On The Wings of a Phoenix

By: Ridley C. James

Beta: Tidia

Disclaimer: Nothing Supernatural belongs to me. All those lovely men are property of Kripke Enterprise and The CW.

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Chapter 8/11

“Sorrow makes us all children again.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson

Cape Hatteras, NC. November 1979

Six-year-old Caleb Reaves watched as his father carefully laid the last card on top of their three story house of cards. It was the finishing touch, his father said-a skylight that would allow the stars to look down on them as they slept.

His daddy was always good at playing make believe. “So, what do you think, Son?”

Isaac Reaves glanced over to his little boy, a twinkle in his green eyes. “Is it worth a million dollars?”

“Two million,” Caleb proclaimed, quietly not wanting to get too excited around the wobbly structure. The last house had been taken out by giggling fit before Mommy could take a picture.

“Maybe even five million.” A soft voice from the doorway had both Reaves men looking towards the light coming from the adjoining room. “If we placed it on the perfect piece of beach property that is, with an amazing view of the Eastern sky.”

Isaac laughed. “Perfect conditions for painting in the morning.”

“Of course.” Amelia Reaves crossed the room to kneel beside her husband and peer inside the little compartments. “But it will never be as nice as our house.”

“Did you build our house, Daddy?” Caleb asked watching his father.

“You bet he did.” Amelia answered, with a wink. “And it only took him five years.”

Isaac gave his son a crooked smile, a hint of a dimple playing at his left cheek. “That's only because your mom wanted it on the beach with the perfect view of the Eastern sky.”

Caleb could hear the waves crashing just outside their door and he grinned. “I love the beach.”

“See.” Amelia smirked. “I told you he took after me.”

“Yeah, next thing we know he'll be covered in acrylics and reading dark, broody poetry.”

“Better than drooling over power tools and metal beams.”

Isaac snorted and reached out to tickle the little boy. “Are you kidding? This kid's got flakes of steel in his blood.”

“Do not,” Caleb protested, through giggles. “I've got paint thinner.”

“No!” Isaac fell back in front of the fire place, clutching his heart in mock pain. “I've been betrayed by my own first born son. He's going to be an artist of all things.”

“Maybe the next one will be more sympathetic to your lowly, blue-collar calling.” Amelia laughed and crossed her legs to sit beside their mansion on the floor. “What do you think, Caleb?”

Caleb looked up at his mother, his eyes shining. “The next what?”

Amelia and Isaac shared a look and the woman's smile widened. She pulled the little boy into her lap, his back against her chest. “You realize that you and your father have forgotten the most important thing about houses?” She sing-songed, leaning her head forward so she could kiss Caleb's ear.

The boy squirmed closer, sighing as his mother's long, dark hair fell across his shoulder. The smell of sea air and ocean tickled his nose. “No we didn't. We put more closets for you this time.”

Isaac laughed and his wife shot him an amused look. “I see your father's been talking about me again.”

“He said you needed more room for your shoes.”

“That's true.” Amelia squeezed him closer. “And I appreciate you thinking of me, but I was talking about the people. Where's the family, ioio?”

Caleb looked up at his dad who shrugged. “Hey, I'm just the engineer, Son. Designing is architect's work.”

The six-year-old reached over, pulled a pile of cards closer to him and started to go through them. Isaac smiled at his wife as their son presented her with the Queen of Hearts. “Mommy.” He then gave his father the King of Hearts. “Daddy.” After a few seconds he pulled a Jack of Spades free and held it up proudly. “And Me.”

“The Jack of Spades, huh?” Isaac grinned. “No sappy hearts for my boy.”

“Black's my favorite color,” the little boy explained, simply.

“Actually black is a mixture of all the colors,” Amelia pointed out and Isaac sighed. “And your boy has the biggest heart around.”

Caleb smiled and took the cards back from his mother and father, carefully placing all three inside the first room of the house. “Now it has a family.” He looked up at his mother. “Are you happy?”

“Oh yes.” Amelia beamed. “But, you're forgetting one.”

“Let me.” Isaac reached over his son, digging through the cards until he found what he was looking for. He handed it to his son, who eyed the card suspiciously. “That needs to go in there with us.”

“Are we getting a dog?”

Isaac shook his head at his son's quickness and Amelia reached out and punched him on the shoulder. “Something better,” she said in mock sternness.

“What is it?” Caleb asked, studying the card.

“Why, it's the Deuce of Spades,” Isaac proclaimed, drawing out the suspense.

The little boy looked at the card again and his frown deepened. “Why this one, Daddy?”

“Because it's the wild card, son.” The little boy glanced up at his father who winked at him and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And Mommy doesn't know yet if she's having a boy or a girl.”

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New Haven, Kentucky. 1991

Caleb Reaves jumped slightly when his father's hand settled on his knee. “Son?”

The young psychic blinked, bringing himself back to present time.

Mackland squatted in front of the church pew where Caleb sat. He was concerned. “Are you okay?”

When the twenty-year-old didn't answer, Mac let his eyes go from the boy's face to the bloody bandage covering his arm. He sighed, forcing his gaze away from the wound. It wasn't the physical pain. Mackland was positive of that when he caught site of the object Caleb was holding. Ames recognized it instantly, although it had been quite sometime since he'd seen it.

The well-worn two of spades card usually resided in a hardback copy of the Three Musketeers. The card was one of the last things Isaac Reaves had given Caleb. His adopted son had managed to keep it all these years.

The fact Caleb kept it in the book Mackland had given him upon their first meeting always warmed the doctor's heart. Ames believed it was representative of Caleb's acceptance of Mackland as a member of the family he thought he had lost forever-perhaps even a new beginning.

The gesture had given Ames his first glimpse of hope that the troubled teen he had rescued from the institution might free himself from his troubled past. But, it took an act even more symbolic to convince him that he, Missouri, and Jim had indeed saved the boy. That happened the first time he heard his son call Dean Winchester- 'Deuce'.

“I failed him, Dad.”

When his son did speak, the defeated tone in the young hunter's voice had Ames sliding into the pew next to Caleb. “Son, none of us expected the killer to be someone so close.”

Caleb met his gaze. “I should have known.” He swallowed thickly, glancing down at the card. “He expected me to watch out for him and Sam.”

Mackland covered his son's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “We'll get him back, Caleb.”

Reaves looked at him again, his amber eyes shiny and wet. “What if we don't?”

“That's not an option.” John Winchester's deep voice broke the surrounding quiet of the peaceful sanctuary.

Ames grit his teeth as Caleb jerked away from the momentary solace, standing quickly.

He didn't miss the fact his son slid the treasured card into his back pocket as he practically snapped to attention in front of Winchester.

“John…”

“You alright?”

Mackland glanced at his friend, slightly surprised at the genuine worry reflected in his tone. It wasn't that he didn't believe John cared for Caleb, on the contrary, but he also knew the state the former Marine had been in after hearing the news from Bobby. He was afraid the man was going to get them killed before they reached Jim's church.

“I'm fine.” Caleb straightened his shoulders. The trained soldier instantly shadowing any trace of the sensitive boy Mackland sometimes caught glimpses of. “But Dean…”

“Is going to be fine.” John's jaw clenched. “We'll have him back before daybreak. That bastard won't see one more sunrise.”

Reaves nodded. “I tried to take him down as soon as I realized…but it…he…”

“You did good.” John assured. “You let Bobby and Joshua know what was going on. You kept your head.” Winchester reached out in an uncharacteristic move and squeezed the back of Caleb's neck. “I need you to keep it together now. The boys need you on top of your game. Got it?”

Mackland translated that to mean 'suck it up' and started to tell John exactly what he could do with his little pep talk when his son's reply cut him off at the knees.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” John, removed his hand, slapping the boy lightly on the cheek. “Now round Sawyer up and you two get the gear from the Impala. I want everything locked and loaded, Junior. The hunt’s on.”

Ames slowly sank back onto the crushed-velvet lined bench as his son strode purposefully away, a mission on his mind. John had effectively done what he had wanted to, but in a way he never would have tried. “I'll be damned.” Mac sighed, dropping his head into his hands. When exactly had he lost all control?

“You okay?”

Ames glanced up, unable to hide the anger in his gaze. “If I'm not are you going to call me into formation and assign me a mission, Corporal?”

“What the fuck, Mac?” John threw his arms out in an exasperated gesture. “You want me to hold his hand? My son's missing. Both my boys are in danger. We don't have time to talk about who's feeling what. I need Caleb to do what I’ve trained him to do.”

“My son has been on the bad end of this situation from the very beginning. Or did you miss the parts where he was beaten, concussed, and shot?”

“You want to bench him, Mackland?” John raged. “You want to stay here and take care of his booboo? Go ahead. I'll do this without you.”

“Don't you dare question my loyalty, Johnathan!” Ames stepped toe to toe with Winchester. “I love your sons as if they were my own. I would easily lay down my own life for them, but you cannot ask me to sacrifice my own child without a blink of an eye.”

John's face tightened, and his dark eyes glistened. “Isn't that what was asked of me?”

Mackland stepped back as if Winchester had struck him. “I never…Jim didn't…”

“Perhaps I did.” Both men's gazes went to Murphy, who had appeared from the rectory. “But I would not have asked you to go along with my plan if I believed that Samuel or Dean was in any kind of mortal danger, Johnathan.” The pastor made his way around the altar to come to stand in front of The Knight and Scholar. “The shepherd is sometimes blind to the wolf in sheep's clothing. I was so focused on undermining Conner that I did not see the true threat.”

“There's no way you could have known about Peter Marcus, Jim.” Mackland was quick to point out.

“I'm not speaking of Marcus, Mackland.” Jim looked to John. “Maybe I have spent too many years minding the castle and not enough sharpening my claws.” The pastor reached into his pocket, withdrawing the toy he'd found abandoned on his kitchen floor. He handed the white dragon to John. “It's time for Astorim to take flight.”

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“Are you sure you haven't seen Astorim?” Sam Winchester peered underneath his grandfather's couch for the third time, searching the darkness for his missing dragon. “He's white with silver tips on his wings. I know I had him earlier.”

Charles Conner continued to study the computer in front of him. “Maybe you left him in the car when Manuela took you shopping earlier.”

Sam frowned. “No. I would never do that. I always keep them together.” His voice softened. “They're a family.”

“Check with Manuela,” Charles said, giving his grandson the briefest of glances. “If it doesn't turn up, we'll buy you another one. A bigger one. You can begin a new family.”

“I don't want a different one. There's only one Astorim.” Sam scuffed his foot on the carpet. “I only have one family.”

If Charles heard the boy's comment he ignored it, going back to his work once more. “Go along, Samuel. I have to finish reviewing Peter's reports before tomorrow.”

Sam's brow shot up at the mention of his grandfather's assistant. “Peter!” The boy had taken his backpack with him when Conner had gone to the other man's room last night. Sam had learned quickly there wasn't much to keep him occupied at either suite.

When his grandfather started talking about business, time slowed and Sam bored easily. He had taken the dragons for company. “I bet he has Astorim.” Mr. Marcus had seemed very impressed by the mythical figurines, especially after Sam recounted one of Pastor Jim's stories while Conner was on an important business call.

Charles merely grumbled a reply that sounded more like a bunch of numbers than recognizable words and Sam huffed in frustration. He wasn't used to being ignored. Since the first time he could remember, someone had paid attention when he spoke, had offered a response for his inquiries. Of course he also had a father who could become obsessed with his job and it had taught him to take advantage of golden opportunities of adult distraction.

“Could I go down to Peter's to see if he has my dragon?” The question was asked quietly and casually and Sam grinned as he got the reaction he hoped.

“Yes, yes. Just allow me some momentary peace and quiet.” Charles brushed the boy off, distractedly, obviously not hearing the question.

Sam exited his grandfather's office, racing through the living room. The five-year-old was grateful Manuela had been ordered out to purchase the items she had forgotten on Conner's list. The boy had felt bad for the woman when his grandfather had yelled at her, especially since it had been Sam's detour into the toy department that led the nanny astray from her seek and destroy shopping style. But as Sam slipped out of the penthouse and started for the elevator to Peter's, he couldn't quite get over his good luck.

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Peter Marcus couldn't quite contain the exhalation he was feeling at his incredible good fortune. Dean Winchester was the perfect specimen.

Not only was he the right age, the boy was obviously smart and strong-willed. No one would push him around or take advantage of him. If half of what he had read in Conner's files were true, Dean Mathew Winchester would be the optimal body for Peter Marcus's rebirth.

As he ran the tip of his knife around the boy's jaw-line Peter could almost feel the power strumming through him. Dean was a fighter. Peter had never been a fighter-he had been a survivor. And now all that staunch patience was going to pay off. Peter was going to be rewarded with a new life. Dean's life.

The boy groaned and Peter nearly nicked him with the knife as every nerve-ending in his body seemed to respond and his hand jerked. Long, dark lashes fluttered against Dean's pale, bruised face and then Peter found himself looking into two pools of jade. Frank Marcus, Peter's father, had had green eyes. Peter smiled. “Welcome home, Dean.”

Dean Winchester blinked, trying to bring the face looming above him into focus. The task was made difficult by the pounding in his head, the annoying ringing in his ears. He might not have been sure of the features, but the touch was definitely not familiar.

The clammy hand sliding over his hair, the fingers trailing across his cheek were not known, nor welcomed. Dean tried to jerk away, realized in a fraction of a second he was incapable of getting far. The feeling of being trapped almost sent him into a panic. He struggled weakly against the binds holding him tightly to a straight back chair.

“Shh, shh. It's okay.” Peter cajoled, running his hands over the boy's golden hair. “You're with me. Everything is going to be fine now. I'm going to take good care of you.”

Words that could have brought comfort if spoken by another sent a spike of terror through the twelve-year-old's heart. Dean tried to tell the stranger to get the hell away from him, but his words were muffled by the foul-tasting gag stretched across his mouth. Fear welled up inside him, his heart began to pound within his tight chest, and Dean saw spots dance in front of his eyes as he fought to take in more air.

“It's okay, Dean.” Peter tried again, his ministrations bringing more panic to his captive. “Or is it, Deuce?”

The nickname sent another wave of agony lancing through Dean as his foggy memory began to clear and piece things together. It was Marcus. Peter Marcus had attacked him outside the hotel the night Dean had gone to see Sam. Peter had come to the farmhouse with one of Sam's dragons. Peter had stood in the kitchen with him and Caleb, feeding them lies about his little brother. Peter had shot Caleb.

Dean groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself to wake up. It had to be a nightmare. All of it. Caleb was alive. Sammy was home. And he was at Pastor Jim's farm-safe. That had to be it. He'd merely fallen asleep in the sun, down by the pond. Maybe he was in the rowboat, floating beneath the crystal blue sky.

The momentary relief the delusion brought was shattered when Peter's hands were on him again and the man's breath brushed against his cheek. “There now. Just relax. It will make all of this easier.”

Dean choked on a sob, praying for that moment when his Dad or Caleb would shake him awake, Sammy would roll closer to him clasping his hand in that self-assured little boy way that had yet to be robbed from him by age.

But no comfort came.

Instead smooth, cold fingers closed around his throat. “No crying, Dean!” Peter growled. “Crying is for wimps. You're not a wimp. You're not a momma's boy!”

Dean cringed at the change in tone and volume. Peter's grip tightened on already bruised flesh. The twelve-year-old cried out in pain, the sounds of his distress dampened by the gag. But Marcus seemed to be incensed by it. “I said shut the hell up! You're a fucking man for Christ's sake!”

At that moment Dean wanted nothing more than to be a boy, a child that could crawl on his daddy's lap and have the whole world blocked out by the massive arms wrapped around him. Please. Please. Please. He echoed the words over and over in his mind, willing someone, anyone to hear him. Please help me.

Peter jerked as the doorbell rang. It echoed loudly in the small bedroom where he had secured Dean, and the unexpectedness of it had him quickly releasing the boy and stepping back in shock. “What the…”

Surely no one had followed him. He had not counted on Dean's family regrouping very quickly, especially in light of the fact that he had killed one of their own. No one should have expected him to return to the hotel. It would have been a foolhardy move on his part. It would have made more sense for him to run. Perhaps, these men were smarter than Conner gave them credit for.

The bell rung again, grating on Peter's nerves right along with the coughing sound Dean was making. “Shut up!” Peter growled, holding the knife up so Dean could see it. “Before I give you something to cry about!”

His order had little effect but the next sound had Dean quieting instantly.

“Mr. Marcus!” Sam Winchester's voice was muffled by the walls of the penthouse, but it was unmistakable just the same. Knocking replaced the bell and Sam's small voice called out again. “Peter! Are you home? It's Sam!”

Dean's body went rigid, his breath catching in his throat as all fear for himself became twisted and intensified and focused completely on his brother. Sammy.

“Well, well, well.” Peter grinned, sliding a hand over his disheveled hair. “It seems we have a visitor.”

Dean struggled against his bindings, his determination fueled by the prospect of his little brother falling into the hands of the psycho who had killed Caleb. He glared at Marcus, screaming threats and obscenities that would have had Pastor Jim washing his mouth out with soap.

Peter's smile grew. “There you are. That's my boy.” He touched Dean's face and then glanced towards the door. Now he understood. Peter always was a fast learner. “I always wanted a brother.”

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