know,” The younger hunter replied, glancing back at Dean, who had his eyes shut, jaw clenched tightly against the pain. His breath was whistling slightly as it rushed through his teeth in harsh pants, and a sheen of sweat already glistened on his face. “He’s not losing a lot of blood.”

“Of course not,” Duran said casually. “Echnon’s blade has healing properties-hence the ability to restore life. It wasn’t designed to kill, but I imagine that it still hurts like a bitch.”

Caleb ignored Duran, reaching up and clasping a large hand around the back of Dean’s neck. “Hey? You still with us, kid?”

“Yeah,” Dean blinked, stared at him with glassy eyes. “But…you don’t happen to have any more of that morphine handy, do you?”

“Suck it up, Dean,” Hughes commanded. “You’re a Winchester, for crying out loud. You have a reputation to protect.”

“Shut-up!” John shoved the gun against Duran’s temple. “Don’t you even speak to my boy.”

“Does that mean you don’t want me to guide him to the other side?”

John’s finger tightened on the trigger but the sound of Dean’s hurt-filled voice stopped him. “Dad…don’t…Sammy.”

“That’s right, John…Sammy.” Duran nodded his head towards Syria. “Which is it going to be? You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.”

“What I’m going to have is your head on a platter, Duran,” John growled, menacingly.

"Don't hurt, Sam," Dean said again, panting hard against the pain. He looked from Caleb to his father and then back to Caleb. "It's my choice. I wear a ring, Sammy doesn't."

"No...Dean," Sam gasped out.

Dean continued to stare at Caleb. "You know the rules."

Caleb swallowed thickly, nodded, before flicking his gaze to John. "Ease up, Johnny."

Dark eyes locked on Reaves, and he nearly flinched at the swirling of emotion, praying that his own quickly erected defenses could continue to hold all the intense feelings at bay. There was a damn good reason he chose to hunt alone. "I'm not going to let him murder Dean, " He hissed.

Caleb took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "I know." The psychic glanced back at Dean then met John's gaze once more. "You're going to save Sammy."

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