Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night was young — but also intense.

Dean and Sam found themselves facing off against a nest filled with bloodthirsty vampires in a deserted warehouse. The air was thick with the scent of blood and decay, and the only light emanated from the moon filtering through the windows.

The brothers had been tracking this nest for days, but they had underestimated the size of the pack. The initial surprise attack had been in their favor, taking out some of them. But as the fight wore on, they realized they were outnumbered.

Dean killed another vampire just as one attacked him from behind, sending him flying into a table and then to the floor. Sam was also on the ground after a kick to the legs sent him tumbling. The male vampire kicked the machete away from Sam, as two other vampires approached him, their fangs bared and eyes glowing.

It all seemed hopeless.

But then:

Two silver spheres rolled into the room, capturing the attention of the remaining vampires. Then, they exploded, releasing a brilliant flash that caused them to hiss in pain and close their eyes, unable to withstand the bright light. Furthermore, It provided a much-needed distraction. Dean and Sam watched as another man exited the shadows and joined the fight.

A tall, muscular man wasted no time in heading over to the vampires that were surrounding Sam and decapitating two of them with his machete, heads rolling across the floor. He then elbowed a third vampire in the face, grabbed him by the shoulders, and slammed him to the floor with a force that resounded through the warehouse. The unknown man retrieved a knife and sliced the vampire's throat.

Three down, two more to go.

One of the remaining vampires that was standing over Dean stepped forward to face the guy once her eyes adjusted to the light. However, before she could act, a knife embedded itself in her neck, sent by the man with unerring accuracy. The female vampire dropped lifelessly to the ground. Seizing the opportunity, Dean stood, grabbed the nearby machete, and decapitated the last remaining vampire.

The stranger graciously helped Sam to his feet and then pulled the knife from the vampire's neck, turning to face them.

The silence that followed was broken by the man's deep voice. "You guys alright?"

"Never better," Dean replied sarcastically as he dusted himself off, his green eyes cautiously appraising the man. "Thanks for the assist, but who the hell are you?"

A charming smile marred the guy's face. as he introduced himself. "Jason. Jason Capaldi. I'm a hunter, just like you guys."

The brothers exchanged a glance, and the older Winchester raised an eyebrow. "Capaldi? I've never heard of you before."

"Can't say I'm surprised. I tend to keep a low profile. It helps me get the job done without drawing too much attention."

Sam nodded understandably, extending his hand towards Jason. "Well, we owe you one, Jason. Those vamps would've had us for dinner if you hadn't shown up. I'm Sam, and this is my brother, Dean."

Jason shook Sam's hand firmly, his gaze briefly meeting Dean's wary eyes before returning to Sam. "Pleasure to meet you both. Let's burn these bodies real quick. I've got gasoline and matches in my car."

Dean and Sam readily agreed, and they set to work carrying the bodies outside the warehouse, while Jason went to get the gasoline from his vehicle. Once the vampires were arranged together, Jason doused them with gasoline, lit a match, and tossed it onto the pile. The brothers and the new guy stepped back, watching the flames rise higher, consuming the bodies. The fire crackled and snapped until ash and charred remains were left.

After burning the bodies and ensuring the fire was out, the three men decided to leave. Dean couldn't stop glancing at Jason Capaldi, their mysterious savior. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Jason than meets the eye. Despite his reservations, he decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt. At least for the time being — given that he had saved him and Sam's lives tonight.

The green-eyed Winchester watched as Jason walked to what he assumed was his car, and his jaw dropped because — wow. The man drove a black and yellow 2010 Chevy Camaro — an expensive car that had only recently hit the market. He preferred classic cars, but Dean couldn't deny the appeal of the modern, nice car.

Low profile, my ass, Dean thought.

As he continued to admire the Camaro, Jason caught his eye and gave him a knowing look. "She's a beauty, isn't she?"

Dean nodded in agreement, his awe for the car evident in his eyes. "Yeah, she's a real stunner. Not many of those around yet. It must've cost you a pretty penny."

Jason chuckled. "You have no idea."

The taller Winchester finished loading the weapons into the trunk, the sound of the closing lid echoing in the quiet. His gaze shifted to Jason, who had already unlocked his car door. "So, Jason," Sam asked, "where are you heading to now?"

"I'm going to get something to eat. I'm starving; hunting works up an appetite."

Dean finally tore his gaze away from the Camaro and turned to its owner. "Mind if we tag along? Sammy and I could really use a decent meal after the hunt as well."

Jason welcomed their company with a grin. "The more, the merrier. Follow me."

Jason settled into the driver's seat of his ride, while the brothers took their places in the Impala, with Sam in the passenger seat. The three arrived at a twenty four hour diner. The place was packed, filled with the comforting sounds of late-night conversations and the clinking of dishes.

Dean noticed that Jason, walking ahead of the two, seemed to attract attention effortlessly; heads turned as he moved through the diner. It was as if he carried an aura that demanded attention. Once they were seated, a waiter approached, pad in hand, to take their orders. Dean ordered a burger, fries, and a beer, Sam mirrored Dean's order, and Jason opted for a stack of pancakes with extra syrup and a glass of lemonade to go with it — a delicious breakfast-for-dinner choice.

When the waiter left to place their order, Dean glanced at Jason. His curiosity got the better of him and he needed to know more about him. Leaning forward, Dean fixed his gaze on him. "So, Jason, where did you come from? What's your story?"

Leaning back in the seat, Jason met his intense gaze. "Well," he began, "I grew up in Los Angeles, born and raised. I got my bachelor's in history, and then a master's in finance at USC. I work for a company here in Kansas and I fight monsters. By day, I'm a worker, and by night, I hunt."

Sam's brows lifted in surprise. "History and finance? That's impressive. So, how did you end up becoming a hunter?" He was curious about the path that had led the man to their world with his lifestyle.

A pained expression crossed Jason's features, and his gaze turned distant as if he was recalling a painful memory. He cleared his throat. "Well, after I finished college, my dad was killed.. by a demon," his voice cracked, causing Sam's eyes to widen, regretting having asked him that. Jason continued, "My father didn't want me to be a hunter, but after his death, I couldn't ignore the hunter's life anymore. Instead, I embraced it, even if it meant juggling two worlds. So, I hunt and work."

Sam nodded sympathetically and even Dean's usually stoic expression softened at Jason's story. "I'm sorry to hear about your old man, Jason." Dean's voice was genuine. "We both know how that feels."

The arrival of their food interrupted the conversation. The waiter set their plates and drinks down before heading off to another customer. As they began to eat, the topic shifted to their recent hunts.

Dean wiped his mouth with a napkin. "So, have you been on any interesting hunts?"

Jason shared a story about a poltergeist in a San Francisco theater that had been disrupting performances and haunting the crew. It took him a few days, hunting solo as he usually did, but he eventually trapped and banished the spirit utilizing both salt and burn and a banishing ritual.

Dean and Sam, in turn, recounted a hunt in Minnesota where they tracked down a rogue witch who was cursing people with hex bags. That witch also turned Dean into a dog, providing yet another reason for his hatred of witches. Sam couldn't help but laugh at the memory.

As the night continued, the three hunters finished their meal. Jason paid the bill despite Sam's protests about wanting to do it for saving their lives. They stepped out into the parking lot where individuals were either coming for a late-night bite or leaving satisfied after a tasty meal.

Jason turned to face the brothers, "Well, boys, it's been quite the evening, but it's time we depart," he announced, yawning.

Sam nodded, stifling a yawn of his own. "Thanks for your help. We owe you one."

"Anytime," Jason responded with a grin. "It was a pleasure to meet more hunters, especially two infamous ones. Perhaps we'll cross paths again. Take care, guys."

Dean and Sam watched as Jason walked towards his Camaro, his strides confident and purposeful. As he reached the car, he turned and gave them a wave before sliding in and starting the engine. The roar of the Camaro's engine filled the air, and with a final nod, Jason drove off.

"Well, that was interesting," Dean said, sliding into the driver's seat of his Impala.

Sam gave a nod, buckling his seatbelt. "It's always nice to meet a fellow hunter. And Jason seems like a good guy and definitely knows how to handle himself."

Dean nodded as he turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot, proceeding onto the dark road ahead. He couldn't deny that Jason's skill with a machete and his fluid movements had impressed him. Yet— "Jason's definitely skilled, no doubt, especially the way he took out those vampires. But something about him just doesn't sit right with me."

Sam glanced to his left and his brows furrowed from hearing the tone laced in Dean's voice. "You're suspicious of him? Dude, he just saved our asses tonight."

"I know, I know. It's just," Dean turned the steering wheel to navigate a sharp right bend, eyes remaining fixed on the road ahead. "His background is... too perfect. Hunters don't usually have the luxury of higher education, Sam. We're too busy fighting monsters to enroll in college."

Sam's shoulders lifted in a casual shrug. He failed to see how Jason's education was a cause for Dean's suspicion. There isn't a rule that says hunters couldn't get degrees. Sam himself almost earned his bachelor's degree, though unfortunately, he did not finish. Moreover, Jason had said he didn't get into hunting until after college, so it made sense that he'd been leading a normal life up until graduation.

"You know, Jason did say that he got his degrees before he joined in hunting, and maybe he's just well-rounded, Dean. Not all hunters are cut from the same cloth."

Dean knew Sam had made a good point, but still, his mind told him otherwise. It could've been his hunter instinct, honed over years of facing the supernatural, or perhaps it was simply the result of being betrayed one too many times. Whatever the reason, he couldn't shake the feeling that Jason wasn't being entirely truthful and something told him to be cautious.

Finally, the brothers pulled into the motel parking lot and came to a full stop. Sam grabbed their bags from the trunk of the car while Dean unlocked the room door. As they stepped inside, Dean tossed his jacket onto the bed and opened up his laptop. He wanted to check something.

Sam set the duffel bag down and turned towards Dean, who had taken a seat on the edge of the bed. "What're you doing?"

"Just doing some digging on Jason real quick." The green-eyed male announced, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "I just want to make sure we're not dealing with another Crowley in disguise, okay?"

Sam chuckled softly. "Doubtful. Crowley didn’t chop heads off vampires for us."

The younger one flopped down on his bed and began cleaning and reloading their weapons, a task that usually fell to Dean. With Dean occupied, Sam took it upon himself to keep busy. The silence in the room was punctuated only by the click of a laptop cursor and the casual slide of gun parts being disassembled.

Finally, Dean spoke.

"Hey, Sam, take a look at this," his green flickered over the screen as he scrolled through different documents. "I found Jason's university records, and his story checks out. Jason Capaldi, USC class of 2005 for his BA and 2007 for his MA. He even wrote papers on historical finance."

Sam looked up and stared at the laptop in Dean's hands. "See? The dude's legit. No need to be so suspicious all the time."

Dean shot his brother a grin. "It's one of my many charms. But I'm just looking out for us, Sammy. We've dealt with our fair share of double-crossers. Like Ruby."

"You just can't resist bringing her up, can you? Jason is not Ruby, Mr. Suspicious. I think we should give the guy a chance if we run into him again. No need to be on high alert unless he gives us a reason to."

Dean sighed and nodded in concession, knowing that Sam was correct. Besides, they could always use more allies in the hunting community, especially someone like Jason. "You're right. I'll give him one."

Dean closed his laptop and set it on the bed before heading into the bathroom for a shower. Meanwhile, Sam finished putting away the guns in the duffel bag and settled back onto the bed, his back resting against the headboard. And his thoughts soon drifted to the new hunter they had encountered — Jason Capaldi.

There was something about the way the man carried himself, the confidence and ease with which he moved, that struck a chord with Sam. Also, Sam couldn't deny that Jason was really easy on the eyes; his attractiveness was undeniable. Sam found himself secretly hoping that their paths would cross once more, eager to get to know the intriguing hunter more.

Meanwhile, in the room next door to the Winchester hunters, Y/n L/n, also known as Jason Capaldi, sat on the edge of his bed, his eyes glued to the laptop screen. The hidden camera he had set up in the Winchesters' room provided a clear view and crisp audio of their conversation.

Y/n listened intently to their discussion, noticing Dean's cautiousness and Sam's curiosity. He did admire Dean's instincts, the way he stayed vigilant and refused to let his guard down. However, he knew that eventually, Dean would let his guard down, just as so many others had done.

His goal was clear: infiltrate the hunting community, get close to the Winchesters and eliminate them. Y/n was going to ensure the mission was completed.

The game was on.

And Y/n was determined to win.

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

Three days passed.

Dean and Sam found themselves on a hunt in a different part of Kansas — this time, in the city of Topeka. There's been a string of mysterious deaths happening that had the brothers thinking there was supernatural involvement. They decided to investigate. And luckily for the duo, it wasn't too far from their current location.

The two stepped through the doors of Goobers Diner, a quaint establishment that was nestled in the heart of the city. Both the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon filled the air, enticing them to take a much-needed breakfast break before delving into their new case.

Green eyes roamed the diner for a place to sit, whether it's a table or a booth, and Dean's gaze landed on a familiar figure.

There, at a booth near the back, was Jason, his posture relaxed yet focused as he typed away on his laptop. Dressed in a sleek, tailored black suit, he could've passed for somebody right out of a high-end fashion magazine. His intense gaze never left the screen, suggesting he was immersed in something of importance.

Dean nudged Sam and subtly indicated Jason with a jerk of his head. "There he is," he muttered. Without waiting for his brother's response, Dean's feet headed toward Jason's booth and slid into the seat across from Jason. Sam followed after Dean and took a seat next to him.

Noticing them sitting at his booth, Jason looked up from his laptop, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Oh, hi, Dean, Sam. By all means, join me," he reached over to shut his laptop and give them his full attention. "I didn't expect to run into you here. Do you guys live in this part of Kansas?" Jason's tone was lighthearted.

Sam shook his head in response. "Nah, we live in Lawrence, but we're on a case. What about you? Do you live in this city?"

"Nope, but I don't live too far from here." the h/c haired guy replied, "My job is just around the corner — so I decided to grab some breakfast before heading to work."

The waitress, Miranda, a young woman with captivating hazel eyes and a bright smile, approached their table. Her gaze went from Dean to Sam, then resting on Jason. Her eyes roamed appreciatively over his body and perfectly tailored suit.

It was clear that the waitress found him attractive. A subtle flush colored her cheeks, and her posture straightened as her chest poked further. "What can I get you boys this morning?" Her eyes stayed on Jason and her voice carried a hint of flirtatiousness as the woman directed her question primarily towards Jason.

Dean ordered a filling breakfast of eggs, bacon, and pancakes. In contrast, Sam opted for a healthier choice of oatmeal and fruit, earning a playful eye-roll from his brother. Jason requested pancakes and black coffee, a classic combination.

Miranda jotted down their orders swiftly, pencil moving abruptly across the pad and her gaze occasionally drifted back to Jason. She assured them that she'd be back with their food shortly before disappearing into the bustling kitchen.

The older Winchester noticed Miranda's interest in the new guy and couldn't help but feel a pang of annoyance. He prided himself on his ability to charm the ladies, the one who always caught the attention of the ladies. However, Jason seemed to have stolen the spotlight effortlessly.

Surprisingly fast, Miranda returned with their food, her eyes once again fixed on Jason as she set the dishes on the table without sparing a glance in the brother's direction. Miranda directed her attention solely at Jason, offering to let him know if he needed anything. Jason responded with a subtle nod and a wink, causing a bright flush to rise on Miranda's cheeks.

As the trio ate their breakfast, their eyes were drawn to the small TV mounted in the corner of the diner. A man, the news anchor's, voice filled the room, reporting on a recent financial theft. "In breaking financial news, authorities are baffled by the disappearance of fifty million dollars from a secure account here in Virginia. The theft happened last night, and there are currently no leads on the perpetrator."

A fleeting smirk graced Jason's features, however, it swiftly vanished, replaced by a feigned expression of astonishment when Dean's gaze shifted in his direction.

"Man, fifty million bucks. That's a lot of money," Dean shook his head in disbelief.

"I know, right? Fifty million bucks, just like that. It's insane," Jason said, shaking his head, too, his fork slicing through the fluffy pancakes as he popped a bite into his mouth. He then steered the topic in a different direction. "So, a new hunt, huh?"

Sam nodded, his mouth full of oatmeal, and Dean took the opportunity to speak, swallowing the last of his bacon. "Yeah, we're looking into a string of mysterious deaths here in Topeka.  Seems like there might be some supernatural involvement."

"What makes you think it's supernatural?"

Sam swallowed his mouthful of oatmeal and elaborated, "According to online, the victims' hearts had been brutally ripped out. And here's the intriguing part: there were no signs of forced entry. This has occurred three times in the past month."

"Hmm, that definitely has a supernatural ring to it," he agreed, taking a slow sip of his hot coffee. "Have you looked into the victims' backgrounds? Any connection?"

A shake came from Dean's head, leaning back in his seat. "Not yet. We just got here less than an hour ago so we haven't had the chance to look yet. Figured we'd grab some breakfast before getting into the case," he leaned forward. "You up for tagging along with us on this one, man?"

Just as Dean did, Jason shook his head. "Unfortunately, I probably can't. I've got a packed schedule with client meetings all day. Working in finance can be tedious."

"That's a shame," the taller one said, his tone conveying a mix of disappointment and understanding. "It would have been nice to have your help. Maybe next time."

"For sure," Jason sounded absolute, with no hesitation present from those words. "I'm always up for lending a hand. Don't hesitate to give me a call whenever you need some extra muscle or brainpower."

Jason and Sam exchanged contact info to keep in touch and maybe go on cases together. The bill came, and Jason, once again, insisted on covering it, waving off their attempts to pay it. He pulled out his credit card and inserted the chip into the payment machine. With the bill resolved, Jason briefly glanced at his watch and explained that he had to leave for work. With a parting smile, Jason left, leaving the Winchesters to digest both the meal and the enigma that was Jason Capaldi.

As the diner door swung shut, Dean and Sam watched the man leave, their gazes following his retreating figure. Sam slid into the vacant seat across from Dean, the brothers now facing one another.

Sam's voice broke through the silence. "That guy... there's just something about him, Dean. He gives off nice, good vibes."

Dean tore his gaze away from the door, turning to face his brother, an eyebrow arched in amusement. "Sammy, you're falling for this guy's charm, aren't you?"

Sam paused, considering his response. "I'm not falling for him, jerk. I'm saying he seems like a stand-up dude, that's all."

A smirk plastered on Dean's lips as he teased his brother. "A stand-up guy, huh? I noticed you staring pretty intensely at Jason's ass when he walked out, bitch."

A hint of pink-tinged Sam's cheeks as he denied and defended himself. "W-What? No, I wasn't — you were staring at it too!"

Dean feigned innocence. "Me? Nah, I was just appreciating the view outside." he countered. "But enough about Jason. Let's get this case started and finished."

With that, the brothers got serious and the conversation shifted. As they delved into the case, Dean and Sam discovered that the victims were all in their thirties, with no other connections or similarities beyond age and the nature of their deaths — their hearts ripped out of their chests.

Armed with their suits and fake badges, the brothers set out to interview family and friends of the victims, hoping to uncover any clues that would lead them to the supernatural culprit. Despite their diligent efforts, the day's investigations and interviews yielded nothing useful.

Then, they visited the local sheriff, who shared his frustration at being unable to identify the culprit or even connections. But he revealed that one of the victims, Alex, face had been captured on a traffic camera, which was strange since it was discovered that Alex doesn't have a twin. This new information led Dean and Sam to the conclusion that they were dealing with a shapeshifter, one who seemed to be wreaking havoc for unknown reasons.

They must be killing just for the fun of it.

The sheriff had tipped them off about an old abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city, rumored to be the last known location of the three deceased victims.

Dean and Sam went to the abandoned factory, weapons in hand. The building was decrepit and rundown, with broken windows and graffiti covering the walls. They cautiously made their way inside, flashlights cutting through the darkness.

But then, out of nowhere, the duo heard the sudden creak of a door behind them, which caused them both to turn around, guns ready in case it was a shapeshifter.

And it was Jason.

A genuine smile spread across Sam's face at the sight of Jason. "Jason! What are you doing here? I thought you would be swamped with work all day and night."

"Work can wait," Jason stepped into the dilapidated factory, briefly scanning his surroundings. "I decided to look into the case you mentioned, and the trail led me here. So, you're hunting a shapeshifter?"

"Yeah. Perfect timing," Dean remarked, handing Jason a spare flashlight from his pocket. "Let's get this party started."

Their exploration through the factory led them to a trail of blood that grew more pronounced as they ventured further into the factory. The bloody tracks led them to a door from which faint noises could be heard, indicating activity within.

Dean held up a hand, signaling for them to halt. "Shapeshifters," he mouthed, his grip intensely tightening around the gun.

Suddenly, the door burst open, sending all three of them tumbling to the ground. As Sam's flashlight flew away, its beam landed on one of the intruders, revealing the telltale retinal flares that confirmed they were indeed facing shapeshifters.

The two guys, one with dark hair and the other with blonde hair, lunged at the trio.

But Jason was quick with it.

He delivered a flawless roundhouse kick that sent a blond shapeshifter crashing into a stack of crates. The dark-haired shapeshifter punched Jason in the nose, and Jason's foot connected with his gut, sending the one tumbling to the ground. He then finished with a knee to his face.

"They're all yours," Jason said, diving out of the way as Dean and Sam raised their guns to finish off the two shapeshifters.

Again, the shapeshifters stood, making a move. Dean and Sam pulled the trigger sending two silver bullets from each gun hurtling through the air into the hearts of the creatures. They fell to the floor, dead.

As the smoke from the gunfire cleared, Sam looked over at Jason to make sure he was okay. He couldn't help but notice the trail of blood trickling from his lip, likely a result of the punch he had taken.

"You alright, Jason? Your lip is busted."

Dean, too, noticed Jason's split lip, and he couldn't help but begrudgingly admit to himself that Jason still looked good. Better than he himself did after a fight. The sight of Jason with a split lip only seemed to enhance his attractiveness, something Dean found mildly irritating.

"I'm okay, man. It's just a scratch," Jason dismissed the injury with a casual shrug, wiping away the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. "No big deal. Let's take a walk around and make sure there aren't any more surprises lurking in here."

With cautious steps, the trio of hunters made their way through the factory, their weapons in their hands as they checked for any remaining shapeshifters. After a thorough search, they all confirmed that the area was clear of any further threats.

Their footsteps echoed throughout the area and Sam noticed the trail of blood on Jason's lips had dried, leaving a faint crimson trace. "Hey, man, are you sure you're alright? That's a pretty nasty cut. I can help clean it up if you need me to."

Jason waved away Sam's concern with a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry, Sam. Like I said, it's a scratch. I've had plenty of split lips, It comes with the territory."

When they reached the parking lot, an unexpected obstacle awaited Jason in the form of a flat tire on his new vehicle. He let out a low curse, bending down to inspect the damage. "Dammit, not a flat tire," he muttered, his frustration evident.

"It looks like you ran over some debris —nails or glass, maybe." Dean knelt beside Jason, eyes scanning the damaged tire. "Do you have a spare tire in the trunk?"

"Nah," the e/c-eyed man shook his head, digging into his jacket and taking out his phone, "It's fine, though. I'll call Roadside Assistance, but they'll take a while to get here." He dialed their number, his thumb pressing against the phone buttons.

"Or," the hazel-eyed chimed in, "you could come with us back to our motel. You are welcome to stay the night, and we can call the tow truck in the morning."

Jason paused, his thumb hovering over the call button on his phone. He glanced at Sam before shaking his head, "There's no need for that. I don't want to impose, I will wait here for Roadside Assistance."

"Nonsense," Dean interjected. "We can't leave you here alone and it's getting late."

An eyebrow ascended. "You think I can't handle myself, Dean-O?" Jason's tone of voice was teasing, devoid of any serious heat, the nickname rolling off his tongue.

A smirk couldn't help but sketch itself on Dean's face. "Oh, I know you can handle yourself. You're like a one-man army, but even armies get tired, and I bet you don't feel like waiting out here all night. So are you in for a night at the motel with us?"

Jason took a moment to consider as he pocketed his phone in his pants pocket, conceding. "Alright, boys, lead the way."

The three of them piled into the Impala, with Dean taking the driver's seat as usual. Sam opted to sit in the backseat with Jason, creating a cozy atmosphere. The familiar growl of the Impala's engine filled the air as Dean turned the key, and drove. The drive to the motel was quiet, but the silence was comfortable as well.

Once getting to the motel, Sam unlocked the door, bathing the area with light. The space was modest, with two beds and a couch squeezed into the limited space. Jason's eyes roamed the room, taking in the simple furnishings. Dean tossed his jacket onto a chair and gestured toward the couch with his hand. "Make yourself comfortable. Sorry it's not really five-star accommodations, but it'll do for tonight."

A soft chuckle rumbled in Jason's throat as he removed his jacket and sat on the couch with an air of nonchalance. "I've stayed in worse places before. Trust me."

Sam went to use the bathroom, leaving Dean and Jason alone. Jason took the opportunity to inform Dean about his intention to step out and explain to his boss that he'd be taking some time off the next day due to the flat tire incident.

Jason stepped outside, closing the door gently behind him. He walked a sizable distance away from the room to ensure privacy before pulling out his phone. He dialed a familiar number, listening to the ringing sound before it was answered.

"Status report," an authoritative voice demanded from the other end of the line.

Jason — now Y/n — glanced around one final time, ensuring his privacy. "Phase one has been successfully executed. I'm currently implementing phase two of the plan. I've gained the Winchesters' trust. They think I'm one of them," he reported.

"Good," the voice on the other end of the line was one of approval. "Maintain your cover and stay close. We need them out the picture, and the best way to do that is to make sure they don't see it coming."

Y/n's smirk reflected his confidence. "Understood. I'll keep you updated."

"Excellent. Remember, you are our top asset. Don't disappoint me Y/n," the man on the other side abruptly ended the call.

Y/n put his phone into his pocket and took a steadying breath, preparing to re-enter the room. He plastered a tired yet friendly smile before stepping back into the room, his demeanor shifting back to the persona he presented to the hunters.

Phase One: completed.

Phase Two: currently in progress.

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

The door shut gently behind Jason as he returned to the couch. Retaking his seat on the well-worn furniture, the s/c male noticed that Sam had emerged from the bathroom, now dressed comfortably in a cotton t-shirt and loose-fitting pajamas.

Dean's eyes flickered towards Jason. "So, what did the boss have to say?"

"He said that I could take tomorrow off. Luckily, I didn't use up all my PTO time."

With a nod, Dean rummaged through the duffel bag that contained his clothes. As he pulled out a fresh pair, he announced his intention to shower, with his clothes placed in his hand. Sam's eyes followed Dean as he headed inside the bathroom before shifting his eyes to rest on Jason, who looked over to meet the man's gaze.

"So, about that lip…" the question hung in the air expectantly, and it was clearly an invitation for Sam to tend to Jason’s lip.

The h/c-haired man couldn’t refrain from rolling his eyes, "Honestly, Sam, it's really not a big deal. I appreciate the offer, but it's just a small bump. Doesn't even hurt."

"Come on," Sam persisted, his voice firm yet gentle. "It’ll only take a minute. Even if the blood has dried, there's still a risk of infection. Let me help you with that."

Jason's soft chuckle echoed through the room, betraying the amusement present in his eyes from Sam's persistent nature. "Very well, if it will make you feel better. You're awfully persistent, you know that? Kinda reminds me of a nagging mother."

Sam flashed a grin, unbothered by the playful comparison to a nagging mother. "Persistence is one of my few charming traits. Now, come sit here," he patted the empty spot next to him on the motel bed.

Jason rose from the couch and headed to the bed, lowering himself onto it next to Sam. The taller Winchester retrieved a first aid kit from his duffel bag, opening it up to reveal an assortment of medical supplies. Carefully, he withdrew a bottle of antiseptic solution and some cotton pads, placing them on the bedside table.

Sam carefully uncapped the bottle and soaked a cotton pad with the antiseptic solution. With gentle fingers, he dabbed at the cut on Jason's lip, attempting not to cause the other hunter any pain. Sam meticulously wiped away traces of dried blood, ensuring the area was thoroughly cleansed. And throughout this process, Jason remained stoic, his face relaxed, betraying no signs of discomfort or pain.

As Sam tended to his lip, Jason found himself observing the way Sam's eyes crinkled gently at the corners, a sign of his concentration. He noticed the subtle curl of Sam's hair at the nape of his neck and the relaxed set of his shoulders as he worked. It was very evident that Sam derived satisfaction from aiding others.

"You know," he began, his voice breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them. "You're very good at this."

At Jason's acknowledgment, Sam lifted his gaze momentarily, eyes locking with Jason's. A fleeting smile graced his lips before returning to the task. "Thank you. You pick up a few things when you and your brother are patching each other up."

Their faces hovered mere inches apart, and Sam found himself transfixed by the softness of Jason's lips, despite the little injury. Without thinking, Sam allowed his fingertips to graze ever so lightly against the supple skin of Jason's mouth. It's so soft. Sam felt his heartbeat quicken in response. Startled by the intensity of his reaction, he abruptly withdrew his hand.

However, what Sam failed to realize was that Jason was keenly aware of his bold move and decided to test the waters, so to speak. It was the perfect opportunity.

"Damn, you are skilled with those hands. I bet they'd feel even better elsewhere."

Sam froze, fingers stilling in their gentle ministrations. The cotton pad hovered in mid-air, and he felt his face grow warm under Jason's intense scrutiny, his heart rate accelerating. Slowly, he dragged his eyes away from Jason's lips to meet his gaze directly. "S-Sorry, did you just..." he stammered, unsure if he heard correctly.

Jason chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Relax, Sammy. I'm kidding."

Clearing his throat, Sam shifted his focus back to the task at hand, diligently resuming the cleansing of Jason's lip, not only from the flirty comment — but also from using the nickname 'Sammy'. He usually didn't like when people other than his brother called him that, but he didn't feel the need to correct him on it.

"There, all done," Sam announced after a few seconds. "Just try to avoid touching or picking at the cut as it starts to heal. Other than that, it should heal up nicely."

Jason smiled warmly at Sam's attentive care. "Thanks, Doc. I really appreciate it."

At that moment, the bathroom door opened, and Dean emerged, clad in a t-shirt and shorts, with his hair damp. He stopped short, though, when he saw the proximity between Sam and Jason, and Sam’s flustered state. "Everything alright in here?" his gaze shifted between them.

"Yes, everything's fine," Sam responded, quickly recapping the bottle of antiseptic and tucking the bottle back into the first aid kit. "Just patching up our friend here."

Unfazed by Dean's interruption, Jason stretched his arms above his head and yawned. "Well, you guys, I think it's time for me to turn in. It has been a long day."

Reaching into his black duffel bag, Dean retrieved a pair of pajamas and a t-shirt, tossing them to Jason. "Hope these fit."

Jason caught the offered clothes with a smile. "Thanks, Dean. I'm sure they will."

So, Jason retreated into the bathroom to change into the borrowed clothes. When he emerged, he was wearing a shirt and pajama bottoms, the fabric stretching comfortably over his muscular body. He then stretched his arms above his head, cracking his neck from side to side, and flashed another grateful smile at Dean.

"These fit perfectly. Thanks again."

"No problem," Dean replied, however, in the privacy of his own mind, he thought, Damn, he looks good in my clothes, too.

The undercover operative moved toward the couch, attempting to lie down when Sam stepped into his path. He blocked him from retreating to his sleeping spot.

"Hey, Jason, why don't you take the bed, and I'll sleep on the couch." Sam offered.

But Jason shook his head, refusing the offer. "Nah, that's not fair. it's your room. I'm perfectly comfortable on the couch."

Sam stood his ground. "I really insist," he said. "You've had a tough day, and as our guest, you should get one of the beds."

Jason hesitated briefly, his gaze shifting between the couch and the bed before finally relenting, "Okay, if you insist, Sam."

Without further ado, Jason climbed into the bed close to the window, fluffing the pillow before settling in. Dean slid into the bed near the door and Sam switched off the lamp on the bedside table before lying down on the couch. Soon, the only sound in the area was the gentle rhythm of their breathing as they all surrendered to sleep. Darkness enveloped the room, illuminated only by the faint glow of the moon seeping through the thin curtains.

Sleep, however, eluded Sam.

Restlessness plagued him, and he found himself tossing and turning on this little, uncomfortable couch, causing both his back to ache and his long legs to dangle awkwardly over the edge. There was no way he was going to sleep here tonight.

Unable to find a comfortable position, Sam eventually gave up, sitting up and running a hand through his tousled hair. Across the room, Dean's peaceful form lay still, his breathing deep and steady, the soft rumble of his snores filling the quiet space. Sam's gaze then turned to Jason in the other bed, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.

Sam considered his options in order to improve his sleeping situation. Sharing a bed with Dean crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed the idea of sleeping in the bed with his brother. Dean would be resistant to that idea. It had been years since they had shared a bed as children.

That left Jason as the remaining option.

The hazel-eyed one rose from the couch, his bare feet padding silently across the room until he stood near the bed where Jason was sleeping. Hesitation flickered across his face as he contemplated the idea of sleeping next to Jason without asking him. Sam believed that he was overstepping boundaries, so he gently tapped Jason's shoulder three times.

"Jason, are you awake?" He whispered.

Sam's whispered question shattered the peaceful silence, rousing Jason from his sleep. E/c eyes opened simultaneously and quickly rested on the standing man.

Jason's voice was thick with sleep as he murmured, "Yeah, I'm awake. What's up?"

Soft moonlight casted a gentle glow on Sam's features as he hovered tentatively over the bed. "Sorry to wake you up," he apologized. "But I can't sleep on that tiny couch. My back is killing me. Would it be okay...if I joined you? In the bed, I mean?"

Jason's eyes widened at the unexpected request, but he didn't outright reject the proposition. "Sure, bro," he scooted over, "There's more than enough space for us."

Sam's smile conveyed the gratitude he felt as he rigidly eased himself onto the bed, mindful of any noise. The mattress dipped slightly with Sam's added weight, but it was surely better than the couch. For a moment, they remained still, with both men very much conscious of the other's presence. Then, with a tiny shift, Sam settled onto his side, facing Jason.

The silence lengthened between them before Sam's voice broke the quiet. "Hey, Thanks for allowing this. It means a lot."

Jason waved away the gratitude with a casual hand gesture, "Happy to help you."

Side by side, they lay in the quiet room, the silence punctuated only by the soft rhythm of their breathing and the snores that were coming from Dean. The taller man's heart raced, his nerves suddenly on edge. Besides, of course, the people he slept with, sharing a bed with anyone other than Dean was unfamiliar territory, especially with someone he recently met.

"So..." Jason drawled, his voice reaching Sam's ears. "Tell me, how often do you share a bed with random guys, Sammy?"

Sam's eyebrows knitted together at the playful jab, but he felt himself relaxing. "Shut up," he retorted, a smile tugging at his lips. "This is a special circumstance."

A soft chuckle came from Jason. "Right."

The tension in Sam's body eased and he studied Jason's face, taking note of the thoughtful expression it wore. "How do you do it?" he inquired, voice laced with genuine curiosity. "How do you balance being a hunter with having a career?" he elaborated, seeing Jason's lifted brows.

Jason's expression turned pensive as he considered his response. "Balance, man, It's all about finding balance," he finally said. "Life's too short to not pursue your passions. I refused to choose between a career and hunting. So, I made it work."

Sam pondered over Jason's words, his foot unintentionally rubbing against his. "I admire that," he said quietly. "I gave up law school to hunt full-time. Sometimes I wonder if I could have managed both."

The e/c-eyed male's eyes flickered with something like understanding. "It's not easy, my friend, but it's not impossible either. You just have to find your rhythm and stick to it. It definitely helps to have people who support you. Personally, my dad’s support was all I needed to have a career, regardless of any circumstances."

Sam responded with a mute nod, but he couldn't help but notice the absence of any mention of Jason's mom. "And your mom? Did she lend her support as well?"

Sam's tone implied that he did not mean to pry, but his curiosity about Jason's life was evident. Jason was his friend, and he wanted to know more, yet he left the decision to share entirely up to the man.

The undercover assassin’s lips pursed into a thin line. "No, she didn’t support any of the decisions that I made, which caused us to buttheads a lot, and is the reason why our relationship is strained to this day. It sucks, but it is what it is."

Jason’s tone was dismissive, seemingly having no desire to work things out with his mother. Sam could understand that. Hearing this story reminded him of his once strained relationship with his dad.

As a teenager and even as a young man, Sam constantly argued with his old man whenever they were together. He simply wanted to live a normal, "apple pie" life instead of continuing to hunt, which led to most of his arguments with John. But the reason they clashed and argued so much was because they were so similar.

As it turned out, Sam and Jason shared more similarities than he thought. Sam hoped that he would be able to mend his relationship with his mother, just as he had found common ground with his dad.

"I get it. Families can be complicated."

Again, the room fell into a comfortable silence, with the distant echoing of cars passing the motel outside. Once again, Jason was the one to break the silence.

"Good night, Sam."

"Good night, Jason."

Sam closed his eyes, feeling comforted by Jason's presence. Within minutes, his breathing slowed, and he succumbed to the soothing embrace that sleep bought.

XXXXX XXXXX

Morning arrived, bringing with it a burst of sunshine that banished the gloom of the previous night. Sunbeams streamed through the curtains, bathing the room in a golden glow. Dean stirred, blinking sleepily as he rubbed his eyes. He rolled over, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. He gazed around the room, expecting to see Jason still asleep in the bed, but it was empty. Feeling confused, he turned his gaze towards the couch to see Sam, only to find it deserted as well.

Where was everyone?

Right on cue, Jason sauntered into the room, still donning Dean's pajamas and holding a phone in his hand. Dean threw him a questioning glance. "Hey, where'd you go?" His voice was rough with sleep.

Jason gave him a charming smile. "Oh, I called the towing company to come get my car, and Sam took off in the Impala. He said that he was getting breakfast."

Nodding in understanding, Dean sat up, the blankets pooling in his lap. "Gotcha."

Casting a glance toward the bathroom, Jason revealed his intentions. "I'm going to go take a shower now," he proclaimed, already heading towards the bathroom.

The hunter watched him leave, his eyes trailing over Jason's retreating form. He couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy as he admired Jason's physique. He was built like a damn Adonis, and it annoyed Dean so much that he wasn't the hottest guy in the room when Jason was around.

As Jason vanished into the bathroom, Dean heard the sound of running water and swallowed hard. For some reason, his mind couldn't help but imagine how good Jason must look under that water, the droplets trailing down his chest and abs. It was enough to make Dean's pulse quicken and his cheeks flush with heat.

What was wrong with him?

Shaking his head, Dean ascended and sauntered over to the bathroom door. He then raised his arm and knocked on the door three times. "Yo, uh, mind if I brush my teeth in here?" His voice was slightly muffled, but he hoped Jason heard him.

Jason's reply was quick. "Go ahead, bro."

Grateful for receiving his permission, Dean pushed open the door and stepped inside the steamy bathroom. The mirror was fogged from the warmth generated by the shower, but Dean started his task. He set his toothbrush on the sink, turned on the faucet, and squeezed toothpaste on the bristles before brushing his teeth.

As Dean brushed his teeth, his gaze kept drifting toward the shower, lingering on the curtain that cloaked Jason's naked form. He wasn't sure why he was having these thoughts about another dude, but he wished that they would just go away.

And when the faint outline of Jason's silhouette was in his visual field through the shower curtain, a stirring within him grew, something he couldn't quite name. He had always identified as straight, but he found himself questioning everything he thought he knew about himself now.

It was an unsettling realization, one that left Dean feeling disoriented and out of sorts. He tried to push those thoughts to the back of his mind as he kept brushing his teeth, but they lingered, stubborn and persistent, refusing to be ignored by him.

Finishing up, Dean rinsed his mouth out and turned off the faucet, trying to clear his mind of the intrusive thoughts. He glanced once more towards the shower, his heart hammering in his chest, before quickly exiting the bathroom. He needed to blow off some steam and stop those thoughts from entering his mind again.

Putting on a fresh set of clothes, Dean grabbed a knife from the weapons duffel bag and headed to the forest behind the motel. He greatly wanted to improve his knife-throwing skills, inspired by Jason's impressive accurate display when they first met. He hoped the physical activity would help take his mind off things and provide a distraction that he so needed.

When he reached a secluded spot, Dean raised his arm and threw the knife at the tree meters away from him, but it did not embed itself into the tree. Undeterred, he tried twice more but was unsuccessful.

"You’re throwing it wrong, you know?"

Dean pivoted, his green eyes narrowing as he spotted Jason emerging from the woods. He approached him, dressed in the same clothes from last night and his hair was still damp from the shower. He also exuded an air of relaxed confidence.

"What do you mean 'wrong'? I have been throwing knives for years." Dean retorted defensively, arms folding over his chest. He knew his knife skills weren't the best, but he wasn't about to admit that aloud.

A humming noise escaped Jason's lips. "You know, just because you have been doing something for years doesn't mean you are doing it right. Let me show you."

Before Dean could protest, Jason strode forward, reaching out to take the knife from his hand. Their fingers brushed briefly, sending a tingle up Dean's arm, and he found himself holding his breath, his gaze involuntarily lowered to his lips.

Clearing his throat, Dean forced himself to snap out of his daze. "Show me what you got then, smartass," he challenged, stepping back to give Jason some room.

"Okay." Jason positioned himself several paces from the tree, his stance relaxed yet ready. He held the knife loosely in his right hand, his thumb and middle finger pinching the knife near the hilt, his index finger resting along the flat of the blade.

"Watch closely."

In one smooth, fluid motion, Jason drew his arm back before whipping it forward, releasing the blade. It flew fast through the air, embedding itself into the center of the tree trunk with a satisfying thunk.

Dean couldn't help but be impressed by the scene, and he emitted a low whistle. "Damn, that was very smooth. Show-off."

"Told ya," Jason said, returning the knife to Dean. "Now, it's your turn Dean-O," He repositioned the knife, with the blade pointed upward. "You're tensing up a lot. Loosen your grip slightly and relax your arm. Hold the knife firmly, but not tightly. You want a smooth release, man, like it's an extension of your body. Now, throw it."

Intrigued by the advice, Dean readjusted his stance and loosened his grip slightly. Taking a steadying breath, he released the knife, letting it fly smoothly through the air. This time, it sank satisfyingly into the tree trunk, exactly where he intended.

"That's much better," Jason praised, his voice carrying a note of approval. "Your technique is solid, but sometimes minor adjustments can make the difference.”

"Guess I'm a quick study," a smug grin was etched across his face. But he had a question for Jason. "You've got some impressive moves. Where'd you pick up those fighting and knife-throwing skills?"

"My dad taught me everything I needed to know about weapons and kicking ass. Years of practice and training paid off, and now those skills are second nature."

"It certainly has," Dean agreed.

Initially feeling skeptical of both Jason and his seemingly flawless background, Dean found himself warming up to the man as they continued to practice knife throwing. The wariness and suspicion faded, and a sense of respect took root. Jason's easygoing nature and amazing skills were certainly winning Dean over.

In addition, Jason was surely someone Dean wanted to keep around. With Dean as the muscle and Sam as the brains, Jason seemed to possess a balance of both traits, making him a valuable asset.

Furthermore, he wasn't bad company.

"Nice one." Jason clapped him on the shoulder after another successful throw.

A surge of satisfaction washed over Dean, and he grinned broadly. "Thanks, man. Guess you're not entirely useless," Dean bumped Jason's shoulder playfully.

After their impromptu training session, the two men returned to the motel just as Sam sauntered in, carrying two bags and three coffee cups in the cup holder.

As Sam fully entered the room, Dean's footsteps carried him across the space, stopping in front of his brother. "About time you got back. I'm starving. What'd you bring us?" he asked, his eyes eager for a glimpse of the breakfast goodies.

"Three croissant breakfast sandwiches, bacon, and hash browns. And coffee, of course." Sam handed his brother a bag containing his breakfast before turning to Jason with a smile. "Morning, Jason!"

"Morning, Sam! The food smells amazing," Jason said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He reached into the bag and grabbed a breakfast sandwich.

They all started eating and Sam, always the conversationalist, decided to inquire about Jason's profession since he didn't exactly know what he does in his line of work "So, Jason, what's it like working in finance? What exactly do you do there?"

Jason chewed thoughtfully. "Working in finance is demanding, that's for certain, and always keeping me on my toes. But I work in investment banking, facilitating deals between companies and helping them navigate the ins and outs of buying or selling businesses. I also consult with people about their investment portfolios and make certain adjustments based on their financial goals to keep them happy."

Munching on a mouthful of bacon, Dean commented. "That sounds boring as hell."

Jason laughed, shaking his head. "It has its boring moments, but it pays the bills. No living paycheck to paycheck for me," a pause came after, "or, in hunter terms, living con to con like stolen credit cards."

Sam chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. "Fair enough. I guess we all need a day job to fund their hunting habit. You must be a pro with time management, though. Managing that workload and still having the energy to go hunting. It's impressive."

Jason smiled, modestly deflecting the compliment as he popped the last bit of the sandwich into his mouth, "Thanks. It's not always easy, but it is worth it. No need for cons or even getting naked," he added in at the end with a playful wink.

Dean choked on his coffee, making Sam look at him in concern. "You okay, Dean?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," Dean waved him off. "Just went down the wrong pipe."

After breakfast, Sam wiped his hands and face with a napkin before crumpling it into a ball and tossing it into the trash. He took another sip of his beverage, his eyes landing on Jason's figure. "Do you need us to drop you off somewhere?"

"Yes, I'd like a ride back to my place, and I don't live too far away. Crestwood Hills."

The older Winchester raised an eyebrow. "Crestwood Hills? Fancy neighborhood."

"Yup, my job pays well, as I mentioned," Jason confirmed, standing up to gather the wrappers and his empty coffee cup, disposing them in the trash by the door.

Dean meticulously packed up their gear, ensuring the weapons were cleaned and securely stored. Sam, on the other hand, refreshed their supplies, restocking the first aid kits and refilling flasks with holy water. The three left the motel room and headed to the Impala, with Dean placing their things in the trunk. Settling into the leather seats, Dean started the car and navigated to Jason's home in Crestwood Hills, using the address Jason gave. The drive was filled with casual conversation and music playing in the background.

The Impala cruised down the tree-lined street, passing by manicured lawns and elegant homes. Soon the trio pulled up in front of a nice, ranch-style house that epitomizes luxurious living. The property exuded both wealth and sophistication, prompting Dean to whistle low in awe.

"Nice place, Jason," Dean placed the car in park. "Guess you really weren't kidding about not living paycheck to paycheck."

The h/c-haired man opened the car door and stepped out, the morning sunlight reflecting off his hair. "No, I wasn't, and thanks for the ride, guys. I appreciate it."

"Anytime," Sam replied. "Take care, man."

After Sam bid him farewell, the brothers watched as Jason walked up the path to his front door, unlocked it, and stepped inside, disappearing from the duo's view.

Within the house, Y/n watched through the blinds as Dean and Sam drove away. His eyes followed their retreating vehicle until it vanished. They didn't even realize that Y/n had discreetly placed a tracker on the Impala. He pulled out his phone and checked the tracking device signal.

Everything was in place.

Phase two was now complete.

It was time for the last and final phase.

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

The following day, Y/n found himself in the office room of his "house," admiring the space's impressive setup. The room exuded a classy and sophisticated look with its wooden panels and bookshelves lining the walls. The rich shade of cream and the polished wooden floors added a subtle elegance, creating a nice, refined area. At the center of the room stood a massive desk, crafted from expensive, custom-made dark wood. Comfortable chairs were strategically placed around the room, perfect for simply lounging.

However, what caught his attention was the breathtaking view beyond the glass windows. The large expensive windows showcased a stunning backyard with a big pool. It looked like something out of those high-end luxury magazine pages.

The previous owners that Y/n killed sure did have excellent taste in accessories.

Y/n had seated himself behind the desk, eyes scanning the notes he meticulously jotted down. His pen danced across the pages, recording observations from his encounters with the Winchesters so far.

The game was reaching its climax, and he savored the thrill of manipulating the Winchesters, weaving himself into their lives, gaining their trust, and exploiting their desires. It was time for the final act.

But the question remained:

What should he do to them?

One aspect of the hunters' nature that Y/n was well aware of was their instinctive tendency to confront supernatural issues head-on. Therefore, he could orchestrate a fake hunt for the two, gas the building, and kill them in their unconscious states.

Another, more insidious, plan began to shape in Y/n's mind that involved using their shared history against them — one filled with pain, loss, and fear — devising psychological torment to make sure that their suffering lasted as long as possible before killing them. He would make Sam watch as Dean died slowly and painfully, rendering Sam helpless to save his older brother. Lastly, Dean would die knowing that his younger brother's fate remained in Y/n's hands, which would serve as a reminder of Dean's failure to protect him.

In most cases, whenever Y/n eliminated his targets, he made sure to do it swiftly and mercifully. However, these particular individuals were a different story, and he wanted to write the final chapter of their book in a slow, painful, memorable way.

Just as Y/n delved deeper into his plans, his burner phone suddenly brought him back to reality, its ringing piercing the air and shattering the silence. He knew that there was only one man who called, and his calls were to never be ignored. Never.

"At your service."

Y/n anticipated being questioned about his progress on the ongoing task, but he was slightly surprised by an unexpected declaration from the other man instead.

"Code red Y/n," was the delivered phrase.

At the cryptic utterance of code red, Y/n instinctively straightened up in his seat. "What's the situation?" The phrase Code Red had triggered a sense of alertness since those words meant that there's a situation that needed to be handled now.

"Doug Jones has become a liability," the voice explained. "He's made it clear that he's willing to betray me, threatening to expose our secrets and compromise our entire operation. This will put everything we've worked for at risk. Your orders are clear — neutralize this threat definitively, and disregard your current assignment."

"I'm on it, sir. Consider it taken care of," Y/n replied, his voice firm and resolute.

"Good. He's currently in Washington, DC. I'll send you his last known location and just go from there. Make this a clean kill."

After receiving the directive, the phone hung up. Y/n set the phone on the desk and leaned back in his seat. His mission to kill the hunters would have to wait; for now, Doug Jones was the one who had earned a spot at the top of Y/n's hit list.

Washington DC, here he comes.

XXXXX XXXXX

Dean wiped the sweat from his forehead as he and Sam finished loading the gear into the trunk. They had just wrapped up a hunt involving a Shtriga that had been preying on children in a hospital. It was a tough case, but they managed to take down the threat without any casualties aside from the Shtriga herself. With the job done, they decided to celebrate with a drink, and maybe food, at a nearby bar.

"I've said it once and I will say it again: I hate witches, man," the green-eyed male grumbled, his eyes situated on the road. "That Shtriga was a real piece of work. I mean, I've seen some tough ones before but she was something else. Put up one heck of a fight, didn't she?" He shook his head, still trying to process the intensity of the fight they had just emerged from.

Sitting in the passenger seat, his brother nodded in agreement. "Yeah, no kidding. But I am just happy we managed to take her down without any bad injuries to us. Our luck has been holding strong lately."

"Knock on wood," Dean lightly tapped his knuckle on his dashboard before adding, "You know, it would've been nice to have Jason around for that fight. That guy's a beast. Packs a mean punch, and he isn't afraid to use it. Would've come in handy against that witch to take her down fast."

A warm smile spread across Sam's face as he thought about their newfound ally. "Yeah, he's a force to be reckoned with. I'm glad we met him," Sam paused and then said, "It's been a week since we last heard from him. Wonder what he's up to."

Dean's shoulder lifted in a casual shrug. "No idea, man. He's probably just caught up in his day job, you know? Nine-to-five, somewhat normal life, that kind of thing."

Sam nodded in understanding. Working in finance was demanding, and it made sense that Jason would be busy with his job. Even then, Sam wished to hear from their new ally again and hopefully team up with him on another hunt real soon.

"You're right, but I think I'll give him a call anyway just to check in," Sam suggested.

"Go ahead," Dean said with a grin. "Might as well see what our Boy Wonder's up to."

As Dean pulled into the bar's parking lot, Sam simultaneously unlocked his phone and headed to his contacts, his fingers scrolling until he located Jason's name. Tapping on it, he initiated the call, lifting the phone to his ear as it started ringing.

Ring... Ring... Ring... Voicemail.

"Hey, it's Sam. Just checking in, to make sure everything's going well. Give me a call back when you get a chance, okay?"

Sam ended the call, a slight twinge of disappointment settling in as he realized Jason wasn't available to answer the call. "Voicemail," he reported to Dean, tucking his phone into his jacket with a shrug.

"Like I said, he's probably tied up with his Wall Street buddies or off on a solo hunt," Dean speculated as he cut off the engine and reached for the door handle. "Let's grab that drink. I could definitely use a cold one after all that Shtriga hunt."

Sam nodded in agreement as the duo stepped out the car and entered the bar. The place was packed with the usual mix of locals and day workers looking to unwind after a long shift. They managed to grab two empty stools at the bar, and slid onto them, surrounded by flags from sports teams hanging above their heads. The bartender, a burly man with tattoos snaking up his arms, walked toward them.

"What can I get ya, fellas?" He asked as he leaned casually against the counter.

"Two beers and two burgers, with fries," Dean ordered, flashing a lopsided grin.

The man gave a nod and turned around to retrieve their drinks, while Dean's eyes settled on the TV behind the bar, where a basketball game was being broadcast.

Sam's mind inevitably wandered back to Jason. He wondered what their ally was up to at that very moment. Was he stuck in a boring finance meeting, poring over spreadsheets and charts? Or perhaps he was out on a hunt of his own, taking out some supernatural creatures with ease.

A sigh left his lips as he acknowledged how much he had come to value Jason's presence. The guy was not only a skilled hunter, but also an intriguing companion whose easy going demeanor made him a pleasure to have around. It was great to have someone outside of his brother to talk to, someone who truly understood and related to him on a different level.

Now, the bartender reappeared with two ice-cold bottles in hand. He set them on the bartop, along with a pair of coasters, before leaving to serve other customers.

Dean reached for his bottle, twisting off the cap with a satisfying hiss. "Here's to yet another successful hunt, brother," he voiced, clinking his bottle against Sam's.

"Cheers to that," Sam took a long sip of his beer, the cold liquid sliding down his throat. "So, Dean, tell me about this new knife technique that Jason taught you."

As they drank and waited for food, Dean launched into a spirited demonstration, eager to showcase his newfound knife skills. He recounted his training session, emphasizing the subtle nuances of grip and release that made all the difference. Sam listened intently, nodding along as Dean explained the adjustments he had made to his usual approach that worked.

Jason was a pleasure to have around.

He’d have to give him another call.

XXXXX XXXXX

It took Y/n a day to arrive in Washington, D.C. after the phone call, and he was hot on the trail of Doug Jones. Thanks to his hacking skills, it had taken him a couple of hours to pinpoint his target's location.

His investigation had revealed that Doug Jones was never alone. The man always had numerous bodyguards surrounding him at all times, meaning a close-range assassination attempt was risky. Y/n's smart enough to recognize when he was outnumbered and understood the need for a different approach in this situation.

Additionally, he managed to find Jones's workplace. He hacked into his computer and gained access to his work schedule. A press conference was scheduled to happen this Friday afternoon, and Doug was set to be the main speaker that day. So, he had a plan to kill him before that.

Disguised as an everyday businessman, Y/n adjusted his tie to perfection as he moved through the bustling streets, with a suitcase in his hand. His eyes scanned the area, locking onto Doug's car parked on the sidewalk, close to his workplace.

Wandering over, he dropped the suitcase by the car, his foot kicking it underneath. The suitcase contained a bomb, and Y/n was going to blow the dude up. He then walked across the street to the cafe. Y/n took a seat at one of the outdoor tables, ensuring he had a perfect view of the car.

Y/n planned to detonate the bomb once Doug was in the car. He had hacked into the traffic cameras and nearby building security systems, temporarily disabling them. He did it long enough to allow him to both plant the suitcase and detonate the vehicle without being caught on tape.

A waitress approached, smiling warmly. "Good morning. What can I get for you?"

"Just a black coffee, please," Y/n replied, offering a brief glance at the waitress before returning his focus to the street, his eyes scanning for any signs of Doug.

The waitress nodded and headed inside, leaving Y/n to keep his eyes trained on the building across the street. Doug was due to come out any moment now, and he wanted to ensure he didn't miss him.

Minutes passed by, and Y/n maintained his calm demeanor, his finger drumming a gentle rhythm against the white table. The waitress returned and carefully set a steaming cup of coffee in front of him with a smile. "Here you go. Let me know if you need anything else from me. Enjoy."

"Thank you," the male murmured, barely acknowledging the waitress as he lifted the cup to his lips, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the place across the street.

Finally, the door swung open, and Doug emerged, accompanied by his girlfriend, Lucille Hicks, and some bodyguards. He hadn't anticipated seeing her here right now, but it seems her fate is now sealed.

Doug and Lucille drew closer to the car, and Y/n's fingers instinctively tightened around the small detonator in his hands. He watched Doug open the passenger's door for his girlfriend, before getting into the driver's seat. The moment the doors closed, he pressed down on the button.

And an explosion occurred.

The car erupted into a ball of flames as the alarm from nearby cars was set off and the windows shattered. The couple inside the car was instantly killed, along with some bodyguards standing nearby. Debris flew in all directions, and people on the street screamed and ran in panic, some diving for cover while some stood frozen, looking at the explosion in horror.

Loud, police sirens filled the air as more people gathered to gawk at the scene of the explosion. Y/n stood up, leaving a few bills on the table to cover his coffee. He walked down the street, seamlessly blending into the crowd, moving quickly but not too fast to draw attention to him.

Once he was a safe distance away, Y/n allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction. It was another successful mission, and he had eliminated the threat that Doug Jones posed. The secrets of Y/n's boss were safe once more, thanks to him. He had proven himself yet again as the top operative, always reliable and efficient.

Y/n took his phone out and sent a text: "Mission accomplished. Doug is dead."

With the text sent, Y/n slipped his phone back into his pocket and his footsteps continued down the street, disappearing from view as if he had never been there.

XXXXX XXXXX

Later in the afternoon, Y/n returned to Kansas. The private jet touched down in the spacious garage, occupying majority of the room. The lights above cast a soft golden glow over the crimson and gray space, creating an ominous atmosphere befitting of a top-secret facility. Parked on the other side of the garage was the Chevy Camaro that now belonged to Y/n.

With a press of a button, the trunk of the Camaro opened, allowing him to put his duffel bags inside it — one had weapons and the other one had clothes. After that Y/n got in and drove away from the area.

With the threat dealt with, Y/n turned his attention back to his previous mission: eliminating the Winchesters. The time to strike had finally come and he needed to figure out the best way to carry out their deaths. Furthermore, he had to do it fast.

Upon arriving at his fake safe house, Y/n went to his office, where he kept the phone he used to communicate with Dean and Sam.

Reaching into the drawer, Y/n pulled out the other phone and scrolled through his notifications. Sure enough, he had a few missed calls and a voicemail from Sam. And then, as if sensing Y/n's proximity to the phone, it began to ring, displaying an incoming call from Sam. Annoyance prickled at Y/n as he answered the call.

"Hey, Sam," Y/n greeted, forcing a polite tone despite the irritation he was feeling.

"Hi, Jason, what's up?" Sam's voice was casual and friendly, and the other man could almost hear the smile in his tone.

"Nothing much," he responded, his voice casual, too. "Just been busy with work."

"Oh, okay. I figured you were busy. Dean and I were just worried since we haven't seen or heard from you in a while, man."

Y/n's eyes rolled involuntarily. It had only been a week since they saw each other, not enough time to consider it "a while."

A low, smooth chuckle rumbled in Y/n's throat. "There's no need to worry about me. I'm a big boy. My boss has just been breathing down my neck a lot lately and keeping me busy with financial paperwork and clients."

A brief pause hung in the air before Sam spoke again. "Well, if you need anything, we're here. Don't hesitate to reach out."

The corner of Y/n's lips curved upward into a smirk since he realized the perfect opportunity presented itself. "Actually, I could use your help with something," he quickly opened his notebook and flipped through the crisp white pages. "I've been looking into a hunt and I was wondering if you and Dean would be willing to team up with me on it. I could use some help."

Sam’s voice perked up. "Really? Sure, we’d be happy to help. What’s the deal?"

Y/n scanned his notes about the fake hunt he had concocted. "Well, I've been tracking a pack of skinwalkers who have been targeting travelers with kids. I have tracked their location to this abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Leawood, Kansas. I was planning to take them out, but having some backup would make it easier. Are you up for it tonight, Sammy?"

Sam didn’t hesitate. "Absolutely. Just text me the address, and we’ll be there."

Y/n's smirk widened, his plan falling into place. "Thanks, Sam," his voice dripped with false sincerity as he kept speaking. "I appreciate it. I'll send you the details."

He ended the call and promptly texted Sam the address of an old, abandoned warehouse he had scouted beforehand, asking him and Dean to meet him there around nine o'clock that night. The plan was falling into place perfectly—gassing the building and knocking the guys out However, there was still work to be done.

When he made it to the old warehouse, Y/n strategically placed gas canisters in hidden corners, wiring them to a remote trigger. He also got himself a black face mask to prevent asbestos inhalation and to keep himself from being knocked out.

Everything was ready.

Y/n checked his wristwatch. It was eight-fifty P.M., which meant the Winchesters would be arriving in about ten minutes.

As Y/n waited patiently, his sharp eyes scanning the deserted street, a familiar black Chevy Impala came into his sight, headlights slicing through the darkness at approximately nine PM. Smirking, Y/n straightened up, watching as the Impala slowed to a full stop beside his vehicle.

The driver's side door opened, and Dean emerged, stretching his arms. His eyes immediately landed on Y/n, and a smile spread across his face. "Jason! Good to see you. Ready to kick some more ass?"

Y/n returned the smile, stepping forward to greet the brothers. "Absolutely. Thank you for coming. I appreciate the backup."

Next, Sam climbed out from the Impala, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. "No problem. We're always up for a hunt, especially with good company involved."

Nodding in agreement, the undercover's thumb gestured toward the abandoned warehouse. "Shall we? Skinwalkers don't exactly keep friendly hours. Let's do this."

They followed Y/n towards the building, flashlights in hand. Dean walked beside Y/n, his expression turning serious. "So, what's the plan? How many skinwalkers are we dealing with here? Two? Three?"

"It's hard to say. From what I've gathered, there could be anywhere between three to five. They've been active in this area for a while, but they've recently become more aggressive. I think they're gearing up for something significant, dangerous."

Sam's brow furrowed, "Any idea why they chose this particular location? It seems pretty isolated for their hunting grounds and far away from potential prey as well."

"Indeed," Y/n acknowledged. "My guess is they're lying low after causing a bit of trouble elsewhere," He paused, his eyes scanning the warehouse as if searching for any sign of skinwalkers. "This place was previously owned by a small shipping company, but it was shut down years ago. No one comes here anymore, which means it's the perfect hideout for supernatural threats seeking anonymity."

As they neared the entrance, Y/n retrieved a set of lock picks from his pocket and swiftly unlocked the rusted padlock securing the large metal door. He pushed the door open and motioned for the brothers to enter first, his finger hovering surreptitiously over the remote trigger in his pocket, following the duo.

Walking ahead, the green-eyed hunter's flashlight swept across the vast interior, lighting up dusty crates and cobwebbed machinery. "Looks like they've got plenty of places to hide. We have to be careful. Stay sharp, and keep your eyes peeled."

They ventured further into the warehouse, their footsteps echoing eerily in the space. Sam turned around to ask Jason a question when— "Jason?"

Dean turned as well, only to see that the man in question wasn't standing behind them. "Where did he go?" he questioned, voice laced with a hint of confusion and concern. He looked around, shining his flashlight in all directions, but there were no signs of Y/n. Dean's mind raced with the worst-case scenario — had the skinwalkers somehow managed to get to Y/n without him and Sam seeing it? He instinctively reached for his gun. "Sam, I don't like this. Something isn't right here."

Before the taller brother could respond, a strange, hissing noise filled the air, signaling the release of the colorless, odorless gas throughout the warehouse.

Within seconds, they started coughing and their eyes widened in realization of what was unexpectedly happening now.

"Gas!" Dean coughed, turning to shield Sam as they backed against each other.

Too late.

Overwhelmed by the gas, the brothers fell. Sam dropped to his knees, his eyes rolling back in his head as he struggled to stay conscious, but it was no use. He collapsed onto the cold, concrete floor, his body going limp as he lost all sense of awareness. Dean, too, was unable to resist the gas, his vision blurring and his legs giving out beneath him. The hunter slumped against the wall, head lolling to one side as he fought to stay awake, but it's a losing game. His eyes involuntarily closed, and his body went slack, joining his brother's state of unconsciousness.

Now. Y/n emerged from the room that was previously known as the manager's office, his face obscured by a mask that protected him from the lingering effects of the gas. He strode forward, his black boots clicking against the concrete floor.

Kneeling beside the unconscious forms of the Winchesters, he had a triumphant grin present. "Checkmate, Winchesters."

For a moment, Y/n paused, taking in the sight of his defeated enemies. Then, he secured their wrists and ankles with zip ties, ensuring they were securely bound. He dragged them deeper into the space, their bodies scraping against the ground that echoed through the empty area. He positioned them on two chairs and used a thick white rope to bind them securely.

Y/n would now wait for them to wake up.

And Sam regained consciousness first, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he struggled to orient himself. He was met with a wave of disorientation, his mind foggy and his body feeling heavy. As he blinked away the grogginess, he became aware of the restraints binding him to a chair. His wrists and legs were secured with zip ties, leaving him unable to move.

A surge of panic set in as he realized he was trapped there. Sam glanced around taking in his surroundings. He was still in the warehouse where he, Dean, and Jason had been hunting the skinwalkers.

Sam's eyes landed on his brother, who was slumped in a chair beside him, still unconscious. Relief washed over him at seeing Dean alive, but it was short-lived as they were both trapped and helpless.

"Dean?" he croaked, his voice hoarse and thick with the remnants of the gas.

Beside him, Dean stirred, groaning softly as he fought his way back to awareness. Blinking rapidly, he shook his head, as if attempting to dispel the fog clouding his mind. "Sammy, what the hell happened?"

"I think we walked into a trap," Sam said, his voice laced with frustration. "The gas knocked us out, and now we're prisoners here," then, a realization dawned on him. "Jason," Sam just remembered. "He was behind us before suddenly disappearing. The skinwalkers must've gotten to him."

"Not quite," a deep, familiar voice voiced from behind the brothers. The voice was followed by the sound of footsteps, and a familiar face walked into their line of sight. It was Jason, but he was different. He was dressed in an all-black attire, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement that made Sam's blood run cold. "Hello, boys, welcome back to the land of living. I trust that you guys are comfortable?"

Realization hit the Winchesters like a ton of bricks. The pieces fell into place, and they saw the truth for what it was. There were no supernatural creatures here, no skinwalkers or monsters to hunt. It was a setup. The gas, the warehouse — all of it was a ruse designed to catch the boys off guard. And the mastermind behind it all was Jason, the man they had trusted, the man they had considered their ally.

"You..." Sam breathed, his voice a mix of anger and betrayal. An ache formed in his chest, intensifying with each passing moment from being double-crossed. He couldn't believe the guy he considered a friend, someone he felt truly understood him was the one holding him hostage.

The man in question inclined his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. He heard the betrayal within Sam’s words and loved it; loved the fact that Sam felt the sting of betrayal once again from someone that he had grown to like. Very satisfying. "Me," he acknowledged.

Dean glared at Y/n, his eyes blazing with anger and frustration as he attempted to free himself from the zip ties that bound his wrists, but it didn't work. His features twisted in a snarl, he spat out his words, "You son of a bitch! What is this about?"

The shorter Winchester's head jerked to the right as Y/n's fist connected with his face, the impact echoing off the walls. "Ah-ah, language, Dean. Let's maintain a civilized tone, shall we? No need to cuss."

Sam's eyes narrowed, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from us?"

"What I want is your heads on a silver platter, which will happen because this is the beginning of the end for you boys."

Dean spat out a mouthful of blood onto the floor. "There's no reason for you to want us dead. We've done nothing to you, and we hardly even know you."

"Now, that is true," Y/n agreed, stepping back. "You two hardly know me because if you did, you would've run for the hills," he straightened his posture and winked at them. "I will see you guys in a minute."

He turned on his heel and strode out of the area, leaving the brothers alone with their mounting fears and unanswered questions. Y/n had deliberately left them in this state, deciding to let the two live a little bit longer, to let the uncertainty and fear set into their hearts. It would make the final act of his plan more satisfying.

And, as he walked away, he wasn't surprised to hear Dean talking. He was determined. "We'll get out of here, Sam. I promise, and when we do, Jason's dead."

A chuckle discharged from Y/n's throat. Promises were meant to be broken. And he was going to have fun breaking theirs.

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

It was time.

Y/n felt that enough time had passed. He had allowed twenty minutes to tick by, a deliberate delay that had given the Winchester brothers ample opportunity to try and break free from their bindings.

But he knew their efforts to escape were futile. He had tied them to the chairs too tightly, the restraints digging deep into their skin, making it impossible for them to move. Even for someone of their size and strength, escaping was impossible.

The game was almost over, and Y/n was ready to deliver the final blow. Reaching into his back pocket, he withdrew a gun. He checked the clip, ensuring that it was fully loaded before heading downstairs, where Dean and Sam were held captive.

He decided that he would kill Dean first, and keep Sam alive, but not indefinitely. He wanted to prolong Sam's suffering, to let him watch Dean die before him. Y/n knew that there was no worse pain than watching someone you love die right in front of you, and he was eager to inflict that pain on Sam. He wanted to see the desperation in Sam's eyes, to hear him beg for mercy, to plead for a quick death rather than to endure another second of life without his beloved brother present.

That thought was a sadistic pleasure.

As Y/n entered their field of vision, casually twirling the gun in his hands, the brothers' conversation ceased, and their struggling stopped. Sam and Dean tensed, their gazes locking onto the gun.

"Time's up," Y/n announced to the room, his voice devoid of emotion. He paused for a moment, letting the words sink in before his gaze locked onto Dean's. "And I think I'll start with you. It's been fun, but you guys know how the saying goes: All good things must come to an end, sadly."

The tall hunter struggled futilely against his restraints, his desperation fueling his efforts as he tried to break free from the zip ties that bound him to the chair. He pulled and tugged, but they were tied too tightly, and the rope that secured him to the chair only made it harder for him to move. "You don't have to do this, Jason!"

"I'm sorry, Sammy, but the hunt begins when the shadows dance," Y/n replied cryptically, his eyes fixed on Dean's face. Sam's brow furrowed in confusion at the cryptic statement, but there was no time to ponder its meaning. The weapon was aimed at Dean's forehead, finger resting on the trigger. "Any last words, Dean-O?"

Dean met his gaze defiantly. "Go to hell."

The gunman laughed darkly, "I’ve already been there, Dean. Now, it's your turn." his finger applied the slightest pressure on the trigger, and Sam's heart hammered against his rib cage, his hope dwindling to almost nothing. He was about to lose Dean, and the realization struck him like a physical blow. This can't be happening.

Suddenly, Y/n staggered, a grunt of pain escaping his lips as a bullet tore through his shoulder. His eyes widened, and he jerked forward, clutching his wounded shoulder. The gun slipped from his hand clattering to the floor in a metallic sound.

A tense beat passed as the injured man whirled, searching for the source of the unexpected attack. Through the haze of pain, he spotted a hole in the window — a visible, telltale sign of a sniper's strike. He had been ambushed and someone was hunting him without his knowledge. Before Y/n could react further, the door burst open, and a familiar figure came in.

Brant.

A man Y/n had thought he killed weeks ago. The memories came flooding back as Y/n's eyes locked onto Brant's figure. He had been sent to kill him and retrieve the cognitive data that Brant had stored away on a flash drive. He had ambushed the man on a deserted road by shooting out his tires and causing the car to spin out of control. Brant hadn't been wearing a seatbelt that night (very stupid of him), and Y/n had watched in satisfaction as he was sent flying through the window.

He thought Brant had fallen to his death, plummeting off the cliff. He had looked for the body, but it was never found, and Y/n had written it off as a successful hit.

But it seemed that he had been wrong. Brant was very much alive, and it was obvious that he had come for revenge.

And he was holding a handgun in his hands, which meant that he couldn't be the one who shot Y/n. Fuck. This meant he was no longer just dealing with Brant, but also with an unknown accomplice, another person for him to take care of.

"Brant, you’re still alive, I see."

Brant's steely gaze locked onto Y/n, his gun trained on the injured guy. "Surprise, surprise. Looks like you underestimated me, Y/n L/n," a smirk came onto his face.

"I won’t make that same mistake again."

Quick as lightning, Y/n dove into his left pocket and retrieved an object, throwing it at the gun in Brant's hand. The device, designed to disrupt the weapon's firing mechanism, hit its mark with a loud pop. The gun in Brant's grasp malfunctioned, its trigger jamming, rendering it useless.

Then, Y/n reached into his right pocket and extracted a smoke bomb. He hurled the device to the floor, where it exploded into a thick cloud of gray smoke. The room was instantly filled with a dense, choking haze that obscured their vision as they strained to see through the haze.

When the smoke cleared, Y/n was gone.

And the nearby door stood wide open.

Brant lowered his now-useless weapon, frustration etched on his face "Damn it!" he growled, tapping his twice earpiece. "Jacob, Y/n has escaped, but he couldn't of gone far. I'm heading to you and then we're going after him. We need to move."

Without wasting a moment, Brant ran out of the warehouse in pursuit of the elusive assassin, not even bothering to help Dean and Sam escape the bindings.

Y/n sprinted into the night, feet moving fast as he tried to put as much distance between himself and the warehouse as possible. The wound inside his shoulder throbbed with every stride, sending jolts of pain with every movement, the warm, trickle of blood dripping onto the ground.

The pulse grenade and the smoke bomb had provided a temporary cover, but he knew that his pursuers wouldn't give up catching him and attempting to kill him.

The night was his only ally, and he would use it to his advantage to evade capture and stay one step ahead of his enemies.

Just then, two bullets flew past his back, causing Y/n to quicken his pace until he found cover behind a large oak tree. He needed a plan, and fast. He couldn't risk fighting, so he had to try something else.

In the distance though, Y/n squinted and spotted something that could help him with the two people trying to kill him. So, he promptly ran, keeping his movements soundless to avoid drawing any attention.

Brant was running after Y/n, a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other. He knew this might be his only opportunity to take out Y/n for good, and he wasn't about to let the wounded target escape.

During his pursuit of Y/n, Brant ran into Jacob, almost shooting him at first due to thinking he was Y/n. Jacob informed Brant that he had seen Y/n heading in this direction and had fired a couple of bullets, but Y/n had managed to escape.

Not for long, Brant vowed silently.

As they cautiously navigated the terrain, Jacob paused and signaled for Brant to stop. Confused, Brant looked at Jacob, who mouthed one, single word, "Listen."

And that's when Brant heard it.

The faint, nearly inconspicuous sound of Y/n's voice softly permeated the air, and Brant's ears perked up as he strained to listen. The voice was barely audible, but it was unmistakable - it was Y/n, and he was speaking to someone on the phone. Brant's eyes locked onto Jacob, and he could see the same realization dawning on his teammate's face. They had finally found Y/n's location, and he was hiding outside the back of the warehouse. This is their one chance to catch Y/n off guard.

Brant and Jacob exchanged a knowing glance. They stealthily crept toward the source of Y/n's voice, staying concealed in the dark. Moving closer, the two could make out snippets of that conversation.

"...understood. No, I will handle it myself. I've been shot, but I can still take care of business. Yes, I'll be fine. I just need to..."

Jacob signaled to Brant, his hand gesturing to the left and then to the right, indicating that they should split up and surround their target. Brant nodded, moving to flank him from the right, while Jacob flanked him from the left. Their intentions were clear: to corner Y/n and leave him with no avenue for escape. Y/n may suffer a shoulder injury, but Brant knew that Y/n was a lethal weapon, who they couldn't afford to underestimate.

Brant took a steadying breath, his finger hovering over the trigger. This was the moment he had been waiting for — the moment when he could avenge his near-death experience and eliminate a threat.

In unison, the two men peered around the corner, guns ready. They expected to find Y/n there but instead, they were met with a surprise. The spot where they had expected to find their target was empty, and in its place was a flip phone lying on the ground. It played a radio message on playback, and Y/n's voice was repeating the same words they had recently heard.

Brant's eyes narrowed, his face twisted in a scowl as realization dawned on him. "He tricked us," he growled, his voice low Dammit, he's always one step ahead."

Jacob cursed under his breath. "Where the hell is he?" He kicked at the ground, his foot scuffing against the pavement in a gesture of complete frustration.
.
"He's over here," Y/n's voice called out, drawing Brant and Jacob's attention to his distant figure, nursing his injury. His next words made their heart skip a beat. "But I'd be more concerned about where I'm standing right now if I were you two."

What—? Jacob and Brant looked around, eyes scanning the area and they realized what Y/n was referring to— the fuel tank machine that they were standing next to. At that moment, they realized Y/n's plan.

Oh, shit.

The two men didn't even have a chance to react before Y/n's finger squeezed the trigger, unleashing a hail of bullets at the fuel tank. The loud sound of gunfire was followed by a deafening explosion that sent Brant and Jacob flying, bodies torn apart by the force of the explosion, and killing them instantly. The fire sent fiery fragments soaring into the sky. Debris rained down, littering the ground with charred remnants of what once stood.

With his pursuers taken care of, Y/n turned to flee. He needed to return to his safe house— not the house he had taken over after killing its owners — to tend to his gunshot injury and stop the bleeding.

Killing the hunters would have to wait.

XXXXX XXXXX

Meanwhile, back in the room where they were left bound together, Sam and Dean struggled to free themselves, their minds reeling as they tried to wrap their heads around what had just happened here.

Y/n, or Jason as they had known him, had pretended to be their friend in order to capture and bring them here. He had tried to kill them and almost succeeded in killing Dean first, but Brant or Jacob had shot Y/n in the shoulder, causing him to flee and leading them on a chase.

Then, they heard an explosion outside, leading them to believe that one of the three — Y/n, Brant, or Jacob — had died. However, they didn't know which one did.

Dean and Sam hoped that it was Y/n.

This night hadn't gone as they expected, but they were grateful to be alive. Now, their focus shifted to getting out of here. There was no doubt in Dean and Sam's minds that Y/n would come back here to finish what he started if he was still alive.

Dean flexed his wrists against the zip ties, trying to loosen them. "We have to get out of here now. Who knows if that lunatic is still alive and will come back?"

Sam nodded vigorously, his eyes locked on Dean's. "Right. Keep trying to get free."

Dean's muscles bulged as he continued to try and get free. He strained against the restraints, trying to find a weak spot, but they seemed to be holding fast. Sam scanned the area, his eyes searching for any objects that could sever their bonds.

After several moments of fruitless effort, Dean growled in frustration. "These ropes are like iron chains."

Sam's eyes landed on a shard of broken glass lying on the floor—a remnant from a shattered lightbulb. Then, he looked at the chair he was tied to. "I have an idea."

Leaning forward, Sam maneuvered his bound hands downward, aiming for the sharp metal edge of the chair's leg. He moved, rubbing the zip tie against the edge, sawing back and forth vigorously.

"Nice thinking, Sam."

Within moments, the zip tie finally snapped, freeing his wrists. He quickly untied the zip ties binding his ankles and managed to wriggle free from the rope that had been holding him captive. With a sense of relief and freedom, he turned to assist Dean. He took off his shirt and picked up the shard of glass, using that to carefully cut through the zip ties that held his brother prisoner. As the last of the zip ties snapped, Dean let out a sigh of relief, as Sam freed Dean from the zip ties binding his legs and the rope. Dean ascended, and the brothers massaged their wrists and ankles, which were sore from being bound to a chair for so long.

"Man, it feels good to be loose," Dean commented, cracking his knuckles. He stretched his arms over his head, feeling the tension melt out of his shoulders.

"Definitely," Sam said, his eyes scanning the room for any signs of danger. "Now, let's get the hell out of this warehouse."

Without waiting, they hurried out of the warehouse, the cool night air washing over them. Upon reaching the parking lot, Dean was relieved to see the Impala still untouched. However, Sam noticed the absence of the nice Chevy Camaro.

That led them to conclude that Y/n was still alive, and Brant and Jacob must've been the ones killed from the explosion.

They went to the Impala, sliding into the familiar confines of the car with a sense of relief. The older hunter turned the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life with a deep rumble. He threw the car in reverse, backing out of the parking spot with a squeal of tires as he maneuvered the Impala out of the empty parking lot.

"Damn it, Sam, I can’t believe that this happened," Dean grunted, his gaze fixed firmly on the road, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel with more force than necessary. "I knew something was off with that guy from the beginning. I knew I should’ve trusted my instincts."

The hazel-eyed hunter couldn't argue with that statement. Dean had voiced his suspicion of Y/n from the beginning, but Sam had been the one to encourage Dean to give him a chance. Sam had felt intrigued by the guy and his background had checked out at the time. Plus, it was good to have someone that he seemed to connect with, someone who wouldn't be added to that long list of people that he had lost because of how effortlessly he handled himself. But now, seeing the predicament they were in, Sam couldn't help but feel a pang of responsibility. If only he had listened to Dean's instincts, if only he had just been more cautious, maybe they wouldn't be in this situation.

Sam's voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke, eyes fixed on the passing scenery. "You were right, like you always are. I'm sorry for making you trust him."

"This isn't your fault," Dean's voice was firm and reassuring as he made sure to point out that fact to Sam. "He fooled us both. He played the friendly hunter card, maneuvered his way into our circle, and then struck when we least expected it," he let out a sigh, raking a hand through his hair. "But we're alive, and that means we get to enact some revenge. We are going to find that son of a bitch and take him out before he can take us out, okay?"

The younger hunter wasn't so sure about that one. Y/n had proven himself to be a skilled fighter, more than a match for him and Dean, and highly proficient with weapons. He had managed to take them down and almost kill them, which was a feat in itself. But Sam knew that he and his brother had faced worse than this Y/n L/n person. They had battled demons, vampires, and other supernatural forces and had come out on top. So, despite Y/n's skills and cunning, Sam believed that he and Dean would be able to handle him.

"Okay, let's get back to the motel first. I'll contact Bobby. He might be able to find information on Y/n or his whereabouts."

A nod came from Dean's head, stepping on the gas which accelerated the Impala down the road. Someone had to be taken down — and there was no time to waste.

Y/n would learn not to mess with them.

XXXXX XXXXX

Retreating to his original safe house, an apartment placed in the heart of Kansas City, Y/n wasted little time in addressing his injured shoulder. He quickly removed his jacket, wincing as he peeled off the bloodstained shirt, exposing the wound.

Gritting his teeth, he gently cleaned the entry point with antiseptic wipes, biting back a hiss of pain. He carefully probed the area, confirming that the bullet had not fragmented or lodged in his muscle tissue. Satisfied that extraction wouldn't pose additional risks, he retrieved sterile tweezers, gauze, and antibiotics as well.

Under normal circumstances, removing the bullet himself would be ill-advised. But given his unique physiology and heightened tolerance for pain, Y/n knew he could manage the procedure himself.

Steadily, he removed the bullet, placing it in a metal tray, and dressed the wound, applying gentle pressure to staunch the bleeding. Then, Y/n wrapped a length of elastic bandage snugly around his upper arm, securing the dressing in place. The bandage was tight, but not too tight, and he knew it would help to reduce swelling promote healing, and prevent blood loss.

Finally, he swallowed some painkillers, chasing them down with a swig of water to help with the bad chronic headaches.

Satisfied with his makeshift treatment, Y/n poured himself a generous measure of whiskey, downing it in one gulp. The whiskey burned its way down his throat matching the fire in his eyes. He leaned back against the couch and let a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding in.

The man's thoughts drifted back to the evening's events, replaying the sequence of events in his mind like a movie — the assassination attempt, the revelation of Brant's survival, and the ensuing chase that culminated in the explosive demise of his pursuers. Y/n understood that his mission had now escalated beyond its original scope. Initially, it was supposed to be a straightforward one — eliminate the Winchester hunters and return home until he was given another assignment. But that wasn't going to happen yet. The events tonight had complicated things.

While he regretted failing to eliminate the Winchester brothers per his original plan, he acknowledged that sometimes complications occur and improvisation was necessary. This was simply a minor setback, and Y/n would do whatever it took to ensure this mission's completion.

Y/n knew that the Winchesters would be trying to track him down after hearing his true identity, thanks to Brant's loose lips. It was safe to assume that they’d be looking for any lead on his whereabouts. With that in mind, Y/n realized that there was no way he could return to the house in Crestwood Hills. It was compromised, and he can't risk being caught off guard.

He also knew that he'd have to ditch the Camaro. It was too new, distinctive. He thought about his options, considering the types of cars that would be common in the area. Something like a Honda or a Toyota, something that would get lost in the sea of ordinary vehicles on the road and wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb.

Additionally, he had to destroy the phone he used to contact the hunters, so Sam, the brains, wouldn't be able to trace it.

Then, Y/n could finally start planning his next attack and he would make sure that no one interfered with his plans. He had a few tricks up his sleeve. One of those tricks was the tracker that he had placed on the Impala, which was still active and giving him updates on the car's location.

But for now, Y/n decided to head to bed and get some rest after the day he had. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and he knew that he needed to recharge before he could start planning his next move. He knew he was safe in this apartment. He wouldn't be found.

Tomorrow, Y/n would get to work again.

And he wouldn’t fail this time.

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

The hunt for Y/n had been a frustrating dead-end for weeks. Every lead Dean and Sam chased, every breadcrumb they followed, it all led nowhere. The brothers wondered if they would ever find this guy.

During their search, Dean and Sam had decided to go back to the house where they had dropped off Y/n in Crestwood Hills. They knew it was a long shot, that he probably wouldn't even be there, but they had to start somewhere. Plus, they might be able to find clues about where he could be heading next. Upon doing some digging, it was discovered that the house was owned by a couple named Stella and Levi Peterson, who were "out on vacation" with their nephew watching their place. However, the duo knew that this "nephew" was Y/n and that the real owners of the house were either out on vacation with no idea that someone had taken over their house or they were dead.

The duo found the Chevy Camaro, but it was abandoned in a different state, with no sign of Y/n. The younger Winchester wanted to trace Y/n's phone to discover his location and any communication, but he couldn't do that unless Y/n answered his phone, which Sam knew he wouldn't do. Additionally, the hunters attempted to dig up more information on Y/n's fake university records and historical papers, though it seems that he had covered his tracks meticulously. The online records had been taken down, and there was no mention of 'Jason's' supposed academic achievements or his historical exploits.

Furthermore, it didn't help that they couldn't get in touch with Bobby either. They didn't know his whereabouts, but they knew Rufus was with him, so they assumed they were on a case together.

But they needed Bobby's help to find Y/n since he had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. It was as if he had disappeared into thin air, leaving behind no trail, no clues, no nothing. Physically, he was gone, but mentally, the guy was still very much present in Sam's mind.

It started small.

Sam would catch the faintest sounds — footsteps just outside his motel at night or the faint rustling of clothes inside the bathroom. The hairs on the back of his neck would stand up as if warning him, that nagging feeling of being watched would claw at his mind like a living thing.

Every time Sam looked, though, he found nothing. But he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, and he had a sneaking suspicion about who that someone was.

One night, the forecast warned about a storm happening. Rain pounded against the windows of their latest motel room, with thunder rumbling deeply and loudly. Dean slept peacefully, his soft snores filling the air. Sam, meanwhile, found himself awake in the middle of the night, needing to use the bathroom. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, trying to shake off the tiredness that clung to him.

Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the room. In that split second, Sam caught a glimpse of a familiar person standing by the doorway—Y/n. His heart raced when their eyes met. Sam's hand reached for his gun, which he had stashed under his pillow, and pointed it at the doorway, his finger tightening on the trigger. However, when he looked at the doorway again, Y/n disappeared, vanishing without a trace.

What the hell? How did he—?

Sam blinked. Had he really seen Y/n, or was it just his imagination playing tricks on him? But then a chill ran down his spine, and he knew Y/n had been there. He turned to Dean and shook him awake.

"Dean," he whispered, his voice low and urgent. "wake up. I think Y/n was here."

Dean stirred, his eyes blinking open groggily as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He looked at Sam, his expression confused. "Huh? What do you mean?" he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.

"I saw Y/n here," Sam repeated, his voice shaking slightly as he spoke. He glanced around the room as if expecting the man to reappear at any moment, "and he was standing in the doorway. My eyes drifted for a split second to retrieve my gun, but when I faced him again, he disappeared."

Dean sat up abruptly, his drowsiness dissipating. "Are you sure? Could it have been a dream?" his voice was more alert.

A stubborn head shake came from Sam. "No, what I saw was real. He was here."

Together, they searched the motel room, methodically checking every corner and closet, but found no signs of an intruder. The windows were securely locked, the bathroom was empty, and the front door showed no signs of forced entry. Sam's heart sank as he realized that Y/n had once again slipped through their fingers.

"Maybe it was a dream, after all," Dean suggested, his voice soft and gentle. He knew that his brother, like him, had good instincts, yet the fact remains that there was no sign that Y/n could have been in the motel room. Besides, Sam has been under a lot of stress lately with trying to locate Y/n. It's a high possibility that his mind could just be playing tricks on him.

The hazel-eyed man began to question his perception. He has been stressed lately, and the thought of Y/n standing by the door could have been a figment of his imagination. After all, Sam wanted Y/n to be there, to catch him and put an end to him. It was possible that his mind could have created the image of Y/n as a way of coping with the frustration and anxiety he had been feeling these days.

Sam pursed his lips into a line. He felt a mix of emotions: frustration, uncertainty, and exhaustion. He looked at Dean, who was watching him. "You're right, man, It's possible that I could've been dreaming."

He wasn't sure he believed what he said. Deep down, he knew what he had seen was real. Y/n had been there, watching them. Now, he had slipped away into the night once more. Out of both precaution and wariness, Sam took out surveillance equipment from one of his bags and set up cameras throughout the room. If Y/n truly was here and messing with them, he would show up on camera, and they would be here to catch him in the act.

And as Sam laid back down on the bed, he hoped the mind games would stop.

But they didn't.

The next night, as Dean fell into a deep sleep after drinking a bottle of whiskey, Sam remained awake, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He was still slightly paranoid after what happened the previous night, and he wanted to see if Y/n would show himself again. Sam slightly wished Y/n would appear, so he could catch him on camera and prove what he had seen as true, and take him out at the same time.

In that moment, Sam felt it — a slight dip in the mattress he was in, as if someone had just sat down. The movement was almost imperceptible, but Sam's senses were on high alert and he felt it like a jolt of electricity as his heart pounded hard. He didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe.

But he had to know.

Slowly, with cautious movements, Sam reached out, his fingers making contact with something solid — skin, warm and alive. And sure enough, there Y/n was his face inches from Sam's, a mocking smile playing on his lips as he lay down in a sleeping position next to the man.

Sam jerked upright in bed, his eyes wide with fear and his breath coming in sharp gasps. He blinked three times, but Y/n's form did not vanish like it had last night.

"You..." Sam breathed out.

Sam’s hand reached for his gun that was sitting on the table, but before he could even touch the weapon, Y/n's hand shot out and pinned him to the bed. One hand wrapped around Sam's throat, his fingers closing like a vice, while the other hand wrapped around Sam's left wrist, holding it in place. The smirk never left Y/n's lips as he whispered one, single word, "Me."

"You," and "Me," — the same exact words spoken when Sam had discovered Y/n's betrayal. These words carried the weight of disappointment and shattered trust, even though their friendship was brief.

Sam struggled to push Y/n away, but the man was strong even against Sam's considerable size. Sam found himself unable to break free from Y/n's firm hold.

"What do you want?" Sam demanded.

"What I want," Y/n whispered, his grip tightening around Sam's throat, "is for you to know that I'm coming for you and Dean," he leaned closer, his lips brushing against Sam's, sending shivers down his spine. "You cannot escape me, Sammy."

Heart hammered against his ribs as he summoned every last ounce of strength to push Y/n off him, knocking him to the floor. He quickly got to his feet, his legs shaking beneath him, and turned on the lamp on the bedside table. "Dean!" he screamed, rushing to shake him awake.

In an instant, Dean was up and his gun was out. He pointed the weapon around the room, eyes scanning every corner of it before looking at Sam. "What's wrong?"

"He's—" Sam turned, only to see Y/n had disappeared again. Hazel eyes widened as he took in the empty space where Y/n had been just moments ago. "—Gone," he whispered to himself, running a hand through his hair in frustration. What the fuck? How did Y/n do it? "He was here again, Dean. I swear he was right here!"

"Who was here?" The older hunter asked.

"Y/n was. He was next to me on the bed."

"Alright, let's check the security footage," Dean suggested, swinging his legs out of bed. Sam grabbed his phone, pulling up the feed from the cameras they had strategically placed around the room. He glanced at the clock: it was three AM.

Classic.

They scrutinized the footage, pausing and rewinding, but to their dismay, found no evidence of Y/n's presence. The only ones captured on camera was Dean and Sam themselves, with no sign of anyone else in the room. "How is this possible?" Sam blew out a tired, frustrated breath.

Dean glanced over Sam's shoulder as he reviewed the footage, his eyes scanning the screen with a mixture of skepticism and concern. "Sam, there's no one here, but me and you," he pointed out. "I think you're exhausted and this hunt has been a lot for you — messing with your head."

No response came from Sam. He simply looked at the spot on the bed where he was sure Y/n had been lying down. A trembling hand reached out, touching the white sheets, feeling the warmth still lingering there. He knew that it wasn't in his head and he wasn't crazy, no matter what Dean said. Sam had seen Y/n here, had felt his fingertips brush against his arm, and still remembered the sensation of Y/n's hand wrapped around his throat.

Sam checked the camera footage again, but there was no evidence, no proof that Y/n was there. Just empty space where Y/n should've been. The camera footage showed the room, the bed, and the two brothers, but there was no sign of Y/n. It was as if Sam imagined the whole thing.

"Damn it," Sam muttered, hands shaking as he ran them through his hair. "I'm not crazy," he insisted. "What I saw was real."

But Y/n's mind games were pushing Sam to the brink, and he knew he had to act before Y/n made good on his threat. One thing was certain: Y/n was coming for them, and Sam had to get to him first.

XXXXX XXXXX

Sam hadn't slept in days.

Dark circles under his eyes and the perpetual frown on his face made it obvious to anyone that something was seriously wrong with him. He was glued to his laptop, going through footage and records, anything he could get his hands on to figure out how Y/n could be toying with him so effortlessly. He'd also had lore books open on the desk, searching for any hints of how a human could play these tricks. He'd read about curses and hexes, about demons and various spirits but they didn't seem to fit this context.

Across the room, Dean watched his brother with concern etched on his face. Sam was running himself ragged, and if this kept up, he was going to crack soon.

Dean wanted to find Y/n too, but not at the expense of his well-being. Sam was no use to them if he was exhausted and couldn't think straight. A well-rested and clear-minded Sam was crucial for them to succeed. He needed Sam to be sharp, to be able to think on his feet and react.

So, he confronted Sam during breakfast.

"Sam, you look like crap," he said bluntly, sitting on one of the motel beds. "You've got to take a break, man. You can't keep running on fumes like this. Go to sleep." Dean's eyes scanned Sam's face, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the pale skin, and the exhausted expression.

The exhausted guy didn't even glance at Dean. He was too focused on the screen as his fingers flew across the keyboard. "I'm fine, Dean. I just need to figure this out," he replied, eyes briefly landing on the empty coffee cup next to his laptop. "And I could use another cup of coffee."

"I think you've had enough coffee to last a lifetime." Dean sighed, running a hand through his brown hair. "And figure what out? We've been through every piece of footage, every lead. Dude’s a ghost, but he's still human. He'll slip up sometime."

"That’s the thing, Dean," Sam muttered, frustration dripping from his tone. "He is human. So, how the hell is he coming to me at night without you seeing him? I’ve set up numerous cameras — but it’s like he’s in and out without leaving a trace. It doesn’t make sense how he can do that."

Dean approached and placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, offering reassurance. "You might be overthinking it. Y/n's good, but no one's that good. It's probably just some kind of trick — smoke and mirrors, some sort of cloaking device, something we're not seeing or catching on camera. But you're not going to be able to figure it out if you're half-dead from exhaustion."

The younger Winchester knew that his brother was right about the importance of rest. It was unhealthy to keep moving like this. At the same time though, Dean wasn't the one being consistently visited by someone every night for the past few days who was taunting him, playing with him, threatening him and Dean with the promises of death. No way Sam could allow that to happen, not to himself, not to Dean, especially. He had to figure out how to stop Y/n, no matter what it took.

Finally, hazel eyes left the laptop screen. "I can't stop, Dean," Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper. "For days, when you're sleeping and I'm awake, I see him every time, no matter which motel room we end up at, and he says the same thing: I'm coming for you, Sam, and I am coming for Dean, too. You can't escape me. I cannot let this go. If I do, he wins."

Dean's grip tightened on Sam's shoulder, trying to ground him. "You're letting him get in your head, Sammy. That's exactly what he wants. You're giving him power over you, and that's not going to help us catch him. You need to take a step back and clear your head. We'll figure this out together, but you need some sleep first."

Sam shook his head. “What if I miss something? What if he comes back?"

“Then we’ll handle him together," was Dean's immediate reply. "But you won't be any help if you're running on fumes. We've faced worse threats and always come out on top. We'll get Y/n, but not like this. Not by burning yourself out."

Sam's gaze remained fixed on his brother, the tension in his shoulders gradually melting away as Dean's words resonated. "I just, I don't understand how he's doing this, Dean. It's like he's inside my head. This dude is driving me crazy."

Dean gave Sam's shoulder a comforting squeeze, his voice steady. "We'll figure it out, Sammy. But you need to trust me on this. Get some sleep. I'll keep watch, and if he shows up here, I'll be ready for him."

Sam hesitated, his eyes flicking back to the laptop, then back to Dean. He looked like he was torn between working on the case and exhaustion taking over. Finally, he nodded, the fight draining out of him. "Okay," he conceded. "But wake me up if anything happens. Anything at all, okay?"

"You got it," Dean nodded, relief washing over him, "Now get some sleep," He gave his shoulder a gentle nudge, urging him to stand up and head towards the bed.

With reluctance, Sam closed the laptop and made his way to the bed, collapsing onto the mattress with a tiny sigh. Dean kept watch, his eyes fixed on his brother. It didn’t take long for Sam to surrender to sleep, his breathing steady and deep as the worry and tension left his features.

Dean settled on the chair by the window, eyes scanning the outside for any sign of movement. Despite the lack of evidence, he quickly came to believe that Sam was telling the truth. He noticed the fear and desperation in his brother's eyes, and he knew that Sam wasn't imagining things.

He couldn't explain Y/n's mind tricks, but he was determined not to let that son of a bitch get the better of Sam. He would do everything in his power to protect his brother and stop Y/n's manipulation. He didn't know if Y/n was nearby, watching them or not, but in case he was, Dean decided to send him a little message.

"You better leave my brother alone, Y/n," Dean spoke into the darkness, his voice laced with warning. "You won't like what happens to you if you try anything else."

As the night stretched on, Dean grew tired, his eyelids drooping with fatigue, but he forced himself to remain awake. His mind raced with thoughts of how to catch this bastard. One thing was clear: the next time Y/n showed his face, Dean would be ready. He didn't react kindly to people messing with his brother and he intended to make that abundantly clear.

And next time, there would be no escape.

XXXXX XXXXX

As Sam slowly came to, the harsh motel sun pierced through the eyelids, leaving him momentarily disoriented. He blinked furiously, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden brightness. But as his vision cleared, he became aware of two things: the warm, comforting feel of a blanket wrapped around him, and the surprising absence of the constant exhaustion that had plagued him for days. He felt great.

Rubbing his eyes, Sam yawned and stretched, his muscles sore from the deep and uninterrupted sleep. He felt grateful for the respite from Y/n's taunts, and it had been the first time in what felt like ages that he hadn't been haunted or, specifically, taunted by Y/n's presence.

The sound of running water and the muffled hum of the shower caught his attention. Sam knew Dean was in there, enjoying the hot water after last night.

With his exhaustion finally lifted, thanks to the much-needed sleep Dean insisted on, he felt refreshed and ready to tackle the task at hand. He had to find Y/n now.

With Dean's help, Sam combed through the hunting community, reaching out to contacts and allies, hoping that someone had a lead on the elusive man. However, their efforts yielded little results — Y/n seemed to be a ghost among hunters, with no one having heard of him. Even his alias, Jason Capaldi, drew a blank, with no one in their network seeming to recognize the name or his whereabouts.

Sam's voice dripped with exasperation as he spoke with Bobby over the phone, his frustration palpable even through the distance. "Bobby, I'm telling you, this guy is playing with us, and I'm getting sick of it. We need to find him before things get even more out of hand. Dean and I have checked every lead, searched every area he's been, and still — we've got nothing."

Bobby's gravelly voice came through the line. "Sam, this ain't like any supernatural thing we've dealt with before. And from what you told me, if Y/n doesn't want to be found, there's a high chance he won't."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "But there has to be a way we can find him."

Bobby's voice carried a weight of experience. "Sam, sometimes the more you chase something, the easier it is for it to slip away. Be careful you ain't falling into his hands. I'll see what I can dig up for you two, but I can't promise anything."

Refusing to be deterred by the warnings, Sam continued his search, reaching out to more hunters, even those with shady connections in their tight community. He shared a detailed physical description of Y/n, hoping that someone, somewhere, might recognize him or be willing to help track him down. Yet, he was unheard of and elusive as if he never existed before.

One evening, Sam and Dean found themselves in a dimly lit bar, a well-known gathering place among hunters. Sam's brow was furrowed as he nursed his drink, his hazel eyes lost in thought.

Sam leaned forward, his elbows sinking into the worn, scarred wood of the table, eyes fixed on the glass before him. His fingertip absentmindedly traced the rim
"There has to be someone who knows something," he murmured, but his words directed more to himself than to Dean. "Someone who can give us another lead, a hint, anything that can help us find Y/n."

Dean, who was sitting beside him, raised an eyebrow. "Do you think Y/n could be a part of some underground network?"

Shaking his head, Sam responded, "I don't know. It's odd that no one seems to recognize his description or his alias. Either he's an incredibly secretive person and a master with keeping a low profile or..." A sudden thought occurred to him, trailing off with a pensive expression.

"Or what?" Dean prompted, noticing that Sam had a new theory. He could see the wheels turning in his brother's mind, and he knew that Sam was onto something.

"Or he's not a hunter at all," Sam finished quietly. "At least, not in the typical sense."

Comprehension dawned on Dean's face. "You think he might be working for some secret government agency? Like Men of Letters, but even more under the radar?"

"It's possible," Sam conceded. "Or maybe he's a lone wolf, working completely off the grid, with no ties to our community. Whatever the case, it explains why we're hitting dead ends everywhere. Hunters talk to each other and share information, but this man — he's a ghost in our world."

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of another hunter, Caleb, an old acquaintance in his mid-thirties who had a knack for finding out information. He quickly spotted the Winchesters and, with a nod, Caleb made his way over, his boots scraping against the ground as he slid into the seat across from those two.

"Winchesters," Caleb acknowledged, his deep voice a warm, rough rumble, as he signaled the bartender for a drink. "What brings you guys here? I haven't seen y'all in a minute. Need help with something?"

Sam's sigh was a weary exhalation, "Yes, we're dealing with a problem. Dean and I are searching for a man named Y/n L/n. Have you ever heard of this guy before?"

The question was interlaced with a hint of desperation, Sam's gaze locking onto Caleb's face as he searched for any sign of recognition, any glimmer of hope that they might finally get a break in the case.

Subtly, Caleb's body went rigid from the mention of the name, his heart skipping a beat. A shadow of unease crossed his features, his gaze darting back and forth between Dean and Sam as if searching for some kind of reassurance that they knew what they were getting themselves into. "Wow, I never thought I'd hear that name again. He's dangerous. If he's got his sights on you, you're in deep trouble."

Caleb's warning sent a chill down Sam's spine, but his reaction provoked Dean's curiosity. Leaning forward, Dean asked, "Why? What can you tell us about him?"

"More than most could, that's for sure."

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

Once the bartender left after placing the drink on the table, Caleb picked up the glass and took a long swig, downing the drink in one go. If someone had told him just a few hours ago that he'd be sitting in this dingy bar, discussing Y/n L/n with a pair of hunters, who was pursuing him, intentionally, from what he gathered, he would've laughed and called them a fool.

And yet, here he was, sitting in this bar, engaging in precisely that conversation. He firmly believes they were crazy, plain and simple, for trying to take on Y/n L/n. But he also knew that they had a right to know what they were up against, if only to save themselves from the inevitable, and get them to stop before it's too late.

So, with a deep breath, Caleb steeled himself to share the truth, to warn them off, to make them understand that some battles just weren't worth fighting. "Sam, Dean, Y/n’s not your run-of-the-mill bad guy. He comes from a place you do not wanna touch, even with a ten-foot pole."

Dean's forehead creased with confusion, yet he remained attentive. "What kind of place are you referring to? We're all ears."

Caleb exhaled deeply, eyes scanning the bar to ensure nobody was overhearing. "Y/n isn’t just some random psycho who knows how to kick ass. He was raised in a place called the Dark Room Academy. It’s a hellhole you don’t come back from—not the same way you went in, anyway."

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, their confusion evident in their expressions. It was clear the two were unfamiliar with it.

The word "Academy" heavily implies an educational institution, but what kind of school would transform a student into a dangerous person? Furthermore, Caleb's ominous tone suggested that this wasn't a typical educational institution, and the context in which the other hunter used suggested something far more sinister.

"The Dark Room Academy?" Sam fixed Caleb with a puzzled, questioning gaze. "We've never heard of that place before."

"Not surprised to hear that. Most people haven't," Caleb said. "It’s off the books, buried deep under layers of secrecy. But I managed to dig up some intel from an old hunter who worked in black ops. The Dark Room isn’t merely a secret training facility; it’s where they create killers from scratch. They take young boys, who are orphans or taken from their families and they turn them into something inhuman."

Dean frowned, his eyes narrowing as he pressed for more. "Inhuman how? What are we talking about here, Caleb? Are we talking about demons, monsters, what?"

"Not demons. Not monsters, at least not in the classical sense," he clarified. "The Dark Room strips away everything that makes those boys human to turn them into cold-hearted assassins. They train them in hand-to-hand combat, weapons, martial arts, tactics, you name it. But it’s not just physical; they use psychological conditioning to break them down, taking away their emotions, their empathy, their humanity and rebuild them back up into obedient machines. Soldiers who follow orders without question, no matter how twisted or messed up those orders are."

The Winchesters took in this newfound information. So they weren't dealing with a supernatural creature, something they already knew, or even a typical hunter.

Instead, they were up against a trained, brainwashed assassin. It explained their difficulty in finding Y/n and his ability to elude them at every turn. He was trained to be invisible, to stay under the radar, to leave no trail, no evidence, no witnesses.

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "Jesus, this place sounds like a nightmare come to life. But what about Y/n, specifically?"

"He was their star pupil, the best student they created," Caleb revealed. "They took him when he was just a baby. Y/n grew up in a cage, treated like an animal until he was old enough to begin their intense training. By the time he was a teenager, he had surpassed all their expectations. He excelled at everything they threw at him. Y/n could walk into a room full of men and walk out without a scratch. He was molded into their perfect assassin, their finest product, a machine designed to murder without mercy or compassion."

Dean's jaw tightened. "This sounds like some messed-up gladiator school and a real charming place, I must say," his tone echoed with sarcasm, "What's the catch?"

Caleb's voice was laced with a sense of horror, his next words painting a picture of the brutal training regime at the Dark Room. "The catch? The training’s brutal and every day is a fight for survival until the graduation ceremony comes around. When they train with firearms, they don't always use targets. They use real people. Innocent people that are, unfortunately, caught in the crossfire of their twisted games. They even put two boys against each other in violent sparring. The loser? Well, that boy doesn't get a gold star; he gets killed by the winner. Only the strong survive. They drill the same routines into them over and over again — until they're unbreakable and unstoppable. And when they're finally allowed to sleep, they are handcuffed to their beds to stop escape attempts. That's how Y/n lived his entire life and that's the guy you're up against."

The taller hunter's spine tingled with a cold chill. "So they train these kids like animals, break them, and set them loose in the world? And what's this Graduation Ceremony? A final test of their skillset?"

"Pretty much," Caleb's nod was a slow, deliberate move. "The remaining boys undergo a series of physical and mental tests, and if they pass, they're eligible for graduation. But at the ceremony, they're not given a diploma or a congratulatory pat on the back. They're subjected to an involuntary vasectomy. The objective is to eliminate any potential weakness that might come from having a loving family. They want killers, not men who might be distracted by thoughts of a wife or kids. Just single-minded focus on missions."

Dean’s face twisted. "That’s fucked up."

Sam's expression shifted from shock to a chilling realization. The brutal training and the involuntary vasectomy revealed the terrible nature of the Dark Room — a place that stripped away everything that could make these boys human, all in the name of control. Sam's anger towards Y/n that simmered began to dissipate a bit.

Caleb didn’t argue with Dean’s comment. "It is fucked up, but it works. Look, Y/n’s not another hunter, not some guy with a grudge. He’s been bred and trained to be the best assassin. And now, you two are his targets. This isn't good, guys. Be careful."

Sam's eyes closed and he massaged his temples with his fingers as if trying to stop a growing headache. "But why's he after Dean and I? We didn't do anything to him. We didn't even know he existed before he showed up to help us on that one hunt." Hazel eyes opened and Sam looked at Caleb, searching for answers.

"From what my old contact told me, the leader of the Dark Room Academy has a very specific protocol for deploying their assassins. They send them after people who pose an immediate and significant threat to the organization or to one of its members. You two somehow managed to get on their radar and they've deemed you brothers a threat worth eliminating."

"Great," Dean muttered under his breath. "Just what we need. So, what do we do? How do we protect ourselves from Y/n? We can't just sit around and wait for him to finally show up and try to take us out."

Caleb hesitated before responding. "To be honest, I'm not sure there's much you can do. I would have advised you two to steer clear of him, but since he's already after you, your best bet is to lay low and be prepared when he finally finds you."

Sam shook his head defiantly. "We can't just hide, Caleb. If he's as dangerous as you say, then we're not just talking about our lives, we're talking about the lives of innocent people as well. Besides, we've faced down demons, ghosts, vampires, and all sorts of supernatural creatures. We've been in tougher spots before, and we've always managed to come out on top. I'm not saying it's going to be easy, but we can handle one well-trained man."

"And that thinking will be your downfall," Caleb warned, his gaze meeting Sam's. "Supernatural threats have one thing in common: they're not human. They don't think the way we do, they don't feel the way we do, they don't play by the same rules. But Y/n, he's different. He's human but he has been trained to be a machine.

"He's been conditioned to be emotionless, calculating, and ruthless. He won't make the same mistakes that a demon or a ghost would. He'll be smart, patient, and relentless. Do not assume that because you've faced supernatural beings before, you can handle him. He's a different kind of monster, one created by humans, not by ancient curses or supernatural forces."

Silence enveloped the table as Dean and Sam exchanged yet another glance from Caleb's blunt assessment. The brothers knew they had to be cautious and that underestimating Y/n simply because he was human would be a mistake. At the same time, they faced human enemies before and still came out on top. They were confident in their abilities to handle Y/n, despite the challenges that's ahead.

Dean's fingers drummed impatiently on the tabletop. "So what's your suggestion, then? Sit around and twiddle our thumbs while we wait for him to gut us like fish?"

"Simmer down, hotshot," Caleb advised. "I'm not trying to rile you up; I'm giving you a heads up. Y/n's a whole different ball game. He's a product of something so twisted and sinister that it's hard to comprehend. All I'm saying is be careful, be smart, and play it safe. I don't want to see you two get yourselves killed, okay? You guys might not live to regret it, and I'd rather not have to attend your funeral."

Sam nodded. "We will be careful."

Caleb stood up from the booth, his expression still heavy with concern. "Good luck, Winchesters. You’re gonna need it. Just remember, if you go after Y/n, you're playing with fire. And fire has a way of consuming everything in its path."

As Caleb walked away, Dean and Sam were left sitting in a heavy, oppressive silence, the revelations about Y/n L/n hanging over them like a storm on the horizon. The Winchester brothers were faced with a difficult choice: to confront the monster forged in the depths of the Dark Room or to heed the warning from another infamous hunter and steer clear of the danger that lurked in the shadows.

But something everyone knew is that the Winchesters never backed down from a fight, no matter who stood in their way.

XXXXX XXXXX

Caleb's footsteps echoed through the silence of his apartment as he returned from his meeting with the Winchesters. The weight of the information he shared with them sat heavily on his shoulders. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had just set them on a path from which they might not return. The Dark Room was a force to be reckoned with, and Y/n L/n was the program's most deadly creation.

Caleb set his keys down on the table and poured himself a drink, allowing the burning liquid to travel down his throat a second later. The drink seemed to reflect the turmoil that churned in his thoughts. The silence of his home was a welcome respite from the conversation earlier, but it was short-lived since his phone rang, disrupting the quietness that briefly took place. Glancing at the caller ID, he saw it was his sister, Spencer, so he answered.

"Hi, Caleb. How's your day treating you? I'm happy to hear that you're still alive." Spencer's voice was both cheerful and upbeat, a stark contrast to the darkness that had been weighing on Caleb's mind.

Caleb's chuckle was dry and humorless, the sound bitter on his lips. "Same here. Those damn ghouls almost took me and Carter out, but we made it, thankfully," he planted himself down on the chair at his kitchen table. "And to top it all off, I ran into the Winchesters tonight, but I think that might be my last time seeing them."

"Oh really? Why do you think that?"

"Because they were asking questions about Y/n L/n and I had no choice but to give them the lowdown on him. They are trying to track him down and kill him."

Spencer's breathing hitched on the other end of the line, "They're trying to find Y/n L/n?" she questioned, voice laced with a mixture of surprise and alarm. "Did you explain to them why that's a bad idea?"

Caleb sighed. "Yeah, I did. Tried to make 'em understand who they are up against. I also told them to lay low and get ready."

He had hoped that by revealing the truth about Y/n's past, he could convey the danger that the Winchesters were facing and have them not go after him now. But instead, he had inadvertently fueled their determination to track the top operative.

A pause hung in the air before Spencer replied. "You think they'll listen to you?"

Caleb took a swig of his drink, his expression grim. "No, they won't. The Winchesters aren't known for backing down, but I hope they're smart enough to recognize when they're outmatched."

Spencer's voice took on a more serious tone, her words dripping with a sense of gravity. "This is bad. They have no idea what he is truly capable of. We've heard the stories from Elias, and read the files."

A jaw clenched. "I know. That's why I'm hoping the Winchesters got more sense than others have. Going after Y/n is like playing with a live wire. It might spark, or it might just blow up right in your face."

"And what if they go after him?"

Caleb's eyes reflected a haunted look. "Then they are walking into something they might not walk out of. Y/n's not just an assassin. He's an evil ghost from hell, and hell follows him wherever he goes."

Silence lingered on the line as the siblings grappled with the uncertainty of the situation. Finally, Spencer spoke, her words carrying a weight of cautiousness.

"Keep an eye on the Winchesters, Caleb. If they're so hell-bent on tangling with Y/n, they’ll need all the help they can get."

"I'll keep an eye on 'em, but some fights, you can't prepare for, and when it comes to the Dark Room graduates, especially Y/n, he's a fight you hope to never face."

Caleb was glad he hadn't encountered a Dark Room graduate during his hunting career, and the dark-haired guy intended to keep it that way. He would watch over the Winchesters, check in on them, and offer assistance, such as sending them the files he had and providing any other information that might be useful. That's all he would do. He wouldn't get involved in their fight or risk his own life for a lost cause that was doomed from the start.

If the Winchesters needed help beyond that, Caleb would send other hunters in to help, but he would not be one of them.

The hunters would be on their own after that, and if they couldn't successfully kill Y/n, then that was their problem, not his.

The two siblings talked for a few more minutes, discussing the implications of the Winchesters' decision to take on Y/n. Caleb knew that he had done everything he could to warn them, but he also knew his warning might've fallen on deaf ears.

As Caleb hung up the phone, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that settled into his stomach like a cold, hard stone. He knew that the infamous hunters were in for a fight, and he wasn't sure if they were prepared for what awaited them.

Now, Caleb admired the Winchesters for not backing down from this fight, and he understood where they're coming from. However, he would've preferred them to prepare for the unwanted arrival and set a trap for Y/n instead of going after him.

Caleb had read the reports of those who had tried to track Y/n down and kill him. Y/n had a way of getting inside people's heads, turning them against each other, before picking them off one by one. He was a master manipulator, and he didn't take kindly to those trying to get him. He would rather the Winchesters didn't have to experience that before he killed them.

Another drink was poured. Caleb could only hope that the two would somehow manage to make it through this ordeal and emerge alive on the other side, but deep down, he knew that the odds were against them. They'd need a big miracle.

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

Compassion.

The word is rather straightforward, yet its meaning runs deep. It's the feeling of sympathy and concern for individuals, a genuine desire to help those in need. It's a quality that sets some people apart, a personality trait that defines their nature.

But not everyone has this characteristic. There are those who don't care about the struggles of others, and turn a blind eye to suffering and pain. But then there are those who embody compassion, feeling deeply for others, and are driven to make a good difference in an unforgiving world.

Sam Winchester was one of those rare individuals who possessed compassion.

The younger Winchester sat alone at the motel's wobbly wooden desk. Dean was out grabbing food, leaving Sam alone at the motel. His laptop was open in front of him, but he wasn't paying attention to it. His mind was a thousand miles away, consumed by the information Caleb had shared with them the previous day. The knowledge of the Dark Room and Y/n's past...it all swirled around in Sam's head.

He felt a myriad of emotions—sympathy, anger, and a newfound understanding of the unfathomable torment and pain that Y/n had endured. As a compassionate person, he couldn't help but feel a sense of empathy for the assassin, a man who had been victimized long before he was a threat. Sam saw beyond the exterior of the ruthless killer, recognizing the tragic victim that lay hidden beneath. Y/n's life had been predetermined, his fate sealed before he was even old enough to make his own choices. His childhood, his body, his mind, his family, his freedom — all of it had been taken from him. He had been manipulated since birth to be a murderer.

As Sam's understanding of Y/n's situation deepened, his anger towards the man completely dissipated, replaced by a profound sense of pity and sadness.

While other kids played and laughed, Y/n was forced to train relentlessly in the art of killing. Even their childhood, with its frequent moves, frugal lifestyle, and hunting trips with his brother and father, seemed almost nurturing in comparison to the Dark Room. Y/n had been robbed.

Sam knew that there were some dark and twisted places in the world, but the idea of a school that deliberately set out to break and remake kids was a chilling one. How could anyone be so sick as to do this kind of indoctrination to children?

His thoughts were interrupted when his laptop chimed, announcing an incoming message. It was from Caleb. Hesitantly, he clicked on the attachment, showing an audio file labeled: Dark Room Recording.

The recording was sent with a message from Caleb, who explained that this was about Y/n and the only existing evidence of the Dark Room's malevolent practices.

Sam's fingers tapped rhythmically on the table as he stared at his laptop screen, the recording sent from Caleb waiting silently on the screen, ready to be played.

He wondered what the recording would reveal. Would it show Y/n killing people? Fighting? Or perhaps it would reveal the most darkest aspect of the Dark Room's operations — the indoctrination process that had turned Y/n into the man he was today. Sam wasn't sure he was ready to hear what was on the recording, but he knew that he had to hear this for himself.

Heart pounding, Sam pressed Play.

Recording: Dark Room Academy Session

*Supervisor 1: Y/n, you are a weapon. Your purpose is to serve the greater good.*

*Supervisor 2: Weakness is not tolerated. Weakness is failure.*

*Supervisor 1: You will be unbreakable. Your pain tolerance will be unmatched.*

*Supervisor 2: You are not human. You are a tool.*

The hazel-eyed hunter's breath caught in his throat as he listened to the recording, his heart racing with a mix of emotions. The supervisors' voices were very calm, almost soothing, as they delivered their twisted mantras. But the content of their words was a stark contrast to their tone. He felt a shiver run through his body as the distorted voices echoed in the room.

*Supervisor 1: Y/n, who are you?*

*Y/n: A weapon.*

*Supervisor 2: Who controls you?*

*Y/n: The Dark Room.*

*Supervisor 1: What is your purpose?*

*Y/n: To kill.*

The simplicity of Y/n's response was like a knife to Sam's heart. Listening to these statements, he couldn't help but imagine Y/n as a young boy, both vulnerable and scared, being fed these views repeatedly until they finally became his reality. The thought was disturbing, to say the least.

*Supervisor 2: Pain is temporary. Failure is not.*

*Supervisor 1: You will pull out your own teeth. It will make you stronger.*

*Supervisor 2: You will burn your flesh. It will make you numb to pain.*

*Supervisor 1: Your past is erased. Family is a weakness. Emotions are a weakness.*

*Supervisor 2: You are a weapon, Y/n. Nothing more.*

Sam's eyes widen, his initial skepticism giving way to revulsion. It was clear that these guys viewed Y/n as nothing more than an object to be shaped and molded into a weapon, stripped of any humanity or inherent value, rather than a person.

Sam whispered to himself, his voice barely audible, "He never had a choice."

The recording continued, the audio capturing Y/n's next words with chilling clarity. He spoke with absolute certainty.

*Y/n: I am nothing. I am no one. I am a killer.*

Sam had to pause the recording after hearing that, unable to listen anymore. The audio file was horrifying, to say the least. No child should ever be subjected to such treatment the same way Y/n was.

Sam rubbed his hands over his face, his mind reeling. The recording had painted a vivid picture of Y/n's life, one of brutal conditioning and manipulation. He had been robbed of his humanity, turned into a tool, and set loose on an unsuspecting world. And yet, despite knowing that Y/n was now a threat to him and his brother, Sam couldn't bring himself to feel angry. Instead, Sam felt a profound sorrow for the life that Y/n had been forced to lead.

The sudden knock on the door jolted Sam out of his thoughts, and he quickly closed his laptop, trying to shake off the somber mood that had settled over him. He got up to answer the door and found Dean standing on the opposite side. He must have forgotten the key card again.

"Hey, Sammy. Got your dinner here," Dean said, holding up a paper bag and flashing a warm smile. But as he took in Sam's troubled expression, his eyebrows knitted with slight concern. "Everything okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Sam shook his head, moving to his seat, with Dean sitting on one of the beds, still studying Sam with a puzzled expression.

"I'm not okay. I can't stop thinking about what Caleb told us about Y/n. Dean, this man didn't have a choice in anything he did. Everything about him was controlled by these monsters wearing human skin."

Dean set aside the bag containing food to give Sam his full attention. "Yeah, and now Y/n's a monster himself. He tried to kill us, Sam. We cannot forget that fact."

"I'm not forgetting," Sam's voice snapped with a flash of irritation. "However, we can't ignore what he went through either. Y/n didn't choose this life. Those people, those sick bastards brainwashed him to become a killer. We can't just write him off as a monster without considering the circumstances that made him that way."

Green eyes narrowed. "So what? We give him a free pass because he’s got a sob story? Do you think the people he’s killed care about how or where he was raised?"

Sam clenched his hands into fists, taking a steady breath to force himself to calm down. The last thing he wanted was to argue with Dean, especially when they needed to stick together to survive. But he needed to make Dean see things from his perspective — Y/n was a victim too, not just a monster trying to kill them.

"It's not about giving him a pass," Sam emphasized. "It's about understanding why exactly he is the way he is. Maybe—"

"Maybe nothing," his brother interrupted, tone sharp and uncompromising. "Y/n's dangerous. Plain and simple. Whatever he went through won't change that fact."

Sam sighed deeply. He knew that his brother could be quite hardheaded, and once Dean had made up his mind, it was like trying to move a mountain to change it. Sam decided to finish listening to the recording, so he reopened his laptop.

Perhaps, Dean would then understand firsthand what Y/n underwent when it pertains to psychological manipulation. "Listen to this. Caleb sent me this audio file — it's the only one in existence of the Dark Room's practices, and it's about Y/n. After this, tell me he's just a monster."

With a roll of his eyes, Dean stood up from the bed and walked over to stand beside Sam. Sam tapped the space bar, unpausing the audio, and the sound of the recording filled the room once again.

*Supervisor 1: Now, demonstrate your strength, Y/n. Show us what you're capable of. Pull out your tooth.*

A moment of silence ensued, followed by the soft sound of movement and then a sickening crunch. That caused Sam to wince, realizing with a sense of nausea that Y/n had just pulled out his tooth. Although Dean attempted to hide it, he, too, seemed affected by the nauseating display, which was evidenced by the way his body language flinched at the sound.

*Supervisor 2: Excellent. Now, pick up the blowtorch and let the fire burn your skin. Feel the heat. Discipline yourself.*

Once again, there were soft sounds of movement, followed by a sharp intake of breath, indicating that Y/n had picked up the blowtorch and burned his skin. Sam swallowed, imagining the smell of burnt flesh and the agony that Y/n must've felt.

Dean's features twisted in disgust, and he had to avert his eyes. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Jesus, Sammy. Turn that shit off."

Sam's fingers moved quickly to pause the recording and looked at Dean. "This is what they did to him. They broke him, physically and mentally. They forced him to believe that his only purpose in life is to serve the Dark Room and to be a killer."

The older Winchester released a sigh. "I understand that Y/n's had a hard life and that he went through something nobody should have to go through," he looked Sam straight in the eyes. "Still, it doesn't change the fact that he's a monster now. And you know, as well as I do, what we have to do to monsters — we have to kill them, regardless of their life conditions."

Dean moved back across the room and took a seat on the bed. He reached into the paper bag and took out a hamburger, taking two bites out of it as if trying to distract himself from their conversation. Sam stared down at his hands, knowing his next words would anger Dean, but he had to voice them anyway. "I won't do it."

Sam's steadfast refusal caused Dean's eyes to flash with annoyance. Chewing his mouthful of burger, Dean swallowed before replying, "Won't do what, exactly?"

Although he had a sneaking suspicion, he wanted to hear his brother confirm it.

Taking a deep breath in, Sam met Dean's gaze directly. "I won't kill Y/n, Dean. I just can't," noticing the frustration on Dean's face, Sam rushed on. "I'm not saying we shouldn't stop trying to track him down before he tries to kill us. Of course, we have to protect ourselves. But I refuse to just execute him like some rabid dog. He deserves a chance. After everything he's been through, Y/n deserves that much."

For several moments, the older sibling chewed his food in silence, considering his reply. Setting down the remainder of his burger, Dean leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Look, I get it, I do. This sucks, and it's complicated. But we can't afford to hesitate when it comes to Y/n. You remember what Caleb said. He is lethal, and he won't stop until we're six feet under. We simply can't risk it, man."

That wasn't good enough for Sam.

"We have dealt with plenty of dangerous humans before, and we found ways to neutralize the threat without killing them. Why is this any different?"

"Because none of those people had a target on our backs!" He exclaimed, his words spilling out in a rush. "Look, I hate this situation as much as you do, alright? But wishing things were different won't change what we need to do. We have to deal with the hand we've been dealt. And right now, that means keeping Y/n from crossing our names off his damn hit list. He's killed people. We can't allow him to continue living. This ain't some Disney movie where the villain suddenly sees the error of their ways and turns nice!"

"You don't get to decide what human being lives or dies! And you're still acting like putting him down is the only option. You're still acting as if he chose this life, as if he had a choice in the matter. But he didn't. He's been brainwashed since infancy, conditioned to be a killer. He's a victim, Dean, just as much as the people he's hurt." Sam argued, his voice rising slightly. "Y/n needs help, rehabilitation."

Standing up abruptly, Dean glared down at his younger brother. "Are you kidding me, Sam? Rehabilitation? For a trained assassin who likes killing people? That's insane! He's too far gone, and you know it. Our job is to stop him — permanently."

Shaking his head, Sam stood up as well, refusing to back down. "No, our job is to protect people. And yes, sometimes that means putting down a dangerous person or creature. But we aren't murderers, and we shouldn't treat every single enemy as disposable. I believe that Y/n deserves a chance to heal, to discover his humanity."

"And what about the people he kills while you're waiting for him to magically heal? Their blood will be on your hands!" Dean counters, his voice rising to match Sam's intensity. "You're being naive. This isn't some fairy tale. Monsters like Y/n don't change. They don't deserve redemption."

"Yes, he does," Sam said, his voice filled with conviction. "He's a victim of horrific, unfortunate circumstances and we have proof of that." Sam gestured toward the laptop, where the recording still resided, paused midway through. "He has killed people, I am not discouraging that. But that doesn't erase the possibility of him changing from what they made him be. With proper therapy, Y/n could learn—"

"Therapy?" Dean interjected incredulity. "You really think therapy is going to undo what those sons of bitches did to him? You're living in a fantasy land if you think that!" Dean's eyes rolled in exasperation, "Y/n L/n is a lost cause, and you need to accept that. People don't just snap back to normal after being indoctrinated like that. The safest option for everybody is to put him down like the rabid dog he is." Dean's words were firm, resolute. Sam opened his mouth to respond, but Dean beat him to it. "Don't even think about it. Killing him is the only way to deal with that freak. I'm done with this argument."

Turning on his heel, Dean headed to the door and twisted the knob. He exited the room, angrily slamming the door closed.

Left alone in the motel room, Sam slumped back down onto the chair, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He knew Dean meant well and that he was just looking out for them, but his stubborn refusal to consider alternative options exasperated Sam. He wished Dean could see the situation from his perspective, recognizing the shades of gray that colored their reality instead of insisting on a black-and-white worldview.

Sam's gaze drifted to the brown paper bag sitting on the bed, the contents of which had once seemed so appealing. But now, after listening to the haunting recording and engaging in an argument with Dean, his appetite had disappeared.

With a heavy sigh, Sam resumed the recording, his finger hovering over the play button before finally pressing it. It was almost over, and he needed to hear everything that was on it, no matter how painful it was to listen to these atrocities.

*Supervisor 1: Good job, Y/n. Pain will be your constant companion. You will learn to embrace it.*

*Supervisor 2: Fear is for the weak. It will have no hold on you.*

Hearing these words, Sam couldn't help, but flinch as he grasped the full extent of the supervisors' sinister plan. They were deliberately desensitizing Y/n to pain and fear, systematically stripping away his fundamental human reactions and rendering him numb to the suffering they were, and would continue to, inflict on him. It was a calculated endeavor to strip away Y/n's humanity, layer by layer.

*Supervisor 1: Obedience is expected. Disobedience will be punished.*

*Supervisor 2: You exist solely to carry out our commands.*

Obedience. Punishing. Commands. The supervisors were programming Y/n like a robot, methodically removing his free will and instilling a blind loyalty that was nothing short of mental slavery. It was a deliberate and ruthless attempt to break Y/n's spirit and bend him to their will.

*Supervisor 1: Your emotions are a liability. They will be eradicated.*

*Supervisor 2: Empathy is a sign of weakness. It will be torn from you.*

Sam's heart ached as he listened to this part of the audio. Eradicating emotions. Tearing out empathy. It was a cruel and inhumane act, one that sought to strip Y/n of the very thing that made him human and connected him to other individuals.

*Supervisor 1: Brothers, sisters, friends, family… these concepts are irrelevant. You will have no attachments.*

*Supervisor 2: Love is a myth. Loyalty to the Dark Room is all that matters.*

Love is a myth. Y/n was taught that love, something that every human desires at some point in life, was nonexistent. It was a blatant lie, a manipulation tactic to isolate Y/n and ensure his loyalty was to the Dark Room alone and no one else.

*Y/n: I exist to serve the Dark Room and carry out its will now, forever, and always.*

As the recording came to an end, Sam felt a lump form in his throat, and tears started welling up in his eyes. He was overcome with emotion as he listened to the dehumanization of Y/n, the stripping away of his being until only a shell of an obedient assassin remained. The sound of Y/n's childlike voice, probably around ten years old, reciting the indoctrinated beliefs was sad. It was a heartbreaking reminder of the innocence that had been lost and the cruel fate forced upon him. At that moment, Sam made up his mind.

Sam won't kill him.

He won't.

XXXXX XXXXX

Another stormy night unfolded.

The storm raged outside the dingy room, lightning flashing and thunder booming, with the sound of rain pounding against the windows in a relentless beat. Dean snored softly and turned around, pulling the blanket closer to his chest. Sam, on the other hand, tossed and turned in his sleep, his mind entangled in a real, vivid dream that was anything but peaceful.

Where am I?

Sam found himself in an unknown place, without a clue as to where he was. The atmosphere was cold and sterile, devoid of any warmth or comfort and there was something about this place that felt very wrong, but he couldn't explain it. Looking down, he realized he was standing at the top of a long, narrow staircase. Without thinking, without knowing why, he began to move, his feet carrying him down the stairs as if drawn by some unseen force.

As Sam continued his descent down the staircase, he reached the midpoint and caught sight of three boys walking up the stairs on the left side. They moved in perfect synchronization, their steps eerily silent and their movements robotic, as if they were puppets on strings. Their eyes were fixed forward and their faces were devoid of any expression, giving off the impression that they were programmed to walk in this exact, unsettling manner. Sam paused, his gaze locked on the trio, but they didn't acknowledge him. It was as if he were invisible to these boys here.

When Sam reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw what he presumed was a security guard stationed there, his eyes cold and indifferent. And the guard didn't seem to notice Sam either, and Sam just wanted to find out where exactly he was. Sam’s gaze flicked past the man, drawn to a figure standing just outside a large room, a training room if he had to guess.

Y/n L/n.

Except this Y/n was younger. He looked to be around eighteen, and his features were impassive as he watched a group of boys train inside the room. The boys, all around the same age as Y/n, were going through an intense exercise under the watchful eye of the instructor, a tall, imposing man with a stern countenance.

In the moment that followed, the boys finished the training exercise, which had been a grueling test of their physical and mental endurance and consisted of one-handed push-ups against the cold floor, followed by flawless backflips that had them landing on their tippy toes and the balls of their feet with precision and control. But despite their exhaustion, the instructor's announcement was not one of praise or encouragement. Instead, he simply repeated one, single word: Again.

So they did it again without complaining.

Inside the training room, a row of small chairs was lined up against the wall, and in them sat ten tiny, wide-eyed children, no older than seven or eight years old. They were a part of the next generation and they watched the training in silence.

As Sam drew closer, he noticed an older, taller, guy approach Y/n from behind, his expression a mask of stern unreadability.

His eyes were fixed on the boys training in front of them, but it was clear that his attention was also focused on Y/n, who stood motionless in front of him. Sam didn't recognize the man, but there was something about him that suggested a deep familiarity with Y/n. He has clearly known Y/n for a long time, has watched him grow and develop into the person he was today. Who was this guy? What was his relationship to Y/n? And what had he done to Y/n during his time in this place?

Y/n spoke first. "You’ll break them."

"Only the breakable ones," Buck's hands closed around Y/n's shoulders. The grip was firm, but not unkind, and Sam could sense a twisted form of affection in the guy's touch. "You're made of stone. We'll celebrate after the graduation ceremony."

A brief pause ensued before Y/n replied, his tone revealing a trace of uncertainty. "And what if I fail?"

Buck's grip on Y/n's shoulders tightened, his fingers digging into Y/n's skin as he leaned in. Buck's voice was a menacing whisper against his ear. "You never fail."

Buck's voice was devoid of reassurance, only a cold, hard fact. Failure wasn’t an option here; it wasn’t even a possibility, and Sam could see the resignation in Y/n’s eyes as he gazed ahead. Y/n seemed to be reminded of a harsh truth, one that he had long since accepted as his reality.

Before Sam could take another step, the scene transitioned abruptly, like a door slamming shut in his face. The training room and everyone vanished, leaving Sam a bit confused. The sudden change was jarring, and Sam's mind reeled as he tried to process what he had just seen.

Now, Sam was standing in a cold, sterile shooting range. He glanced around and Y/n, still eighteen, standing in the center of the room, positioned under a large "X" marked on the floor, holding a gun in his hand. Two different instructors stood by, staring at Y/n with an unnerving intensity as he aimed at a series of targets ahead.

Y/n's accuracy was unnerving, his shots hitting each target with a precision that was both impressive and terrifying. The instructors exchanged a glance, and one of them moved to bring in new targets. Sam’s blood ran cold upon realizing that the new targets were not paper cutouts, but two real human beings, bound and gagged, with blindfolds covering their eyes. The muffled screams of the man and woman were like a punch to the gut, making Sam's stomach turn with horror. Sam remembered Caleb telling him and Dean that the Dark Room occasionally uses real people for shooting practice. That's what Sam's about to witness now.

Without waiting, Y/n raised his gun and fired, the sound of the gunshots echoing loudly in the enclosed space. Sadly, the hostages' bodies jerked violently as the bullets struck them, their lifeless forms crumpling to the floor with a sickening thud. Y/n's face remained blank. There was no sign of hesitation, no flicker of remorse or doubt for what he had done.

The instructors exchanged a glance and nodded approvingly. Y/n was the best, a natural-born killer. He was made for this.

The scene changed again, this time to a dimly lit room with dark wooden floors, a crackling fireplace, and a grand piano in the corner. Sam watched Y/n engage in a brutal fight with two men who were clearly older and had more experience.

The first man, a burly blonde, charged at Y/n with a wild swing, his fist flying in an attempt to connect it with Y/n's face, but easily ducked the blow. Y/n grabbed the blonde's arm, twisting it behind his back and slamming him into the piano with a sickening thud. The sound of the man's body crashing into the instrument was like a crack of thunder, and Sam winced in sympathy. Then the second man, with short dreadlocks, pounced on Y/n, arms wrapping around his neck in a chokehold.

But as Sam watched the fight unfold, he could see that something was... off here.

Y/n was not fighting at full strength, and it was evident that he was holding back. Sam had witnessed him fight before and he knew that Y/n was capable of taking down his opponents with ease. But now, he seemed to be deliberately letting the man gain the upper hand. Y/n's muscles tensed, ready to break free, but he didn't. Instead, he pretended to struggle, letting the man tighten his grip around his neck.

Y/n's face contorted in a mask of forced desperation. He tapped the dread-head's biceps, signaling him to release him and the man complied, relinquishing his hold.

Buck's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Y/n from the sidelines, his gaze piercing and critical. He had caught on to what Y/n was doing, and his expression was not pleased. "Sloppy," he spat, his tone sharp and accusing, cutting through the air like a knife. Y/n's eyes were downcast, chest still heaving from the final session. Buck walked over to him. "Pretending to fail," his words dripped with disappointment. "You are better than this. You know the ceremony is necessary. You're a product of the Dark Room, and you need to show the world exactly what you're worth, Y/n."

Y/n's shoulders slumped, and a flicker of defeat was in his e/c eyes. "I’m not worth anything," he mumbled, his voice hollow.

Buck's lips twisted into a cruel smile. He grasped Y/n's jaw and forced their eyes to meet. He delivered a cold, hard truth.

"Exactly."

Then, Buck's hands closed around Y/n's arms. He yanked him off his feet before slamming him onto a nearby gurney. Y/n didn't resist, didn't even flinch, as Buck's hands strapped him down, securing his arms and legs to the cold metal frame. Buck started wheeling Y/n down a long, bright hallway, the wheels of the gurney squeaking noisily against the tiled floor.

The gurney came to a stop in front of a set of heavy double doors, which Buck pushed open. The room beyond was an operating room. He was wheeled into the center of the room where a group of masked surgeons waited for them. Their instruments lay spread out on a nearby tray, gleaming sinisterly under the lights.

Buck's face leaned over Y/n's face. "This is the final step. The last tool to remove any weakness. You will be perfect after this," he whispered, the words a twisted promise of a future that was both bleak and terrifying. "You will be Nightshade."

Y/n's eyes flickered with a spark of fear, a fleeting glimmer of emotion that was quickly extinguished as he gazed up at Buck. Buck's nod to the surgeons was the signal they had been waiting for, and they moved in, grabbing the instruments. Sam felt a surge of panic as he realized what was happening. He tried to move, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t intervene.

The graduation ceremony was happening and Sam realized with sickening clarity that there was no anesthesia, no attempt to numb the pain. This was meant to be as brutal as possible, to make sure that Y/n’s focus would never be distracted by something as human as the desire to have a family.

The procedure for the forced vasectomy continued and Y/n's body tensed, his muscles straining against the restraints that held him in place. His jaw clenched tightly. The taller Winchester could hear the faint sounds of Y/n’s teeth grinding together as the pain seared through him. Even then, Y/n did not scream or cry out. He simply endured the forced procedure.

In the corner of the room, two young boys stood like statues, their eyes fixed unblinkingly on the scene before them. Their faces were expressionless, devoid of emotions, as they watched the brutal operation that was being forced on Y/n. This was their future if they passed. This is what awaited them if they survived the training that would definitely break them.

The sight around Sam began to blur, the walls closing in on him as the sounds of the operating room grew distant. Sam’s chest ached. He wanted to scream, to reach out and stop the madness, but his body wouldn’t move and no sound came out. He was trapped, forced to watch as Y/n was stripped of the last piece of his humanity and into a dangerous assassin.

And then, suddenly, the dream shattered.

Sam's eyes snapped open and his body flew upright. He was drenched in sweat, his heart racing as if he had just finished a marathon. He looked around the room, disoriented and struggling to separate the dream from reality. The remnants of the nightmare were clinging to him like a suffocating fog. Rain was still pounding against the window, a relentless drumbeat that matched the frantic rhythm of his pulse. Dean stirred in the adjacent bed, rolling over and muttering something unintelligible in his sleep.

Sam slowly gathered his composure. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rested his bare feet on the cool floor. Sam scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to rub away the residual fear that gripped him. Stumbling to the bathroom, he turned on the faucet and cupped his hands under the running water, letting it splash all over his face, and then lifted his head to stare at himself in the mirror. The cool liquid helped to calm his racing thoughts, but everything he witnessed from the dream lingered, haunting him.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he had been somehow given a tiny glimpse into Y/n's past — a past that was shrouded in unimaginable suffering and trauma. The dream had been so real, so vivid, that he felt like he had been standing there with him, feeling his uncertainty and his pain.

But what lingered in Sam's mind, what he remembered most vividly from that glimpse into the past, was the moment when Y/n had deliberately failed his test.

It's like Y/n knew what would happen to him if he graduated, and he did not want to go through with that. But the moment also revealed that there was a small part of Y/n that had wanted to escape his life.

Sam's heart went out to that part of Y/n, the tiny part that had longed for freedom and autonomy. He wondered if he could reach that part of him, if he could find a way to connect with the person that Y/n had once been before the darkness had consumed him entirely. It is a long shot though. The dream or vision — whatever it was — had taken place years ago, and yet Sam couldn't shake the feeling that it was still relevant and that it still held the key to breaking the cycle of violence and trauma that had consumed Y/n's life. He didn't know what else to do, but he knew he had to try. For Y/n's sake, for the sake of everyone else who has been forced to kill for the Dark Room and subjected to the brutal training that broke many boys.

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

Dawn broke out.

The rising sun cast a gentle light across the horizon, bathing the world in a soft, golden hue. Sam stood near the window, watching as the vibrant colors of sunrise danced across the sky—vibrant oranges, soft pinks, and delicate yellows blending together. It is a peaceful scene, one that offers a fleeting sense of tranquility and peace from Sam's otherwise chaotic life.

The rest of the night was a lost cause for him. After waking up in the middle of the night, Sam tried to sleep, but he couldn't shake off the vivid memories of Y/n's life and the brutal procedure that had been performed on him. Every time he closed his eyes, he was met with the haunting memories of Y/n's past. So, he gave up on sleep altogether and decided to just take a shower instead, hoping that the warm water would wash away some of the darkness that had settled in his mind.

But it didn't.

He'd usually go running at this time, but the thought of going on his morning run, something that usually brought a sense of clarity, seemed pointless now. He had more pressing issues to deal with, more important matters, such as helping Y/n.

Sam knew that if he was going to help Y/n, he needed to gather more information about his past and the organization that had made him. And he knew just the guy to turn to. Only one person had been able to bring him any details about Y/n's past.

Sam grabbed his phone off the bedside table and scrolled through his contacts until he found someone's contact name.

Caleb.

His thumb hovered over Caleb's contact. Before initiating the call, he paused for a second. Caleb had been adamant about the Winchesters laying low and avoiding confrontation with Y/n. Sam wondered if Caleb would be willing to share all the information he knew with him. Still, Sam knew he had to take this risk; he owed it to Y/n to try. Steeling himself, he hit the call button, holding the phone to his ear.

Two rings echoed in Sam's ear before Caleb's gravelly voice, thick with sleep, responded. "Hello?" The roughness in his tone betrayed his late-night wakefulness or from waking up earlier than expected.

"Hey, Caleb, it's Sam. Sorry to bother you this early, but I could really use your help."

"What do you need from me?"

"I need to know if you have anything else on Y/n," Sam said, not wasting any time. "Or, even better, do you have more info on the Dark Room and where to find it?"

A moment of silence followed, and Sam interpreted that as Caleb either carefully choosing his next words or was simply incredulous that Sam was still pursuing this lead despite his previous warnings. "Sam, I have already told you everything I know about Y/n L/n. And as for the Dark Room... it's not the kind of place you can just find. It's not on any map, and it's not even on the hunters' radar. As far as the world is concerned, it doesn't exist."

The younger Winchester's frustration bubbled beneath the surface as he bit his lip, his gaze flickering towards Dean to ensure he remained asleep. And was relieved to see that he was. "Alright, well, do you know anyone who might know its location? If we're going to save Y/n and whoever else is stuck in that nightmare, we need more information on this place."

"Save Y/n?" Caleb's voice was sharp and incredulous. He was fully awake now, his sleep-addled brain suddenly alert as he tried to wrap his head around Sam's words. "Sam, listen to yourself. The Dark Room doesn't 'let go' of anyone and they don't release their victims or rehabilitate them. No, they use them, and then they discard them. Y/n is theirs until the day he dies." The words were harsh, but Sam knew Caleb was trying to drive home the reality of the current situation, "You need to focus on trapping him when he makes his move, rather than trying to save him."

Sam took a steadying breath, steeling himself against the wave of skepticism he anticipated. "I know how this sounds, Caleb, but I'm convinced there's a way to rescue Y/n and the others. I understand your concerns, but I can't just sit idly by, knowing what we know. Innocent people are being conditioned to become killers. We have to try, Caleb. We owe it to them."

"I don't owe shit to nobody, and you need to listen to me again, Sam," Caleb's voice dropped to a low, urgent tone. "The Dark Room isn’t some run-of-the-mill monster nest. These people — this organization— they don’t play by the rules. They make sure they stay hidden from everyone by operating in the shadows, and shadows don’t reveal themselves willingly. You go looking for them, they’ll find you first, as Y/n’s already done. They won’t hesitate to end you. They don’t forgive intruders."

"I don't care," Sam replied, his voice firm and resolute. "We have to try for Y/n and the others like him, who were groomed into this, Caleb. Y/n didn't have a choice."

"And what makes you think he's got a choice now?" The other hunter finally snapped. "Sam, you're being reckless. You're talking about storming a hidden fortress against people who have spent decades perfecting the art of killing and hiding. You can't just march in there and pull Y/n or anyone else out if you find it, which you won't. It's just not that simple."

"I can’t just sit back and do nothing."

Caleb sighed, and Sam could hear the frustration in his voice. "Look, man, I get it. You’re a compassionate person. You always wanna save people, even when it seems impossible. But this? It's a death wish. And for what? A guy who's been so thoroughly brainwashed and conditioned that he does not even want to be saved? You're not considering the bigger picture here, Sam. You're not thinking about the risks and the consequences. You're just thinking about saving one person — no matter what the cost. And that's not how it works. That's not how hunters survive."

Sam's grip on the phone tightened as his mind drifted back to the dream vision he had. "I think Y/n does want to be saved."

"And what makes you think that?"

"I had this dream last night, but it was more like a vision of sorts. I was given a glimpse into Y/n's past. He was holding back during training, trying to avoid the… graduation ceremony you told me about. I believe there's a part of him that doesn't want to be there and that still wants out."

"A dream?" Caleb scoffed, "You're telling me you're about to risk your life and your brother's life over a dream?" his disbelief was palpable through the phone. "Sam, come on. I don't care what you saw, it's just a dream. It's not concrete evidence. And even if it was, it still doesn't change anything. You’re out of your league here."

Sam swallowed hard, his jaw clenched. "We have been out of our league before."

Caleb let out a heavy sigh, the sound of someone trying to reason with someone they know won’t listen. "You’re not going to let this go, are you?" He already knew what Sam's response was going to be.

"No, I'm not."

"Okay, there's a retired hunter, an old and battle-scarred guy named Elias. He's the only one I know who's had a run-in with the Dark Room and lived to tell the tale. Elias was the one who told me about it, and he's the only one who might be able to give you the answers you're seeking."

"Where can we find him?" Sam moved across the room to retrieve a pen and a scrap of paper, ready to write down the address as soon as Caleb gave it to him.

"He lives in Columbia, Missouri, at 1432 Ravenwood Lane. He typically keeps to himself. But listen, If he doesn't give you the answers you want, you leave him be. Don't push him and don't try to convince him. He’s been through a lot. You got it?"

"Got it. Thanks, man. Appreciate it." Sam ended the phone call and stood there for a moment, gathering his thoughts and processing the weight of what he was about to do. He knew that pursuing this path would be incredibly risky – perhaps even suicidal, as Caleb had pointed out.

Even then:

He couldn't shake the belief that it was the right thing to do. Some might call it foolish, but Sam had always trusted his instincts, and they were telling him that saving Y/n and the others was necessary.

Besides, Sam had faced daunting odds before. He recalled his encounters with demons, angels, and other supernatural creatures. Each time, they had prevailed, even when the odds seemed unbeatable.

However, he couldn't ignore the fact that they had never faced an assassin before.

Someone who was able to think several steps ahead of them — who was able to anticipate and counter their every move. Someone who was a skilled fighter, with a level of training that surpassed theirs.

Sam hoped he knew what he was doing.

"So, you're planning to risk our lives over some dream?" Dean's voice interrupted, causing Sam to turn and see his brother sitting up in bed, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Sam with mild disappointment.

"It wasn’t just a dream, Dean. It felt real, like those visions I used to have, but this time, it was not about the future; it was a glimpse into the past. I saw Y/n as a teenager, the training, and the ceremony. They sterilized him, Dean. They ripped away everything that made him human."

Dean was unmoved. "It doesn't matter. We’ve all had shitty lives. Doesn’t mean we go around murdering people. There’s always a choice, Sam. Always. He could have fought back, could’ve walked away, but he chose to stay and continue killing."

"And where could he have gone, Dean?" Sam's voice rose, a headache beginning to form. "The Dark Room was his entire world. Those people made sure of that. They broke him until there was nothing left but the killer they wanted him to be."

A heavy silence enveloped them briefly before Dean finally broke the stillness by throwing off the blanket and standing up stretching his tall frame. "You really feel sorry for him? After everything he's done."

Sam nodded, his eyes never leaving Dean's face. "Yeah, I do. We only know a small part of what Y/n has experienced, and to be honest, I don't think I could've survived what he and the others have been through. He's still a victim in this."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, his eyes closing as if he were trying to scrub away the utter frustration he felt. "You do not get to play the victim card when you've killed people. You don't get to be saved after that. Y/n's beyond saving."

Sam's eyes hardened. "We've both killed, Dean. Justified or not, we've taken lives."

Dean flinched but didn't back down. "Not like that. We did what we had to do, and sure, sometimes the lines got blurry, but we never became monsters," his brother started to argue, but Dean raised a hand to stop him. "Do not start with the whole we could've done things differently crap. We only killed to save innocent people. But Y/n? He wasn't killing for anyone but himself and the sickos who trained him."

Sam let out a sigh. It was clear that this argument was going nowhere, and Dean was not going to be able to see anything from his perspective. So, he decided to change tactics and inform Dean about what Caleb had told him over the phone.

"Caleb told me about a retired hunter named Elias. He knows about the Dark Room and can give us info. I'm going to pay him a visit today with or without you."

"I'm not letting you go alone," Dean said, "Even though I think this is a stupid idea and a complete waste of our time, too. Do you really believe this Elias guy's just gonna hand over the keys to the castle?"

"Maybe not," the hazel-eyed hunter admitted. "But it's the only lead we've got, and I'm not willing to let it slip away. Elias resides in Columbia, Missouri. We can be there in a couple of hours, okay?"

Dean massaged his temples, clearly still thinking this situation was a bad idea. "I really hope you know what you’re doing."

Sam hoped the same.

XXXXX XXXXX

Three hours passed, and Sam and Dean pulled up to the address Caleb had given them. The house was a single-story in a suburban neighborhood. The front lawn was neatly kept, with trees scattered about, and some kids playing tag down the street. Dean's eyes scanned the area with a practiced air of caution. He raised an eyebrow with a skeptical expression.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" He questioned, expecting a secluded cabin in the woods or an apartment building rather than a cozy house in the suburbs.

The taller one nodded, his eyes fixed on the house. "This is it – 1432 Ravenwood Lane. This is where Elias should be." He checked the address on the paper again, just to be sure and the address matched.

They stepped out of the car and walked up to the front door. Sam knocked a couple of times. Nothing. Dean knocked harder. Finally, they heard the shuffling of feet from inside, and the door creaked open, just a crack. A man in his late fifties with a grizzled beard, brown skin, and scars crisscrossing his face like a road map of hell, peered out at them. His eyes locked onto the brothers sharply. The intensity of his gaze sent a chill down their spine.

"You Elias?" Dean asked.

The man looked them up and down. For a moment, he was silent, his expression indecipherable. Then, in a low, guttural voice, he spoke. "Depends who's asking."

"I'm Sam Winchester, and this," with his thumb, he motioned to the man next to him. "Is my brother, Dean. Caleb sent us."

At the mention of Caleb's name, Elias's expression shifted slightly, his features softening ever so slightly. It was a subtle change, but it was enough to suggest that Caleb was someone he respected, or at least had a certain fondness for, "Caleb's still stirring up trouble, I see," his head tilted. "Winchesters, eh? You're John's boys. I knew your father. He was a good man, a great hunter." He stepped aside and gestured for them to come in. "Well, come on. Ain't gonna talk out here."

Dean and Sam followed Elias into the house, which was simpler on the inside compared to its exterior. The living room was a spacious size, furnished only with the bare essentials: a worn couch, a few chairs, and a simple coffee table. There were some trophies on the walls, but no photos, no personal touches. Interesting.

"Take a seat," Elias dropped himself into a worn-out recliner. The chair creaked in protest, but Elias seemed to settle into it with a sense of comfort, "So, what does Caleb think I can do for you fellas?"

"We're trying to find the Dark Room," Sam answered, sitting down across from him. Dean stayed standing, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "We heard you might know more about it than anyone else and we were hoping that you could help us find it and tell us what you know."

Elias scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound. "Help you—? You got a death wish, huh?" He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. "No Hunter is equipped to handle them. Y’all are out of your minds."

"Glad we agree on that," Dean muttered.

Sam shot his brother a hard look, but he chose not to reprimand him. Instead, his focus went back to the older man. "Can you please just... tell us what you know? How did you get entangled with them?"

Elias leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his scarred face, and sighed. For a moment, he looked almost lost in thought, like he was trying to decide how much to share — or if he even wanted to relive it by sharing it with these hunters.

"It was about thirteen years ago," Elias began as he pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. He lit the object, took a long drag, and exhaled slowly, the smoke curling up in the air like a ghostly mist. "We’d been hearing rumors about the Dark Room for a while. Kids disappearing, people taking on false identities, innocent people dying in a way that was too clean," Elias's gaze dropped to the floor, his voice taking on a tone of regret. "One evening, one of my hunting buddies got a tip. My sister and I thought we could bring them down, so we put together a team — ten of the best people I knew. Emma, my sister, was the best shot I'd ever seen, smart as hell too. We thought we could use the element of surprise to burn the place down and free the captives, but the surprise was on us."

He paused, taking another drag from his cigarette. Elias' eyes drifted, as if he was revisiting the memories. Sam could see the tension in his body, the way his hand clenched and unclenched. Whatever had happened during that day had left scars deeper than those visible on his features.

"They knew we were coming," Elias said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Hell, they let us get close on purpose. We all infiltrated the compound, made it inside, but that's when everything went to hell. They didn't just kill us — they played with us. Tortured us, broke us down piece by piece. Oh, I can still hear my teammates’ screams..." Elias's voice cracked, and he paused again, taking a deep breath in to compose himself. "the things they did…"

Elias’s left hand trembled slightly, and he clenched his fist, his fingernails digging into his palm as the man forced himself to continue. Sam and Dean exchanged a look but said nothing, letting him speak.

Elias leaned forward, his voice lowering to a whisper as if he was sharing a dark secret. "And then... they brought us into the basement, where they break people."

Sam tensed at the word "break." He had seen a glimpse of what they did to Y/n in his dream and heard the recording about what they did to him, but hearing it from someone who was there, made it… real.

"What did they do to you?" Sam inquired, though he wasn't sure he wanted to hear.

A sharp intake of breath sounded. Elias was gearing up to dredge up memories the veteran rather leave buried. "Torture. The kind that doesn’t leave marks… or at least, not at first. Psychological torture is their first technique. God, they make you question everything. Yourself. From what is real and what’s in your head. You start doubting everything in that terrible place, even your own sanity. You start begging for the physical pain just to make it stop."

Dean swallowed. "They killed your team?"

The duo received a nod in confirmation "The leaders or instructors, whoever they were, let their students use us as part of their twisted curriculum. They let those boys demonstrate how much they had learned in the art of torture before killing us. These scars," he gestured to his face, "are from that. They killed Emma right in front of me." his voice cracked. The pain was still raw — even after a decade later.

The Winchesters exchanged a look and the room felt heavy, suffocating, as if the very darkness that Elias had described had seeped into the space around them. Elias's story wasn't new to them in some ways — they had both seen torture and loss before and had faced their own share of horrors in life — but this was… different. The Dark Room had a cruelty that went beyond what they were used to handling.

"I’m so sorry, Elias," Sam said softly. "But you survived. How did you escape them?"

Elias shot him a look. "I barely survived, and it wasn't from escaping. No, the only reason I’m still breathing is because they decided to let me go. Dropped me off on the side of the road like it was trash day."

"Why did they let you go?" Dean asked.

"To send a message." he exhaled slowly. "and to make an example out of me, so the rest of the hunting community would know exactly what they were up against. I am living proof of what happens when you fuck with the Dark Room. That’s why I’ve kept my distance. I’ve had enough of that place to last a lifetime and the next."

Dean nodded, understanding Elias's decision. Sam felt the weight of Elias' words, but he wasn't prepared to give up. "Do you happen to know someone there named Y/n L/n?" Sam waited patiently.

Elias nodded, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, he was there. I saw him once, maybe twice when I infiltrated the place. He was only a teenager then, but the supervisors had regarded that boy as the best student in the program. He wasn’t simply a killer, he was their prize. The perfect student. The perfect assassin. He has killed loads of people and is a threat to global security. A threat to hunters like us. You won’t win against him and you two can’t save him."

A head shake came from the younger sibling. "That’s not true. I had a dream—"

"A dream?" Elias interrupted with a sharp laugh. "You’re basing the suicide hunt on a dream? Let me tell you something. The Y/n you think you can save doesn’t exist. Not anymore, if he ever did before."

Sam clenched his fists but kept his voice calm. "Y/n was holding back in my dream. He didn’t want to go through with the ceremony. There’s a part of him that wants out, that means he can be saved."

Elias sighed heavily. "Then you're even bigger idiots than I thought if you believe that. But I'm done with this conversation. I'm not telling you where the Dark Room is because I am not allowing you guys to die at their hands. I won't be responsible for sending you hunters to your graves."

Dean pushed off the wall, moving toward the door. "Well, thanks for the pep talk," he said sarcastically. "Let’s go, Sam."

Sam didn't want to leave yet. He still had questions about the Dark Room, but he knew Elias wouldn't budge on revealing Its location. Sam promised Caleb that he wouldn’t push Elias for information if he refused to share it and he had no choice but to respect Elias's decision. He stood, giving Elias one last look. "Thank you for your time and if you change your mind—"

"I won't," Elias was firm, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "Do yourselves a favor and stop this suicide mission, or you guys won't live to see another day."

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

As the Winchesters left Elias's home, the two headed home or, more accurately, to another motel back in Kansas. The car cruised down the highway, accompanied by the gentle patter of the light raindrops on the roof. Sam, as usual, occupied the passenger seat, staring out the window. Meanwhile, Dean's fingers tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel as he kept his eyes fixed intently on the road ahead.

His gaze flickered sideways, green eyes drifting towards Sam, whose been silent since they left Elias's house. The car ride had been quiet, with no music playing, and the duo hadn't exchanged one word.

Dean's voice sliced through the quiet, his words shattering the prolonged silence. "Elias was right, Sam. This is beyond us, You're in over your head for trying to find the Dark Room and for wanting to save Y/n. It's a death wish, plain and simple. We'd be walking blindly into a death trap."

Sam remained silent, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside the window, his expression unreadable. He knew that engaging in a discussion about the Dark Room would only lead to another heated argument — a repeat of the previous two times they had broached the subject. He wasn't in the mood for it right now, so he said nothing and remained tight-lipped.

But Sam began to think that perhaps everyone—Dean, Caleb, and Elias—was right. Maybe he shouldn't be concerned about finding the Dark Room or trying to save someone who likely did not want to be saved — or didn't believe he could be.

If that was the case, why was he given a glimpse into Y/n’s past through a vision? What is the purpose behind it? Why did his instincts continue to scream at him that, despite everything, there's a spark of humanity still buried deep within Y/n, a spark that refused to be extinguished? Why did he feel this unshakeable sense that the h/c assassin was worth saving and that he was not beyond redemption?

The answers to the first three questions was elusive, like a maddening puzzle he couldn't yet solve, but the reason behind his strong feelings about Y/n's case was one he knew all too well. It was because Y/n didn't deserve the hell he'd been put through, didn't deserve to be broken and twisted into a killer. In addition, Sam can relate to Y/n. Sam knew what it was like to be forced into a role he didn't want, to be bound by circumstances beyond his control. They had that issue in common.

With a silent, inward sigh, Sam bit his lip. He didn’t want to kill Y/n, even if he was after them. Y/n deserved to be free and have some semblance of a life where he could make his own decisions. Besides, just killing him wouldn’t be beneficial to them since he wasn’t the real threat here.

The Dark Room was.

They're the ones pulling the strings from behind the scenes, and Y/n is their tool. If Dean and Sam were to kill Y/n without finding out the Dark Room's motivations, they'd only be treating the symptom, not the disease. Another assassin would be sent after them. They couldn't just kill Y/n, consider it done, and go out for a drink.

But Sam saw no point in explaining any of this to Dean again, as his brother was stubborn and set in his ways. Dean was the type to shoot first and ask questions later, so there's no point in bringing it up.

When Sam's utter silence stretched out, Dean's lips compressed into a thin, tight line, feeling his frustration growing. But he didn't try to coax a response from his brother. Instead, he turned his attention back to the road, his foot pressing down on the gas pedal as he accelerated the car, focused solely on returning home.

Dean knew Sam was being too soft and overly hopeful by allowing his emotions to cloud his judgment. Their world didn't operate that way, especially in their line of work. Y/n was dangerous, extremely dangerous, and if the hunters didn't stop him, they'd end up dead. He needed Sam to understand this before it was too late.

Sam wasn't sure how this would unfold, but he knew that Y/n was still out there, and they weren’t done with him though.

Not by a long shot.

XXXXX XXXXX

The unexpected happened the next day. Sam exited the bathroom, refreshed and wearing a blue flannel and blue jeans. The conversation from yesterday lingered in his mind, but he had decided to shake it off with a morning run. It had been a while since he had the chance to go running and clear his mind with a jog, and the repeated pounding of his feet on the pavement had been just what he needed. Now, Sam sat at the small table in the center, reviewing old notes he had jotted down. Dean, meanwhile, was fast asleep, sprawled across his bed, snoring.

Suddenly:

A sharp knock echoed through the room.

Immediately, Sam's huge head snapped up, his instincts springing into high alert. His hand reached for the gun that lay on the table instinctively, his fingers curling tightly around the familiar grip. He stood from his chair, his movements slow and deliberate, as he padded quietly towards the door, his boots sinking into the worn, thin carpet with a series of muted thuds. The knock came again, this time gentler.

Sam's ear pressed against the door, listening for any sign of movement or sound, but he didn't hear anything on the other side. Then, smoothly, he swung the door open, gun raised, expecting trouble.

No one was there.

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion as he leaned out, scanning the parking lot. The only thing he saw was a few cars sitting there and driving past, but there was no one in sight. He was about to step back inside and close the door when his gaze dropped to the threshold, and hazel eyes landed on a small, folded piece of paper.

With a mixture of curiosity and wariness, Sam bent down to retrieve it. He shut the door behind him and promptly unfolded the paper, reading the handwritten note.

I have information about the Dark Room. Meet me at the diner on Maine Street in one hour if you want to learn more. – TD

Sam scanned the note a few times. TD? He wondered who the hell that could be. He stood there, deep in thought, but still couldn't recall anyone with those initials.

"Y/n," he muttered under his breath. But the more he thought about it, the more that didn’t make sense. This wasn’t his style. Y/n was more covert and precise. He would not leave a damn note outside their door like some second-rate hitman.

Sam glanced at Dean, still sound asleep with his mouth slightly ajar, snoring even louder. For a moment, Sam considered waking him but he quickly dismissed it. Dean wouldn't agree to this. He was too on edge about Y/n, and for good reason. Bringing Dean along would turn a useful conversation into a violent confrontation.

That’d go well, he thought sarcastically.

Sam's gaze returned to the note, his fingers absently turning it over, studying it from every angle. His gut churned with a familiar sense of both uneasiness and cautiousness. It could be a trap made to lure him in and spring shut. But what if it wasn't? What if this was the break they'd been waiting for, the key to locating and saving those trapped in the Dark Room?

He was chasing shadows with this Dark Room business. And if this "TD" person had valuable information, it was worth the risk. Besides, Sam doubted that Y/n would be this careless if it were a setup.

Sam made up his mind.

He grabbed his jacket from the chair, shoved the note into his pocket, and quietly walked over to the nightstand, grabbing Dean’s keys without so much as a glance at his brother. Dean shifted in his sleep, rolling over and letting out a soft snore, but didn’t wake up, thankfully.

Without waiting another second, Sam slipped out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. The cool air hit his face as he walked to the Impala, and a twinge of guilt pricked at his conscience as the hunter slid into the driver’s seat.

Dean would be furious if he discovered that Sam had taken his car, especially without filling him in on the details of his lead. But Sam pushed the thought aside, started the car, and pulled out the motel parking lot, heading toward Maine Street.

XXXXX XXXXX

The drive was short, but Sam’s mind was racing the whole time. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Who was "TD?" How did they know he was searching for information on the Dark Room? And, more importantly, how had they found their motel, of all places? The Dark Room wasn’t just some secret organization — it was a whole new level of twisted. Whoever this TD person was, they had to have a direct connection to the Dark Room —a connection that went far beyond mere curiosity or coincidence.

Sam parked the Impala on the street — a block away from the diner to be safe, the engine dying as he shifted into park. He got out and glanced around, sweeping the street with a practiced air of caution.

He approached the building while being on the lookout for any signs of a trap or followers. The diner looked like it hadn’t been renovated since the eighties, a real greasy spoon joint with a cozy, retro vibe to it. The diner reminded him of the ones Dean sometimes took him to as a kid. A handful of different vehicles was parked out front, their owners probably getting something to eat before starting the day.

Pausing at the entrance, Sam peered through the windows. A few people were scattered in the booths, talking amongst themselves loudly, eating breakfast, and watching the TV on the wall, while a waitress with a perpetual scowl etched on her face scrubbed the counters with a dirty rag. Despite the initial face scan, Sam's attention did not land on anyone who seemed out of place or suspicious. No one appeared to be waiting for him, and no one seemed to be watching him with an air of expectation. Taking a deep breath, Sam pushed open the door. The bell above jingled as he stepped inside.

The waitress right behind the counter eyes flickered upward, giving him a brief, disinterested scan before she returned to her task of wiping down the counter, her expression a mask of boredom. Sam made his way to the back and selected a booth in the corner that offered a clear view of the entire space. He slid into the seat, his back pressed against the white wall, and settled in to wait. The waitress walked over and asked for his order. He ordered a coffee, and she nodded curtly before leaving to fetch it. She returned a moment later with a hot cup, which she placed in front of him with a clink before retreating to her post behind the counter.

Minutes ticked by.

One hand rested lightly on the tabletop, while the other hovered near the gun in his jacket. Sam looked at the clock on the wall, the hands crawling toward the half-hour mark. Twenty minutes past the hour, and still no sign of "TD." Every time the door opened, Sam glanced at it, only to be disappointed as someone walked out, not in. The doubts crept in. Was this a trap? Was "TD" even going to show up?

He sipped his coffee, barely noticing the bitter taste. He hated being here without Dean. Dean would have called this move stupid, reckless—and part of him agreed — but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was something he had to do alone. He was the only one determined to take action against the Dark Room Academy.

The bell above the door jingled again.

Hazel eyes looked, and Sam saw a man walk in. He was older, maybe late fifties, wearing a long trench coat and a fedora pulled low over his face, with shades on.

There was certainly something off about his stride and demeanor—too controlled, too aware. He seemed to be trying too hard not to draw attention, but his outfit did the exact opposite, especially those shades, considering the cloudy weather outside. The man scanned the diner, and his eyes rested on Sam. Without waiting, he sauntered over and slid into the booth across from him, causing Sam's fingers to tighten around his concealed weapon.

The guy didn’t even look at Sam when he settled into the seat. "Trent Davis," he introduced, adjusting his hat to a precise angle. "You must be Samuel Winchester."

Sam’s gaze narrowed. "Depends."

Trent's lips curled into a faint, mirthless smile, a subtle twitch of his mouth that seemed more like a reflex than any real expression of amusement. "Don't worry. I'm not here to hurt you. I'm the one who can help you take down the Dark Room. Help you hunters survive what's coming."

"Yeah?" Sam's skepticism was evident. "Why should I trust you? For all I know, you're another pawn in the Dark Room's game, here to set me up for another hit."

Trent leaned back in the booth, exhaling slowly. "I get it. You don't know me, and I don't blame you for being cautious right now." He picked up a sugar packet from the container on the table and began to fiddle with it. "I've done things, things I'm not actually proud of, but I can help you."

Sam’s eyes didn’t leave him. "You haven’t answered my question. What makes you believe I'd trust you or anything you say?"

Trent's hand rose, taking off the shades. "Because I've been working for them, the Dark Room. I overlook the conditioning program. I'm the one who..." He paused, his eyes quickly darting around the diner as if searching for any potential listeners or assessing the risk of being overheard. He licked his lips nervously. "I'm the one who performs vasectomies on the boys."

Sam's body went rigid, his eyes widening in a mixture of horror and incredulity. His fingers flexed involuntarily at his side as if itching to grab his weapon. However, he restrained himself. "You did what?"

His mind processed the words that had just left Trent's mouth. Had he really just heard what he thought he had? The man sitting across from him was responsible for perpetrating one of the most heinous crimes imaginable. He was the one who had taken away the chance of countless boys, including Y/n, to father children, to start a family —to leave a legacy behind.

Sam couldn't help but stare at Trent with a mixture of disgust and contempt. How could he do this to people—? How could he live with himself, knowing that he had taken away something so fundamental, so essential to the human experience?

Trent didn’t flinch, though there was a flash of something — guilt — behind his eyes. "It’s part of their conditioning, part of the way they're controlled. Everything is taken from them, even their bodies."

Sam’s jaw clenched, revulsion boiling in his chest. "And you just went along with that? You cut them off from their future."

Trent flinched, lowering his gaze, "I didn’t have a choice, Sam. And once you are in, there's no escape, except in a body bag. At least, that's what they make you think."

Sam shook his head. "And now you grew a conscience?" His voice was as cold as ice. "Why do something about this now?"

"Because I've seen what the boys are put through, what they are forced to become. I've watched as they're broken down and turned into killing machines. I have seen too many innocent lives lost. I cannot sit back and watch the Dark Room continue to destroy lives. I won't do this anymore."

The younger Winchester stared at him, processing everything. His mind reeled with the implications of what Trevor told him and the recent events. Y/n was after he and his brother for reasons he barely understood. And now, Trent Davis, the man responsible for sterilizing guys and helping create these killers, was seated in front of him, asking for help. The irony was not lost on Sam, the sheer audacity of Trent's request was almost laughable.

When Sam didn't vocally respond to him, Trent leaned forward, his voice lowering. "Look, I know what I've done, okay? But I want to help bring down the Dark Room. I can't do it without you and your brother. If you want to survive this, you need me."

Sam ran a hand through his hair, tension coiling in his gut. "What’s your plan?"

Trent's chest rose and fell with a sharp exhalation. "To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what the full extent of my plan will be yet, but I know what I want to achieve. I want to free those remaining boys, the ones trapped in the program. And I want to stop the graduates out there, the ones who are still carrying out their missions. But to do that, we have to take down the leader of the Dark Room first. Together."

Silence enveloped them.

Sam's mind raced with conflicting thoughts. One part of him screamed that this could be some trap to lure him and Dean deeper into the Dark Room's clutches. But on the other hand... Trent's desperation, the haunted look in his blue eyes... it felt real. It felt like the man was genuinely torn apart by his own guilt and regret, and was willing to set things right.

Sam's voice was quiet, but firm. "You think we’re just gonna sign up to help you? You think Dean's gonna be cool with that after everything you’ve done?"

Trent's lips compressed into a thin line, "I know your brother's not going to like this. From what I read, he's hotheaded." A hint of a smile played on his lips. "Hell, I don't expect him to. But if you want any chance at stopping Y/n, you don't have a choice. He's still after you two, Sam, and one thing about Y/n's certain: he always kills his targets, no matter what it takes."

Tell me something I don’t know, Sam leaned back in the booth. "You better be telling the truth. Because if you’re lying—"

"I'm not lying," Trent's voice interrupted sharply. "You just gotta trust me on this."

That was the hard part. Could he trust him? Was it worth the risk? Every instinct in Sam screamed caution, but there was something about Trent that felt different.

With a slow exhale, Sam's gaze returned to Trent, "Alright. I will give you a chance, But you need to give us something more concrete — something that proves what you’re saying about who you are is legit."

Trent's hand disappeared into his jacket, and Sam tensed as he prepared to draw his gun. But instead of a weapon, Trent pulled out a small flash drive and slid it across the table with a quiet clink. "This has files and footage on the Dark Room. It’s not everything, but it’s a start. Show it to your brother. You’ll see I’m not lying."

Sam took the drive and shoved it into his jacket pocket. "Okay," he acknowledged.

While Sam and Trent talked at the diner, a figure watched them from the rooftop of the building across the street. Y/n L/n peered through his binoculars, his eyes fixed intently on the two men below. He had been tracking the Impala, following Dean and Sam's every move, and he had been thrilled to see them arguing more frequently. It was proof that even though he wasn't physically present, he was still exerting a profound influence over them.

He had planned on attacking Sam today, taking advantage of the fact that he and Dean weren't exactly on the best terms. Dean's last memory of him would be one of disagreement and regretful tension, and the assassin had hoped to use that to his advantage. But as he watched, he noticed something that made his plans go awry. Doctor Davis was speaking to Sam and even handing him a flash drive. It seems they had a traitor in their midst.

Y/n's fingers moved swiftly as he pulled out his phone and dialed a number that was etched into his memory. The phone rang only twice before a voice answered.

"Speak."

Y/n's response was brief and to the point. "I'm returning home. It seems that we have a traitor in our midst. I'll explain more when I return." The line went dead, and Y/n knew that his boss had hung up.

XXXXX XXXXX

Sam opened the passenger door of the Impala and gestured for Trent to get in. Trent was coming back to the motel to plan how they would take down the Dark Room and they had to do it now. According to Trent, the organization was about to start scouting children from the new generation to recruit as assassins. Sam knew they couldn't let that happen.

Trent settled into the passenger seat of the car as Sam slid into the driver's seat. His grip on the steering wheel was tight, and Sam glanced over at the man. There was something about Trent's demeanor that was winning Sam over. He seemed burdened by guilt for his actions, and It was a guilt that Sam could not help but think was well-deserved, given the acts Trent had committed. The engine of the car purred to life as Sam pulled out of the parking lot, heading to the motel.

For a while, there was only silence between them. Sam's mind, however, was racing. Questions, concerns, and suspicions swirled around in his head. He had questions and wanted answers, especially about Y/n and this was finally his chance to possibly know more about him. He glanced over at Trent, who was staring out of the window at the passing scenery, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance, and his posture was slumped.

"Tell me more about Y/n L/n," he finally said, voice cutting through the silence.

Trent continued to stare out the window. He didn't seem at all surprised that Sam was asking questions about Y/n as if he had expected it all along. "Y/n is the star of the Dark Room program, the leader of the main division of Shades." He stated.

"Shades?" Sam echoed, looking at Trent before returning his attention to the road.

"All the boys at the Dark Room Academy are classified as Shades because they're made to be perfect assassins, shadows that move unseen," Trent explained. "But he's not just any shade. He's NightShade — one of the world's greatest assassins."

Sam felt a chill run down his spine at the mention of Y/n's reputation: NightShade. He had already seen firsthand what Y/n was capable of, but the way Trent talked about him, it was like he was something crafted in the deepest pits of hell. And it was evident now why Caleb had been so adamant on him and Dean lying low and staying away from Y/n unless to trap him.

"And Y/n's been at the Dark Room his whole life?" Sam asked, his tone softer.

"Yeah," Trent muttered, his gaze shifting from the scenery to Sam. "He never had a choice in this, you know? Y/n's life was predetermined before he was even born."

Sam shot the man a questioning glance. "Elaborate." The word was sharp, a clear request for more information, and Sam's tone was laced with a sense of curiosity.

Trent hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "His real mother, Isabella... she only had him because Valerio, the leader of the Dark Room, was searching for the best male assassin. She didn't want him, but she was a means to an end, and was chosen for her genetics. Isabella and her husband were selected for their perfect DNA, the ideal combination to produce a child with desirable attributes. Y/n was one of the unlucky few who was planned for this deadly life from the start. Before he was able to take his very first breath."

Sam frowned. "And she just.. went along with it?" He couldn't see how any parent could be okay with that, how they could knowingly condemn their own flesh and blood to a life of indoctrination and pain. What kind of person would do that? How could they be so... callous? The more he thought about it, the more his anger and frustration grew. He couldn't believe that anyone could agree to have a kid, only to hand them over to a group of monsters.

Trent cleared his throat, "Technically, yeah. Isabella and James did give Y/n away to the Dark Room in exchange for a large sum of money, but it was also a way to protect her firstborn son, Andrew, Y/n's half-brother. Isabella thought that by giving up Y/n, they would be sparing Andrew from the same fate. But Isabella regretted her decision, tried to get him back. The Dark Room, however, doesn't allow regrets, and they killed Isabella for trying to get Y/n back. Andrew ended up dying in the program. I'm not sure what happened to James. I don't know if he's alive, or if the Dark Room got to him too."

Sam’s chest constricted, a sickening feeling settling in his stomach. "Jesus…"

Trent's nod was grim, his eyes clouding over with a mix of sadness and disgust. "He was just a baby, too young to crawl, but they, unfortunately, already had him hooked," He looked down at his lap as if he couldn't bear to meet Sam's eyes. "As a child, Y/n and the other boys watched cartoons like any other kid. Stuff like Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Rugrats — normal stuff, right? But they were not. The videos were full of subliminal messages that were drilled into their minds over and over again. Like Instill, Fear, Kill, Obey, Pain. They slowly rewired their minds, brainwashing them. Making them into what the Dark Room wanted."

Sam’s breath caught in his throat. "They conditioned him… from a damn cartoon."

Trent shifted in his seat. "That's just the beginning. It wasn't just the videos. They underwent behavior modification, which included things like sensory deprivation, dehumanization, hypnosis, and mental manipulation. Isolation. They’d lock him up in a room for days, no food, no water. And then, they even implemented sleep deprivation and waterboarding. It made them susceptible to becoming obedient soldiers, following orders, and becoming stronger. It's about breaking them down, making them feel like they don't exist as people with emotions, only as weapons."

Sam's hands felt like they were encased in ice, his fingers numb and cold to the touch. The words weighed on him like stones, each one heavier than the last.

"They were forced to harm themselves," Trent's voice was a mere whisper as he continued. "All to increase their pain tolerance. And Y/n — he excelled at it. Passed every physical and mental test. They pushed him harder than the others because they recognized his... potential."

"Potential to be what? A killer?"

Trevor nodded slowly. "Exactly. But that potential came with a cost. Y/n, like the others, suffered from terrible headaches, consistent fatigue, due to their mission stress, sensitivity to bright lights. All the physical and mental enhancements, the training… it’s taken a toll on their bodies."

"And you… you were part of this," Sam’s tone was sharper than he intended it to be, but he didn’t care. "You came up with these ideas and created these assassins."

Trent swallowed, hands fidgeting in his lap. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "I helped design the conditioning and some of the behavior modification methods. It was a part of my job to ensure they were ready."

The hazel-eyed hunter couldn’t hide the anger that bubbled hotly in his chest. He faced Trent upon stopping at a red light. "How could you do that to kids? To Y/n?"

Trent's features tightened with guilt and shame. "I had my reasons, Sam. I made a deal with the devil that's called Valerio a long time ago but," he shook his head, "none of those reasons matter anymore. What matters is taking down that place."

Sam remained silent, his mind racing to process the sheer magnitude of what Trent had revealed. The only reason Y/n was born was to literally be an assassin. His entire life had been manipulated and controlled from the very beginning. Now, he was the perfect killer for the program.

The more Sam learned about the control, manipulation, and conditioning that Y/n had endured, the more he realized that Y/n was a product of his environment.

He was truly a victim, a pawn in a much larger game, and he never had a choice. The circumstances that led him to be a killer were not of his own making, but rather the result of a sinister experiment designed to create the perfect assassin.

As Sam grappled with this new understanding, he couldn't help but wonder if he could truly blame Y/n for trying to kill him and his brother. Was it fair to hold Y/n accountable for actions that were, in essence, programmed into him? Could he really condemn someone who had been indoctrinated into this life, someone who had never had the chance to make their own choices or forge their own path? Sam couldn't help but wonder what Y/n's life would have been like if he had been given a choice, if he had been allowed to grow up in a world where he wasn't forced to murder for other people.

Finally, they reached the motel, and Sam parked the Impala in the parking lot and turned off the engine. He sat there for a moment, thinking. He really hoped that he could save Y/n and get him the help he needed. But as he sat there, his mind began to wander to the practicalities of it all. Who... would actually be equipped to help him through all the psychological conditioning he had been through? What kind of therapist would be willing to take on a patient like Y/n, an assassin with a past as complex and troubled as his?

Trent unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to Sam. He saw the troubled expression etched onto Sam's face and the way his eyes appeared to be a thousand miles away. Trent also noticed that Sam hadn't moved an inch, his hazel eyes unblinking since he pulled into the parking spot and he was still gripping the wheel tightly, as if he was frozen in place. "Are you okay?"

Sam didn’t answer right away. After a long moment, he sighed and shook his head. "I don’t know, man. This is… a lot."

"I get it," Trent said quietly, his voice a gentle reminder that he understood the weight of Sam's emotions. "But we don't have time to second-guess ourselves. Y/n and the other graduates like him are out there as well, and they are still under the Dark Room's control. We can't afford to waste any more time, especially now."

Sam's nod was slow and deliberate.

They had to stop the Dark Room, and he was determined to save Y/n and anyone else as well. Yesterday, he had been torn about whether to continue trying to save Y/n, but now he was sure. He had to do this.

Sam looked at Trevor. "Thanks for telling me about all of this. It's good to see that you still have a brain." his hand moved to unbuckle his seatbelt, "I needed to know."

Trent nodded, his face grim. "I just hope that it's not too late to make things right."

Sam eyed the motel door, his heart heavy with the burden of what was coming and he ran a hand down his beard. This was a habit that usually brought him comfort but now felt like a futile attempt to brace himself since Dean was not going to like this. His brother was already on edge, and Sam bringing back someone who currently works for the Dark Room was going to push him further over the edge.

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

With a deep breath in, Sam pushed open the door to the motel, preparing himself for the confrontation that was about to unfold. Trent followed closely behind, eyes darting nervously over his shoulder as if he expected to be ambushed at any moment. As they entered the room, the silence was broken only by the sound of boots pacing back and forth across the floor. Dean was already up and dressed, pacing like a caged tiger ready to break free. His eyes were fixed intently on the floor, his jaw clenched in a fierce scowl. However, the second after Sam stepped through the door, Dean's head looked up.

"Where the fuck have you been, Sam? Why haven’t you answered your phone?" Dean's voice was sharp, slicing through the thick air inside the room. He stopped pacing, his feet coming to a sudden halt. Then, his attention shifted to Trent, who now entered his visual field. Dean's eyes narrowed instantly. "Who the hell is this?"

A sigh escaped Sam's lips as he shut the door behind them with a soft click. He glanced at Trent, who remained silent, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, looking at the floor. Dean, on the other hand, was a different story. He scrutinized Trent from head to toe. Sam could already see the fury brewing in his brother's eyes, the suspicion simmering below the surface. Sam knew that look, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before Dean's emotions boiled over.

"Dean, just calm down for a second, alright?" Sam started, holding up a hand in a gesture meant to stall the inevitable explosion. His voice was calm and even, but his eyes darted to Trent and back to Dean. "I needed to check something out, and I didn’t want to wake you." He took a step forward, his eyes locked on Dean's, trying to convey a sense of reassurance.

"Calm down?" Dean’s voice rose, incredulous, and he took a step towards Sam, his body taut with barely contained frustration. "So, you just took off and left without even telling me where you were going, and you expect me to calm down? Y/n could’ve gotten to you for all I know, but instead you just — what, bring some stranger back to our room?" Green eyes briefly flickered to the guy standing near the door, looking him up and down like a predator sizing up their prey. "You better start explaining, now. Who is this man?"

Behind Sam, Trent shifted, staying silent once again. Then, Sam stepped forward, positioning himself squarely between Dean and Trent, his shoulders squared. He knew Dean like the back of his hand, and he knew that what he was about to say next would be like lighting a fuse to a powder keg. He was aware that Dean's reaction would be explosive, and he was bracing himself for the worst. In fact, he was almost certain that Dean would pull a gun out on Trent, and he was prepared to intervene to stop that from happening.

"This man is Trent Davis," Sam explained quickly, his voice steady but laced with a hint of caution. He glanced at Trent, who looked to be contemplating leaving, "He.." here it goes, "...works for the Dark Room."

That stopped Dean in his tracks, body freezing in mid-step as he processed the information. He blinked, brows furrowing together in a mix of mass confusion and outrage, and he took another step closer to Sam, his anger intensifying. His voice was barely controlled, the words spilling out. "...The Dark Room?" he repeated as if he couldn't believe what he just heard. "Are you out of your fucking mind? You brought a Dark Room guy back to our motel? What the hell were you thinking?"

Dean was at his breaking point. He was fed up with Sam's constant attempts to save Y/n, a person who didn't even want to be saved, and now he was bringing a Dark Room operative back to their motel room. It was like Sam was intentionally trying to drive his older brother insane.

His frustration and anger boiled over as he thought about the sheer stupidity of Sam's actions. What was wrong with Sam? Did he not understand the danger that they were in? The Dark Room was a ruthless organization that would stop at nothing to eliminate them, and Sam was bringing one of their operatives into their midst. No, this was a recipe for disaster.

Dean's mind was racing with worst-case scenarios as he glared at Sam, his anger and frustration plain on his features. He knew that Sam had a good heart, that he always wanted to see a level of good in people, even when others had given up. But this was reckless and irresponsible, and Dean still couldn't believe that Sam was putting them in harm's way like this.

“Dean, listen—” Sam started.

"No, you listen!" Dean cut him off, his voice harsh and unforgiving. The words exploded out of him like a dam breaking. "You brought someone here who works for the same ones that turned Y/n into a freakin' assassin, who's been hunting us, and you thought that's a good idea?" His voice rose to a near-shout, each syllable a blunt hammer of disbelief and disgust.

Two hands raised in defense, with Sam's palms facing Dean in a calming gesture. "I'm not stupid, Dean! I did not bring him back here for fun, okay? He's not here to hurt us. He wants to take the Dark Room down and he has information to help us."

The older Winchester let out a bitter laugh. "Help? You seriously believe that? You're trusting someone who's been part of the same group that tortured kids and turned them into killers. Seriously, Sam?"

"I didn't have a choice," Sam retorted, his voice rising to match the intensity of his brother's. "We need answers, and Trent's the only one who can give them to us. If there's a way to stop this, to stop what the Dark Room is doing, don't you think that you should at least hear him out?"

Dean's head shook back and forth. "You brought him here, though. To our motel," he ran a hand through his hair. "Where we sleep. How do you know this isn't a setup?" That's a good question. "What if he's got a tracker on him? Or some other kind of surveillance device? And Y/n will come barging in here to finish killing us?"

"I don't have a tracker or a device on me," Trent's voice was a gentle interruption to the tension-filled conversation between the brothers. His words came out soft and measured as if he was trying not to startle anyone. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help you survive against Y/n."

The green-eyed hunter quickly put his focus on Trent, his eyes narrowing into slits as he pulled out his gun and aimed it at the other man. "Help?" Dean's voice was laced with sarcasm and disdain, his skepticism evident. "You think I'm gonna buy that crap? How stupid do you think I am? You people don't do anything to help anyone in a good way," his words were a reminder of the Dark Room's reputation. "You sons of bitches do torture, control, manipulation, and murder. So, why don't you tell me what you're actually here for before I put a bullet between your eyes?"

Sam stepped in between the guys once again. "Dean, stop. Just—just stop, okay."

Dean ignored Sam and moved his head to meet Trent's stare. "What exactly did you do to those boys at the Academy?"

Trent looked shamefacedly down and Sam decided to step in for him. "Dean, I already asked him all this. He worked on the psychological conditioning and was the doctor who performed vasectomies. He helped with everything that happened."

Dean turned sharply to face his brother. "Everything?" he repeated, voice rising in disgust. "So, let me get this straight. You brought one of the bastards responsible for everything that happened in the Dark Room into our room, and you expect me to just sit down and have a friendly chat with him? God, this is nuts, even for you."

"I get it," Trent said, his voice calm but weary as if he'd had this conversation a thousand times. "You have every reason not to trust me. Hell, I'd be suspicious if I were you, too," his eyes locked on Dean's. "I'm not asking you to trust me. But I am asking you to help me make things right."

Dean's eyes flickered with something, but understanding was not one of them. Fortunately for everyone, he did put the gun away and stepped closer to Trent, invading his personal space and making him take a step back. When Sam tried to step in, he pushed his arm away. "Make things right? And what exactly does that mean? You think you can just walk away from all the crap you did, all the kids you tortured, and call it even? That's not how this works." His words: a cold, hard truth.

Sam remained where he was, observing the interaction between Dean and Trent. He would let Dean ask Trent questions that needed to be asked, but he was prepared to step in at a moment's notice if things escalated. He had already seen Dean's gun come out once on Trent, and he wasn't about to let that happen again.

Trent swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he struggled to maintain his composure. He was clearly uncomfortable, but he didn't back down, his eyes locked on Dean's as he spoke. "I know that. I cannot undo what I've done, but I do want to stop them and to stop this from happening to anyone else." He paused, taking a deep breath. "You want to stop Y/n from killing you guys, right? I will help you with him," he took a seat at one of the chairs at the table. "I'm on your side here. I'm risking my life by just being here. If the Dark Room figures out I've changed sides, I'm as good as dead."

Dean scrutinized Trent, his expression a mask of neutrality, giving away nothing regarding his thoughts or feelings. He studied Trent's face, searching for any sign of deception, any hint of insincerity or hidden motives. It was as if he was trying to decide if Trent was lying or not, if he was genuinely trying to help or was just playing them for fools. After a long, tense moment, Dean's gaze flickered to Sam. "You really think we can trust him?"

Sam's nod was a decisive motion as if he had already made up his mind about Trent's trustworthiness. He shot Trent a quick, reassuring glance, before turning back to Dean. "I think we can trust him."

The older hunter's breath escaped in a sharp, exasperated hiss as if he couldn't believe the situation he found himself in. He shook his head, turning his attention back to the Dark Room man. His finger jabbed out, pointing it accusingly at the other man, as his voice dropped to a flat, deadly serious tone. "You better pray to whatever god you believe in that you're not lying, because if you're setting us up to get killed, if you're playing us, or if you so much as look at us wrong, I swear to God, I'll put you down. You understand?"

Trevor nodded solemnly. "I understand."

Dean took a step back, his body language still tense and guarded, but the immediate threat of violence seemed to finally dissipate. He, however, continued to glare at Trent like he could burn a hole through the man's head if he didn't stop. The air was still thick with tension, but it was no longer explosive, instead, it was a slow-burning fire that seemed to be waiting for a spark to set it off again.

With the tension momentarily diffused, Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the small flash drive. "Trent gave me this," he voiced, holding it up for Dean to see. "He told me that it has footage and files on the Dark Room Academy. If he's who he claims to be, this should prove it."

Dean crossed his arms, still eyeing Trent with skepticism. "Let's see what's on it."

Sam settled into the chair next to Trent, opened his laptop, and plugged the flash drive into the device. His fingers moved across the keyboard, typing out multiple sequences of commands as he accessed the drive's contents. The laptop's screen flickered to life, casting a pale glow over the room. For a moment, the only thing visible was a blank desktop, but then a single folder appeared named: Shades.

Dean frowned, leaning over Sam to look at the screen. "That’s it? One folder?" He sounded unimpressed as if he had been expecting something more substantial. Sam, on the other hand, thought back to what Trent told him in the Impala about the Dark Room boys being called shades.

Trent leaned over, nodding. "Click on it."

With a double click, it opened up, and the screen was suddenly flooded with documents and subfolders. Sam's eyes widened as he scanned the contents, his hand hovering over the touchpad as he scrolled through the files, disbelief clear. Training protocols, former graduate lists, children in training, successful missions, and current missions were there. At least Trent was telling the truth about who he was. The documents seemed to confirm that the man was indeed a high-ranking member of the Dark Room, with access to passwords and sensitive information.

This is insane, Sam thought.

Sam continued to navigate through the files, his eyes scanning the screen with a mix of dreadfulness and horror. He opened the file labeled Graduates, and the computer filled with a list of names, photos, and skill sets. The sheer number of individuals listed was staggering, and Sam's mind reeled with the implications. He backed out of that file and scrolled a little further down, his eyes scanning the screen with a sense of morbid curiosity. And then, he saw it. One particular file caught his attention, and his eyes froze on the screen. Y/n L/n — Top Operative.

Sam clicked on it.

The video player sprang to life, and the screen filled with a grainy, low-quality image that seemed to be from a bygone era. The footage was old, definitely shot in the nineties, and showed a young Y/n, no older than ten years old, lying on the floor in the middle of a room. He stared up at the ceiling, eyes vacant and empty.

The dark circles under his eyes seemed to be sucking all the light out of his face, sketching beneath them like bruises. His lips were dry and chapped, and his body was thin and fragile-looking. Y/n looked tired — so utterly exhausted, as if he had been drained of all his energy and vitality.

"Oh my God, what happened to him?" Sam asked, his voice filled with concern. The child in the video looked barely alive.

Trent looked down, unable to meet Sam's gaze. "He was isolated, starved, dehydrated, and sleep-deprived for five days before his tenth birthday, which is when this video was shot," he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth like a confession. "No food, no water, nothing."

As the video continued to play, the door to the room creaked open, and a man in a dark suit walked in, carrying a tray of food that seemed to be a cruel joke. The tray was laden with pancakes, eggs, and sausage, the scent of which must have been overwhelming to the starving boy. Sam couldn't blame Y/n for his reaction.

After five days of starvation, the smell of hot, fresh food must have been almost unbearable. The boy's stomach must have been growling with hunger, his body crying out for sustenance.

The human body isn't made to function without food for an extended period, and five whole days, one hundred and twenty hours, was a staggering amount of time to go without sustenance. The effects of starvation were already evident on Y/n's frail body, his eyes sunken, his skin sick, and his limbs weak. The consequences of such prolonged starvation periods are dire, especially for a young child, whose smaller body frame and limited body-fat stores make them even more vulnerable to the devastating effects of sustenance.

Such as hallucinations.

As the body's energy stores dwindle, the brain suffers, and risk of hallucinations becomes increasingly high. In this state, the mind becomes a fragile, fragmented thing, prone to conjuring up visions and sensations that are not grounded in reality. That thought sent a tidal wave of revulsion crashing through Sam's mind. The idea that people would deliberately subject actual children to such intense psychological manipulation, driving the young boys to the brink of madness with hallucinations and paranoia, was terrible.

It was a calculated tactic, designed to break their will and control their minds, reducing them to puppets to be used for the organization's nefarious purposes.

Sam's stomach churned with disgust as he thought about the countless children who had been subjected to this kind of abuse, their young minds shattered by the relentless psychological torture.

The boy's head shot up, his eyes locking onto the breakfast. A desperate hunger flickered in his gaze, a primal urge that seemed to drive him forward. He tried to sit up, his shaky hands pushing against the floor, but his body was too weak, his muscles too starved. He then fell back onto the floor. Undeterred, Y/n began to crawl towards the adult, his movements awkwardly animalistic, like a dog slinking towards their master in hopes of a treat.

The man in the suit crouched down until he was at eye level with Y/n. He held the tray out to the boy, the tantalizing aroma of delicious breakfast foods wafting up to tease Y/n's senses. Quickly, his hand shot out, fingers grasping wildly for the tray, but the man was too fast. He shook his head, a small, cruel smile playing on his lips, and then moved the tray just out of Y/n's reach. The boy's hand hovered in mid-air, his hand closing on nothing, and he let out a small whimper of frustration.

The man's voice was low and even, but it sent a cold chill down Sam's spine as he watched the video. "Nope. There is only one way you're gonna eat, kid," the man reminded, his head gesturing over to the nearby table, where a gun sat. Y/n's eyes followed the man's gesture, and his gaze landed on the weapon. The man's words were a cruel reminder that Y/n's hunger was being used as a tool for control and that the only way he would be allowed to eat was if he did what was demanded of him in return. Sam figured it was something that would likely come at a terrible cost.

Without a moment of doubt, he reached out and grasped the gun, his small hand wrapping around the heavy metal with a strong determination that belied his age. At first, the child's grip was very tenuous, his fingers struggling to find purchase on the cold steel, but he quickly adjusted his hold and closed his hand around the gun.

The camera panned to the corner of the room, revealing a shocking sight: a man, bound and gagged, slumped against the wall. His eyes were hidden by a blindfold, and his wrists and ankles were secured by thick ropes that seemed impossible to escape. He struggled to free himself, body straining against the restraints, but it was clear that he was trapped, helpless, and at the mercy of the dude in the suit and Y/n, who now held the gun tightly.

Y/n didn't hesitate for a moment. He raised the gun, his small hand steady, and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was deafening, echoing off the walls of the small room. The tied-up guy slumped forward, his body sagging against the wall as the back of his head splattered against the surface, painting it red with his blood. The man in the suit nodded approvingly from the scene that occurred, his expression a mask of calm indifference as if he had just witnessed a perfectly normal and acceptable event.

He set the tray of food down on the floor next to Y/n, who immediately sat down, dropped the gun, and picked up the fork. With a ferocity that was heartbreaking and terrifying, Y/n started shoveling the pancakes and sausage into his mouth like an animal, his small body trembling with hunger and desperation. He didn't pause to breathe, or stop to think, just kept eating with a mindless, animalistic fervor. The video faded to black, leaving Sam feeling stunned and horrified from what he had just seen. This is too much.

Dean's knuckles turned white as he gripped the back of the chair he was standing behind, which happened to be Sam's chair. His eyes had been fixed on the screen, watching the scene unfold. But when Y/n picked up the gun, Dean had to look away, eyes dropping to the floor. He couldn't watch anymore. If he continued to watch, he knew he would start to feel sorry for Y/n, and he couldn't afford to do that right now. He needed to keep his emotions in check, to maintain a clear head and a critical perspective.

Y/n was a killer, a person who had been conditioned to carry out horrific crimes. He may be a victim, who was a product of his environment, yet he's an assassin.

And he needed to be stopped for good.

"All of the Shades went through this," Trent explained after a moment and his words were a matter-of-fact. "They had to kill somebody on their tenth birthday. It's a test, a way to prove that they were capable of murdering without hesitation."

"And Y/n passed with flying colors," Sam added. The thought of a ten-year-old kid being forced to kill someone for food was sickening, and Sam couldn't help but feel a sense of outrage and injustice. "Y/n was a child, only ten years old in that video..." his words trailed off as he massaged his temples, trying to process the enormity of everything. Knowing that kids went through something that was so clearly traumatic and damaging was heartbreaking. Boys that age should be playing with toy trucks and learning how to ride a bike, not shooting and learning how to be a spy. Sam closed his laptop, his eyes meeting Trent's. "What's our plan to stop this from happening again?"

"Well," Trent cleared his throat, his voice taking on a resolute tone as he began to outline his plan. "we will have to hit them where it hurts the most by killing Valerio."

Dean's expression changed from mild interest to confusion, his brow furrowed in a question. "Who's Valerio?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of skepticism.

"He's the leader of the Dark Room," Trent answered. "His death will destabilize the entire organization and give us a chance to take them down from the inside out. I will have to get you both in there to do it."

"That's a shit plan," Dean declared. "Ten hunters have tried to infiltrate that place before, and every one of them got killed, except for one, who was set free by your people. So, how are two hunters gonna successfully sneak in and take down the leader when ten other hunters couldn't? Trent, you cannot seriously expect us to believe that we'll be able to do what ten other hunters couldn't, can you? That's just not how it works. At all." Dean was clearly unconvinced by Trent's plan, and Sam couldn't blame him. The Dark Room was a notoriously impenetrable fortress, and the idea of two hunters taking down its leader seemed like a long shot at best.

They weren't invincible or superheroes.

"Those hunters didn't have something you two have," he gestured to himself. "Me. You two now have someone on the inside who'll be here to help you. I know the Dark Room's layout well, the security protocols, and their tactics. I can get you in, and I can get you out. With my help, you two will have a much better chance of succeeding where others have failed."

Sam nodded, his expression thoughtful as he considered Trent's plan. He felt a sense of hope rising up, however, it was tempered by the knowledge that there were still many unknowns. "Okay, so we infiltrate the Academy and kill the leader, but what about the assassins in training? What's our plan when it comes to getting past them? They're not just going to let us waltz in and kill their leader. We need to have a plan for dealing with them, too."

"You won't have to worry about them. We'll arrive at night when the boys are asleep. The dormitories have a security system that requires a specific code to unlock the doors, so the boys won't be able to get out. You're safe from them."

Dean's expression was very hesitant, his eyes narrowing as he pressed Trent for more information about his plan. "What about guards? Supervisors? Instructors?" He asked, his voice firm and demanding. The hunter was clearly thinking about all the potential obstacles they might face possibly if they infiltrated the Academy.

"The instructors and supervisors won't be at the Academy," Trent assured, "After the boys are finished training, they all go home. As for guards, they're stationed at certain areas in the Dark Room, but you won't have to deal with them," he paused. "Well, you'll both have to deal with two of them. I'm going to take you to level zero, where two guards are stationed. We'll have to knock them out so that you two can pretend to be them. That will be your way in. And once inside, I'll need you two to wait outside Valerio's office, while I distract him long enough for you both to kill him from behind." He then concluded.

Another nod came from Sam. "Sounds nice. We get inside, kill Valerio, and then free Y/n and everyone else still trapped."

Dean's expression turned cold, his eyes glacial, as he heard the name that Sam mentioned. "Y/n's a lost cause," he said.

Sam shot him a look. "Dean, that’s not—"

"Yes, it is," Dean cut him off sharply. "That guy's a killing machine. He's gone, Sam. He doesn't need saving. He needs to be stopped before anyone else dies."

Trent looked back and forth between the two brothers. He seemed to sense that the conversation they were having was on the verge of escalating into another argument, and he decided to intervene before things got out of hand. His voice was a quiet mumble, a gentle attempt to calm the waters. "I agree with you, Dean."

Sam's head snapped to the left so fast he could've gotten whiplash from that, as he stared at Trent, his finger pointing accusingly at him. "You said that you'd be willing to help save the ones trapped in that nightmare. Now, you're agreeing with Dean that Y/n can't be saved? What happened to wanting to help all of them?"

Trent shook his head and clarified his earlier statement. "No, I said that I would help free the remaining boys who haven't graduated yet. They can be saved since they haven't experienced the full extent of the behavior modification methods. With the right therapy, they can recover. But the graduates? The psychological conditioning is too deep. They've been trained to kill, to obey without question. Therapy won't fix them. Hell, I don't think anything can. Y/n's not going to give you the chance to help him. He's too far gone."

Sam glared at him. "You don’t know that."

Trent leaned forward, closer to Sam. "I helped create certain methods in the program. I watched Y/n grow up in it. I'm telling you, there's nothing left of the guy you want to save, and he'll keep trying to kill you both because Valerio ordered it."

Sam stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. "Then I'll deal with that when the time comes," he reached into his pocket and pulled out Dean's car keys, tossing them onto the desk with a metallic clink. "I need some air," Without another word, Sam turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Trent and Dean to watch him go.

Dean didn't stop him, didn't say another word as Sam yanked open the door and stepped outside. He simply watched his brother go, figuring he had to be alone.

Trent sat there, watching as Sam shut the door and disappeared into the outside, leaving him alone with the same man who had pulled out a gun on him earlier. Finally, he turned his attention to Dean, eyes locking onto the other man's face.

"Sam's got a good heart," he said quietly. "but it won't be enough to help someone."

Dean's eyes moved over to Trent's. He still didn't trust him, not after everything he had discovered about the Dark Room and Trent's involvement in it. But it was good to know that someone else agreed with him in regards to Y/n being too far gone to be kept alive and needing to be taken out. Especially with that someone being someone from the inside, someone who had seen firsthand the damage that the Dark Room had done to its victims. Dean's expression was neutral, but his eyes betrayed a hint of relief that he wasn't the only one who thought that Y/n L/n was beyond saving.

He was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, they can trust Trent to help them take down the Dark Room and eliminate the threat that Y/n posed. But Dean was still wary, still cautious, and he would be keeping a close eye on the man to make sure that he did not betray him and Sam.

"I know."

XXXXX XXXXX

As Dean busied himself with packing up their weapons and shooting occasional glares at Trent, Trent decided to take a break from the tension in the room and go outside to have a little chat with Sam.

During the car ride to the motel, Trent hadn't been surprised when Sam asked him questions about Y/n L/n. At first, he thought the reason Sam was asking him thought Sam was simply trying to gather information, to see if there was anything that could be used to their advantage in stopping him. But right now, after their conversations, Trent realized that Sam's motivations had been different all along.

The younger Winchester wasn't trying to neutralize or get a better understanding of the enemy he and his brother were up against. No, Sam had really asked those questions because he wanted to know if there was still a chance to save Y/n, to redeem him from the darkness that had consumed him. It spoke volumes about Sam's character and his empathetic side.

Trent wished that there was a way to save Y/n. After all, the man didn't ask for this life. It was forced upon him, shaped by the cruel hands of the Dark Room. He was just a baby when he was taken in by the Dark Room. And as much as Trent might want to, he knew that he couldn't turn back the clock. The past was set in stone, and in the present, Y/n is a force to be reckoned with — a deadly assassin who needed to be permanently stopped before he could complete his mission.

And they have to do it now.

Or else they won't get another chance.

Unless…

Trent's eyes scanned the parking lot, searching for Sam, and finally found him sitting at the end of the lot, perched up on the edge of the sidewalk. Sam's gaze was fixed on the road, watching the cars drive by with an introspective look. Trent approached him, his footsteps echoing off the surrounding buildings, but Sam did not acknowledge Trent's presence, didn't even glance his way. He didn't say a word, simply sitting down beside Sam and staring at the passing cars with him.

The silence between them was broken by Trent's soft voice, his words carrying a hint of admiration. "I admire you, Sam," he admitted. Sam's gaze drifted to Trent, his expression curious, as if wondering what had prompted the comment. "The Dark Room has files on you, Sam. They say you're the compassionate one, and it's good to know that wasn't a lie. You want to save Y/n, but he can't be saved."

The words were blunt, but Trent's tone was gentle as if he was trying to convey a difficult truth to Sam. He knew that he was struggling with the idea of having to kill Y/n, and he wanted to make him understand that it was a necessary evil.

"I understand why you and everyone else feel that way," Sam said, his eyes gazing out at the passing cars, "but seeing and hearing what he's been through, it's hard not to feel sorry for him," he sighed. "and he's still a person, man. He's still human."

"Is he?" Trent's voice was soft, almost a whisper. "He was literally only born to be an assassin, who follows orders without question — without any doubt. The Dark Room has stripped him of his humanity, leaving behind a shell of a person who is driven solely by the desire to kill. He will always have the impulse to kill, Sam. It's been ingrained in him, programmed into his very being. Nothing will change that."

Sam's hands curled into tight fists by his sides, yet he refrained from engaging in an argument with Trent. After all, Trent was a part of the reason why Y/n was who he was today, and had played a role in creating the darkness that lived inside of him and countless innocent victims. Still, Sam couldn't help but hold onto the hope that everybody deserves a chance at redemption, regardless of what they had done or who had given up on them.

So, Sam would try to help Y/n see that there's more to life than killing. He would reach out to the man, try to connect with Y/n on a human level, and show him that there's a different way to live. If Y/n truly couldn't or did not want to be saved, and he was too far gone, then they would do what they had to do to stop him for good.

And if that meant killing him, as much as Sam didn't want it to come to that, then that's something that they would have to do. The thought sent a pang of sadness through Sam's chest, but he knew that it was a reality they might have to face. He didn't want to kill Y/n, didn't want to take his life, but he might not have a choice.

"How did you get involved with the Dark Room?" Sam's question came suddenly. It wasn't like the Dark Room was a place where you could just walk in and apply for a job. It was a secretive organization, one that seems to operate outside of the law. And yet, Trent had somehow ended up working for them, but he seemed so remorseful, exhausted, and haunted, like a man who had been carrying too many secrets for too long. "You said you made a deal with Valerio." What had driven him to make a deal with the devil himself?

What had he hoped to gain?

Trent gave a nod, his eyes wandering off into the distance as if lost in thought. "I did. Thirty years ago, I was drowning in debt that my parents had left behind for me. My sister was dying of cancer, and I was desperate for money to help pay for her treatment. One night, when I visited the hospital to see her, I ran into Valerio. I didn't know how, but he knew about my situation and offered to clear all of the debt and pay for her medical expenses in exchange for my help. I didn't believe him at first but when my sister's medical bills kept piling up and he kept showing up, I decided to take him up on the offer.

"I didn't understand what I was getting myself into. I thought I was just going to be working at some fancy school, but it was nothing like that. And when he told me the contents of the school and that I would have to sterilize boys, I was going to tell Valerio that the deal was off. But I needed the money for the debt. My sister needed that money, and I'd do anything for her... so I agreed to sterilize the boys."

During the recount, Trent's voice cracked and he paused, collecting himself before continuing. "When my sister beat cancer, I told Valerio that I wanted out, but there is no way out. He wouldn't let me go. He threatened to kill my sister, my wife, and my child if I didn't stay and continue the vasectomies. He knows how to exploit everyone's weaknesses, and he used my family against me. I didn't have a choice but to stay and continue working for him, no matter how much I wanted to leave."

The tall hunter listened to Trent's story with rapt attention, his ears open to the pain and desperation that dripped from every word. He could see that the man had been cornered and blackmailed into doing the Dark Room's bidding, forced to make impossible choices to survive and protect his family. His own experiences with Dean flashed through his mind, and he knew that he'd do anything to protect his brother, just as Trent had done for his loved ones. It didn't excuse the pain and the atrocities that Trent had committed, but it did help Sam better understand the motivations behind his actions and shed light on the complexities of his choices.

"So, you're siding with us because you want out?" Sam's voice was gentle and non-accusatory. The question was laced with a sense of curiosity, rather than any sort of hostility. "Because you want to break free from Valerio's hold and make sure that your loved ones are protected?"

Trent firmly shook his head. "No, there's more to it than that. A few months ago, I was ordered to perform a vasectomy on a graduate, and two young children were forced to witness the procedure. One of them, Victor, he pleaded with me to stop hurting the shade on the operating table. He was just a child, begging me to stop, pleading for his mom and dad...and they killed him. They murdered him for being weak, for showing emotions in a setting where they're not allowed. After seeing that, hearing that little child beg for help, I realized I couldn't continue to be a part of something like this. I'm going to stop this, no matter what it takes. I'm going to make sure that no one else has to go through what these innocent boys went through. I'm going to make sure that the Dark Room is destroyed once and for all."

For a moment, Sam eyed Trent, looking for any sign of insincerity. But all he saw was the determination to stop the chaos. "And Dean and I will help you every step of the way," he held out his hand to him, and Trent shook it firmly, the symbolism of a partnership between the two. "Now, where exactly is the Dark Room located?"

"Westchester, New York."

Wasn't that something? The irony wasn't lost on Sam. A while ago, he and Dean had been discussing a possible trip to New York, hoping that it wouldn't be a case that would require their attention. But as it often did, fate had other plans. It appeared that they would be heading to New York after all for a case that was far more sinister and complex than they could have ever imagined. Sam couldn't help but feel a sense of surprise, despite the fact that he should've known better. After all, the infamous Winchesters ' lives as hunters were rarely predictable, and it seemed that this trip to New York would be no exception. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever lay ahead.

New York, here they come.

Bring it on.

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

They have officially arrived.

Before leaving, Dean dropped the car off at Bobby's and Sam filled him in on their hunt, and the older guy's expression had been less than pleased. He had offered to come along as backup, but Trent had vetoed the idea, explaining that it would be too suspicious to have him tag along. The guards who work for the Dark Room are young and fit, and Bobby's old age and grizzled appearance would make it impossible for him to successfully blend in. Bobby had reluctantly agreed to let them do this without him, but not before issuing a stern warning to Trent: he would kill him if anything happened to his boys. And Trent knew that Bobby was serious.

After leaving Bobby's place, Trent had taken them to a private airfield where a sleek, black jet was waiting for them. He had explained that the jet was used by his students for flying practice and that he also used it to get to Kansas to meet with them. As they soared through the skies, Sam felt slightly nervous about this specific hunt. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were in over their heads a little bit. They were about to infiltrate a highly secretive, dangerous organization, and the stakes were high. Still, Sam was hopeful that they could pull this mission off. They had a solid game plan in place. All they needed to do was stick to it, and everything should work out in the end.

Hopefully.

When they got to New York, Trent drove to the Dark Room. As they approached the location, Sam's hazel eyes widened in surprise. He had been expecting the Dark Room to be some sort of secret base or underground bunker. But as they turned a corner and the building came into their view, Sam's expectations were shattered. The Dark Room looked like an expensive boarding school, with a sprawling campus, perfectly trimmed hedges, and nice, manicured lawns. The building itself was a grand, colonial-style establishment with tall columns and big windows. It looked like the kind of place where wealthy families sent their kids to get the best, top-notch education, not a secret program that trained assassins.

Trent noticed the confusion and clarified that the exterior was a facade created to deceive the public and avoid raising any suspicion from the outside world, while the inside was an entirely different story.

Sam found the facade to be incredibly clever and deceptive. If he had stumbled upon this place without prior knowledge, his initial impression would've been that it was an expensive school in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a ton of trees and rolling hills that he wouldn't of been able to attend, due to affordability costs along with jumping from motel to motel.

Trent pulled out a tablet and hacked into the main security servers that controlled the camera feed. He put them on a loop, creating a continuous feed of what was happening right now, inside and outside. The loop would repeat the same footage over and over again, making it seem like nothing out of the ordinary was currently taking place, ensuring that the brothers could enter the Dark Room undetected, with the cameras failing to capture them.

He took an extra precaution by checking Y/n's phone GPS system tracking device. All Shades were given a phone by Valerio for mission purposes only, and they were instructed to keep it on them at all times. It was a clever move, allowing Valerio to keep tabs on his operatives and monitor their every move, and Trent had access to it. The device indicated that Y/n was still in Kansas, which meant he wouldn't be present when things went down. That was a good thing since Y/n's presence would’ve thrown a wrench into their plan.

Finally, Trent swiveled around in his seat, eyes glancing between the brothers with a serious gaze. "You two ready for this?"

"As ready as we'll ever be," Dean replied, shooting him a pointed look. "You better not get us killed," It was a warning, plain and simple. Dean and Sam were trusting Trent with their lives, and they, especially Sam, expected Trent to come through.

"I won't."

Dean and Sam positioned themselves, closing their eyes and slumping forward, feigning unconsciousness as if they had been captured by Trent. Trent's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, checking to make sure they were in place, before he pressed on the gas, accelerating the car until it stopped right outside a large gate. He entered his password into the keypad and the gate swung open with a soft creak. Trent pulled into the school's grounds, the car's tires crunching on the gravel pathway as he moved down the winding path. The car circled around a large fountain before coming to a stop at the front door of the school. Two guards were stationed at the entrance, their eyes fixed intently on the approaching vehicle.

Trent exited the car and approached the two, a confident stride in his step. The dark-skinned man with dreads spoke, voice low and smooth. "Everything okay, doc?"

Trent shook his head, "No, I have two men in my car who need to be taken to level zero. Orders from Valerio himself."

The mention of Valerio's name seemed to have a profound effect on the guards, considering they stood taller and ceased their questioning. Trent wasn't surprised. The bald-headed guard, who had been silent up until now, tapped the earpiece in his ear, a subtle gesture that indicated he was relaying Valerio's direct order.

"Michael, I need you and Alex to come to the front gate and escort two men down to level zero. Valerio has ordered it now."

A few minutes ticked by after the order was delivered, and finally, Michael and Alex promptly arrived. Trent quickly filled them in on the situation. The two guards nodded, eyes flicking to the back seat of the car, where the Winchesters were.

Michael reached in and grabbed Dean, lifting him out of the car while Alex did the same with Sam. Together, they made their way down to level zero, also known as the basement. Trent popped open the trunk to grab his camouflage duffle bag before he closed it and trailed behind the two. His hands slipped into his pockets, wrapping around the syringes that were hidden there, preparing himself for what he was about to do. Just a few seconds.

Alex used his leg to kick the door open, the sound of the metal door creaking as it swung open. He dragged a heavy Sam into the room, his muscles straining with effort before throwing him to the floor. The taller Winchester landed with a thud, his body limp and unresponsive. Michael followed suit, setting Dean down next to his brother with a similar lack of finesse.

Next, they began patting down the duo's bodies in search of any hidden weapons. This was a standard procedure for them, one that they had performed countless times on other captives before throwing them in cells. The two were so focused on their task that they didn't even notice how Trent moved to stand behind them.

Popping the cap off, Trent raised the syringe and injected the substance into Alex's neck. The guard let out a loud yelp from feeling the sudden pain. His eyes widened in shock as he tried to reach up to grab at his neck, however, it was too late. The substance took effect almost instantly, and Alex's body went limp. He fell backward, crashing to the floor with a loud thud. One down — one more to go.

Michael caught onto what Trent did and he smacked Trent dead across the face. The force of the blow sent Trent's head spinning, and his eyes watered from the impact. Michael didn't give him a chance to recover, however, since he kicked the syringe out of Trent's hand, sending it skidding across the room. Trent tried to reach for another syringe, but Michael was too quick. He wrapped both hands around Trent's neck, his fingers closing tightly as he began to choke him. Trent's eyes bulged as he struggled to breathe, face turning red from the lack of oxygen.

"Guys..." Trent gasped, his voice strained.

Dean's eyes snapped open, and he immediately sprang into action, grabbing Michael's wrist and promptly twisting it behind his back. Trent’s breathing was facilitated as a result of Michael’s hands leaving his throat. He ran over to retrieve the syringe that had skittered across the ground. Sam jumped up and delivered a precise punch to Michael's jaw as Trent then approached Michael and jammed the syringe in his arm. The guard's body slumped forward, and Dean released his grip, letting the man collapse to the floor.

Trent's eyes scanned the scene, his gaze lingering on the two guards who now lay unconscious on the ground. "Nice work, you two," he praised, his voice low and urgent. "Now, change into their uniforms and do it fast. We don't have much time."

Dean and Sam quickly began to strip the guards of their uniforms, swapping their own clothes for the Dark Room attire. Sam chose Alex's uniform since they were roughly the same height and size, and he knew it would be a better fit for him. He slipped into the uniform — a dark gray jumpsuit with a silver emblem on the sleeve, and it looked eerily official. Dean, meanwhile, had chosen Michael's uniform, and he was busy adjusting the fit and making sure everything's secure.

Once the hunter finished changing into the uniform, his eyes wandered around the room, taking in the rows of cells that lined the walls. But one cell in particular caught his attention. The cell was small, with cold, gray stone walls that seemed to absorb the faint light that filtered in from the overhead bulbs. A narrow cot, with a thin, stained mattress, was bolted to the wall, looking like a torture rack than a place to rest. And in the corner, a small, metal toilet sat, its lid wide open, revealing the dark, abyss-like interior.

But it was the words written on the wall that caught Sam's immediate attention. The writing was scrawled across the wall in a haphazard, desperate manner, The person who had written it had been clearly driven by a sense of urgency and fear. The words had been written in what looked like blood, but the blood had long since dried, leaving behind a crusty, brownish-red residue that seemed to cling to the wall like a stain. The words "HELP ME" were repeated over and over again. But one phrase stood out to Sam in particular: "They will always find you." The implication was evident: no matter where you went, no matter how hard you tried to hide, or how fast you tried to run, the Dark Room would always find you.

Man, this place gives him the creeps.

"Put your gun in the left holster," he said, eyes flicking to the hunters' waistbands. "Security guards always wear their guns on the left side." Dean and Sam quickly adjusted their guns, moving them to the left holster as instructed. "You guys will also need these," in Trent's outstretched hand was an earpiece and a sleek, silver bracelet. Why did they need a bracelet?

"Uh, what's the bracelet for?" Sam asked, taking the bracelet and inspecting it. He wondered what use it had. This did not look like an ordinary bracelet. It seemed to be some kind of high-tech gadget, but Sam couldn't quite figure out what it did.

"To help you," Trent said, his expression serious. "It's called a Taser Bite, which is an electroshock weapon that can deliver powerful electrical discharges in order to subdue anyone. Use them on anyone you come across if you feel threatened."

Dean hummed to himself, a low, pleased sound. "This is a keeper," the green-eyed hunter fastened the bracelet around his wrist. This gadget would definitely come in handy when dealing with supernatural threats in the future. He saw a button on the side, which he assumed was used to activate the weapon. He pressed it and a small LED light flashed to life, indicating that the Taser Bite was ready to be used.

"Alright, you two. It's time to head to Valerio's office, which is located on the top floor. This is the moment we've been waiting for. I'll tap my earpiece and clear my throat, which will be the signal to enter the room and take out Valerio from behind. Let's do this, Winchesters."

Moving silently through the corridors of the Dark Room, Dean and Sam stood on both sides of Trent, their eyes constantly scanning the surroundings, on high alert for any sign of danger. They passed by a classroom and Sam caught a glimpse of a TV inside of it, its screen flickering with static. He also noticed a drawing of the popular guessing game hangman on the wall outside the classroom, the word "unforgivable" spelled out in bold letters. But it was the phrase above the drawing that Sam instantly recognized: The hunt begins when the shadows dance — the same phrase that Y/n had used when he posed as Jason, and almost killed them.

The layout was ominous and creepy.

Arriving at the elevators, Trent pressed a button, and the doors opened with a soft whoosh. He stepped inside, followed by Dean and Sam. The doors closed behind them, sealing them inside the area. The elevator began to move, its gentle hum filling the air as it carried them upward, toward the top floor and Valerio's office.

"It's going to be a long night," Dean said.

Sam nodded, his eyes fixed on the floor. "We'll get through it. We always do, man."

The elevator came to a smooth stop on the top floor, and the doors opened. The Winchesters stepped out, scanning the area around them. The three now stood in a long corridor, the walls lined with several doors that led off to either side. There was a large, imposing door before them. A sign on the door read "Director's Office" in big, bold, gold letters, and Sam and Dean knew this was Valerio's office.

Trent motioned with his hands, directing the guys to move and take up positions on opposite sides of the black door. They complied, moving into place — Dean on the left and Sam on the right — ensuring they would not be visible when the door opened.

Trent took a deep breath, his eyes locked onto the door as he steeled himself for what was to come. He raised his hand, his knuckles rapping out three sharp knocks on the door. He didn't wait for a response, instead pushing the door open and stepping inside, shutting the door behind him. Trent's eyes came to rest on the figure sitting behind the desk.

Valerio himself sat with his back to Trent, his attention focused on the old, vintage jack-in-the-box that he kept on his desk for decoration purposes. The music box was playing a tinny, eerie tune, and Trent could see Valerio's fingers moving deftly as he wound it up, creating a creepy sound.

"Hello, doctor," the leader slowly turned around in his seat to face Trent. A warm smile spread across his features. Valerio carefully placed the jack-in-the-box down on the desk and walked around it until he was standing in front of Trent. "It's good to see you again. How's your wife doing?"

Trent had to refrain from rolling his eyes at Valerio's friendly tone, a tone that was as fake as the smile etched on his face. The question seemed innocent enough, but Trent knew better. He was well aware that Valerio didn't care about his family or anyone else for that matter. He was a terrible person and his only concern was getting what he wanted, no matter the cost. Valerio's concern was as shallow as his emotions, and he loved to act like he was a caring and considerate person.

A smile tugged at the corners of Trent's lips, a polite but insincere gesture. "She's doing well, thank you for asking. Athena is just adjusting to retirement. She's not used to staying home most of the time."

Valerio chuckled, a low, menacing sound, and nodded sympathetically. "I can imagine. It's hard to give up your job, especially when you like it so much," and the way Valerio spoke suggested that he could relate to that in some way as if he loved his job of indoctrinating, breaking, and torturing kids. "Speaking of jobs, how are you coming along with implementing certain methods?" He raised an eyebrow.

Right, those methods.

Valerio wanted to make the Dark Room program more deadly and more ruthless for the next generation of assassins. He had ordered Trent to come up with new and innovative ways to break the boys, to push them to their limits and beyond. The previous generations were subjected to harsh training and conditioning, but Valerio wanted to take it to a new level, and he wanted Trent to be the one to design the methods that would achieve his goal.

The doctor's thoughts flashed back to the countless hours he had spent poring over the program's protocols, searching for ways to make certain methods more brutal. He had come up with a few ideas, but he had never intended to actually implement them. His plan was to stall and pretend to go along with Valerio's orders while secretly working to bring the program down. But now, as he stood in front of Valerio, he realized that he had to tread carefully. He couldn't let Valerio suspect that he was playing him, not yet.

"I've been making good progress, sir," he replied, maintaining a neutral tone, voice carefully calibrated to convey a sense of detachment. He had to tread carefully, had to make sure that he didn't arouse Valerio's suspicions. One misstep, one hint of hesitation, and Valerio would be on to him. "I've been experimenting with some new techniques," Trent continued, words dripping with false enthusiasm. "and I believe I've discovered a method to amplify the brutality of the program. I believe that you'll find them enlightening."

Valerio's eyes lit up with interest. "Really? I'd love to hear more about it. Come, let's sit down and discuss this method more."

Trent nodded, his face a mask of calm, and sat down in the chair in front of the desk. Valerio, on the other hand, sat on the edge of his desk. As they settled into their seats, Trent couldn't help but notice the way Valerio's eyes seemed to gleam with excitement at the sheer prospect of making the program even more deadlier.

He truly had no heart, no conscience, no remorse for the acts he had committed and the atrocities he had perpetrated on innocent children. Trent knew he played a part in this, too, and was just as guilty, but at least he felt bad for what he had done and is trying to make things right.

Trent inhaled before giving a detailed explanation of his proposed techniques. "Well, I believe we should introduce more extreme survival challenges for them to endure," he tried to keep his tone neutral but it was hard. "We can throw them into the wilderness with minimal supplies to see who’s capable of surviving and who fails to return. We can also include more notorious survival tests like being buried alive, left to try and claw their way out of a shallow grave. It would test their will to survive, their ability to think on their feet, and their capacity for self-preservation," he forced himself to continue, the words feeling like poison on his tongue. "And to take it to the next level, we can put them in groups to reinforce the kill-or-be-killed mentality by seeing who would kill their partner in order to survive. It's a natural selection process, really. The strongest will survive, and the weakest will die. It's also helpful when it comes to choosing which ones to eliminate because they'll be able to eliminate themselves or each other. It's a win-win situation, honestly." Trent's gut twisted with... nausea as he spoke, but he kept his expression calm.

Despite his role in maintaining Valerio's trust to bring about his downfall, Trent couldn't shake the sense of revulsion at his own words. He knew that he was still playing the role of a loyal and dedicated employee, yet it still felt sickeningly wrong.

As Trent finished his explanation, Valerio nodded thoughtfully. "I think that has a lot of potential. I want to see it in action."

"Of course, sir," Trent forced himself to nod, to smile, and to agree with Valerio, all while seething with anger and disgust on the inside. But he did see this as an opportunity to put a step of his plan into motion, "I was thinking of demonstrating the survival method on some people for the next generation, but we can test it on a few people from the second half of the generation that's being trained. Can you show me a list of the current shades, so we can choose which ones to test it on."

Valerio stood up, rounded the desk, and opened a drawer to retrieve files on the shades. This was it, the perfect moment to strike. Valerio had his back turned to him, and Trent knew that he had to act fast. His heart pounded in his chest, as he reached up to double-tap his earpiece.

And cleared his throat.

Trent sat there, waiting with bated breath for Dean and Sam to burst into the room, guns blazing, ready to take down Valerio and finally put an end to the Dark Room's twisted plans. But the seconds ticked by, and the only sound in the room was the soft rustling of papers as Valerio flipped through files. Trent frowned. He had given the signal, had tapped his earpiece, and cleared his throat, just as they had planned. Where are they? He tapped his earpiece again, more urgently this time, and cleared his throat once more, hoping that Dean and Sam would finally bust in.

Yet, they still didn't appear.

Trent's heart started racing in his chest, and his anxiety began to grow, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios. Where were the brothers? Had something gone wrong? Or had they been caught? Is that why the hunters were not answering their earpieces? The devices were functioning properly, Trent was certain of that. They wouldn't have a reason not to answer—

A cold dread crept up Trent's spine as he realized the unthinkable occurred. Oh no.

As one last desperate attempt to enlist a response from Dean and Sam, he tapped his earpiece and cleared his throat a tad louder this time. Nothing. Someone must have gotten to them, but who? It couldn't have been the shades since they were all currently locked down in the dormitories, unable to access the rest of the facility.

The Graduates, the elite operatives who had completed the program, would have been at their safe houses, or working on missions, and were unlikely to be in the vicinity. The supervisors and instructors were long gone, having completed their duties for the day. But... what about the guards? Trent's mind went through the protocols quickly to think of a way that the guards could have intercepted Dean and Sam. Yet, it was impossible. The guards weren't allowed on Valerio's floor unless they were specifically summoned by him, or if there was some emergency.

And even then, they would have had to go through the proper channels, alerting Valerio's security team to their presence. That left only one possibility: someone with high-level clearance, someone who had all access to the entire facility, must have gotten to Dean and Sam. But who?

"Is there something stuck in your throat?" Valerio asked, attention still on the files.

The doctor offered a smile, a nervous, reflexive gesture, even though Valerio wasn't looking at him. It was a strange, involuntary response as if his body was trying to diffuse the tension that was building inside him. But he couldn't help himself. Sometimes, he felt like Valerio had eyes in the back of his head, that he could sense every move, every thought, every emotion that he was experiencing.

"No, my throat's just a bit dry, that's all," Trent stood up from his chair with a sudden sense of urgency. He needed to get out of the room, to find out what had happened to Dean and Sam. He couldn't just sit here. "I'm going to go get a water bottle from downstairs. I'll be right back."

Trent turned around and headed towards the door, his feet picking up speed as he walked. His hand wrapped around the doorknob, and he was about to pull it open when, suddenly, a blow to the back of his head sent him crashing to the ground, his vision blurring and his ears ringing. What the hell happened?

A soft groan escaped from Trent's lips, his hand automatically rising to press against the throbbing spot on the back of his head to help alleviate the pain. He turned around, using the wall to support his body as he struggled to sit up. Upon looking up, he saw Valerio standing over him, his usual smirk replaced by a cold, menacing glare. Valerio took many steps closer, his dress shoes clicking against the floor with a deliberate slowness. He bent down, his brown eyes locked onto Trent's. He reached out to grab the back of Trent's head. His fingers dug into his hair, pulling his face closer to his own.

"You've always been a shitty liar," Valerio whispered, his breath hot against Trent's skin. The words were like a snake's hiss, striking at Trent's very soul. And then, in a swift, brutal motion, Valerio's right fist connected with Trent's face, sending a wave of pain crashing through his skull. The world around him began to blur and distort, colors bleeding into one another like watercolors in the rain. Trent's vision faltered, and then everything went black.

Dean's eyes slowly blinked open, his gaze blurry and unfocused. He was met with a sharp wave of pain that crashed through his body, making his vision spin. As he tried to regain his bearings and moved into a sitting position, he turned his head to the left, eyes scanning the area around him. That's when he saw them —Trent and Sam, both lying motionless on the floor. Dean's heart skipped a beat as he took in the sight of his brother and his mind raced with worry. But as he looked closer, he saw the gentle rise and fall of Sam's chest, and he felt a wave of relief engulf him. His brother was still alive.

Dean's gaze lingered on Sam's face for a moment, making sure that he was okay before he turned his attention to his own predicament. He realized that his arms and legs were bound together, his wrists and ankles secured with thick ropes, and his guns and taser bite were confiscated.

What the hell had happened to him?

The last thing Dean remembered was keeping watch outside of Valerio's office as he waited for Trent's signal to enter it and take out the man. But then, he heard a noise coming from down the hall, a faint sound that caught his attention. Dean's instincts kicked in, and he moved quietly down the hall to investigate, his senses on high alert for any sign of movement or danger. He wanted to make sure that they didn't have any surprises, that they were the only ones who knew what was going on. But as he turned a corner, he was met with a sudden and intense pain.

He felt the sensation of electrical discharges coursing through his body, like a thousand needles piercing his skin. He presumed that someone hit him with a taser bite before darkness found him.

Now, Dean found himself tied up in a drab, office-type room, with no idea who had shot him with a taser bite or how he had ended up there. But he was going to kill the son of a bitch who did this to him.

Dean's gaze swept the room, taking in every detail, and that's when he saw him.

Y/n L/n was sitting in a chair in front of the desk, his eyes completely blank and lifeless. Dean's instincts told him that Y/n had to be the one who knocked him out, and a wave of anger and hatred washed over him. He couldn't wait until he finally got the chance to put a bullet in Y/n's head. However, before he could indulge in that fantasy, his attention was drawn to the man standing behind Y/n. He was a tall, imposing figure with dark brown eyes. His brown hair was perfectly styled and his beard was well-groomed, giving him an air of sophistication and elegance. However, it was the man's smile that really caught Dean's attention— a cold, calculating smile that seemed to say he was in complete control. The man was wearing an all-black suit that seemed to be tailored to perfection, and his very presence seemed to command respect and authority. His eyes narrowed as he took in the man's confident stance.

This had to be Valerio.

And Valerio grinned down at him with an unsettling satisfaction. "Well, hello, Dean Winchester. Welcome to the Dark Room."

XXXXX XXXXX

A brief silence followed Valerio's greeting before Trent and Sam began to stir, regaining consciousness. Like Dean, the hunter and the doctor soon realized that Valerio, the leader of the Dark Room Academy, was standing before them. And then, their gaze fell on Y/n, the same who's been after Dean and Sam, sitting with a face as expressionless as a mask.

This? Not good.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Sam," Valerio spoke, voice dripping with false friendliness. "Current population is at seven point one billion. Give or take a few million," His eyes then drifted over to the man sitting on Sam's left side, and a sly smile spread across his face. "Trent."

The doctor's eyes widened in surprise as he took in the sudden turn of events. He hadn't expected to be tied up. But what caught him off guard was the presence of a shade, especially one as notorious as Y/n L/n. He should be in Kansas now.

"Valerio... sir," he stammered, his words measured and cautious, his voice tinged with a growing sense of false confusion. His wrists, bound behind his back by the restraints, hastily twisted, as he strained against the bonds, fingers instinctively reaching for the familiar comfort of the emergency switchblade he always kept hidden in the pocket near his spine. But his searching fingers closed on nothing, and a jolt of alarm ran through him as he realized that the blade was gone. Damn. "Is there a reason why I'm tied up here?"

"Because you’re a traitor, doc."

"What do you mean—?"

"You know, you're not as subtle as you might think," Valerio pointed out, walking around Y/n, and edging closer and closer to the doctor. Trent's blue eyes widened in utter fear as Valerio loomed over him, his body language screaming for escape. But there was no escape, and Valerio knew it. He stopped right in front of Trent and continued to taunt him. "I had a seeking feeling that you'd try to double-cross me one day, and when Y/n told me that you were seen talking to the Winchesters and feeding them information..." he sighed, "I couldn't say I was shocked to hear that. I noticed how you look at the other shades with such pity. How you close your eyes when you witness someone being killed. Even how you helped patch up a student when I asked you not to. You're a weak, sentimental fool. You think you're above all this, but you're not. You're just like all the others, a pawn in my game. And pawns are only meant to be used and discarded."

The doctor's face drained of color as he grasped the severity of his predicament. He had been caught, and there seemed to be no way out. But how did Y/n know? He had been so careful, always checking the GPS tracker that is installed on Y/n's phone to know his whereabouts. He had been meticulous in his planning, making sure that Y/n and the other shades were never close by. So, how did he find out?

Unless... unless Y/n had used his hacking abilities, skills he had honed at the Academy, to manipulate the tracking system. Trent's mind was racing with the possibility that Y/n had hacked into the local server, disguising his location to make it appear as if he was somewhere else when in reality he was much closer.

Dammit. The tracking system, which had been Trent's only means of keeping tabs on the assassin, had been compromised. And now, he was paying the price for his mistake. He knew what Y/n was capable of and should've foreseen something like that happening. Trent internally sighed.

A miscalculation on his end.

Trent's gaze darted over to Dean and Sam, his eyes searching for any sign of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they would be able to come up with a plan to get them out of this desperate situation. But they were both tied up, just like him, and they looked just as helpless as he was. Great.

His mind raced with desperation as he frantically searched for a way out of this dire situation. He knew that he had to do something, and fast, to either escape the Dark Room and regroup or to try and turn Y/n against Valerio. But... the latter was a long shot, given Y/n's unwavering loyalty to the Dark Room's leader. Trent's thoughts turned to a slim possibility, a chance that might just work if he played it right. Though he wasn't sure if it would be effective, and he was very hesitant to even try. And yet, he had to take the risk.

Hopefully that old saying...

...blood is thicker than water held true.

Trent's face contorted in a snarl. "You're a monster, Valerio. You are turning these kids into mindless killers to further your agenda. What we’ve been doing is wrong."

"You," Valerio crouched down next to the man, his hand shooting fast out to grasp Trent's chin, forcing the doctor to look at him. "didn't seem to think it was wrong when I wiped out your debt and paid for your sister's medical expenses. But now, suddenly, you developed a conscience?" His grip on Trent's chin tightened harder, making Trent wince in pain as he tried to pull away. "Let me tell you what's really wrong. What's wrong is you thinking that you can betray me and not have to face the consequences for it. You are going to regret ever considering crossing me."

Trent's throat constricted with fear as he swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. "What kind of consequences?"

He knew that the Dark Room's methods of punishment were brutal and facing any of them was terrifying, to say the least. Enemies brought here were often subjected to methods that were made to break the mind and body. Some captives even lost their minds, begging for death rather than enduring another moment of torture. Trent's imagination ran wild with the possibilities, and he wondered what specific fate Valerio had in store for him.

Would he be subjected to the infamous level five punishment, a fate worse than death itself? Or would Valerio take a more personal approach, sending one of his shades to harm Trent's family? The thought sent a chill down Trent's spine, and he felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. That was his greatest fear, the one thing that he couldn't bear to think about. He would rather endure any form of torture imaginable than to have harm come to his loved ones. The thought of it was almost too much to bear for him.

As if reading Trent's mind and knowing his darkest fear, Valerio released his firm grip and he stood up, taking a step back.

"I’m going to murder your family."

Trent's chest constricted, his lungs feeling like they were being squeezed tight. The walls seemed to be closing in on him, suffocating him, and he felt like he couldn't catch his breath. He shook his head wildly, his blue eyes wide with terror as he silently begged Valerio not to do that. Do anything else but that. His family shouldn't have to suffer because of his own actions. But Valerio reveled in causing pain and suffering. Trent's silent pleas became a desperate verbal appeal.

“Please, don’t hurt them. My family has nothing to do with this. They're innocent."

Valerio tilted his head, "Innocent?" He repeated and his voice was coated with mockery. "None of us are truly innocent. Everyone's guilty of something. And your family's guilt is being related to you. I'm sorry," the words were devoid of any real apology, "but this is the consequence of your actions, doctor, and don't you worry, I'll make their deaths quick and painless," his smirk was a cold, cruel thing. "And I will make sure that their graves are next to each other. A family reunion, of sorts."

"You won’t be putting anyone in a grave, you bastard." Dean spat out, voice full of hate and venom, wrestling with the binds.

Valerio's smile widened, and he let out a low, mocking laugh. "You're right, I won't," he confirmed, causing Dean and Sam to exchange a glance, understanding that Valerio intended to get someone else to do his dirty work for him. Presumably, one of his skilled assassins would be the one to carry out the deed. Trent watched as Valerio walked back to Y/n, his hands coming to rest on Y/n's shoulders. "Y/n will be the one to put them six feet under."

Trent's heart sank like a stone, weighing him down with a crushing sense of despair. Everyone in the room knew that Y/n was a skilled and ruthless killer, and the operative would stop at nothing to complete his missions. Trent felt a wave of desperation wash over him, knowing that he had to find a way to stop Y/n from carrying out Valerio's orders. But he also knew that Valerio's hold on Y/n was strong and that Y/n would always prioritize Valerio's orders above all else. Unless Y/n was able to break free from Valerio's control. The thought was a slim hope, but it was all Trent had to cling to.

Which means Trent had to try and reach the part of Y/n that Valerio had tried to erase. He had to get Y/n to remember what he had been trained to forget.

"Y/n, no," Sam interjected, his hands wiggling behind his back in an attempt to free himself. He was trying to reach any last shred of humanity that might be left inside Y/n, the same man who had once tried to fail his test and escape his fate in order to be free, "You don't have to listen to him and kill an innocent family."

"Y/n," Valerio called softly, almost like he was addressing a loyal dog. "stand up," and Y/n obeyed, rising to face his boss like a good soldier, silent and obedient, completely disregarding Sam's words. He waited. Valerio's hand dipped into his pocket and retrieved a sleek black pistol, a Beretta M9 to be precise. "Paint Trent's face red before you put him down, okay?"

Y/n took the gun without hesitation, his hand closing around the cold metal as if it was an extension of his own body. The weight of the pistol felt solid in his hand like it was always meant to be there. He turned around, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he was savoring the look of fear that marred Trent's features. Y/n moved forward, his feet stopping right in front of Trent. Y/n's face was a mask of calm acceptance, his features serene and untroubled, as if he was simply carrying out a routine task.

"Y/n, don't," Sam pleaded, trying to reach him still. "You can stop this violence and you don't have to be controlled anymore!"

Once again, Y/n ignored Sam since his attention was solely on the terrified man before him. He raised the gun and slammed the butt end against Trent's face, causing an overwhelming, painful sensation to radiate across Trent's face. It hurt a lot, Trent thought. The sound of the impact was sickening, a loud crack that echoed through the room as Trent's nose surely broke. A loud groan escaped his lips as Y/n struck him again, the gun smashing into his face with brutal force.

Dean and Sam struggled against their restraints, desperate to break free and intervene, but it was no use. They were trapped, forced to sit there and watch as Y/n continued to brutalize Trent. Valerio stood at his desk, a sinister smirk intact as he watched the beautiful scene unfold.

With a relentless ferocity, Y/n's attacks continued, the gun slamming into Trent's face with a rhythmic brutality, each blow landing with a sickening, vicious crunch. The sound of flesh and bone yielding to the force of the impact echoed through the room, punctuated by Trent's pained grunts and gasps from the devastating smacks.

Five times, the gun struck Trent's face, leaving him a bloody, battered mess. His face was a ravaged mess of bruises and cuts, a black eye swelling shut, his lip busted and swollen, and blood streaming down his nose, into his mouth, onto his chin. Trent could do nothing but sit there, helpless and defenseless, as he spat out thick, crimson wads of blood and saliva.

Y/n's grip on the gun tightened, his finger slipping onto the trigger as he prepared to deliver the final blow. The barrel of the pistol was pressed firmly against Trent's temple, ready to pull it.

And then… singing.

"Hush little one, the moon is high,
The stars are shining in the sky,
And I will be watching over you,
As the world outside is quiet too."

Y/n froze, the gun momentarily pausing on Trent's face. The melody Trent was singing was familiar, something deeply embedded in Y/n's mind from long ago.

"What are you singing?" Y/n demanded.

Trent lifted his gaze to meet Y/n's. "You know what I'm singing. Just like you will recognize who you shared this gesture with," he then performed a hand gesture. He tapped two fingers over his heart, an almost tender motion, and then followed with a quick touch to his forehead with the same two fingers. Finally, he extended his fingers toward Y/n, pointing them at him.

The gesture was like a key turning in a lock, unlocking a floodgate of memories that Y/n had thought were long buried. It was their gesture, a secret signal that he and Andrew had used as kids years ago.

"Andrew..." Y/n's voice was low and rough like he hadn't spoken that name in ages. The sound of it was like a rusty gate creaking open, releasing a flood of emotions that he had thought were long locked away. His eyes narrowed slightly. "How do you know about any of that?"

Trent's lips curled into a sad smile, the movement causing his split lip to twist in pain. Blood continued to drip from his nose and lip, but he didn't seem to notice. "Because Andrew told me. When he was fifteen, he confided in me about how much he didn't want to be here, about how much he missed his freedom and his life before the Dark Room took him. I felt sorry for the boy, and I helped him escape. But he came back to the Dark Room for you because he loved you and wanted you to be free, too," the doctor's expression turned dark, as he turned his head slightly, his eyes fixed on Valerio. "But Valerio had him killed for trying to."

For the first time, Y/n's resolve wavered. His hands shook, and his eyes searched Trent's face for any signs of deception but he didn't find anything. Trent's words had struck something deep within him, something raw and painful that he had buried a long time ago. His mind was racing, fragments of memories from his younger years resurfacing, like pieces of a complex puzzle finally falling into place. Y/n remembered the brief reprieve he had been given from the Dark Room, the time he spent with Andrew, the laughter, the bond they once shared, the gesture...

And what was that last thing Trent said?

Slowly, Y/n turned around, his gun still clutched in his hand but pointed at the floor. His eyes locked onto Valerio's and he decided to ask Valerio a question, the first time Y/n ever asked a question that was not related to his mission purposes.

"What is Trent talking about, Valerio?"

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

July 4th, 1989.

For the majority of Americans, this date signifies the adoption of the Declaration of Independence by the Second Continental Congress, a pivotal moment in the country's pursuit of liberty. Yet, for Y/n, the best assassin, the Fourth of July held a far more personal significance. It represents the day he was given his first taste of freedom outside the Dark Room.

The memory of that day remained etched in his mind with striking clarity, despite the fact that it had been twenty-two years. The sudden, ear-piercing wail of the alarm blaring from the overhead speakers in the dormitory had shattered the silence, and Y/n's eyes had snapped open in an instant response, conditioned to respond to the familiar warning signal, where he and nine other young boys lay. He had long since learned to associate the jarring sound with the start of a new day, a signal that the next thirty seconds would be a countdown until he came in.

Expectedly, the door to the dormitory swung open a few minutes later, and Buck, the supervisor, and Y/n's primary trainer, strode in, his gaze sweeping the room to ensure that all the children were awake. His eyes lingered on each face with a mask of detached scrutiny before moving on to the next. Reaching into his left pocket, Buck produced a key, which he used to systematically make his way around the room and quickly unlock the handcuffs that bound each child's wrist to the bedpost. It is a security measure designed to prevent escape attempts or unauthorized exploration during the night. Y/n had learned to live with them and to accept them as a part of his daily routine.

Following the morning rituals of making their beds, Y/n and his classmates were scheduled to report to room 202 for a session of language immersion, where they would watch VHS tapes of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in Spanish, ostensibly to aid in their language skills in addition to reciting every spoken word. Unbeknownst to them, the true purpose of these sessions was more insidious — to subtly implant subliminal messages into their impressionable minds, shaping their thoughts and actions to conform to the Dark Room's deadly, sinister agenda.

Buck informed Y/n that he was given a temporary reprieve from the Dark Room, having been one of the two kids selected for an undercover assignment. Y/n's role was to pose as the youngest child of two operatives on a mission that required a convincing family facade. His instructions were clear: listen, obey, and play the part of a model child. Y/n nodded obediently and followed Buck out of the room. As they left, Y/n's subconscious mind was already responding to the subliminal messages that had been embedded in his brain through the VHS tapes he had watched in class. These messages were ingrained to reinforce his training and to make him more obedient and compliant. And one of the messages that echoed in his mind was a simple, yet powerful one:

Obey.

For the first time in his life, Y/n found himself outside the confines of the Dark Room, in a suburban house in California, far from the bleakness within New York. He was in a house that was meant for a family, not a facility. He stood in a room that was designed for a single child, not a dormitory he shared with others. A big kid's bed, adorned with colorful bedding, dominated the space, while a television set and a few posters were plastered on the walls. But it was the other kid on this mission with him that truly caught his attention: Andrew, his older half-brother, a stranger that he had never met before, yet somehow connected to him by blood.

Andrew Castor, a lanky ten-year-old with a scowl etched on his face, trudged into the house, eyes scanning the room with a mixture of disdain and disinterest. He was simply five years older than Y/n and his demeanor seemed to convey a sense of reluctant participation, as if he'd rather be anywhere else. His gaze landed on Y/n, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other. Andrew's expression was one of displeasure, his frown deepening as he looked at Y/n. It was clear that he wasn't happy about being here, and he didn't seem to be thrilled about being paired with another kid. He was flanked by two adults, their faces expressionless and professional, who were a part of this operation. These were their fake parents.

August Grey, a ruggedly handsome man with a chiseled physique assumed the role of Y/n's and Andrew's father while posing as a high-powered businessman with ties to the defense industry. Beside him sat Veronica Lake, a poised woman who would play the part of their mother, pretending to be a charity organizer with a great passion for philanthropy. Together, they formed a seemingly ordinary family unit, complete with two children, tasked with infiltrating this neighborhood where their target resided. As they settled onto the couch, August and Veronica turned their attention to Y/n and Andrew as they began to outline certain rules for them to follow. The two children were expected to always adhere to a set of guidelines.

The first rule was simple: never answer the house phone on the wall or the door without one of them present. The second rule was also straightforward: they were allowed to go outside, but they were not allowed to leave the neighborhood under any circumstances. The third rule: they had to play the role of good children at all times. This meant being obedient, respectful, and well-behaved, even when no one's watching. The fourth and final rule was perhaps the most important, serving as another reminder: they had to listen to August and Veronica, especially when it came to mission purposes. This was a rule that Y/n understood implicitly.

Finally, August and Veronica added that they were both free to help themselves to anything in the kitchen whenever they felt like it. This was a small privilege, but it's one that Y/n appreciated nonetheless.

With the rules and expectations clearly laid out, August and Veronica excused themselves, citing the need to attend to some unspecified matters. But Y/n was aware that this was merely a euphemism for the real work that lay ahead of them — the mission that brought them to this suburban haven in the first place. As the adults disappeared from view, Y/n was left alone with Andrew in the living room.

The silence that followed the adults' departure was a peculiar thing, neither oppressive nor comforting, but rather a neutral entity that hung in the air like a held breath. For Y/n, it was a sensation he wasn't very accustomed to, a feeling of being suspended in a state of familial limbo. He was expected to play the role of Andrew's younger brother, a part that felt both natural and forced at the same time. Yet, as he glanced at Andrew, he realized that this wasn't entirely an act — they did share a biological connection, a bond that tied them together despite their disparate upbringings. It was this realization that made the silence feel almost...awkwardly cozy. Y/n's mind struggled to wrap around the concept of having a sibling, someone who was sort of close in age and blood, but a stranger in every other sense of that single word.

As the silence continued to unfold, Y/n's gaze remained fixed on Andrew, who sat at the opposite end of the couch, staring at the TV screen that wasn't even on with a look of listless disinterest. His brow was furrowed, and his eyes were distant and unfocused. The e/c-eyed boys' own eyes lingered on Andrew's face, taking in the subtle similarities and differences in their features between them. The shape of their noses and eyes was identical, but Andrew's hair was a richer, darker hue, and his eyes a lighter shade than Y/n's own. He wondered what was going through Andrew's mind, but he didn't ask.

Absentmindedly, Y/n's fingers began to twitch restlessly, his hands fluttering with nervous energy. He felt a wave of awkwardness wash over him, a sense of disorientation that came from being in a situation where he wasn't being actively manipulated or controlled. For so long, his interactions had been dictated by his handlers or Valerio. He didn't know how to act, or what to say. He didn't even know how to initiate casual conversations properly.

Andrew's gaze snapped towards Y/n, his eyes narrowing slightly as he caught his half-brother just staring at him. A hint of curiosity flickered across his face, but it was quickly overpowered by a scowl. A single eyebrow arched upwards. "What?"

Y/n's shoulders rose and fell in a nonchalant shrug, a gesture that belied the sudden flutter in his chest. "Nothing," he mumbled, as he hastily averted his gaze, his eyes drifting towards the floor.

The silence that had settled between them was once again oppressive, but it was shattered by the sound of Andrew's movements as he rose from the couch and padded over to the TV. He turned it on. The soft hum of the screen coming to life was followed by a cheerful theme song: The Super Mario Bros. Super Show!

Y/n watched as Andrew sat down on the floor, his attention fixed on the screen. It seemed like Andrew was trying to ignore him, but that was okay. He stood up from the couch, walked over to the middle of the room, and lowered himself onto the floor beside Andrew with a quiet rustle. Y/n didn't know what else to do, so he decided to just sit there and watch the cartoons with Andrew. He figured that it would make him look more like a normal kid, and it would give him something to do. Y/n did not try to make small talk or initiate conversation, he just sat there in silence, watching the colorful characters on the screen. At least, he didn't have to repeat characters' lines word for word.

As the episode of The Super Mario Bros. Super Show! came to a close and the TV switched to commercial, Andrew's hand swiftly reached for the remote control and silenced the TV with a decisive click. Y/n's eyes followed Andrew as he quickly stood up and began to ascend the stairs followed by the creak of a door opening and then shutting with a soft thud. Y/n's ears picked up on the subtle cues, and he knew that Andrew had retreated to the sanctuary of his room, intending to stay there and not come back down.

For a few minutes, Y/n simply sat on the floor, his gaze fixed on the creamy-hued walls as if he was genuinely mesmerized by their blandness. He didn't know what to do right now. The h/c-haired boy was accustomed to being directed, to having every moment of his day dictated by an authority figure. But the adults he was staying with here had given him a rare gift: the freedom to choose his own activity. He could return to the TV, losing himself in the colorful world of cartoons or he could go do something in his room.

He chose the latter option.

In Y/n's room were toys and activities designed to keep a five-year-old child entertained. A Lego set, action figures, and a train set all vied for his attention, but his eyes landed on a coloring book and a box of crayons. He picked up the crayons and coloring book, small fingers wrapping around them and placing them on the desk. As he opened up the book, a dinosaur stared back at him, its blank spaces waiting to be filled with color. Y/n opened the box and reached in, grabbing the crayons, fingers closing around the green one with a sense of deliberation. He brought the crayon down to the page, the tip gliding smoothly across the paper, leaving a trail of soft green in its wake as he began to add some color to the dinosaur.

Despite the exhaustion that threatened to creep in after the long flight from New York to California, Y/n resisted the urge to take a nap. There was something so unnerving about sleeping in an unfamiliar environment, and Y/n could not shake the feeling of disorientation. Instead, he continued coloring and only left his room to use the bathroom or to go downstairs to make himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Other than these necessary forays, he remained holed up in his room.

It was almost as if he was mirroring Andrew's behavior, staying in his room and keeping to himself. Y/n didn't know what Andrew was doing in his room, but he imagined it was something similar — trying to process the new surroundings and the feeling of being in a new place.

That soon changed though.

Once the sun dipped below the horizon and nightfall began to descend, Y/n was engrossed in playing with the lego set in the corner of the room. He was carefully connecting the pieces, lost in the simple, satisfying activity. Just as he was about to add another piece to the structure, he heard a knock on the open door. Y/n L/n turned around to see Andrew standing in the doorway, his knuckles resting on the doorframe before he placed them at his sides as their eyes met. For a moment, they just looked at each other, unsure of what to say. Then, Andrew spoke up first.

"Hey."

"Hi," Y/n replied, his voice equally soft.

The older of the two took a step forward, walking fully into the room, and his eyes scanned the space, taking in the various activities that Y/n had been enjoying, like the half-built Lego structure behind him, with the plastic pieces jutting out at precarious angles and the coloring book and crayons. "You were coloring, huh?"

Y/n's head bobbed up and down in a gentle nod. "Yes," his voice was soft and matter-of-fact. "It helped pass the time!"

Andrew walked over to the coloring book and picked it up. The open page revealed a dog, its fur a vibrant red. His hand began to flip through the previous pages, revealing a menagerie of colorful creations. A cat, a car, a dinosaur, and a beach landscape with great details — a sun, clouds, a sand castle, an umbrella, and two crabs. The colors were shaded perfectly within the lines. "You're good."

A tiny, tentative smile began to form on Y/n's face, the corner of his lips curling upward in a gentle, almost imperceptible curve. It was a fragile, fleeting thing that seemed to tremble into existence before it was fully formed. Y/n couldn't quite recall experiencing this before. It was as if the muscles in his face didn't know how to curve upward, how to express joy or happiness — which it didn't. But at this moment, with Andrew's words of praise hanging in the air, Y/n's smile seemed to unfurl like a tiny, delicate flower. "Thanks."

Andrew returned the coloring book to its previous spot on the desk and looked at Y/n. "I'm sorry for being rude earlier," he apologized, the words tumbling out in a quiet, awkward rush. "I'm just not used to being around...people." He settled on.

Despite his tender years, Y/n possessed a keen intuition that allowed him to read the subtleties of those around him. He sensed that Andrew was being truthful, that his words were not simply a polite facade. However, Y/n's awareness also picked up on the underlying nuances of Andrew's tone, the brief, faint tremors of emotion that suggested there was more to his story. Y/n's instincts told him that Andrew's slight rudeness earlier was not solely due to his lack of experience with people. There was also something else at play, something that Andrew wasn't quite ready to reveal that contributed to his behavior earlier, however, it was okay.

Y/n nodded, understanding. "I'm not used to being around people either."

That statement wasn't entirely true. He had, after all, been surrounded by others his age in the facility. But the reality was that he had never really interacted with any of them, never been allowed to form connections or engage in conversations. The rules had been clear: no socializing.

Andrew's smile was a fleeting gesture, a hesitant curve of his lips. He opened his mouth to speak but the words died on his lips as a sudden, explosive sound shattered the quietness of the room. The noise was loud and jarring, making Y/n's body tense up. His eyes darted towards the windows, his gaze fixed on the blue curtains that obscured the view outside.

"What was that noise?" He breathed, his eyes wide with alarm, his pupils dilated. The fear in his eyes spoke volumes. Y/n had subconsciously been conditioned to associate loud noises with danger, with pain, and the sudden explosion of sound had triggered the deep-seated response.

Fear and pain:

Two more subliminal messages.

Andrew's demeanor was a stark contrast to Y/n's, his posture relaxed and his expression calm as he listened to the sound again "Those are fireworks," the boy concluded, his voice matter-of-fact. But as he met Y/n's confused gaze, his expression faltered, and he raised an eyebrow. "You don't know what they are?"

A head shake was Y/n's silent answer.

"Let's go to the backyard," Andrew continued, leading Y/n outdoors, but not before grabbing two spoons and two small individual tubes of ice cream from the kitchen. As the two children stepped out into the night air, Y/n's eyes widened.

The stars were hidden behind a kaleidoscope of colors, as bursts of light exploded in a symphony of sounds and hues. The fireworks display was like nothing he had ever seen before. Andrew handed him a spoon and a tube of ice cream, and Y/n took them, his eyes still fixed on the fireworks above him. It was hard to wrap his head around the idea of something being loud and explosive, but not scary. This wasn't scary. He was mesmerized by the way the lights exploded in the air, creating intricate patterns and shapes that danced in the sky. The sounds and colors were almost overwhelming, but in a good way, and Y/n felt his fear and anxiety melting away, replaced by a sense of wonder and awe.

As they settled onto the grass, Andrew began to explain the magic of fireworks — what they were, how they worked, and why they were shot off every July fourth. He explained that on this particular day, people all across America would gather around to watch the fireworks, a tradition that dated back to the very first Independence Day celebrated more than two centuries ago. According to Andrew, the fireworks were a way to commemorate the nation's freedom with a spectacular display of light and sound that symbolized the joy and celebration of a newly independent American nation.

Y/n's head nodded, his teeth sinking into the cold, creamy texture of the vanilla ice cream. The sweetness was a welcome respite from the sweltering heat of the summer evening, and he felt a sense of freedom that he had never experienced before. He was outdoors, in a backyard, with a brother he had never met, eating soft ice cream and watching fireworks. It was a normal, everyday experience for most kids, but for Y/n, it was a revelation.

Was this really how life was like outside of the Dark Room? It was so... different compared to the cold, sterile place that Y/n had come from. Y/n felt like he was experiencing life for the first time like he was seeing the world through new eyes.

And it was exhilarating.

As the final burst of fireworks fizzled out, Y/n turned to Andrew, his face sketched with a radiant smile. "That was amazing."

Andrew grinned, "I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said, ruffling Y/n's hair affectionately.

Y/n ducked away, laughing, his eyes sparkling with amusement. They sat in silence for a moment, relishing the quiet evening, the stars above painting the sky above with their tiny pinpricks of lights.

Then the two brothers rose and headed back inside, both feeling tired, especially Y/n, whose young body was exhausted. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the weight of his fatigue, but he couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that's in his stomach. He had never slept in a bed without the cold metal handcuff wrapped around his wrist. But tonight, he wouldn't be feeling the familiar weight of the cuff. It was a strange and disconcerting feeling, like a part of him was missing, waiting to be found.

When the two boys reached the second floor, Y/n's small hand grasped the door handle, and he was about to push the door open when he suddenly froze. His hand remained gripping the handle, but his body hesitated. Behind him, Andrew's expression changed from a neutral look to a concerned frown upon noticing this.

"Is everything alright?"

"No," was the whispered confession. His head swiveled around to look at Andrew before looking away as if he's ashamed to admit what was on his mind. But then, he seemed to gather his courage, his head swiveling back around to meet Andrew's gaze. His eyes were wide and uncertain, his voice trembling slightly as he spoke the truth. "I'm not sure if I'll be able to sleep without some handcuffs."

Something dark and intense flickered in Andrew's eyes as Y/n voiced his concern, a fleeting glimpse of anger and frustration that appeared to simmer just below the surface. His jaw clenched, his teeth gritting together in a subtle display of tension. He shook his head, a small, jerky motion that seemed to convey his complete and utter distaste for the idea that Y/n would need handcuffs to sleep. But as he stared down at the small boy before him, his expression softened. A reassuring smile spread across his face.

"You don’t need those handcuffs and you can sleep in my room if you want," Andrew said, his voice soft and gentle. "I'll stay up and keep you company until you fall asleep. If you want me to, that is."

Y/n looked down at his feet, shuffling a bit. "But what if I can’t sleep?" His words tumbled out slowly. "What if I just... keep waiting for it to happen?" Y/n paused, his sentence trailing off into uncertainty. "The handcuff thing..." His voice faltered, confusion mixing with the vulnerability in his tone. He struggled with articulating the complex emotions he felt. He wasn't sure how to explain it; the comfort of the metal, no matter how twisted it seemed.

Andrew knelt down beside Y/n, his eyes locking onto his brother's as they came to rest at eye level. "Then you don't have to sleep," he said, his words a reassuring promise. "Rest. I'll be right by your side."

No one had ever offered to stay up with him before, to keep him company until he fell asleep, but he was willing to try. So, after a long pause, he nodded, "Okay."

A hand was placed on the upper part of Y/n’s back and Andrew opened the door, leading Y/n inside his room. As they stepped inside, Y/n's eyes scanned the room, drinking in the familiar sights and sounds of a normal bedroom. There was a bed, soft and inviting, with a patchwork quilt in shades of blue and green. A desk stood against one wall and a bookshelf stood against another. A closet stood in a corner, its door slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of clothes and shoes within. It was cozy with a nice atmosphere inside.

Andrew pulled back the covers of his bed, motioning for Y/n to climb in. "You can take the bed. I will sit right here," he said, settling into a chair beside the bed.

Y/n climbed into the bed, his small frame almost disappearing under the blanket as he settled into the softness of the mattress. He allowed his left hand to rest on the pillow, a habitual gesture that felt almost automatic. It was the same position he had slept in every night, with the cuffs securely fastened to his wrist and the cold metal digging into his skin. Now, without the familiar weight of the cuffs, his hand felt..free. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation of not being restrained. It was weird. Too weird.

Andrew reached over and grabbed the nightlight off the nightstand, plugging it into the wall with a soft click. The device sprang to life, casting a soft blue light all over the room that was calming. Andrew looked at Y/n, who was still staring up at the ceiling, unblinking and unmoving. His mind looked to be racing a mile a minute.

"Hush little one, the moon is high,
The stars are shining in the sky,
And I will be watching over you,
As the world outside is quiet too."

The soothing melody reached Y/n's ears, and it was a calming sound that seemed to wash over him like a warm breeze. His eyes slowly drifted towards Andrew, who was reciting a soft, soothing lullaby in a voice that was both soft and reassuring. The words were calming, and the rhythm was relaxing, causing Y/n's tense body to relax slightly. He watched Andrew's lips move, his eyes fixed on the gentle curve of his mouth, and he felt a sense of wonder at the way the words seemed to flow from his lips like a gentle stream.

As Andrew recited the melody two more times, Y/n's eyelids began to droop. The unfamiliar, unsettling sensation of not being restrained, which had initially felt so disorienting, began to fade, replaced by a sense of security that washed over him. He knew that Andrew was there, watching over him, and that thought was surprisingly comforting. Andrew's voice was like a warm blanket, wrapping around Y/n's fragile heart, and Y/n felt a sense of peace settle inside of him. He let out a soft sigh, a gentle exhalation of breath that seemed to signal the release of all the tension and anxiety he felt, and his body began to drift off to sleep, lulled by the gentle rhythm of Andrew's lullaby.

A feeling stirred within Y/n's heart, something he couldn't quite identify. He didn't know what it was, or where it had come from, but he knew that he wanted to continue spending time with Andrew.

Y/n's e/c eyes finally closed, his eyelids drifting shut as Andrew's voice softened even more. He slowed down the lullaby, his words now becoming a mere whisper. Y/n's body relaxed further, and he let out a soft snore, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. He had a good day.

And it wasn't his last.

As time went on, Y/n and Andrew found themselves growing closer and closer, their little bond strengthening with each passing moment. They spent every day together, exploring the big house and its surroundings, laughing and playing, and just enjoying each other's company. The more time they spent together, the more their connection as brothers deepened.

Inside the house, the duo engaged in various fun and entertaining activities such as watching TV, playing hide and seek, and bowling. They would set up an indoor bowling alley, using empty plastic bottles and cans as pins with a ball or a rolled-up sock to knock them down. But their gaming sessions did not stop there. They'd play board games, puzzle games, and card games. They would build an indoor fort, using blankets and pillows to create a cozy hideaway. They would play with the legos, too. At night, Andrew would often read Y/n a story or sing him the lullaby that Andrew had sung to him once.

Outside, Y/n and Andrew's adventures knew no bounds. They would spend hours riding around the neighborhood on their scooters, having epic water gun fights, and playing catch with the frisbee. The brothers would even jump around on the trampoline. Before this, Y/n had never experienced the joy of being a kid without a care in the world. Now, he was here, being carefree and wild, full of life and making memories like an actual kid.

But of all the happy memories Y/n had made with Andrew, there was one that stood out above the rest — the day they played their first game of hide and seek.

Y/n was given the task of hiding, and he took his job very seriously. The little boy scurried off to find a perfect hiding spot. Andrew, on the other hand, was tasked with seeking, and he was determined to find his brother as quickly as possible. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he finished counting, he shouted "Ready or not, here I come!" and started searching for Y/n. It didn't take Andrew long to find Y/n, who was hiding behind the thick curtains in his room. As soon as Andrew spotted him, the h/c haired boy took off running, dashing out of the room with Andrew behind, hot on his tail.

"I'm gonna get you, Y/n!"

Giggles escaped Y/n's throat as he made a daring escape and jumped out of the open living room window. He landed with a soft thud on the grass as Andrew burst through the door and ran down the two short steps that led up to their home.

"I got you now!" Andrew called out, a grin on his features as he swooped down and caught his younger brother, lifting him up into the air. "Gotcha! Now you’re going to fly like Superman!" He spun Y/n around, making airplane noises as Y/n squealed with delight, arms spread out like wings.

Y/n couldn’t stop giggling. "Stop, Andy."

"Not until you tell me I'm the man," his grin turned mischievous, lowering Y/n to the ground, his back pressed against the soft grass. Andrew's hands then started tickling Y/n's sides, "Tell me I'm the man!"

Y/n's laughter echoed through the air in the yard as his brother's fingers danced across his stomach, sending waves of ticklish sensations through his body. He squirmed and wriggled, trying to escape the tickling, but Andrew was relentless.

"Alright, alright! You're—" Y/n’s voice was shaking with laughter, "—You're the man!"

Andrew finally relented, stopping the tickling and letting Y/n catch his breath. He stood up. "That's right, I'm the man!" He puffed out his chest in a comically exaggerated gesture of pride. He struck a pose, his arms crossing over his chest.

Then, Andrew's hand moved, tapping two fingers over his heart twice, followed by a quick touch to his forehead, before pointing the two fingers at Y/n. The heart represented their bond. The touch to the forehead represented their focus, their commitment to always be there for each other — to protect one another. The pointing of the fingers was a declaration of that loyalty, a promise that they would always have each other's backs. And Y/n reciprocated the gesture. He tapped his heart twice, then touched his forehead, before pointing his fingers at his brother.

The two brothers sat on the grass, grinning at each other, basking in the warm sunshine. These moments of pure joy and freedom are what Y/n cherished.

In the driveway, August was wiping down his truck. But as he caught sight of the children playing on the grass, a warm smile spread across his face. Veronica, too, emerged onto the porch with a warm smile, but Y/n could see the artificiality in her eyes. Y/n knew that her smile, like August's, was fake. They were playing their parts, pretending to be this happy family for the benefit of the neighbors. It was all part of the mission, after all — to create an illusion of a perfect family unit. But with Andrew, Y/n wasn't pretending.

They weren't just brothers by blood; they had also formed a bond in their hearts.

However, despite the happy moments they shared, their lives were not without gravity. They had to deal with serious moments regarding their current assignment.

It was a night that started out like any other, with Y/n and Andrew sitting at the dinner table, waiting for their meal to be served. Veronica set a tray of steaming hot pancakes on the table. Y/n's eyes lit up with excitement. Breakfast for dinner with extra syrup was Y/n's favorite food. As everyone sat finally down at the table, the adults explained to them the details of the mission and their respective roles.

The four were tasked with infiltrating the home and the operations of a wealthy entrepreneur named Charles Hastings.

He's working on a secret prototype of an encryption software, to be exact, that had the potential to revolutionize the way information was controlled and disseminated. This system, known as "Eclipse," was still in its early stages of development, but its potential was vast. If successfully implemented, it could give its owner unparalleled control over the flow of information, allowing them to dictate what was shared and what was kept hidden. Valerio wants access to this technology before it is fully developed and the project's blueprints. He believed that the Eclipse would give him the upper hand in both financially and strategically, allowing Valerio to manipulate the global economy and wield significant influence over governments or many corporations.

Corporate espionage was a significant concern during the eighties, and wealthy entrepreneurs were particularly cautious of outsiders. As a result, many of these individuals had to become extremely wary of people who didn't fit their narrow definition of "trustworthy." In this world, having a family was a symbol of stability and respectability. It was a way to signal to the ones in power that you were a solid, dependable person who could be trusted — a way to show that one was a respectable and responsible individual. Not a shady character, who was only out to make a quick buck. When it comes to Charles Hastings, a man who was known for his lavish charity events and family-friendly gatherings, having a family was the perfect cover-up for a group of spies.

The kids’ jobs, in short, were to help the adults infiltrate Charles' place and gather information on where he worked on his top-secret projects. As kids, they would be able to move freely around the house, exploring it without arousing suspicion.

So, that's what they did.

On the day of the family-friendly party at Charles' sprawling mansion, August was chatting with Charles in the grand room, discussing potential business deals and his connections to the defense industry. He was playing the role of an influential and charming businessman to perfection while trying, in a subtle manner, to glean as much information as possible from Charles about his confidential projects.

Meanwhile, Veronica was mingling with Ella, Charles' wife, in the adjacent room. She was making small talk and laughing with Ella and others, all while keeping a watchful eye on her surroundings. Her role was to distract Ella and anyone else to ensure no one noticed the children's absence. If anyone asked about Y/n and Andrew, she would simply say that they were using the bathroom, and Ella would likely accept that plausible explanation.

The children successfully managed to slip away from the party without anyone noticing their absence. They made their way to a separate wing of the mansion, where they discovered Charles's office and his personal laboratory, which was cleverly hidden behind a wall inside the office. Andrew planted a listening bug in the laboratory and office as he searched for important documents or clues that might give the location of the blueprints.

Additionally, he also kept a keen eye out for any early CCTV cameras, taking note of its locations. He memorized Charles's schedule, noting the times when he was likely to be in his office or the laboratory, and committed the layout of the wing to memory to relay back to his fake parents.

Y/n, on the other hand, stood guard outside the office door, scanning the hallway for any sign of approaching footsteps. As the youngest member of the family, he had been given the role of the lookout, tasked with keeping watch while Andrew snooped around the office and laboratory. It was a simple task, but one that required him to be vigilant and alert at all times. Y/n's innocent and harmless demeanor was a perfect cover because it made him appear completely non-threatening to anyone who might happen to pass by. But despite his cute and charming exterior, Y/n's heart wasn't in this part of the mission. He wanted to simply keep playing happy families and have fun with Andrew as he's been doing.

But...

That was not his purpose for being here.

His real job was to follow the adults' orders, do what he was told, and help make sure their mission was completed.

Therefore, Y/n continued to follow the adults' demands to the letter. He played the role of an innocent kid to perfection, charming and disarming anyone who might suspect a thing. He made copies of important documents after Veronica and August taught him how, and he even eavesdropped on others' conversations. Whatever was asked of him... Y/n did it without question or a trace of hesitation.

Eventually, after a little over a full year of careful planning and execution, the mission was finally a success. The two operatives had stolen the blueprints, the software machine, and the source codes on a floppy disk, giving them complete control over the Eclipse technology. They also made sure to destroy any backup files as well. But that was only half the battle. Veronica and August had taken steps to eliminate any potential threats, including Charles Hastings and his wife, Ella. The couple had been murdered in a way that made it look like they were victims of an accidental fire at their lovely mansion. It had been burned to the ground, the fire made to look like the result of a faulty electrical wire or an unfortunate mistake.

Subsequently, In the aftermath of the successful mission, August and Veronica received direct orders from Valerio to eliminate Charles Hastings' associates in case they were aware of Charles' secret project. The two tracked down Hastings' associates, one by one, and took them out, making sure to leave no witnesses or evidence behind. Once they were certain that all loose ends had been tied up, and no evidence remained to tie them to espionage or the murders, they abandoned the house in California.

As the mission came to a close, Y/n and Andrew both, sadly, realized that they had to return to the Dark Room. But Y/n didn't want to go back. The two brothers had grown incredibly close over the past year, and little Y/n had grown attached to Andrew. The thought of being separated from Andrew was like a punch in the gut.

When they landed on a private airfield in New York City, Veronica and August left the plane first. Y/n and Andrew followed closely behind, with Y/n's hand instinctively reaching out to grasp Andrew's as they stepped off the plane and walked towards the group of people waiting for them. Instantly, Y/n's e/c eyes landed on the man in the all-white suit that's surrounded by two security guards.

Valerio.

He greeted his associates cordially and started discussing the details of their mission, with Valerio even congratulating them. After a few minutes, Valerio's eyes landed on the two children. With a subtle gesture of his hand, he signaled to the two guards standing nearby to, no doubt, take the children back to the Dark Room. Without a word, the two stepped forward.

Y/n's shoulders visibly tensed when one of the guards grabbed Andrew. However, the younger boy surprised everyone by balling up his left hand into a fist and striking the guard in the chest. The guard stumbled backward, caught off guard by Andrew's sudden movement. Before anyone could react, Andrew had already grabbed the gun from the guard's holster and was pointing it around at everyone with one hand. But what caught Y/n's attention was the way Andrew's other hand, his left hand, moved to push Y/n further behind him, a protective gesture that spoke volumes about the love they had. Y/n's small arms wrapped around Andrew's torso, holding him tightly as he peeked out from behind Andrew's back. Andrew's actions had been so sudden, so bold, that it had left everyone stunned.

Andrew didn’t want anything to happen to Y/n. Initially, when Andrew first arrived at the house in California, his intentions were clear: follow every command, keep to himself most of the time, and get the assignment done. He had no interest in forming any kind of bond with the young boy who was supposedly his half-brother.

He didn't know Y/n, didn't want to know him, and he didn't care about getting to know him. After all, Y/n was, essentially, a stranger to him. His focus was only on completing the mission and returning to the Dark Room to complete his training.

Yet, after Andrew retreated to his new room after the Super Mario Bros. Super Show episode, he couldn't help but think that he had been wrong to treat Y/n with such unfairness; indifference. Y/n was just as innocent as he was, a mere pawn in a game controlled by others. He didn't deserve to be given the cold shoulder by Andrew, and so he decided to take a different approach. He would be cordial with Y/n and try to make him feel more at ease. He figured that it was the least he could do, considering they were both stuck in this situation together. But what Andrew didn't expect was that their time together would blossom into something more. As they spent more days, weeks, months, and an entire year together, they started to have real fun, sharing laughs, and creating memories that would last a lifetime. And soon, Andrew came to love Y/n, unexpectedly, like a brother should.

At first, the dark-haired boy thought that the Dark Room Academy had taken everything from him, including his ability to love. Those sessions he endured had been designed to break him, to strip him of his emotions and leave him a hollow shell. And for the past five years, Andrew had believed that they had succeeded.

Andrew was determined not to let them return to the Dark Room. He wanted Y/n to escape this life and to have a normal existence, and he didn't care where they went as long as it wasn't the Dark Room. He wanted to get far from it. As long as they had each other, they would be okay.

Andrew's grip on the gun tightened as he swung it towards the second guard, who was attempting to sneak up on him from the side. "Back up!" Andrew yelled. The guard hesitated for a moment, then raised his hands in surrender, taking a step back. Andrew's eyes darted over to Valerio, "Let us leave," he pleaded, voice laced with desperation. "You have plenty of Shades in training to carry out your orders. We don't need to go back there."

Valerio raised a hand, and his guards retreated, their eyes fixed on Andrew's gun. The older man took a step forward until he was standing directly in front of the boys. He reached out and placed a hand on Andrew's shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. "You're just a child, Andrew," he said, his voice low and soothing. His eyes flicked to Y/n's fearful ones before Valerio's gaze returned to him. "You don't know what's best for you or your brother. I'm the one who knows what's best. And what's best for you two is to return to the Dark Room and to continue your training."

Andrew's eyes widened in surprise as he felt a sudden surge of pain in his neck. Before he could even process what was happening, he felt himself falling forward, his body going limp and unresponsive, rendering him unconscious and helpless. It turns out a tranquilizer dart was lodged into him and the effects were immediate. In addition, the gun had slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground as he fell.

Y/n, who had been standing behind him, let out a small cry as he too was hit with a tranquilizer dart. He stumbled forward and fell to the ground. Unconscious, too.

That was one of the last moments Y/n and Andrew would spend together. They were in different training brackets and age brackets and the Dark Room would ensure they never crossed paths again.

Y/n resumed his prior training, undergoing extensive psychological conditioning and physical training, while exceeding in his marksmanship abilities and his terrific martial arts skills. He was unbreakable even as he nursed bruises, fractures, and cuts from his training. He endured an education and indoctrination into the world of spycraft. Y/n embraced the darkness that had been forced upon him, and he welcomed it with open arms.

Y/n L/n became Nightshade.

And as Nightshade, he was given a mission that only the top assassin could accomplish. His target was two hunters, Dean and Samuel Winchester, who had already claimed the lives of three Dark Room graduates. Y/n scanned the files he had been given closely, taking in every detail about his targets. He studied their personalities, strengths, weaknesses, and backstories, committing every detail to memory. The information was vital; he was going to use it to his advantage.

He knew that to take them down, he had to become one of them. And so his plan was to pose as Jason Capaldi — a solo, yet charming hunter with exceptional fighting skills. He would create a similar backstory to the Winchesters, one that would garner sympathy, understanding, and eventually, trustworthiness. Bingo.

During his planning phase, he had pulled out a list that had the names of the Dark Room graduates on it. He wanted to see, with a sense of curiosity, who had been taken out by Dean and Sam Winchester. But as his eyes landed on the first name, his heart suddenly froze. Andrew Castor.

Andrew Castor was at the top of the list.

Time seemed to grind to a halt as Y/n's eyes locked onto the first name on the list. His finger traced the twelve letters, and his vision clouded with a red haze. He was going to make them pay, and he was going to make them suffer. He was going to torment their minds. And then, and only then, would he take their lives. The assassin told himself that it was all about protecting the other graduates of the Dark Room Academy. However, deep down, in a part of his mind that he had learned to bury and deny, it was more than that. It was personal. It was because they had killed his brother.

And now, he was going to kill them.

Kill; the deadliest subliminal message.

XXXXX XXXXX

Y/n stood there, waiting for a response.

Valerio let out a long, exaggerated sigh, his hand moving with a lazy slowness to his waistband, where something resided. His fingers wrapped around the handle of his gun with a chilling casualness, as if this was just another day at the office. Then, he aimed and fired. Once. Twice. A third shot, straight into Trent's chest. The sound reverberated in the room, echoing off the cold walls like some death knell.

Trent's body crumpled to the floor, his life slipping away before everyone's eyes in an instant. His body slumped, lifeless, with blood pooling beneath his head and chest. The precision and clinical nature of the shots was a testament to Valerio's skill and experience. He had clearly done this many times before, and it showed in the ease with which he had killed Trent. Dean’s heart thudded painfully, loudly in his chest as he stared at Trent's body. Sam’s eyes were wide and he jumped when Trent was shot. It was over for the doctor, just like that. One minute he was alive and bruised, the next he was dead.

Y/n, on the other hand, did not react to the doctor being killed from behind him. However, his body told a different story. His entire frame tensed as he raised his gun, pointing it at Valerio. "What did you do?" His voice was steady, low, and even.

Valerio remained unfazed by the gun pointed at him, his cold, predatory eyes glinting under the harsh light. His smirk, a cruel and mirthless curve of his lips that seemed to mock Y/n's anger and pain, only deepened. "Well, I just killed the doctor," he gestured to Trent's lifeless body next to Sam. "Just like I killed Andrew."

Oh. That was quite the revelation. The words hung in the air like a ticking time bomb, waiting to unleash a devastating explosion of emotions. Y/n's face was a mask of calm indifference, but his eyes told a different story. E/c eyes were wide with shock, and a deep sense of betrayal seemed to simmer hotly just beneath the surface. He had been led to believe that the Winchesters brothers were the ones responsible for Andrew's death, and that was the fuel that had driven him to seek revenge. Now though, he was faced with a shocking truth: the man he had sworn to serve until his death was the one who had actually killed the only person who had ever shown him kindness and love.

The revelation was a gut punch, leaving Y/n feeling very winded and disoriented.

Yet, only one question remained: "Why?"

Valerio's head tilted to one side. "Why?" He echoed mockingly. The word was laced with amusement, and Y/n could sense the condescension dripping from his voice. "Because he was a liability. He would have held you back, Y/n. You were going to be unstoppable, and he wanted to keep you as some... soft-hearted boy. I could not, I would not, let that happen."

Y/n's gun remained trained on Valerio, his finger tightening on the trigger as he spoke in a low, menacing tone. "I should kill you," he said, the words dripping with venom. "I should..." He suddenly paused upon struggling to contain his emotions.

Valerio stepped forward, invading Y/n's personal space, completely unbothered by the weapon aimed at his chest. “Then do it," he whispered, his words a dare, a challenge, "Come on. Pull the trigger. End my life." Valerio's eyes seemed to gleam with a malevolent intensity as if he was waiting for Y/n to make his move, to see if he had the courage to pull the trigger.

Y/n's finger trembled on the trigger, his breath coming in short, staccato bursts. The room now fell silent, the only sound the heavy, labored breathing of everyone watching. Dean's eyes were fixed on Y/n's hands, his face contorted with effort as he strained against the restraints that bound him. His knuckles were white with effort, fingers flexing in a futile attempt to free himself. Sam, on the other hand, sat still, his eyes fixed on Y/n's face. He was attempting to read Y/n's expression and to gauge whether he was capable of pulling the trigger. Would Y/n actually kill his leader, the man who had manipulated and controlled him for such a long time?

Predictably, nothing happened.

Y/n's entire body had locked up as if his muscles had turned to stone. His heart, or what was left of it, was screaming at him with all its might to pull the trigger, to avenge Andrew's death. But his body and mind refused to comply. Y/n was trapped in a state of paralysis, unable to overcome the conditioning that had been ingrained in him. Every fiber of his being had been trained, programmed, to follow Valerio's orders without question, to serve him with blind loyalty. And one of those orders, a fundamental tenet of his programming, was to protect Valerio, to never allow any harm to come to him. Y/n couldn't hurt him, much less kill him.

Valerio's laughter was a dark, mocking sound that seemed to echo through the room from watching the struggle play out on Y/n's face. He reached out to cup Y/n's jaw. Y/n's breath caught in his throat, his body going rigid as Valerio's index finger trailed along his jawline. The touch was slow, deliberate, and almost... affectionate. It was a gentle, caressing motion, one that seemed to be savoring the feel of the assassin's skin beneath his fingertips. "That’s what I thought. You can’t do it. You will never be able to because," he whispered, his lips close to Y/n’s ear. "I own you," his voice dropped to a sickening, purring tone. "I made you."

Gently, Valerio ripped the gun from Y/n's hand. Without waiting another moment, Valerio struck, his fist flying across Y/n's face with a sickening crunch. Y/n's head snapped to the side, his body stumbling backward. A thin trickle of blood began to seep from the corner of his mouth, a crimson rivulet that pulsed with the beat of his heart as pain exploded on his face.

Dean lurched forward on the floor, muscles straining against the ropes. "You bastard—" he spat, his voice filled with rage, but Valerio didn’t even glance in his direction. He was too focused on Y/n, watching with satisfaction as Y/n crumpled to the floor. The severe pain was evident on his face, etched into the lines of his features, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. He's been trained to withstand pain. And Valerio knew that.

"You see," Valerio said, turning his back on the others as if they weren't a threat, which, to be fair, Dean and Sam weren't much of a threat tied up. "Andrew was a problem. He would've kept you weak and prevented you from reaching your true potential. I had to do something about it," In the next moment, Valerio's hand shot out, grabbing Y/n by the collar and lifting him off the floor with ease. He grabbed the gun off the floor and shoved it back into Y/n's hand. "Listen here," he spoke like a twisted father giving advice to his son. "Kill these men. Start with the taller one."

Dean’s blood ran cold at the words, and he jerked violently against his restraints, his face flushed with anger. "Don’t you fucking touch him, you son of a bitch!"

Sam stared at Y/n, his heart pounding in his chest. Y/n's body moved mechanically as he gripped the gun tightly and walked towards Sam. His eyes were distant as if trapped somewhere unreachable. The command was clear, and he had to obey.

Sam's voice was barely above a whisper, but it was laced with a desperation that was palpable. "Y/n, you don't have to do this," his voice shook as he watched the barrel of the gun draw closer to his face. He couldn't tear his eyes away, couldn't look away from the cold, hard metal that seemed to be staring back at him like a dead eye. His eyes met Y/n's, searching for something, anything, behind the guy's blank stare. Sam wasn't giving up. "You don't have to be their puppet on a string anymore. Andrew wouldn't want you to."

For a second, everything felt suspended. Y/n stood there, gun aimed at Sam, his face twisted in pain, like he was fighting against invisible chains. He remembered Andrew’s words, echoing in his head like a distant memory — it was a distant one.

He could hear Andrew's voice...

...Clear as day:

The memory came flooding back, a vivid and painful recollection that seemed to transport Y/n back to a moment in time when he was just a six-year-old boy, torn away from the only person who had ever shown him love and kindness. "Andy!" he shrieked, tears streaming down his face in utter despair as their hands were pried apart by the guards, separating them. Y/n struggled and kicked, trying to break free, but it was no use. He was just a little boy, and he was no match for the adults.

Surprisingly, Andrew managed to break free and run to Y/n, grabbing his hand, his fingers intertwining with his brother's in a warm, reassuring hold. "Listen to me, buddy, don't let the Dark Room take your heart. They will try to break you, but don't let them, alright? Pain will only make you stronger in time. Remember that saying. Remember that no matter what they do, you are unbreakable." The words were a mantra, a promise, a reminder that Y/n had clung to in the darkest of times.

Their moment of connection was short-lived, as a guard approached and took Andrew away. Before disappearing from sight, the two locked eyes. And then, in a swift, secret gesture, Andrew raised two fingers to his heart, then to his forehead, and finally to Y/n, their shared symbol of love and loyalty. Y/n's heart swelled with emotion as he reciprocated the gesture.

But the Dark Room had already taken Y/n's heart, had taken everything from him.

Y/n had already lost himself completely, just like Andrew had, apparently, feared. His hands tightened around the weapon. Sam, sensing the inevitability of his fate, closed his eyes, accepting the outcome with a quiet resignation. He knew that it was death that was coming for him, and he steeled himself for the impact. Dean was still thrashing about, his voice raw from yelling, his body straining against the restraints. Time seemed to stretch out impossibly long as if the very fabric of reality was slowing down to allow for the full impact of the moment to sink in.

Then, a gunshot rang out.

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

This was the end for him, Sam realized.

There was no other way to put it. Sam's fate was sealed in this moment, and he wasn't getting out of this situation alive. It was a simple, brutal fact. It was almost laughable, but the hunter couldn't muster up the energy to even crack a smile. Sam had always imagined that, based on his job, when his time finally came, when his death was a permanent one and not just a temporary setback like the other times, he would go down fighting against some monstrous creature, such as a demon, a ghost, a vampire, or even some hellhounds.

But in the end, it was not a monster or a supernatural creature that proved to be his downfall. It was a dangerous human, controlled by a mastermind. Despite the revelation that Valerio was responsible for Andrew's death, Y/n's programming and loyalty to his handler showed to be too strong. He was unable to break free from Valerio's control, and instead, he would carry out the order to kill Sam. Fuck, he had underestimated the extent of the damage that had been done to Y/n.

Bitter cost of compassion. Sam's innate kindness and empathetic nature had led him to try and save Y/n — to see beyond the surface and understand the depth of his conditioning. From the vision he had been given, to the recording session that had shown Sam some of the trauma and pain that he had endured, his heart had gone out to him. It had only strengthened his resolve to save him. However, it was that very compassionate side that had led to him about to lose his own life as a result. The irony was so cruel, and Sam couldn't help but think that he had been foolish to think that he could make a difference. Y/n... was beyond saving, and Sam was now just a casualty of his own kindness.

Regret washed over Sam as he lay there, waiting for the inevitable. He couldn't help but think of all the things he could have done differently. He should have listened to Dean. He should've listened to Caleb and Elias, too, and abandoned his quest to find the Dark Room. Maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't have accepted Trent's offer for help and gotten involved in this mess. But he wasn't the type to sit back and do nothing, especially when he had discovered some horrific revelations.

And now, Sam couldn't help but wonder if it had all been worth it. It was not. If he had set a trap for Y/n, instead of trying to help him, he would not have been in this predicament. He probably wouldn't have been on the verge of death as right now.

Probably.

Even then, Sam realized that it was too late for could've, would've, and should've.

He was going to leave his brother at any moment now. He knew that Dean would never forgive himself for not being able to save him. Sam knew that Dean would blame himself for not being able to stop Y/n. But Sam wouldn't blame Dean. He blamed the situation, the circumstances that had led to this moment. He blamed the organization that had created Y/n.

When the gunshot echoed through the room, Sam's heart skipped a beat and he flinched, bracing himself for the impact. He had expected to feel intense, searing pain as the bullet ripped through his brain, followed by a sense of numbness and disconnection once his soul left his physical form behind. He had wondered, too, where he would end up after death — Heaven, Hell, or somewhere in between. Sam was unsure of his final destination.

Except… except he didn’t feel anything. No pain, no numbness — nothing at all.

What was happening? Hesitantly, Sam's eyes creaked open. He glanced down at his body and there was no sign of blood. Sam's fingers reached up and there was no wound. The rest of his body... was fine. Confusion gave way to shock as Sam realized that he hadn't been shot after all. The gunshot sound had been real, but it hadn't been aimed at him. He looked up and Sam's hazel eyes locked onto something that made his jaw drop.

Valerio's eyes widened in shock as he stumbled backward, his body crashing to the ground with a thud. His suit jacket was rapidly staining with a dark, crimson hue as blood seeped through the fabric, his fingers instinctively clutching at the wound in his upper chest. Valerio... he had been shot, and it was Y/n who shot him. The operative was known for never missing his target and this time was no exception. Surprise, shock, and a hint of confusion all played across his features as the gun slipped from his shaky hands and landed on the ground with a loud clatter. It seemed as though Y/n was struggling to process what had just transpired. He had done the impossible — he had briefly overpowered his conditioning and shot his handler. The first decision he made.

Y/n quickly took three steps forward. For a moment, it seemed as if he was once again under Valerio's control, and that he was going to help stop the bleeding. But, unexpectedly, something seemed to snap inside him, and his feet stopped moving of their own accord. He stood there for a moment, and then he turned and walked over to Valerio's desk. His eyes scanned the surface, and his hand closed around a pair of blue scissors that lay there. He picked them up and walked over to Sam.

Visibly, Sam tensed up when he saw Y/n approaching him, anticipating the worst. He had seen Y/n's skills with a knife, and he knew that he was more than capable of using the scissors to end his life. But instead of attacking Sam, Y/n surprised him by using the scissors to cut through the zip ties that bound his wrists. Their eyes met briefly, and Sam found himself staring into blank e/c eyes before Y/n averted his gaze and cut through the zip ties and the rope that restrained Sam. Y/n then moved over to Dean and freed the man from his restrained captivity as well.

Sam slowly stood up, rubbing his sore wrists in an attempt to restore circulation. He was still processing the sudden turn of events, and from the fact that he was still alive. He had been so certain that it was all over for him, but instead, Y/n had surprised him by cutting him free. Sam's eyes drifted over to Y/n, and then, almost imperceptibly, Y/n nodded at him. It was a tiny, subtle movement, but Sam caught it, and he gave him a small nod in return.

Dean quickly scrambled over to grab the loaded gun that had dropped to the floor. He wasted no time in pointing the gun at the injured man, finger tightening on the trigger. Even in his injured state, Valerio did not flinch or show any signs of fear, and he was being held at gunpoint, too. It was as if he was completely unafraid, unphased by the threat of violence and death. Sam had to admit, he was a little intimidated by Valerio's calm demeanor. This was a man who was used to being in control, who was used to getting what he wanted no matter the cost. And even when he's not in control, he's unaffected.

"You deserve this," Dean spat out.

"Then do it. Come on, Winchester. I know you've got it in you. Put a bullet between my eyes," one thing about Valerio is that, regardless of the situation, he will always taunt and push people to their limits. Then, he delivered the final blow, which was a cruel and hurtful insult that was made to push Dean way over the edge. "Show me you're not a pussy like your mother was."

The mention of his mother's name had the desired effect on Dean, and his face contorted with rage. His finger tightened on the trigger. Sam could see the anger in Dean's eyes, could sense the tension in his brother's body, and he knew that Dean was going to fire at any second. But just as Dean was about to fire, a firm hand grasped his arm, holding him back. It was Y/n, and Dean glared at him hard.

"Don't," was spoken in a commanding tone, with a hint of warning that booked no room for arguments. Additionally, Y/n gave a slight shake of his head as a clear indication that he was not going to allow him to kill Valerio. Yet it wasn't out of any sense of mercy or compassion (he didn't have those characteristics traits). "Don't let him take the easy way out by dying."

The message was clear, even if it wasn't explicitly stated. Y/n didn't want Dean to kill Valerio because he wanted him to face a different kind of punishment that was more fitting for his crimes. It was heavily implied that Y/n wanted Valerio to rot in a jail cell and suffer the consequences of his actions in a way that would be far more satisfying than a simple bullet to the head. Death would be too much of a cop-out. And it was clear that Y/n's motivations were simply personal, driven by a desire for justice for the one person who had once mattered to him — Andrew.

The green-eyed hunter's glare intensified. However, despite his anger and distrust, he seemed to agree with Y/n's sentiment on the surface level. He lowered the gun and nodded in agreement. It was a small gesture, but it was a nod of acceptance nonetheless and it spoke volumes about Dean's willingness to listen to Y/n's point of view. Dean, obviously, didn't trust Y/n, not after everything that had happened. The man almost killed his brother. At the same time, though, Y/n had just helped free him and Sam, when he could have easily put a bullet in Sam's head. He had made a choice. That was a choice that Dean could not ignore, a choice that he couldn't help but respect on some level. Not that he would ever admit it out loud, but Dean did acknowledge it in his mind.

Sweat broke out onto Valerio's forehead, a thin layer of moisture that glistened in the light. He looked from Dean to Sam, then finally settled his gaze on Y/n. "You don't get to make that decision for me," his hand moved in an instant, his bloody fingers tapping the button on his watch with a deliberate, almost casual motion. It was a small, seemingly insignificant action, but one that seemed to hold a great deal of significance for Valerio.

A soft beep echoed through the room.

"What the fuck did you just do?" Sam snapped, eyes wide as he stepped back.

He could feel it, a creeping sense of unease that something was very, very wrong. What had Valerio just triggered?

"I just set the place to blow, Winchester. This entire facility is rigged. And in a few minutes…" Valerio grinned maniacally. He paused, savoring the moment, before making a dramatic explosion gesture with his hands, fingers splayed wide. "Boom."

The words hung in the air, and for a second, Sam considered the possibility that Valerio was bluffing. It was a clever tactic — one that could potentially allow Valerio to escape justice by pretending that there was a bomb rigged to explode when, in reality, there was no device. Yet as Sam looked around the room, he saw several things that suddenly made him realize that Valerio's heated revelation was, in fact, true. The beeping sound that echoed through the office was the first indication that something was amiss. It was a steady, pulsing noise that seemed to be coming from all directions at once, and it was getting louder by the second.

And it was the look on Valerio's face that actually made Sam realize the gravity of the situation. The man's eyes had taken on a crazed, yet contented look, as if he was savoring the moment and enjoying the fear that he was inspiring in others from gaining the upper hand once again.

But then, there was Y/n's expression, and that had sealed the deal for Sam — the look of pure panic that flashed across his face before he quickly masked it. As Sam took in all of these details, he knew that Valerio's confession was not a bluff. The man had actually rigged the facility to explode, and it was counting down to detonation. They were in serious danger.

The taller Winchester knew that they had to get out of there, fast, if they wanted to survive. The Dark Room was about to explode, and everyone inside was facing imminent death if they didn't get out now.

A sigh escaped Valerio's breath, a soft, resigned sound, as he closed his eyes in a state of deep relaxation and success. He leaned the back of his head against the wall. "Guess we'll be dying together."

Y/n stared at Valerio for what felt like an eternity, but in reality, was only a couple of seconds. The air grew heavy with the impending destruction, drawing ever closer. Yet, Y/n knew what he had to do.

Majority of the areas within the facility were now on lockdown, sealed off from the outside world with no clear escape route. Valerio's plan to blow the place to kingdom come had effectively trapped them all inside, with no apparent way out. Y/n knew the layout of the Academy like the back of his hand, though. Every nook and cranny, every hidden passage and secret door. There's a way for Dean and Sam to get out of there, but they have to move.

"You Winchesters need to get out of here. Now," he passed the warning on to Dean and Sam. He didn't wait for a response, instead turning to give them instructions. "Go down to the first floor and look for the painting on the wall that shows a snowy day in the forest. It's a landscape scene, with trees and a frozen lake. You can't miss it. Push the wall forward and then upward. The secret passageway will open up, and it will lead you two outside."

Dean didn't need to be told twice and he quickly started walking towards the door. Sam's feet, on the other hand, seemed to be rooted to the spot, refusing to budge. "You're not coming with us?" He inquired.

Y/n shook his head, looking at Valerio. "No, I'm not. I have to stay here. Valerio and I… have some unfinished business."

Sam's eyes narrowed ever slightly. What did he mean by "unfinished business"? Was he planning to confront Valerio, to settle some kind of score? Or was there something more at play, something that Sam couldn't understand? Regardless, Y/n did not owe Valerio anything anymore.

"Y/n, you don’t have to stay here," Sam’s voice broke through. "Come with us—"

"Sam," Y/n interrupted sharply. Although, despite the sharpness of his tone, there was something softer in his gaze, a hint of warmth that seemed to contradict the harshness of the single word. "Just. Go."

There was a finality and irrevocability in Y/n's voice that made it clear that he had made up his mind and was not going to be swayed. His tone was not angry or aggressive, but rather firm and resolute. Y/n was staying here, and that was that.

The older Winchester placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, urging him to leave. With reluctance, Sam complied, throwing one final glance at Y/n before departing with his brother. The sound of their footsteps echoed through the corridors, growing fainter with each passing moment, until finally, silence swallowed the entire room.

Y/n was now left alone with Valerio.

It was a sight. The man in charge looked strangely peaceful, despite the fact that he was losing blood at an alarming rate and was mere moments away from death — either from the bleeding or the bomb that was about to detonate. The explosion that was about to occur seemed to be of little concern to the man, and he didn't look to be afraid of the impending doom that was about to befall him. Y/n had never seen Valerio look this content before, certainly not from listening to the screams of the Shades he had broken. Even when Shades had to report back to him when they successfully completed a mission, Valerio's expression had always been one of calculated satisfaction, not peace. And when he had come into some more stolen money, his eyes had gleamed with avarice, not serenity. But now, as he sat there, bleeding and wounded, Valerio seemed to be happily welcoming death.

Kneeling down, Y/n sat on the floor, his legs folding into a criss-cross position, back straightened. "Why," the question sat heavy on his tongue, but had finally found its way to his lips. "did you do this to me?" It was simple, yet it held a world of complexity and emotion behind it. Y/n patiently waited, searching for answers. He was searching for explanations, for any kind of justification for the pain and suffering he had endured and caused, for some semblance of understanding.

Brown eyes flickered open. Valerio raised an eyebrow at him, a hint of amusement dancing in their depths. He looked very surprised that Y/n even had to ask the question. "Because, despite the fact that you were chosen based on your genetic potential, you were destined for this life. I saw it in you the moment I looked into your eyes the day your mother handed you over to me in exchange for money."

Y/n's eyes widened. He had always known that his mother had been involved in his recruitment. He was told that she didn't want him, but he never knew the details.

"The sheer potential," Valerio continued. "The power. It was then I knew that you would be the perfect killer. And look what you became," his voice dripped with pride. "The greatest assassin in America."

Upon hearing those words, the assassin's gaze dropped, his eyes falling to his hands as if he were seeing them for the first time. His fingers, so skilled and deadly, now seemed to tremble with a newfound sense of self-awareness. For the first time in his life, he felt a heavy weight settle in his chest, a weight that he couldn't shake off. It was a feeling he had never experienced before, a feeling that he had always been numb to. Guilt. "I killed so many people for you."

A menacing chuckle reached Y/n's ears. "You did more than that," It seemed that Valerio was not finished drilling the guilt into him. "You've put fear in the hearts of anyone who has heard of the Dark Room, too. You made me proud every time you stained your hands with blood, and that's because of me." He leaned in closer, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, the words spilling out like a dark confession. "No matter what you do, you'll always be a ruthless, efficient killer. The countless bodies that piled up? You did that. That blood? It'll never come off your hands, no matter how hard you wash them."

Y/n's breath caught in his throat, and he felt like he was drowning in the weight of Valerio's words. Each one was a razor-sharp blade, cutting deep into his soul, leaving only scars behind that would never heal. Each one was heavy with the ghosts he’d created. He swallowed hard, his eyes searching Valerio's face for any sign of remorse, any hint of regret — but there was none. Only triumph. Only sheer satisfaction from Y/n’s bloody path that was framed as this twisted masterpiece.

In a movement that was almost involuntary, Y/n's body leaned forward on its own accord, his body propelled by a mix of emotions that he couldn't quite process. The distance between him and Valerio disappeared, and their foreheads touched, skin warm and clammy against each other as they met in a gentle, yet intense, collision. Their breaths mingled in the suffocating space between them.

"You’ll pay for what you did to Andrew." Y/n's whisper was a raw, trembling vow.

Despite the fact that Valerio was slowly bleeding out, his body weakened by the loss of blood, he found a morbid sense of amusement in the situation. The blood that continued to trickle down his body, staining his clothes and pooling on the floor, seemed to be a mere afterthought to him and he grinned. "I'll see you in hell."

Meanwhile, Dean and Sam had finally stumbled out of the tunnel and into the crisp, early morning air. They ran as fast as they could, passing many trees to put as much distance between themselves and the facility as they could. Dean and Sam then heard the unmistakable sound of the Academy exploding. The ground shook beneath their feet, and the air was filled with the deafening roar of the blast.

The hunters dove to the ground, covering their heads as the blast sent debris and dust raining down around them. As they turned to look back, they saw the facility engulfed in flames, the fire burning with a fierce intensity that lit up the sky in an orange glow that emitted smoke and ash.

Luckily, Dean and Sam made it out alive. However, the same thing couldn't be said for Valerio, Y/n, and the other innocent boys who had been suffering since their childhoods and were subjected to the same brutal training and conditioning as Y/n. Their lives were cut short by the very system that had sought to control them.

The younger Winchester scanned the scene desperately, his heart pounding in his chest as he searched for any sign of Y/n. But there was nothing. Just flames and thick, choking smoke. He knew that Y/n was gone. There was no way that he or any of those young boys could have made it out alive because of the security system Trent had told him about. Guilt tightened his throat. "Y/n didn't make it."

Dean put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. "He made his choice. There was nothing we could’ve done differently to change that."

Sam shook his head, his eyes squeezing shut as he fought back the gnawing guilt that threatened to consume him. He had told himself that he would save everyone trapped in that nightmare, that he would give them the chance to make their own choices for the first time ever, instead of being manipulated into following someone else's orders, like a puppet on a string. Once again, Valerio had made sure that wouldn't happen. He had always gotten his way, no matter what, and now he had taken that with him to the grave. He had taken the easy way out, escaping justice and leaving behind a trail of victims who would not get the justice they deserved.

Suddenly, Trent's face flashed into Sam's mind — another person Sam had failed to save. He remembered the promise he had made to Trent to help him every step of the way during the infiltration process of the Dark Room. He had stuck by that promise, right up until the plan had gone awry and Trent was shot dead. Now, he would never be able to make amends for his past mistakes or to try and right the wrongs he had committed while working for the Dark Room. Though, Sam didn't think there was anything Trent could do to make up for everything he did. Trent's family would likely never know the path he had privately led. Trent's death just proves the notion that the choices they make always catch up to them in the end, and Trent's choice to stay with the Dark Room had ultimately led to his downfall.

The Dark Room may have finally been destroyed, but it came at a great cost — the loss of every single innocent person who had been trapped within those walls.

This was yet another sad reminder that they couldn't save everyone, no matter how hard they tried. It was a harsh truth that Sam had faced time and time again and one that he was tired of experiencing.

XXXXX XXXXX

Chapter Text

After everything burns down, what’s left to rebuild? Can everyone truly move on?

Six months.

That’s how long it had been since the Dark Room was destroyed. In that time, the world had learned of their existence.

Fox News Special Report

"The so-called Dark Room, a covert assassin-training facility posing as an elite private academy, has become the epicenter of one of the most harrowing human rights scandals in recent history.

"Valerio Santos, a beloved millionaire and a philanthropist, has been unmasked as the mastermind behind this clandestine operation. For decades, the Dark Room has, apparently, abducted kids — foster kids, runaways, and others taken from their families — and trained them to be killer assassins and expert spies. Many of the victims targeted by the program were also U.S. citizens, a revelation that has sparked outrage across the country. In addition, an anonymous whistleblower provided damming files, which shed light on a program that was both barbaric and systematic, shaking the public to its core."

Sam Winchester sat in a creaky booth at a run-down diner just outside of Buffalo, watching as the news anchor delivered a somber report about the Dark Room and nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee.

He was the mystery one who had blown the whistle, anonymously uploading the incriminating files online and dropping a copy off at the NYPD station in New York to lead them to the facility’s location. It had been a calculated risk, but Sam had known it was the only way to make sure that the truth about the Dark Room came to light, finally. The world and the people needed to know about the atrocities that had been committed within those walls, and Sam had been determined to make that happen. The truth had to come out—the victims deserved that much, at least.

Watching it all unfold on screen, Sam didn’t feel the satisfaction or triumph he thought he would. Exposing Valerio and his secret assassin Academy had been the right thing to do, necessary even. An act of justice. Even then, it didn't change the fact that countless, thousands of lives had been lost, innocent people who had been targeted and murdered by the Dark Room's operatives. It did not bring back the lives that had been stolen, the ones who had been abducted and forced into a life of violence and exploitation. And the trauma and pain inflicted on those who are still alive could never be fully erased.

The worn vinyl seat of the booth creaked in protest as Dean slid back into it across from Sam, returning from the bathroom. He glanced at Sam's somber expression, then followed his gaze to the TV screen, where the news anchor was still droning on, discussing the Dark Room scandal. The older Winchester's gaze lingered on the screen for a moment, before shifting his attention back to Sam. "You've been watching this?" Dean asked, nodding his head towards the TV. The question was rhetorical, but Sam knew that Dean was really asking if his brother was okay, if he was handling the aftermath of their hunt.

"Yeah," Sam replied quietly, taking a sip of his coffee, though the bitterness did little to rouse his spirits. It did suit his mood. "It’s all over the news now. Social media, too. They’re calling it one of the worst human rights scandals in history."

Dean frowned, leaning back in the seat. "Good. The world needed to know. And let the bastards burn for what they did. But you don’t look like you're celebrating."

Sam exhaled, setting his mug down. "It's just, what those guys were put through — it doesn’t feel like enough. Destroying it, telling the world — it's not going to fix what happened to the ones who are alive."

"We can’t fix everything, Sammy," Dean said quietly. "But you did something big, something that matters. You gave those forced into the Dark Room... a chance to be heard, finally. That's something huge."

Sam nodded, his eyes dropping to the table as he acknowledged Dean's words, but he did not respond, suddenly lost in his own thoughts. The moment, however, was interrupted by the arrival of their brunette waitress, who set their orders down with a warm smile. The pancakes, eggs, and bacon wafted up, momentarily distracting Sam from his somber mood.

Dean's gaze flicked up to the waitress, and he flashed her a quick, charming grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He watched as the waitress walked away, her hips swaying softly from side to side.

"She’s cute," he remarked casually before leaning in, his tone turning serious again. "You think that exposing the Dark Room is gonna bring more trouble our way?"

Sam’s brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?" The question was a simple one, but the underlying concern was certainly clear: what kind of trouble could they potentially face, now that the Dark Room was finally out in the open?

"I mean, Santos was a millionaire, with money, power, and connections. A lot of them. People like that don't just go down without taking someone else with them," Dean pointed out. The question was a valid one and the implication was clear to Sam. Valerio's downfall could have far-reaching consequences, and Dean was worried that Sam might be caught in the crossfire. He was a bit worried that Sam could have possibly left a digital trail of evidence — no matter how small — that could lead back to him, and, potentially, put him in danger. "You sure there aren't any breadcrumbs leading back to you?"

Dean's concern was mainly rooted in the knowledge of how powerful people like Santos operated. They often had a network of loyal associates to hurt their enemies. And with Valerio's history, Dark Room graduates could come after them if they find out what Sam did. Or anyone else, who had a blind loyalty to him. Sam's safety was Dean's top priority, and he needed to know that his brother had managed to effectively cover his tracks.

Sam's mind flashed back to the careful steps he'd taken to remain anonymous when exposing the Dark Room. He used a burner phone, a fake email account, and a VPN to mask his IP address. He made sure to use a secure connection when uploading the files to the internet, wiped the entire device clean, and discarded the phone after he was done. And he mailed in the flash drive just to be safe to avoid possibly being recognized. "I made sure it couldn’t be traced back to us. The files, the tip to the cops — I covered my tracks."

Dean's response was a low, muttered "Hope you're right." He reached out, his hand closing around the syrup bottle as he poured a deliberate amount onto his pancakes. "Because if anyone comes sniffing around, they’ll wish they hadn’t."

The bell above the diner door jingled, signaling the arrival of a new customer. A father and his son walked in to get a bite to eat. The taller sibling's attention was drawn to the way the father's hand was wrapped tightly around his son's. He had noticed that many parents had been doing the same thing lately, holding their sons' hands a little tighter, looking over their shoulders way more often, and staying hyper-vigilant after hearing about the Dark Room. It's as if they were all trying to reassure themselves that their boys were safe, that they were protected from the monsters that lurked in the shadows.

On the screen, the anchor shifted to a panel of experts discussing the scandal.

CNN Roundtable: Dark Room Tragedy

"This isn’t just a story of exploitation," Dr. Rachel Carter, a renowned psychologist, said at a roundtable discussion "This is systemic programming at its worst. They dehumanized these individuals, stripping them of their autonomy and free will. To train someone to kill without hesitation, especially minors, requires absolute control over their psyche. It's a form of psychological manipulation that is nothing short of warfare. This was more than violence; what happened there was a methodical dismantling of humanity."

XXXXX XXXXX 

The sudden wail of sirens shattered the calm spring afternoon of West Chester, New York, as a convoy of NYPD vehicles descended right upon the ruins of the Dark Room. Three unmarked SUVs led the procession, followed closely by three police cruisers, with their lights flashing, and a bomb squad van. Ambulances and paramedics stood nearby with grim faces that betrayed their expectations — there would be no survivors left to save.

Overhead, helicopters circled the area as they broadcast live footage of the scene to the world and searched for anybody. News vans and reporters, meanwhile, crowded practically every available inch of street and jostled for space along the blocked-off streets, eager to capture the latest developments in the Dark Room saga.

Detective Angela Reyes was the last to arrive and she quickly stepped out of her car. Her partner, Detective David Huang, exited the passenger side and quietly secured his ballistic vest. Angela's eyes swept over the place, taking in both the ruins of the Dark Room and the array of emergency vehicles and personnel that had responded to the scene. She noted the fact that the perimeter had been secured, with police tape and barricades in place to keep the public at a distance, but that did not stop them from shouting questions and shoving microphones into the officers' faces. Her team had done a thorough job of cordoning off the area.

"Dispatch," she spoke into her radio, "this is Detective Reyes. Detective Haung and I are now on-site at the coordinates provided. Beginning preliminary sweep."

Angela and David walked under the yellow tape, which marked the boundary of the crime scene, and made their way past the throng of reporters and camera crews who were gathered behind it. The journalists were all speaking at once, recounting the story of the Dark Room's discovery. Everyone there waited with bated breath for any new developments or official statements. Some reporters even called out to both Angela and David as they passed by, asking for comments and updates. But they ignored them and kept moving. They didn't know much yet anyway. The detectives moved through the tons of debris scattered across the place with their flashlights aimed ahead. 

As Angela navigated the ruins, her flashlight beam landed on a sight that made her face conform into a grimace. A charred hand, still handcuffed to the remnants of a bedpost, lay disembodied and unattached to anybody. With twenty years of experience underneath her belt as a seasoned detective, this case had somehow managed to rattle even her. There was just something about this scene that was… particularly disturbing.

"Handcuffed to the bed," she muttered. 

David’s lips tightened. "Guess those files didn’t lie. They really chained the recruits down to keep them from running away." He swept his flashlight around the place to see a few more hands attached to the bedposts, just like the first one they had found. "God, this place was a nightmare."

"That's putting it lightly. This was hell."

Nearby, a forensic investigator carefully lifted one of the hands. She placed it in a specialized bag, sealed it with a twist tie, and labeled it with a marker. Angela and David moved further into the rubble. The scene was littered with remnants of the facility’s purposes — fragments of training equipment, scorched dummies, burned target boards, and a shattered mirror streaked with faded handprints.

The glass was also smeared with a mixture of dust, debris, and what appeared to be blood. The deeper the two ventured into the rubble, the clearer it became that no one had survived. The dead bodies they came across were just that: dead. There were no signs of life, no pulses, and no breathing. God dammit, Angela thought.

Then, a younger officer jogged over and stopped in front of Angela. "Ma’am, you’re gonna want to take a look at this."

Angela, with David, followed him to the far side of the lot, where a small group of officers were gathered. An officer was holding a bundle of documents sealed in an evidence bag. A notebook was mostly burned — especially around the edges — but the writing was still legible. Angela’s eyes widened upon reading the header.

The Dark Room: Trusted Associates.

XXXXX XXXXX 

Later on, at the station, Captain Ronald Lopez, the head of the NYPD task force, stepped back into the site after a brief absence, during which he had spoken to the NYPD's Commissioner, Mark Clayton. The Commissioner was currently talking at a live press conference, answering questions from the public and providing updates on the Dark Room investigation. Immediately, Ronald made a beeline for the board room, where Angela and David were pouring over the latest discoveries.

"Detectives," Ronald greeted, "What’s the status of identifying any of the victims?"

Angela sighed, setting down her notes. "It’s slow going, Captain," she admitted. "The bodies were so badly damaged in an explosion caused there that visual IDs are impossible. We are waiting on Eli to complete the preliminary DNA analysis, but that’s going to take some time to do."

Ronald nodded. "I see. What about the whistleblower? Do we have any leads on who might have leaked the information?"

"None," a hint of frustration crept into Angela's voice. "We have a cybersecurity team working on tracing the digital trail, but so far, it's been a dead end. Whoever it was — they covered their tracks well."

Well, that made sense. Ronald had anticipated that identifying the bodies would be a difficult and time-consuming process, given the extent of the damage caused by the explosion. However, he was hoping that the DNA analysis would yield results quickly, providing them with the answers everyone needed to move forward with this investigation. Most pressing of all, he was eager to confirm whether Valerio Santos, the mastermind behind the operation, was indeed dead. The possibility that he might've escaped was a nagging concern, and the Captain was anxious to put the question to rest.

As for the whistleblower... he wished they could find out who it was, so they could possibly provide additional information. Anything at all to help shed more light on the inner workings of the Dark Room. At the same time, he did understand why the whistleblower would want to remain anonymous because of the nature of the case.

The Dark Room's tentacles, no doubt, reached far and wide, and it was likely that those involved would stop at nothing to silence the person who exposed them.

"What did you manage to find during the preliminary sweep? Anything significant?" Ronald asked, shifting the conversation.

David straightened in his seat and slid a burnt notebook across the desk labeled Trusted Associates. "Not much was left intact," he explained, his voice matter-of-fact. Looks like most of the important documents were either destroyed in the explosion or stored digitally, and those drives didn’t survive. But we did recover a partial list of names linked to Valerio. Two of them stand out: Marcus Bailey and Sofia Alvarez. Government officials."

Ronald's eyebrows rose. "Government ties. That’s a rabbit hole we’ll need to dig into. By chance, are there any survivors?"

David shook his head slowly. "No, Cap. It's pretty clear that the explosion was deliberate, and it was meant to leave no witnesses. We also found fragments of what looks like a detonator buried in the rubble. It was a wonder we were able to recover any evidence at all. Whoever set it off didn’t just want to destroy the place, they wanted to erase it completely. And if I had to guess? It was Valerio himself."

Ronald exhaled sharply, rubbing his jaw. "Alright, guys. I want a full report on that detonator. And dig into the connections between Valerio and his two associates. I want to know their involvement in this."

XXXXX XXXXX 

NBC Evening News

"Good evening, guys. New developments continue to emerge regarding the Dark Room tragedy. Investigators have now confirmed that the explosion, believed to be an act of internal sabotage, killed everyone inside. Forensic experts have concluded the death toll exceeded thirty, including both teenagers and adults. Among the deceased is the man at the center of the controversy: Valerio Santos.

"Public outrage is growing as authorities uncover disturbing ties between the Dark Room and high-ranking officials. Marcus Bailey, a senior government official, has been accused of funneling millions of taxpayer dollars into the program, funding operations that targeted not just U.S. citizens, but foreign ones, too. Bailey's involvement was not only unethical but also illegal, and he has been arrested on charges of child endangerment, treason, conspiracy, as well as human trafficking.

"Congresswoman Sofia Alvarez has also been implicated for her involvement in the scandal. According to investigators, Alvarez played a role in the program's psychological conditioning experiments, logistics management, and monitoring the mental health of the agents. She has been arrested on the same charges as Bailey. They both deny any wrongdoings, despite evidence from the whistleblower painting a dark, damning picture of their complicity in the Dark Room's activities."

Sam sat on his bed, his eyes fixed on the TV as he watched the news report about the latest development about the Dark Room. He and Dean had finally settled into their new base of operations, a state-of-the-art bunker located in Lebanon, Kansas.

Dean had dubbed it the "bat cave" and Sam had to admit that it was a fitting nickname. The bunker was a treasure trove of supernatural knowledge, filled with every object, scroll, and spell that the order had collected for over a thousand years by the Men of Letters.

It was stocked with research and books on a wide range of different subjects, from demonology to witchcraft, and it had already proven to be an invaluable resource in their hunts. And even had a collection of rare and ancient texts that Sam had only ever read about. It was a hunter's dream come true but for Sam and Dean? Well, they were just grateful to finally have a place to call their home. For the first time in forever, Sam had his own room, a space that was all his own, where he could relax and unwind after a long day of hunting things. About time.

The report continued, and Sam allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. Seeing Marcus Bailey and Sofia Alvarez face justice was a small victory. Valerio might've escaped the courts by dying in that explosion, but his allies wouldn't be so lucky. And that was something good.

Still, Sam’s mind lingered on an unsettling question: How many more people had been involved? How many more politicians, business leaders, and influential individuals had been secretly backing Valerio's operation? How many had turned a blind eye to the atrocities being committed in the Dark Room, or had even actively participated in them?

Valerio had built an empire, with powerful allies who had likely already begun distancing themselves to protect their own interests now that the scandal had blown open. It's very evident to Sam that his accomplices were all attempting to erase any ties to Valerio and the Dark Room before investigators could get to them. He could see them now — hiding in plain sight, pretending to be outraged and shocked by the revelations, all while secretly hoping and wishing that their own involvement would remain hidden.

However, his role in this was now over. Sam had done everything he could. He exposed the Dark Room, handed over the evidence, and ensured that at least some of its architects would answer for their crimes. The rest would have to fall to law enforcement and the government.

Not him and Dean.

As the news shifted to another story, Sam let out a breath and leaned back against the headboard of his bed. This is for you, Y/n, he thought, and for every other victim of the Dark Room Academy.

Y/n. The name lingered in Sam’s mind, unspoken but ever-present. His face, his voice during that day, lingered just below the surface. But the younger Winchester never spoke of him, especially not to his brother. After the Dark Room’s fall, Sam found his mind being plagued, drilled by the same thought: I should have saved him. Eventually, however, Sam had come to accept the truth. He had done everything he could. Y/n had chosen to stay behind and stay with Valerio. There was nothing Sam could have done to change that. He couldn't help but wonder what had driven Y/n to stay behind when he could've left.

Yet, the hunter knew that he would never have the answers. Whatever reasons Y/n had for doing so, they were his own. And no amount of regret would change that.

XXXXX XXXXX

The faucet shut off. Sam emerged from the bathroom, rubbing a towel over his damp hands as he headed back into the library. The middle table was just as he’d left it — cluttered with his open laptop, a pile of case files, scattered newspaper clippings, and a large, empty coffee mug. Dean had gone out to grab food, leaving Sam to sift through the latest reports of supernatural activity on his own. However, their current case didn’t seem tied to the supernatural. It actually seemed like it was—

"Sam Winchester."

A low, smooth voice called out, piercing the silence of the bunker. The tone was calm and controlled. Unthreatening, too, yet it sent every nerve in Sam’s body into high alert. That voice did not belong to Dean, and that meant that someone, or something, had managed to breach the warding that was supposed to keep the bunker safe. He didn't have time to think, only react. Sam's hand went for the knife on the table as he spun around, throwing it toward the source of the voice quickly.

But instead of hitting its target, the knife was suddenly and effortlessly caught in midair. Then, the person, a man, judging by his physique and the broad shoulder that came into view, moved it away from his face, finally revealing himself to Sam.

And it was Y/n L/n.

Sam blinked, struggling to process what he was seeing. Y/n... he should be dead, incinerated along with the rest of the Dark Room. But here he was, standing in front of Sam, very much alive, dressed in casual black jeans, a white t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. Not a single scratch or burn marred his skin. Sam's thoughts were a jumbled mess of questions and confusion. How had Y/n managed to escape the blast without anyone seeing him? And more importantly, how did Y/n know where to find him? And how did he get inside the bunker without the key?

Oh no, a cold dread crept up Sam's spine as he stared at Y/n. If Y/n was still alive, did that mean that Valerio could also be alive, too? But no, he told himself, that's impossible. Forensics experts confirmed that Valerio was dead. Plus, logistically speaking, it would be incredibly difficult to pull off a deception of that magnitude.

"Y/n," Sam finally managed to speak, eyes widened, "how the hell are you still alive?"

Y/n's shoulders rose and fell in a casual shrug as if being presumed dead and then showing up alive was no big deal. "Some fire can’t kill the greatest assassin in America," he let the knife fall onto the table with a metallic clatter. "Nice throw, by the way. I see you’ve been practicing."

The statement, from Y/n's tone of voice, was not spoken with pride or arrogance about his skills as an assassin. It was a flat, matter-of-fact truth. As Sam’s pulse steadied, he realized he shouldn’t have been surprised that Y/n managed to track him or break into the bunker.

The bunker’s warding was designed to keep out certain supernatural threats — not human assassins. And as for him surviving the blast, Sam shouldn't have been so shocked that Y/n had managed to escape unscathed. After all, if anyone could survive that bomb, it would be Y/n.

But still:

"What are you doing here?" Sam asked, his hand inching toward the gun tucked into the back of his jeans. He didn’t know why Y/n was here, and Sam wasn't sure what to expect. Plus, he didn’t want to be taken by surprise if the man suddenly did something. The last time they saw each other, Y/n almost killed him, so Sam was going to stay cautious and hear him out. 

Y/n's sharp eyes tracked the movement of Sam's hand to his gun immediately. It seemed as if nothing escaped his notice. He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Relax, Winchester. I come in peace."

To prove his point, Y/n began unloading weapons. A pistol hit the table first, then another, followed by two knives. Next up was a set of throwing stars. Then, a flash bomb, smoke bomb, and one of those taser disks joined the pile of discarded weapons. That was all of the weapons Y/n had on him. Well, there was one on his finger, but he wasn’t removing the ring. It was a harmless one; a grappling hook.

Just... wow. This was a man who was prepared for anything. Sam felt himself relax slightly, his stance easing a bit as he realized that Y/n had, at least, made an effort to disarm himself. Sam's eyes drifted to the ring resting on Y/n's finger.

It was simple, elegant, and he wouldn't be surprised if that ring was more than just a harmless piece of jewelry. In fact, he was almost certain that it was some kind of cleverly disguised weapon, such as a poison dart shooter or a tiny blade. Or something even more sinister. Still, Y/n showed that he did come here in peace.

Sam's hand slowly moved away from the gun in his pocket, but his eyes never left Y/n's face. He was still wary, still cautious, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

"Why are you here, Y/n?" he asked again. Sam wondered why Y/n decided to seek him out. Especially since it seemed that Y/n had deliberately chosen to reveal himself when Sam was alone in the bunker, with Dean conveniently absent. It was evident that Y/n must've planned this encounter carefully. And Y/n didn’t look like he was here for a fight. If anything, Sam realized he looked like he was more interested in talking than attacking. About what? Sam didn’t know, but he was about to find out.

Y/n's gaze locked onto Sam's, his expression inscrutable, like a mask that revealed nothing. His tongue flicked out to moisten his lips. "That’s an excellent question," he kicked the chair out from the table where Sam's stuff was and sat down, "and the answer is: I want you to kill me." 

The younger Winchester blinked. Once, twice, and then a third time, feeling taken aback by the request. Sam had expected... well, honestly, he didn’t know what he had been expecting Y/n to say. But asking to be killed was definitely at the bottom of the list. Those words shocked Sam into silence momentarily before he found his voice. "You... want me to kill you? Why?" 

"Because my conditioning is too deep."

Too deep would be an understatement. These past six months have been... a lot.

In that time, Y/n had been staying at a secure safe house in Maryland, and he had been attempting to come to terms with the horrible atrocities he committed as a conditioned assassin for decades. The weight of his actions pressed down on him as he began experiencing certain emotions that had been beaten, both physically and metaphorically, out of him.

So, imagine Y/n's surprise when, during the night, he started having nightmares. And those nightmares caused him to feel an overwhelming sense of absolute guilt. The murders, the missions, the lives he’d taken without hesitation — filled his head.

Y/n would wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, and would see the faces of his victims. He didn’t know who they were, and he didn't remember their names, either. At the time, it hadn’t mattered. He was just following orders. There was no room for doubt, no space for guilt. But these days, it was haunting him like a ghost. And God... Y/n hated it.

And then, there was the other problem.

Valerio was dead. Completely dead. With him gone, Y/n felt lost, adrift in a sea of fear and uncertainty, and he didn't know how to find his way back to solid ground — or even what solid ground looked like.

Every step he took felt like a stumble, every decision a gamble. He questioned everything, from the most fundamental aspects of his existence to the smallest details of his daily life. What did it mean to be human, really? What did it mean to be living, to be alive, and make choices?

And what about leading a meaningful life? How did one do that, exactly? Y/n had never really had to think about these things before. He always had orders to follow. The assassin was a puppet for so, so long, dancing on the strings of his handlers, that he didn't know how to be anything else. But now? Now, he was a ship without a rudder, a car without a driver, a person without a purpose.

Wasn't his only purpose in this world to kill people? To do harm? That's what he had been told, day in and day out until it became his reality. The words had been drummed into his psyche, repeated like a litany, until he had come to believe them.

And Valerio may be dead, but the feeling didn't go away. He still wanted to kill. The urge... it burned within him like a fire that had been lit and couldn't be extinguished.

I need to feel that rush of adrenaline that comes with taking someone's life. I need to see the fear in their eyes and watch as they realize their time has finally run out. I want, I need, to hear the sound of their last breath, to feel the weight of their life slipping away beneath my fingers. I need to see the blood on my hands, to feel the warmth of it spreading across my skin. It is the only way I know I've done my job well, the only way I know I've truly lived.

Y/n's mind was wired and he craved the voice of a leader, someone like Valerio, who would tell him who to kill and where to find the target. Then, he would use his intelligent mind to carry out the mission.

But Y/n's world had been turned upside down. There was no mission for him to go on, no orders to listen to from Valerio. However, the pieces of his heart that had begun to reform, the small parts that had learned to love and care for Andrew, were glad that Valerio was gone. He had wanted to try to stop killing because he knew that his brother — from what Trent told him and from what he remembered — would not have wanted him to continue down the path of violence and bloodshed.

That's why Y/n had come to find Sam. He was still a danger to others, a ticking time bomb. But the thought of taking his own life was abhorrent to him. He could never slit his wrists, or swallow a bottle of pills. No, he didn't have the courage —perhaps the cowardice — to take his own life. And so, he had come to Sam, to ask him to do what he could not do himself.

"All my life, I’ve been programmed to follow orders," Y/n continued, but he wasn’t looking at Sam. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the worn wooden table as if the grooves and scratches were quite interesting to look at. "Every nerve in my body keeps screaming at me to do what I was made for and to do it quickly. Kill this target. Eliminate that witness. No hesitation. No remorse. And now Valerio’s gone, but… sometimes I still hear his voice in my head. Telling me to kill. To obey. I don’t know how to stop it."

Sam pulled out the chair across from Y/n and sat down. "So, you want me to free you from the conditioning by killing you?"

Y/n nodded. "It’s better that way, I think. I have done too much bad. I still want to. What’s the point of keeping me around?"

Sam shook his head firmly. "No. That’s not how this works," he said, his words a clear rejection of Y/n's fatalistic attitude. "You have been controlled your entire life, but that ended six months ago. You don’t have to follow anyone’s orders anymore. You can make your own choices now."

Y/n's frown was a deep crease on his forehead, his confusion and uncertainty sketched on his face. He was struggling. "I don’t know how to do that. I don’t even know who I am without someone telling me what to be. If I were to be kept alive, then," he finally looked up to meet Sam’s gaze. "I would need someone to listen to."

Sam's eyes widened and his heart stilled. "You..." Sam started, and then his voice trailed off as the realization hit him like a ton of bricks from certain pieces clicking into place. Y/n did not really want to die, he didn't just want Sam to kill him. That was only a last resort, a final option if all else failed. No, Y/n was seeking him out because if Sam did not kill him, which he had made clear many times before that he would not do that, then Y/n— "...want me to be your handler?" that had to be it.

The assassin's hand shot up in a gesture of confirmation as if to say that Sam's conclusion was spot on without needing to say the words aloud. "I watched you from a distance after you discovered my true identity. No doubt, you were the only person who felt sorry for me and saw me as someone who deserved redemption," even though I don't believe that myself, "You also exhibit qualities that make you a great leader. I can follow your orders."

Man... this was a lot to take in. Sam had never been in a situation like this before, where someone was asking him to take on the role of their handler, which is the very thing that had stripped them of their humanity in the first place. The request was both unsettling and heartbreaking and a pang of sympathy pierced Sam's heart. The fact that a grown man in his late twenties, someone who should be capable of making his own decisions and living his own life, was unable to operate in his own capacity and wanted, needed, someone to tell him what to do, spoke volumes. The programming had been burned into his mind so deeply that it dictated his very existence.

But sympathy didn’t mean agreement.

The hunter knew that he couldn't be his handler. If he took on that role, it would only perpetuate the cycle of control that Y/n had been trapped in for so long. Y/n would still be under someone's thumb, still be forced to follow orders without question, and would never be able to live his life any other way. Besides, Sam had serious doubts about the assassin's ability to follow orders that didn't involve harming, killing, or manipulating people.

Additionally, Sam realized that if he were to, hypothetically, take on the role of Y/n's handler, It'd make him no better than the people who controlled Y/n his entire life. Sam was willing to help Y/n, but he knew he had to take a different approach, one that prioritized his autonomy and agency.

Sam shook his head again. "I’m not going to be your handler, Y/n. If I started giving you orders, I’d just be another version of Valerio. You’d still be under someone’s control, and that’s not living. You need to figure out who you are. Not who Valerio wanted you to be. Not who I want you to be. But what you want to be."

Y/n’s jaw clenched. Sam’s refusal clearly wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. His eyes flicked back to the table, looking at the open laptop and newspaper clipping.

Then, after a long pause, he spoke again. "I killed someone," Y/n admitted abruptly.

Sam’s breath caught. "What?"

"I killed someone," he repeated, his voice eerily calm. "It was just a few days ago. I went to a bar because I was bored, and I saw this biker. He was big, tough-looking, loud, and he looked like he had a short fuse. I knew he'd be easy to provoke, so I messed with his motorcycle, just to see how he'd react." A faint, disturbing smile played on Y/n's lips, a hint of the twisted satisfaction that he had derived from the encounter. "He took the bait — just like I knew he would. He got angry, and when he hit me, I knew I had him right where I wanted him. And God... It was like I was back in the game. I killed him, of course. I had to. Then, I knocked out the barman, disabled all the cameras, and made sure there were no witnesses by killing his friend. It was easy, almost too easy."

The younger Winchester stared at Y/n, listening to the assassin’s confession. An innocent person, no, two innocent people, were dead. The confession hit him like a punch to the gut, but it wasn't the act itself that caused his stomach to churn — it was the way Y/n described it. No remorse, no justification, just a cold recounting of what he'd done. It was as if Y/n was just describing a routine task, rather than a horrible, senseless murder.

"Y/n…" Sam spoke quietly, tentatively. He leaned forward, fingers gripping the edge of the table. "You murdered two people," his voice was steady. Sam was trying his hardest not to yell, not to scream at Y/n that he couldn't simply go around killing people, no matter how conditioned he was to do so. But it was hard, oh it is so hard, to keep his anger and frustration in check. His tone also carried a faint note. Not anger (not yet, at least), something heavier — like disappointment, perhaps. "You manipulated that person into hitting you, just so you could justify killing him?"

Y/n's nod was a slight, almost imperceptible movement, but it was enough to convey his acknowledgment of the truth. "Yes," he confirmed, and he spoke as if he were recounting the weather. "And I didn’t feel guilty. At least, not at the moment. It felt natural — like breathing."

"Natural? Y/n, you’re sitting here talking about taking a life like it’s just... nothing."

"It is nothing." The words were a low snarl, a momentary crack in Y/n’s mask. He exhaled sharply and looked away, his eyes darting to the floor. "At least, that’s what I was trained to believe. Killing was my purpose. My value. Whenever Valerio told me to pull the trigger, I did it without question. And when there’s nobody left to give verbal orders..." He trailed off, “if it’s not Valerio’s voice, then my mind fills the void with its own commands cause I know what he would've wanted me to do. There's no escaping this programming."

"Is that really what you think?"

Y/n’s lips curled up into a bitter smile. "Not think, Winchester. Know." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "This isn’t a bad habit or a moral failing. It’s hardwired. It’s like a drug that I can’t quit. So, I need you to tell me what to do or—" he paused, "I need you to stop me."

"This isn't about stopping you, Y/n," Sam's words were a gentle, yet firm, rebuke. "This is about undoing what the Dark Room did to you. You don’t have to listen to those voices in your head," Sam held Y/n's gaze. "They're not real. You’re not their puppet on a string anymore."

"But I am!" Y/n’s voice rose sharply, filled with complete frustration. "Even without Valerio physically present, the strings are still there, pulling me in directions I can’t control. And if I don’t obey those urges, I fall apart. I can’t function properly, Sam. Jesus Christ, can't you see? I'm broken." 

Dammit. That... Y/n hadn't meant to say that, but the irony was not lost on him, and he couldn't help but think about the countless times he had been told that he was unbreakable. Andrew, Buck, and the others had all reinforced this notion. For a long time, Y/n believed it. He had been so blind, so foolish, to think that he was above the fray. But the truth was, he was... broken. If Trent hadn't told him the truth about what happened to Andrew, he would've served Valerio until he dropped dead. No question or doubt about that.

Sam’s eyes softened at the unmistakable vulnerability within Y/n’s voice. "You’re not broken, Y/n. You’re hurt. You’re lost. But you’re not beyond saving. And killing — or controlling you — is not the answer."

A dry, humorless laugh left Y/n's mouth. "You’re a bleeding heart, Winchester. But this isn't a fairytale. Not everyone can be saved. Some of us are just too far gone."

Silence settled between the two men. Sam studied him, taking in the tension in his clenched fists, the barely perceptible tremor in his jaw. Beneath the assassin’s carefully controlled exterior was a man unraveling, each thread of his psyche fraying under the weight of his past.

"You said you don’t know how to live without orders," Sam said carefully. He was trying to gently coax Y/n into seeing something that he hadn't even considered before. "But you’re here now, aren’t you? You chose to come to me. You chose to tell me the truth. And you made another choice before that, in case you forgot — back in the Dark Room. You shot Valerio instead of me. Those were your choices. No one made them for you, except you."

Y/n frowned, as though the thought had never fully occurred to him. Momentarily, Sam thought, he truly thought, he had finally gotten through to Y/n. But then, he shook his head. "That was different. Shooting Valerio was different." and Sam didn’t miss how Y/n conveniently ignored the other examples, the way he refused to acknowledge that coming here was a choice too. "I only did it because I remembered something my brother had told me a long time ago. And not even a second later, I felt like I was back under Valerio’s control. You don’t get it, Sam.

"You... you don’t know what it’s like to be controlled, to have your entire existence built on only commands. To not even recognize your own thoughts because they’ve been drowned out by someone else’s will. Every time I try to think for myself, it feels wrong. Empty. It's like I'm so incomplete without someone to obey."

Sam exhaled, absorbing Y/n's words. The raw emotion in his voice struck Sam like a thunderclap and he leaned forward in his chair. "You’re right. I don’t know what it’s like to go through the horrors of what you've been through. I do, however, know what it's like to feel controlled by forces."

The h/c-haired male's eyebrows shot up as if urging Sam to continue his story.

Sam took a steadying breath. "I spent over a year addicted to demon blood, Y/n. I thought I needed it — to be strong, to fight the good fight. It helped a lot when it came to killing demons. And it was not just about power. It felt right. It felt like it completed me. Because of that, I hurt a lot of people. Made choices I can’t take back. I have blood on my hands, just like you do. So, yeah, I get it. More than you think."

Y/n scoffed, shaking his head. "That doesn’t matter. Our situations aren’t the same. And the blood on my hands? Not enough to satisfy the monster inside me."

"You’re not a monster," Sam said sharply. "You were made into something against your will, but that does not define you. You said you want someone to tell you what to do. Fine, I’ll tell you. Don’t give up. Don’t keep killing. Don't let them win."

The room fell silent again. Y/n stared at Sam, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke, voice quieter, almost resigned. "And what happens when I slip up again? When I can’t stop myself—" from killing?

Sam hesitated for only a moment before reaching across the table, hand hovering before finally resting gently over Y/n’s. A grounding touch. "Then you come to me. You don’t have to go through this alone. You’re not the first person I have tried to help, and you won’t be the last. If you’re willing to try, I will be here. And I can get you real help — therapy, deprogramming, something that can actually undo what they did to you. Or, at least, try to undo it."

"Therapy? You think some shrink can fix decades of mental coercion? That a few therapy sessions will make the ghosts go away?" Was Sam serious right now?

Sam’s grip on his hand tightened slightly. "No," he voiced honestly. "But it’s a start."

A flicker of something, some emotion, crossed Y/n’s face—relief? Doubt? Hope? It was impossible to tell. He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand down his face before exhaling a slow, unsteady breath.

"You’re an idiot," he muttered, though there was no real bite behind the words.

"I’m hopeful," Sam corrected. "Hopeful that you can break free from the chains that still hold you. There is a part of you that’s fighting to surface, no matter how much the conditioning tries to drag you back under. You just have to take it one step at a time. I know that you can do it."

"One step at a time?" Y/n echoed slowly, testing the words like they were foreign to him. And then, he let out a quiet sigh. "Alright, Winchester. One step at a time."

Sam nodded. "That’s right. We’ll figure this out together. But you have to try, Y/n. And you have to promise me something — you cannot kill again. Do it for Andrew, but most importantly — do it for yourself."

Y/n's lips compressed into a thin line. "I..." another sigh. "I can’t promise I won’t want to. But — I can promise that I’ll try." For Andrew. The words went unspoken, but they didn’t need to be said out loud. 

"That’s all I ask," Sam's lips curved into a faint smile. Although Y/n didn't return it, something in his posture softened, rigid tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

It was only then that Y/n's gaze flicked downward, finally noticing Sam’s hand resting atop his own. Sam, realizing that his hand was still on Y/n's, felt a sudden flush rise to his pale cheeks. He quickly pulled his hand back, his movements a little awkward as he tried to play it cool.

Before the two could dwell on it, the distinct sound of a lock clicking echoed through the bunker. Sam figured it was Dean. However, he barely had time to register the thought before Y/n moved. Instincts took over, his body snapping into combat readiness. He jumped over the table, grabbed the gun from the pile he had previously laid down on the table, and aimed it toward the entrance — his grip steady, stance perfectly balanced.

"Y/n, it's just Dean. Put the gun down." 

Y/n processed the words quickly and, without hesitation, lowered the weapon and nodded his head. He set it back onto the table alongside the rest of his gear, his back to Sam. "Reflex," he murmured.

The metallic clank of the bunker’s door echoed through the bunker, followed by the steady thud of boots descending the iron staircase. Dean Winchester entered, a paper bag with food in one hand and a plastic bag with two canned sodas in the other. He was ready to eat. He had even grabbed a slice of apple pie for himself — a reward for surviving the painfully slow service at Lebanon’s only decent diner. The only silver lining? A free milkshake for his trouble. Too bad it tasted like watered-down disappointment.

"Sammy!" Dean called out with a goofy grin. "You better still be hungry, 'cause I sure as hell didn’t drive halfway didn’t drive halfway across Kansas for nothin’!"

He rounded the corner into the library, only to stop mid-step, his boots skidding to a sudden halt. Dean fully expected to see his brother hunched over his laptop, working on the case. However, that was not the case. There, standing directly in front of Sam in the bunker’s library, alive and breathing, was someone Dean never thought he’d see again. Someone he’d hoped to never see again.

Y/n.

For a brief moment, Dean’s brain stalled, like an engine choking on bad gas. His green eyes narrowed, flickering between Y/n and Sam as if he was attempting to confirm the scene in front of him wasn’t some hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation or that bad diner milkshake. But there was no mistaking it — Y/n was alive. And he was in their damn bunker.

"What the hell?" Dean said, his voice low and sharp. The bags in his hands hit the table with a careless thud as his fingers instinctively brushed against the grip of his gun. "You have got to be kidding me," he looked at Sam. "What's he doing here?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly anticipating his reaction. "Dean—"

"No, don’t ‘Dean’ me," Dean snapped. "He was dead. Supposed to be dead. So why is he here, Sam, eating up our air supply?"

Y/n folded his arms across his chest. His expression was unreadable, though the flicker of amusement in his e/c eyes suggested he was far from intimidated by Dean’s little hostility and that he had clearly expected Dean to react this way. 

"Nice to see you too, Dean," Y/n said dryly. "Still as charming as ever, I see."

Dean’s lip curled into a sneer. "You don’t get to talk to me like we’re old buddies, pal. The last time we crossed paths, you were—oh, right— about to kill my brother," he pulled out his gun from his jacket and pointed it directly at Y/n's head. "and I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again."

"Dean!" Sam interjected and shot to his feet. "Just give me a second to explain."

Dean shot his brother a sharp look. “Explain what, exactly? Why the guy who almost killed us is sitting here like we’re about to invite him to family game night? What, he's going to braid your hair now?"

Y/n sighed. "Look, I'm not here to fight—"

"Yeah? Well, congratulations, you’re not getting what you want,” Dean cut him off.

"Dean, stop!" Sam’s voice was louder this time, tone edged with frustration. He stood, placing himself between his brother and Y/n. "He’s not here to fight. He came to talk. He… he wants help."

Dean barked out a humorless laugh. "Help? From us? That’s rich." His glare flicked back to Y/n. "What’s your angle, huh? Looking for another way to screw us over? Or you’re here to finish the job?"

Y/n rolled his eyes. "If I wanted to kill you, Dean, I would’ve done it six months ago when I had you both at my mercy."

"Oh, well, fantastic," Dean deadpanned. "That’s real comforting. Thanks for that."

Sam’s patience was thinning slightly. "Would you just listen for five damn seconds? Y/n’s not the same guy he was six months ago. He’s been through hell — literally — and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. He came here because he wants us to help him stop killing."

Dean’s expression didn’t budge. He stared at Sam. Then his gaze flicked back to Y/n, scanning him as if trying to read the truth in his posture, his face, his eyes, searching for any sign this was not simply another elaborate manipulation. "And what, exactly, are we supposed to do about that?" he finally inquired. "Fix him? Be his moral compass? This guy's a killer, Sam. That doesn’t just go away because he suddenly feels bad about it."

"I don't need you to fix me," Y/n's voice cut through. He was making it clear that he wasn't expecting Dean to do anything for him. He sat back down, but this time, he chose the seat next to Sam instead of across from him. "I know what I am. I know what I’ve done. And maybe I don’t deserve help, or forgiveness, or anything else. But Sam seems to think otherwise. And for whatever reason, he’s willing to give me a shot." His sharp eyes flicked to Dean. "So, if you’ve got a problem with that, then have a problem with that."

Dean’s grip on the gun tightened. For a moment, the younger sibling genuinely thought he might pull the trigger. But Y/n didn’t flinch. He didn’t so much as blink.

Then, with a sharp exhale, Dean shoved the gun back into his jacket. His shoulders remained tense, but he took a slow step back. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth, his eyes locked onto Sam. "You want to play a redemption arc, knock yourself out." Then, shifting his attention back to Y/n, Dean jabbed a finger in his direction, his glare intensifying. "But I'm watching you. The second you give me a reason, I’ll put you down myself, buddy."

"Wouldn’t expect anything less."

Dean’s glare lingered on Y/n for another long moment before he turned away, grabbing the paper bag from the table. “Burgers are getting cold,” he muttered, stalking off towards the kitchen angrily.

When Dean left, Y/n glanced at Sam, his expression unreadable. "That went well."

Sam let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Dean will come around."

Y/n tilted his head slightly. "Will he?"

Sam didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

XXXXX XXXXX

Minutes later, Dean returned to the room, the faint crinkle of the paper bag in his hand punctuating the tense silence that lingered in the room. Sam noted that his brother had also grabbed a beer from the fridge. Without a word, Dean set the bag on the already cluttered table, reached inside, and tossed a burger to Sam.

"Catch," Dean said curtly.

Sam caught the wrapped burger with one hand, watching his brother’s tight expression with a furrowed brow. Dean didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned against the edge of the table closest to the kitchen, tearing into his burger. His green eyes kept flickering suspiciously towards Y/n.

Everyone surely noticed how there was no third burger. Of course, there wasn’t. Dean hadn’t exactly anticipated feeding the man who almost killed them. Twice.

Not that Y/n seemed to care.

The assassin hadn’t moved since Dean’s heated departure, and instead, chose to sit unnaturally still and motionless, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, posture unnervingly straight. His hands rested lightly on the table in front of him, fingers twitching slightly, as though they were unused to being idle. It wasn’t so much calm as it was waiting — waiting for a command, for an order — anything.

Sam unwrapped his burger but did not take a bite yet. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. His hazel eyes darted between his brother and Y/n before finally breaking the tense silence.

"So, do you want something to eat?" he asked, his words clearly directed at Y/n.

Y/n blinked, his gaze snapping to Sam as though he’d been yanked out of a trance. He shook his head, his movements jerky and a bit unrefined. Abrupt. "Not hungry." 

Dean scoffed under his breath, shoving another piece of burger into his mouth. “Of course, he’s not. Probably running on pure adrenaline and bad decisions alone."

"Dean," Sam warned, giving him a sharp look but Y/n didn’t react to the comment.

Instead, he shifted slightly in his seat, briefly hesitating before he spoke. "Sam."

Sam’s attention immediately snapped back to Y/n. Huh. There was something so uncharacteristically unsure in Y/n’s voice, an unfamiliar softness that didn’t fit the assassin’s otherwise sharp edges.

"Yeah?"

"Can I use the bathroom?"

Sam blinked, feeling taken aback by the request. It wasn’t the words themselves that surprised him, but the way Y/n had asked, like a soldier seeking permission from his commanding officer for leave, or how a subordinate might ask their superior for permission to take a break.

It seems that Y/n was still under the impression that Sam was his handler, even though Sam made it verbally clear that he was not going to be that for him. 

"Uh, yeah," Sam said slowly. “You don’t have to ask," he felt the need to say. "It's just down the hall, third door on the left."

Y/n nodded once and stood up with a precision that seemed almost unnatural. As the assassin  made his way toward the hallway, the older Winchester's eyes followed him like a hawk tracking its prey.

Once Y/n was out of earshot, Dean set his half-eaten burger on the table and cracked open his beer, taking a long swig before talking. "You see what I mean? This guy’s a walking red flag, Sam. He’s acting like you’re his drill sergeant now."

Here we go, Sam massaged his temples. "Dean, he’s been conditioned his entire life to follow orders. It’s not something he can just turn off by flipping a switch."

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, we’re not babysitters for your pet assassin." He took another bite of his burger, chewing before adding, "I don’t trust him at all. And you shouldn’t either."

"He’s not my pet," Sam shot back, the frustration in his voice finally rising to the surface. "and in case you forgot, he’s the one who took down Valerio — not us. He's the one who saved us months ago. He's the only reason that we're still alive. Now, he's just a person who needs help."

Dean swallowed another mouthful of burger. “Help or no help, you won't stop being the best killer in the country. People like him? They only adapt. They manipulate. And I’ll be damned if I let my guard down around a man who could slit our throats if we look away for a second."

Sam’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.

Dean took that as a win and pressed on. "Besides, you and I aren't in the business of fixing people. We kill monsters, burn their bones, save people, and move on."

Again, Sam said nothing. He just sighed.

Down the hall, Y/n stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him with a soft click. He stood in front of the glass mirror and leaned forward, gripping the edges of the porcelain basin as he stared at his reflection. 

His face was intact — no bruises, no scars, no signs of the war raging inside him. On the outside, he appeared whole. He looked composed, unreadable, but it was a lie. He knew that much. Because on the inside? He was anything but fine. It was a cruel juxtaposition at its finest.

Y/n stared at his reflection, dissecting the features that should have belonged to a stranger — because that’s what he should have been by now. A different person. Someone new. Someone free.

But he wasn’t. 

And worse — he missed Valerio. 

It was a thought that disgusted him as much as it confused him, yet it sat there, immovable and undeniable, like a splinter lodged too deep to extract. Valerio had been the one who defined most of his suffering, the puppet master who pulled all the strings, breaking him down and rebuilding him into something unrecognizable. A weapon. An assassin molded into something that existed for obedience and a blood-soaked purpose. And yet, despite all of that — despite the pain, the manipulation, the atrocities — he missed him, even though Valerio was the last person Y/n should have missed.

He wished that he was here in person to tell him what to do. Or to berate him, to give him a mission, to give him purpose.

Y/n hated himself for wanting that, but deep down, he knew why he wanted that. Because anything — anything — was better than this weightless, directionless void of uncertainty — even control and pain.

And he could still hear Valerio’s voice echoing in his mind. The same words spoken after the graduation ceremony.

"You were always my best, Y/n."

"No one will ever match what you are."

"You don’t need anyone else. Just me."

That praise, those words—they had been a certainty in a world where nothing else made sense to him. Y/n yearned to hear that again, but he shouldn't. He shouldn't want to hear his voice. He shouldn’t want Valerio’s praise. It was so wrong, twisted, to desire the approval of a man like him. 

It wasn't love. Y/n was certain of that. He had long ago lost the capacity to feel that particular emotion in his heart. No, what he felt was something else entirely.

It was familiarity.

He had spent his whole life with Valerio’s voice in his ear, his commands shaping every action, every thought, every breath. Kill them. No hesitation or remorse. The words had been a constant reminder of his purpose, of the role he was meant to play in this world. Obedience is survival. The phrase was a warning to remind him that to disobey was to die. Do not think, just act. The command was a reminder to let his training take over and help him.

His words had been the foundation of Y/n’s reality, directing him, guiding him. He had tried, too, for six long months to live without it. To be free. But freedom was a concept he didn’t fully understand. What did it even mean to be free? Truly free?

Freedom should've felt weightlessness, such as breathing fresh air for the first time. It should have meant choices and a future untethered to orders or missions.

Instead, freedom felt like free-falling. Like plummeting through the sky with no safety net to catch him, no parachute to slow his descent, nothing but open air, and the inevitable crash waiting below.

However, Y/n realized that it wasn’t just the familiarity. He also couldn’t help but crave the structure Valerio had provided.

Structure. That’s what it had been — control disguised as order. Commands disguised as purpose. The certainty that every action, every kill, and every breath he took served a purpose. Without that structure, Y/n felt unmoored, adrift in a sea of choices he couldn't make alone.

Y/n's mind still operated in commands, in objectives, in targets, though. Every day, his instincts went into overdrive, scanning his surroundings for potential threats, analyzing the layout of the area, and identifying the weaknesses of those around him. In buildings, he would look for all exits to any potential hiding spots. Outside, he always took note of license plate numbers and cameras in the area.

If someone walked too close to Y/n, his body tensed, ready to strike if necessary. When he slept, he woke at the faintest noise, his fingers reaching for the gun under his pillow. When he sometimes spoke, he caught himself waiting for approval, for correction, for punishment.

And when he killed those men at the bar...

When Y/n killed those guys, it had felt right. It had felt like something normal. Like he had found a momentary reprieve from the unbearable emptiness inside of him. And he loved it because he had felt like himself again. Like he had a purpose. A reason to exist. Valerio had taught him one thing above all else — his existence only had meaning through the missions he completed and the blood he spilled.

So what am I supposed to be now? If he wasn’t a killer, what was he? And what was he supposed to do with himself if there was no one telling him what to be?

He didn't know.

I shouldn’t miss him, Y/n thought bitterly, his reflection glaring back at him with cold, accusing eyes. Wow, he barely recognized the man staring back at him. He was used to seeing himself through Valerio’s eyes, but now, he was just lost. He destroyed me. He took Andrew from me forever. He made me into a monster.

But Valerio had also been the one constant in Y/n's life. The one voice he could always count on to fill the void, to tell him what to do when he didn’t know how to exist on his own. His commands had been an anchor, twisted as they were.

Now that anchor was gone, and Y/n was left floundering in the dark ocean. Valerio had been his compass, no matter how ruthless and cruel he was. Without him, Y/n did not know which way was north. 

There was just no way he could replace anyone with Valerio. Not even with Sam, the man who, for some reason, believed that he could change. Looked at him and saw something salvageable, something worth saving. Dean, on the other hand, saw him for what he was — a monster. And Y/n agreed with Dean's assessment.

His fingers slowly released their tense grasp on the sink, his hands falling limp and still. He gazed at his reflection, his eyes filled with a mix of disgust and self-loathing. "You're pathetic," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Missing someone who treated you like a weapon, like you were nothing. What is wrong with you?"

The reflection didn't answer.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

It was a technique Buck had taught him — controlled breathing. It kept the hands steady. It kept the mind sharp. But now, it doesn't seem to be working. Y/n's mind was already fractured, and his hands — his lethal, trained hands — were shaking.

Suddenly:

A dark part of him wanted to walk out of this bunker right now, find some random stranger, and put a bullet right between their eyes. Not only because he enjoyed killing (that was definitely a factor), but because it was the only thing that made him feel real; made him feel so, so, alive.

And if Valerio walked through that door right now and gave him an order to kill… 

…would he still obey?

Y/n already knew the answer to that. 

He swallowed hard and forced himself to look away from his reflection. He took his ring off and placed it on the edge of the sink. He twisted the tap, letting cold water flow into his cupped hands before splashing it over his face. Y/n then shut off the water. Reaching for a white towel, he patted his face dry, the coarse fabric feeling rough and real against his skin.

Raising his head, Y/n's gaze locked onto his reflection and — oh my goodness. His pulse stuttered. Y/n's blood turned to ice.

Because standing behind him, reflected in the glass, was Valerio Santos himself.

A sharp black suit. Amused brown eyes. That same smirk curled at the edges of his mouth. He was really standing there.

"Hi, Y/n," Valerio said smoothly, and he was speaking to him. "Did you miss me?"

Y/n’s blood ran cold.

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