Rewrite Of Supernatural Series: Season 1.

The Benders - Part 3.

As soon as he had left the barn, he had downed the liquid you gave him. He discarded the empty vial into his pocket, and then begin walking towards the main house.

Only to stop, and hiss in slight pain, the mildest of headaches burning his nerves before it was gone – leaving behind a single, sweet message: Be careful, love.

Dean had half a mind to turn about and demand from you if you'd done it (he assumed it was you because of the nickname, he didn't actually hear a gender which was weird), but then he set his priorities right. He had to get his brother out; he had to bring his family out of this craphole as soon as possible.

Armed with his pocket-light, Dean took the back route to enter the house. His alert eyes darting around and about, jaw clenched in professionalism, and posture uptight with practice.

As he shuffled to what he assumed was a storeroom, he inspected the various glass jars that had small, seemingly personal, artefacts – with only slight nausea, Dean decided that it was reminders of these monsters' "victory". 'Yikes,' he said to himself, utterly disgusted.

A further sweep over the place brought him over to the section which seemed to be dominated by pictures. Gruesome ones the held several victims and two very identical men, always bloody and with some kind of weapon, posing for the camera in nauseating ecstacy.

A particular one attracted Dean and he picked it off the metal it had been resting against. The victim in this one had been hanging halfway down from a surface, allowing the viewers to see him upside down, Dean turned to photo to be able to look at the man correct and knew it must be recent for it was Jenkins.

Bile rose, and a common man would have thrown up by now. Dean exhaled sharply, expertly churning down his disgust and anger as he had done for years to focus on the case, only saying, 'Well, I'll say it again. Demons I get. People are crazy.'

Abandoning the pictures, he decided to hike up the stairs. Turning his stealth mode on, Dean's footsteps lightened, his flashlight pointing upwards, and his head snapping around with every creak.

Jovial music was playing upstairs, a beautiful piano piece that seemed misplaced in a ransacked (by choice) house like this. Occasional sounds of utensils clattering emitted from where the music seemed to be coming from. Dean carefully peeked the corner making sure it was a clear area before he stepped into it.

Placing one step in front of the other, his eyes were fixed on the only slightly ajar door where he soon saw a man working, his back to the door. Dean's head unexpectedly brushed into a wind-chime, in the middle of the corridor, and he silenced it before it drew too much unwanted attention.

His hands felt the coarseness of the object and he soon realized it was bones of some sort. 'What the . . . ' he gulped under his breath.

Remembering he didn't have time for this, he thanked that the music had overpowered the sound he made and walked faster towards the living room. From the side he picked up a misshapen wooden tool, of sorts, jutting out a pointy edge that'd gladly fulfil the purpose of killing, if it came down to it.

The living room was directly adjacent to the kitchen, both open enough to each other that anyone could see what was going on on the other side. Dean noticed randomly placed keys in a rusty iron box, and he decided to grant one look into the kitchen where he could now hear voices of sawing (probably some animal meat. Hopefully).

Luckily, the man was too busy in his task to disrupt Dean's. He walked to the keys about to select one when his eyes fell on . . . a jar of teeth? He picked it up to make sure his eyes weren't betraying him, and suddenly he tensed. He quietly, and fast placed the bottle back on the table, turning on his feet to attack the person who'd seen him, only to be shocked by a young girl who gasped in fear, her feet stumbling back at the sight of the large strange man.