Part I

[soncnica]

- CHAPTER 1 -

14 years later

"My goodness child, close the darn door," old, wrinkly skin and arthritis-bent fingers were at the thin wooden door as fast as the bent knees and hunched back allowed, "you're letting death in, sweetie."

It was an old tale, spoken from mother to mother to mother of how Death rides on the fog; its scythe as a paddle and its long coat as a sail. Fog wasn't unusual for summer in these parts, the mountains keeping even summers very fresh and wet, but this morning's fog was thick and white as milk. It came from the north, as it always did, meaning the day would be cold, depressingly gray and best spent inside.

The old woman banged the rickety door closed, rattling the whole wall with the force and leaned her weary bones on it. She looked at the young girl who was sweeping the floor, getting rid of bread crumbs that breakfast had left behind and sighed: "Never allow fog into the house, child. Death rides on it."

"Granny ..." the eye roll was hidden in the word and a fond smile, but she kept on sweeping, raising up dust moths, but the bread crumbs were getting into a neat pile in the middle of the room all the same. She'd just opened the door to sweep the crumbs outside, for the birds, but her granny was a sharp woman. Her body might be old and with one foot in the grave already, but her mind was as sharp as a knife.

They were both oblivious of a tall figure that stood motionless in the darkest corner of the kitchen, right between the hot stove where lunch was smelling delicious and some water was boiling and a closet that smelled of mold.

He smiled softly at the women's bickering; grandma and granddaughter, one had lost her daughter two years ago to the Plague and the other lost her mother. He'd been there, knew the fragile woman, had been there and listened to her scream and plead for her daughter. There'd been nothing he could do but take the woman to the infirmary and hold her hand until Death finally came to take her away.

It hadn't even been the woman's fault; she'd caught the disease washing clothes in the river and meeting a little boy on her way back home. She gave him some walnuts she'd kept in the pocket of her apron, their fingers brushing and that was it. The disease wasn't picky about age and gender, getting its coils into any warm body it met.

He still didn't know why some never got sick, like him, and some did. The doc's were trying to figure that out, but with no success. The disease just … had a mind of its own, they all said. Picked people as it chose, playing with them, mocking them. It was a tricky bastard, but they were trying to do their best to at least contain it.

"Granny, the water's boiling…"

"I hear it, child, I hear it. Might be old, but my hearin' 's just fine."

The smile slipped off his face and morphed into something more serious. He was here to do his work, do what he'd been raised to do, what he'd been taught to do. What was in his blood since his mother's mother's mother's mother.

He was here to Collect.

He stepped out of the shadow and into the light that was coming from a few half-burnt candles standing on top of the main table. The kitchen was stuffy, filled with smells of food and incense, little natural light coming in from the small windows. No money to pay for electricity, then.

Neither of the women noticed him, and why should they? He'd been taught to be quiet, to be a shadow on everyone's back, to be fear itself; unseen, but always there.

"Not Death, Granny, just me."

He whispered softly, trying not to twitch a muscle when both of them turned around. Their eyes widened in horror and the sounds of a broom hitting the floor and two loud gasps made him step towards the table.

"Inquisitor."

The word was a shaky gasp, as if the old woman was scared to even say the title in fear. Or maybe it was anger. Maybe it was even respect. Maybe it was all mixed together and that was all right. People reacted differently to him and his kind, he was used to everything and all.

But he didn't say anything, just nodded and stood up taller, unraveling his height trying to do this as peacefully as possible by showing them that there was no escape.

The old woman was brittle, fragile, and the young girl wasn't any better herself; bony arms and legs like sticks, a flat chest and messy red hair. The loss of her mother had hit her hard and a possible lack of food hit even harder. If she'd decide to fight him, it'd be a weak, short fight. He just hoped that she knew that, but judging by how she was shaking, lips trembling and eyes starting to water, she'd collapse first than fight.

He knew how people were like and they came in all states of mind; some fought for their lives, fought to spare themselves the pain and humiliation and very few lowered their heads and went with him, resigned to their fate.

While he understood that fear and the flight and fight instinct, in the end it didn't matter at all. If he wouldn't find them, the disease most definitely would – if it hadn't already. No matter what and how and why and where and who … running solved nothing, just spread the disease around like wildfire.

This way … they could at least try to contain it, try to help. Some people could even get better, but most of them unfortunately couldn't. At night, sometimes, he wished that people would understand that. That what he and his kind were doing was helping the Land, helping them. That there was no need to be ashamed or scared or embarrassed.

"No, no, no, noooo, nonono, please, no!"

The young girl - couldn't be more than fifteen or sixteen - started chanting, gripping the intricate designed cross hanging off a black leather string around her neck. Tears were already running down her pale, freckled cheeks, her whole body shaking and trembling, fear making her all but twist into herself.

"C'mon, come with me," he extended his hand towards her, very slowly as to not spook her even more and wiggled his fingers.

"Please, you … you already took my mom. I can't … what did I do!?"

He sighed; this was never easy no matter how many times he did it. It always tore at him, collapsed the training and the teachings he got on how to deal with this. While it was in his blood, just as it'd been in his mom's blood, watching people be like this hit him hard, straight into his heart.

"I don't know what you did…" he kept his voice low and soothing, afraid that if he'd do any sudden harsh movements she'd faint and then he'd have to wait until she'd wake up - and that would take hours off the day. Hours that he or she didn't have. "… it doesn't work that way. I just get a name, no details."

"Bb-but I didn't do anything, I swear. Pleeeease…"

She was crying now, sobbing out the words, distorting them into a barely there words, but he heard just fine. Understood just fine.

"We're just gonna make sure, all right?"

Her nod was just a barely there twitch of her head, but he saw it; he'd been trained to see even the barest of things. It filled his chest with a delicate sense of pride for the girl, that she'd go with him, go and be Questioned and then they'd see.

"What," she swallowed down on a sniff, "what're you gonna do to me?"

"Just … just gonna make sure, 'kay?"

She nodded again and started to twist her hands in her shirt by her concaved stomach; no money for electricity, no money for food, too weak to work or no one would take her as a worker.

The disease had truly sunken its teeth into every aspect of life in this Land and it made him sick to his stomach. He'd thrown up in the middle of the night so many times, just thinking about what he saw every day when he walked the streets of the villages, when he entered these people's homes, or when he had to go get the drifters and the squatters. Life was a horrid mess; filled with pain and sorrow and terror. Filled with so many lives lost, so many graves and burning piles … he'd stopped crying over it a long time ago, but sometimes tears sneaked up on him anyway.

"What's gonna happen? What … no one, we don't … talk about this."

Her words were whispered down to the floor, her cheeks flushed red with shame. He knew she was lying, because everyone talked about it, even if all they said wasn't correct.

"'s gonna be okay, I promise. 'm gonna be there every step of the way. You're my Collect, I can't leave you. Your mom," he smiled when she looked up at him, "she was my teacher's Collect, I was there with her and she was so brave, Charlie."

"My mom?"

"Yeah. Death came get her just as I was carrying her some broth. She died peacefully, you know? Talking about you all the time."

"Inquisitor, stop."

He turned to the old woman, saw her crying too and he nodded to her, silently telling her that he'd stop talking about her daughter – the pain of her loss obviously still very fresh in the old woman's mind and the last thing he wanted was to re-open any barely healed wounds.

"So please, settle down and come with me. I promise everything will be just fine. I'll be with you all the way, I won't leave you, all right?"

What he didn't say was that he'd be there to Question her. He'd be the one to all but torture her. As soon as her hand would fall into his and they'd connect, no one else would be able to sense truth or lies in her Answers. No one else but him would be able to tell if she was sick or not.

It was how it was.

"Nnnn-no, please, no! I-I-I didn't do aaaaa-anything, I ssssswear. Please."

They all begged. No matter if they were five years old or forty (if they made it that far) they all begged and pleaded. When he'd been finally old enough to go with his teacher for his first Collect, he'd wanted to stuff cotton in his ears just so that he wouldn't be able to hear them beg, cry, scream, rage. But his teacher had merely told him that he'd get used to it.

And somewhere along the way, he did.

He shook his extended hand a little bit, fingers open and inviting her palm to slip into his. Only that way he'd connect with her, only with a free given consent would the tattoo on his hand make sure to let him know if the girl was telling the truth or lying. If she had the disease that would eat her up from the inside out, or if she was healthy and could be released back into her home.

"C'mon Charlie, be strong."

In the distance, somewhere around his gaze locked with the girl's, he heard the old woman shouting something, crying and screaming words he couldn't completely understand. They were dragged through the flickering candle light, disappearing someplace words went to when no one was hearing them. His eyes were fixed on the girl, their eyes glued together and he knew she wasn't hearing her Granny either. She was barely still standing, so close to just passing out and falling into the neat pile of swept up bread crumbs and dust moths.

"Calm down and take my hand. I promise you, we'll do this really fast and if you're healthy, then you'll be with your Granny at nightfall."

"I didn't do anything ... I didn't..."

"C'mon, just take my hand and we'll make sure. It's okay, I won't let you go through it alone."

"Inquisitor," even if all and every word the old woman had said so far had fallen on deaf ears, he was wired to hear that particular word. It made his blood bubble in his veins, responding to the title, "I swear my baby didn't do anything, she didn't ... please ... you've already taken my child, please … please take me, please, take me. She's just a baby still, she ... please."

He unlocked his eyes from Charlie's with difficulty, but bony fingers wrapping into his dark blue cloak were persistent, dragging at the lapels and making the collar of his cloak dig into his nape. He hated the thing, but it was what he had to wear; a clothing of status, a clothing of who he was, a clothing showing everyone that he belonged to the Herd. He looked down at the tiny old woman gripping his cloak like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

"You know how this works Granny, you know. You're old enough to remember, to have seen. You know how it was. You know. So please …"

She nodded and hid her wet face into his shirt, crying silently into his stomach. He could feel a wet patch starting to spread down his shirt and strangely tears weren't the worst bodily fluid people had left on his shirt in times like these. He awkwardly patted the hunch on her back, but his eyes were on the girl again. She was wiping her cheeks of tears, still gripping her stomach as if she was going to throw up any second now.

"Hey, Granny, why don't you sit down on the chair, hmm?" without waiting for her to reply, he steered the trembling mess to a wooden chair that was scooted away from the table and helped her sit. She was crying more than the girl was, but that was expected.

It was always hard for the relatives of the Suspected to deal with this; they always fought hard, always cried and some even tried to shoot him – but that never worked. They always believed they could save their loved ones, they just didn't really know that it wasn't him they needed to save their family from. People still believed that what he and his kind did was unfair, terrible and simply abhorrent. But still, deep down, somewhere very deep down, they knew that what Sam did was also very, very right and important and assured them safety. And of course, there was always the possibility of the Suspected to actually be sick and guilty of carrying the disease into the Land.

Sam knew that that thought cut the most.

"I knew your Daddy Sam, you know? Knew your brother too. Knew you when you were still in diapers. You were always such a happy kid, always smiling and running around ... and you're right, I've seen. And I know. And you're right. You are. But Charlie's my baby, she's all I've got left..."

"Granny, you know she'll be safe with me. And Death, you know him too?

She shook her head.

"If she's sick, he'll take her somewhere where there's no more pain, no more suffering. And it'll maybe keep others safe."

"I know."

He straightened up from his slight bend and looked at Charlie, who was hugging her chest, snot and tears running down her lips and chin. She was as scared as an animal being brought in for slaughter and sometimes he felt as if that was exactly what he was doing.

He was bringing all of the Suspected like cattle to the slaughterhouse. But he wasn't the one who did the killing, no. Those guilty of crossing the border and those sick were already good as dead. He was just the one who brought them in, did the Questioning and let the tattoo on the back of his hand help him see rotten flesh or purity. Sickness or health.

He took a step closer to Charlie, wanting to tuck away her long, red hair, as it was falling into her mouth and that couldn't be comfortable.

"No, no, please, please don't ..."

He miscalculated, thought that he had her, thought that he'd gotten through to her, but he should've waited a minute more. He spooked her with his advance, spooked her into fleeing. He watched with sadness as her back hit the tightly closed door, but he was by her in a flash, nothing but a rush of air and an uncompleted heartbeat, pressing his left palm to the door, keeping it tightly shut.

"Charlie," he whispered at the top of her bowed head, "don't make this go down the hard way."

When she looked up at him, her eyes widened like a full moon, a fat tear sliding out of her left eye and quickly down her cheek.

"I didn't mean to run, I didn't... don't ...uhh, oh gods please! Please! Oh please, oh please, don't ... I didn't mean it ... please, don't ... I wouldn't've run. I didn't … you just … please, oh gods, please."

"'s okay, nothin' happened. You're still here, 'm still here, the door is still closed, it's all okay."

"Please ... oh gods, I didn't mean to."

He leaned closer to her face, softened his eyes and the tone of his voice even more, needing to build trust again with her, needing her to grab hold of his hand so that he could take them both away, do his job and ... and what would come next, only time would tell.

"Charlie, just take my hand."

The fingertips of his right hand were almost touching her bare forearms, as she kept them across her tiny breasts. He couldn't touch her, she needed to touch him first, needed to connect them out of her free will. If that wouldn't happen, then he could just kill her right on the spot.

She bit her bottom lip, while slowly moving her shaking hand through the air towards his palm.

"You ... you'll be there?" her voice was tentative, barely a hoarse whisper, but his answer was loud and true.

"Yes, I promise. I won't let go of you."

People felt calmer with him, his teacher had told him one day, just out of the blue. He'd said 'Sam my boy, I don't know what it is about ya, kid, but people handle the Questioning better with ya there. You got a lot of your mama's blood in ya.'

Sam didn't know about any of that, but he did notice how people - young and old, female or male - seemed almost at peace when they saw him be there as they opened their eyes. He could always see them relax onto the stone table, as if he was there to save them, protect them. As if he was there to do them no harm. He never had the heart to tell them that no, he wasn't there to spare them the Questioning. He wasn't there to save them from the Questioning, he was just there to save them from themselves, save the Land.

He was there to do the Questioning. He was there to make them scream and bleed and see.

And yet still, even after it was all over and done, and when they were proclaimed either of being sick or well, they always looked at him with thankfulness in their bloodshed eyes. Even when their bodies were weak and when pain was so great they couldn't even feel it anymore, they still looked right into his eyes with peace. Their fate discovered, be it good or bad they always tried to say 'thank you' and he always tried to say 'it's okay, everything is okay now.'

He hoped Charlie wouldn't ask that question, because he couldn't tell her that yes, he'd be there, hurting her, bleeding her, making her scream her throat bloody.

He did that, and he wasn't – he was, he was - sorry about it. He had to do that, he had to ... protect what was needed to be protected. He had to. He just had to, because he'd seen with his very eyes what it meant if someone slipped away. If someone infected made contact with someone before the Inquisitors could stop it.

Everyone knew, yet people still tried to escape.

The feel of a shaking hand sliding into his, brought him back to the little, gloomy cottage. When her delicate hand slid into his, he smiled and gripped her tight, but still mindful of her fingers. He didn't want to break them, they felt too fragile in his big hand. He wasn't sure if the girl would even survive the Questioning, even if she'd be healthy and pure. He leaned down and swiped her right cheek with his thumb, trying to get rid of the tears, but there were too many. Her face looked as if she'd been standing in pouring rain the whole morning.

"'s gonna be all right, just hold on to me. We'll get through this, Charlie."

He'd told the old woman how to treat Charlie's injuries, how to feed her and give her water. He'd told her how to deal with the nightmares that would surely plague the girl; told her that she'd mostly scream his name, but that that shouldn't frighten her and that she shouldn't seek him out. Told her to be careful if she'd have to touch her and what to do if the girl should ever feel the need to end her own life.

It would have to be enough. It would just have to be enough and if it wouldn't be, he told the old woman to go to the Inquisition Hall and ask for Doc Turner.

"I never want to do this again." he yelled at doc Turner as he walked past the man in a rush, disappearing down the long, candle lit corridor without stopping.

"It's a cross we bear, my boy." Turner whispered after he heard a door slam in the distance.

That night, when the moon wasn't out, but dark rainy clouds were, he lay in his bed, hearing Charlie's screams and pleadings as if she was in his room shouting directly into his ear.

Everything always followed him into sleep, but all he dreamed of was big, long green-brown-golden wings and huge moss colored eyes blinking gratitude at him.

All he wanted was his big brother.

- CHAPTER 2 -

He was seventeen when he first saw Dean again, when he first got the chance to touch his big brother again after almost ten years of no contact. Ten years of not knowing what was happening to his brother, ten years of not hearing his voice, ten years of wishing for just a glimpse of his brother.

Ten long years of nothing but learning, reading, fighting, loneliness.

The Herd tried to help him; kept him busy with their stories, kept him almost enchanted by all the knowledge they possessed. Such old knowledge of things not even his wild imagination was able to conjure in images. They told him stories of times so bright and so alive, green trees and sparkling blue water. Stories of how the Land had been filled with so much colors, so much life that even blades of grass writhed in pleasure and happiness.

He could barely imagine it all, especially when he had to walk through barren, dried up land to get back to the Inquisition Hall. The once lush meadows were now barely managing to sprout out enough grass to feed the animals, the mills barely had enough water to produce flour and the people were dying.

They were dying, the stench of death hanging over the Land like a mist.

He was walking down a street, Cobble Street it was named, his arms spread wide, fingertips touching the bricked walls of houses either side of the street. His step was light, giddy on a glass of ale and fearing his first Collect only three months away, when a howl pierced the calm quiet of the street. It wasn't made by a dog or a wolf, wasn't made by an animal at all, he was sure of that. Wasn't made by a pixie or a Faery, they almost screeched if they shouted. Wasn't made by the trees either, the healthy ones almost always kept quiet now. Wasn't made by anything other than a human being. A person.

Then there was a wail that preceded another howl and he looked around, trying to spot where the noise was coming from.

He looked left and right, where there were only closed doors and then up where three windows away from where he was standing, a window had been opened wide and the noise must've come from in there. He was the Collector, he had access to every house, cottage and cabin in this valley, he could enter every room at his own will, no one had to invite him in. He could just freely come and go as he pleased and that was exactly what he did that day. Walked to the door below the open window, opened it up with a groan of the hinges to a dark hallway and air smelling of smoke and something acidic. It hit him like a wall, making his nose scrounge up and eyes water, but he'd smelled worse. Someday, he would smell even worse, hear worse, see worse – he knew that very well.

The hallway led him among some broken chairs and magazines put into spilled piles next to the walls to a staircase. His eyes adjusted to the darkness well and the light was grayer now, like twilight sometimes was in winter times.

He walked up brittle wooden stairs, following his nose and his ears because the howls turned into screams and the smell turned into that of human feces.

The staircase turned right and brought him into another hallway, this one short with only two doors facing each other. One was completely closed and the other half ajar.

He pushed the door open wider and wasn't all that shocked at what he saw.

He should've been, he really should've been, but he wasn't. He'd seen this before, seen what the Plague had done to people, been there when they'd lost the battle with it. Doc Turner had called him in the infirmary rooms often enough, said 'boy, you need to see, see what you're fighting against, see what would happen if you'd stop.' It'd been hell for him watching people suffer like that, writhe on the cots with blood and pus spilling out of the boils on their naked pale bodies. He'd been thirteen when doc Turner had first called for him and the sight gave him nightmares for months. But he kept on coming, soothing the dying with his presence. The Inquisitor, there, for them. It was sometimes more than they could take.

The boy, man, lying on the bed was Dean and that, that was what made him gasp and lose the thread of life for a few seconds.

Dean.

Dean.

Dean.

He'd recognize his big brother anywhere, anytime. Even like this, half naked with pus filled boils on his arms, chest and legs. He'd recognized that face, those freckles, those green eyes, anywhere.

"Dean..."

He whispered and walked deeper into the room. It smelled rancid, even with the window open, the fresh air just couldn't win the battle with the smell.

Dean was lying on the bed in his own sweat, piss and shit, writhing on the soiled sheets, making some of the boils explode and yellow-green pus run out in a slow stream.

Sam should've gagged or close his eyes at least, but the scene didn't faze him much. He'd seen all of this before, it was just how the Plague worked.

"Dean ..." he stepped closer to the edge of the bed, his hand hovering over Dean's rapidly rising chest, wanting to touch so badly. Wanting to feel his brother under his hand again.

"Please, don't ..."

He hadn't thought that Dean was conscious, but he was. Eyes in slits and chapped lips, but Dean was alive and conscious and looking right at him.

"'m not a doc, see?" he ran his hand down his long, dark blue cloak and showed him the tattoo on the back of his hand.

"See? 'm not a doc."

"C-ccc-collector..." the word was slurred and a bubble of bloody spit appeared between pale lips, the bubble bursting and saliva spilling down the big boil on Dean's chin.

"Yeah, 'm a Collector, but 'm not here to take you. 'm not here to hurt you, Dean."

There was a spark of something in the tiny slits of his brother's eyes, a memory, a recognition maybe, a need and a want fulfilled, that made Sam decide right there and then that he'd take Dean away from the soiled bed and the crappy room and take him to get better. Get him healed.

He couldn't let his brother die of this disease. He couldn't let that happen, not his brother. Not his big brother of all people.

The question of why a Collector hadn't picked up his brother yet was the last thing on his mind then and it would never be asked and never be answered. Because at that moment, with Dean twisting his face into another scream, that didn't matter. All that it mattered was his brother not dying.

He couldn't allow Dean to die, not when he knew a way to help. It was a risky way, probably wouldn't help at all, but it was a very slim chance that it would and he'd take it. Maybe Dean would be strong enough, his spirit fighting enough.

There was still so much life in Dean's eyes, that maybe, just maybe it would be enough for the healing to take effect. Dean was still clinging to life - stubborn as ever - even if the pain he'd been in was probably as horrible as sin itself.

And Sam knew pain. He saw it like a living, breathing being ever since he'd been old enough to participate in the Questioning. Old enough to be summoned to doc Turner's infirmary.

Old enough to have a one to one with Death.

There was nothing on Dean that looked even close to healthy; he was thin, pale as snow and smelled of the outhouse in the summer heat. His breathing was shallow, heartbeat close to nothing, but his eyes, those eyes - the whites of 'em yellow, but the irises ... they were as green as moss.

Full of life and it was intoxicating. It made Sam lean forward, getting almost nose to nose with Dean and breathe in deep, swallow it all down.

His brother who always smelled of beech wood smoke and leather.

His brother whose fingers always gipped his tight whenever they went anywhere.

His brother who read him stories and even made voices for the characters.

His brother who cooked him meals and got him ready for bed or for school.

His brother whose eyes were now leaking tears and whose arms were trying to tug at his cloak.

"Sss'my…"

"'m not gonna let you die, Dean."

He whispered directly into Dean's parted lips and breathed in the rotten breath Dean let out.

His brother, even if the Plague had nearly eaten him alive, still carried the smell of beech smoke on his breath.

"Not gonna let you leave me."

Dean would heal, he was sure of it, because life was oozing out of Dean's every pore, just like pus was streaming out of every boil, coloring Dean's skin and the sheet yellow.

He leaned over Dean's trembling chest, shivers and shakes of pain distorting the body and when Dean looked, really looked straight into his eyes –

- they disappeared.

"Ruby!" he screamed when he closed the door to a small cottage that always stood at the outskirts of the village, right at the border of a dried meadow and the woods.

"Ruby!"

A young woman's back was in his line of vision, her hand stirring some soup in a pot over an open fire and when she turned around, Sam was in awe of her beauty. Even after all she'd been through, she was still stunningly beautiful, not a scar anywhere on her face or arms.

She'd been the very first he'd seen be Questioned by his teacher and she'd been his friend/advisor/teacher ever since he helped her off that stone table and brought her back to her cottage. She'd been living alone, no one to take care of her, no one to even miss her if she'd died. He took care of her, per her instructions – blabbering mess as they'd been – and she had healed up as if she'd never been brought into the Questioning.

"Inquisitor." she gasped, the wooden spoon disappearing into the big pot when she released the handle in shock.

Her brown eyes and cherry red lips, as if she'd been sucking blood all night long were open wide, surprise written all over her face.

While he did visit her from time to time, mostly to cry on her shoulder and then smash a few things in rage, she wasn't expecting him for some time yet. He could tell … this visit was a complete shock to her, but he couldn't dwell on that. He had other more important things to consider than a Witch be in shock over his appearance.

"Sam. Please, just Sam, how many times do I have to tell you."

"All right, Sam."

"I uh, I need your help."

"What's wrong?"

She obviously, purposely ignored the bundled body he held in his arms.

"He's dying. Of the Plague. But, Ruby, his soul …"

"Inquisitor, no."

Sam sighed and gripped the moaning mess of bodily fluids and sickness tighter. He wouldn't let Death take his brother. He would not.

"Witch, please."

"No, I can't. It's not my place, you can't ask that of me. I can't cheat him again. He's angry at me already."

"Ruby! I don't care what Death has up his ass. This is my brother, I … you have to help me. I'll deal with Death myself."

"And Mr. Singer?"

"I'll deal with him too."

"And them?"

He bowed his head and looked into Dean's half opened eyes, tears and sweat running down his brother's freckled cheeks. So pale. So close to dying.

"The Herd trusts me, they love me, they owe me. They are alive, because of what I do. Or will do soon."

"Sam, you haven't done anything for them yet. You haven't Collected anyone yet, haven't Questioned anyone yet. The Herd won't let you live after they hear of this. Death will be so pissed. At me, at you. I can't …"

"Witch, I will kill you! You're forgetting who I am," he moved closer to her, shifting the limp body in his arms higher, not wanting his brother to slip from his grip, "what I can do."

"Inquisitor, please."

"Momma?"
A tiny, sleepy voice came from across the small room, belonging to a short figure that was rubbing eyes with small fists.

Sam's eyes narrowed and he placed Dean on the long wooden table that was decorating the center of the room. He didn't want to let go of his brother, didn't want to let go fearing that if he did so, life would just seep out of that broken and ill body. He shushed Dean's whimper and straightened back up, knowing that even at seventeen, he was tall and feared. Respected.

"Mommy?"

He looked from Dean to the small figure standing between the doorframe and then back to Ruby. She held her hand to her chest, probably trying to calm down her racing heart. He gave her a glare, daring her to do something, say something and when she didn't, he walked over to the child, crouching before her tiny frame.

"Hey, kiddo, what's your name?"

His voice was sugar sweet, tone as soft as he could manage. It was something Mr. Singer told him to do when the Collected would be children. He already had that down pat and he often used it on grown-ups too.

"Annabella."

"That's a pretty name. Mine's Sam."

"Hello, Sam."

"Hey. I uh, I bet your mom gave you that name, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Inquisitor, please …"

Ruby was scared, he knew that. What he didn't know was how he didn't know of this child? Where had Ruby been hiding her?

"You have a pretty necklace too."

He pointed to a pendant he knew very well what it meant. A pentagram was hard to miss.

"Momma gave it to me."

"Inquisitor, Sam, please, that's enough. Leave her."

He turned around, locking his gaze with Ruby's: "Will you help me?"

She nodded. She knew Inquisitors, knew Sam was, would be, the best of them all, she'd sensed that when she looked into his eyes, rather than Mr. Singer's when she'd been Questioned, knew that Sam would shine brightest of the bright and fly higher than high as an Inquisitor. He was only seventeen and his eyes were filled to the brink with compassion. She'd help him save his big brother.

She knew what was at stake and if Death, Mr. Singer and the Herd would decide to kill her, so be it. Annabella would be taken care of by the Herd. She had to trust that, but that didn't mean that she wouldn't fight all of them for her daughter. She'd protect her baby until the bitter end.

"Good, go help him."

"Inquisitor, Sam, uh, Annabella?"

He shook his head: "She'll be fine. Trust me."

She did; it was the strangest thing, hit her out of the blue, but she did. She had ever since she saw him standing next to Mr. Singer at the Questioning. Their eyes locked that day and it was the beginning of the end.

Maybe this was what she was meant for. Save the future Grand Master Inquisitor's big brother.

"We … we're having rabbit stew for dinner."

"Thank you."

Even though she'd been alive for centuries, she knew this one … this one would be her last as soon as she saw Sam unwrap the sheet from his brother's body.

"Sam …"

"I know, it's bad. I know, just … please, Ruby," he looked at her, moisture in his eyes, "he's my brother."

"Okay, yes, all right, I'll … need … things."

He placed his palm on Dean's hot forehead, cringing at the way his brother's eyes were rolling back and forth, slivers of green between the eyelids.

"Dean …"

He placed his other hand between Dean's pecs, feeling his brother's heart hit his palm under the sweat-slick skin. There were boils everywhere on his chest, some raised up and still full of pus, others near bursting open like a volcano and spilling out diseased lava.

"S-mmy…"

"Yeah, 's me. Just me."

He sat by the table, listening to Dean scream and wail, howl and shout, groan and moan, twist and turn and arch his back better than any cat, writhe and by the end of it almost squeal like an pig … he knew then, he knew that no matter what would happen at any of his Questionings, this right here would always be what would haunt him in his nightmares.

No one should've held one's brother down, listening to him make noises not even animals were capable of.

- CHAPTER 3 -

He woke up with bright yellow strip of light knifing him directly into his right eye, causing him to turn away from the wall-to-ceiling window. While he loved it, loved the view on the mountains and the huge caves carved into their sides, the morning sun always found him too early and with not enough sleep in his head. He felt woozy, lightheaded and drained, wishing so badly for at least another five hours of sleep.

But sleep was a commodity, more precious to obtain than gold and rubies, especially when the Plague reaped more people, creatures and vegetation than Death himself did. The man was still bitter about that, but he couldn't stop it; he wasn't to interfere in the workings of the universe.

So yes, sleep was something that had to wait, when one had a Land to protect.

"Ugh…" he grabbed the blanket and turned around bringing it with, cocooning himself in the warm, soft fabric. Just some more time, just a few more minutes just so that his eyes would stop burning and his stomach stop churning. And then he'd go out there, to the villages and towns, looking for people who might be infected. Who either crossed the Forbidden border or came in contact with someone who did.

hoot

The loud sound made him open his right eye, just a squint to try and glare daggers at the owl. That never worked, the idiot just blinked his stupidly huge eyes and smirked at him. But he just couldn't deal with the sunlight yet. It was too bright, too warm even so early in the morning. Everything came too soon, he just lay down into bed, sunk into sleep and the morning was here, the sun was here, his day was here. And all he wanted was some more sleep.

"Sh't up…"

Dealing with Twirly demanded him at full thinking capacity, because the crazy bird was too smart and too manipulative for him to be anything but wide awake and sharp as a sword.

hoot

"S'rry owl, n't b'rd."

Twirly with his many personality flaws, was also sensitive about being called a bird. Although he wasn't an owl also. Huh, no wonder he was so touchy about things.

hoot

"'m up, 'm up, ugh …"

He groaned, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and turned on his back, trying to untangle himself from the blanket. Apparently it didn't want to let him go out of bed either.

He needed a moment more to lie in his warm, cozy bed until his heartbeat would come back down from the sky and his breathing would calm down enough so that he wouldn't be seeing black spots anymore.

The dream … the memory of Dean … it left him bent at the heart. He hadn't seen his brother in a long, long time. Dreamed of him every day, but through the years, the dreams stopped being so vivid. Until today, because the dream he just had felt almost alive.

It's been eight damn long years. He'd left him with Ruby that day. Left him healed, with scars and barely coherent, mumbling something about guts and glory and valley of death. Then he'd screamed about fire and rain and ravens.

Scared him shitless, scared Annabella too, seeing a half-naked man on the kitchen table where she ate her meals, screaming and muttering crazy things. But she'd been a tough kid, took it in stride, and clung to her mom's skirt. Only after the adrenaline had worn off, he'd started thinking about the danger he'd put the little girl in. He had brought a diseased man into her home, put her at risk of being infected, put her on an Inquisitor's list. He … he hadn't thought of that when he'd asked Ruby to help him. He hadn't … he'd just wanted Dean to get better. It had been a long shot, and the healing itself killed people just as efficiently as the Plague had, but Dean had been strong, full of life and Ruby'd been able to tap into that. Life was essence and essence was life.

But Annabella … he'd been insane with worry, crazy with relief at seeing Dean and then mad with the need to not have Dean die.

But Annabella hadn't gotten sick. Immune, just like he and Ruby. He'd dodged something there, but still didn't know quite what.

His heart had ached watching Dean squirm on the table in pain and his hands were covered in red hot blood and putrid pus that felt sticky between his fingers, but he hadn't been able to let go of Dean. He was immune, but even if he wasn't he'd touch Dean anyway. He wouldn't be able to keep his hands away, even if he'd get sick himself and have Death gloat when he'd take him.

And in the end, he'd had to leave, couldn't've stayed. It would mean certain death, but by him leaving, he at least had given Ruby and her child and Dean a chance.

All they'd needed was a chance.

And they got that, for at least three years, but then the news of Ruby, the Witch's death reached him. There'd been no news on Dean, only that Annabella'd been brought to the Herd to be taken care of.

But Dean … he'd just … vanished into thin air.

He yawned and rolled his head toward the window. It would be another hot day. Another day when the sun would heat up animal carcasses in the woods and on the plains, wind carrying the smell into the settlements. Another day where even the scorching sun wouldn't be able to chase away the gloom that had settled over everything. Maybe today he'd go to the Herd, ask them for a story. Ask them if he could see Annabella, or at least find out how she was doing. Ask them if they knew where his big brother was. Ask them … why life had been taken from the Land.

He knew he'd never get any answers; they kept everything so close to their hearts, only giving out barest of comfort. The Plague had taken the spark out of them too.

hoot

He sighed. Piss, wash his face, breakfast, brush his teeth, shower, give Twirly some food, Assignment room. Always in that order since he'd been seven years old. Minus Twirly, the idiot came later.

hoot

"Get out of my head…"

hoot

"Ugh…"

A big white cloud rolled around and covered the sun, which was a good enough reason to roll himself out of bed. Mr. Singer wouldn't wait long with Assignments and no one wanted to keep the man waiting.

"'m getting too old for this." he mumbled, while scratching his stomach on the way to the bathroom.

hoot

He rolled his eyes.

But it was true, no matter what Twirly said. He was getting old, even if he was only twenty-five, but all of this was getting to his muscles and his bones. And his mind. The smell of blood, sweat and piss seemed almost imbedded into his nostrils, and the screams of the people he Questioned were always ringing in his ears. Their bodies writhing in pain was seared onto his eyelids. Nightmares were to him like dreams were to normal people.

He washed his face with cold water, letting it drip from the tip of his nose into the bright, white sink. He needed to wake up fast, deal with the cobwebs in his brain and go do what he'd been trained for. What his blood was singing to him to go do.

He was the Grand Master Inquisitor; lives depended on him. The future of the people depended on him. The Land depended on him.

He dressed into a blue-white checkered shirt, blue jeans with a hole below his left knee – he'd need the seamstress to get a look at that - his ankle-length dark blue cloak; dark like the sky just before a thunderstorm. It moved around him like water, flowing, fluid, as if anticipating his every step. He strapped his sword next; he hated the thing, it wasn't heavy but it hit his calf with every step he made giving him a bruise every few months. But it was a sign of power, a sign of his status and he had to wear it to show people around him who he was, to fear him, to bow to him but still feel safe, making them know that the Herd was doing their best to have them protected. When the sun hit the sword just right, the blade side shimmered emerald green, which was another sign of his status.

"C'mon Twirly, time to go."

The owl blinked at him with its huge black eyes and hooted before spreading the wings and flying to his right shoulder. He was used to the weight, used to the claws digging into his shoulder, used to feathers touching his ear.

"Uff, you're getting heavy there, man."

hoot

"Gotta lay off those mice."

hoot

"Yeah, yeah no way, huh?"

hoot

"Come on Mr. Singer's waiting."

hoot

"He won't eat you for breakfast, don't worry."

hoot

"You're such a drama queen."

hoot

"King, jeez sorry."

hoot

Twirly was his best friend. More than that, he was his companion, his advisor, his link to the Herd and other creatures of the Land. He was who Dean would be if his brother was with him.

He patted the top of Twirly's soft head, small comfort, before he left his room.

The Assignment room was brightly lit. It was always brightly lit, with candles in a straight line down a long table and lights on the walls. He had measured the table once, when he was maybe twelve, and he came up with sixty feet long. He still didn't know if he made a mistake upwards or downwards, but he knew that before he actually got to the head of the table, he was already wishing he could sit down, take a breather and then continue. He'd only been twelve and scrawny, all legs and arms and even with all the training he'd been getting, he still felt weak as a newborn colt. His growing pains had been the worst thing ever and while doc Turner tried to massage his muscles as best as he could, some pangs still left him crying with pain. So needless to say, he wasn't like that anymore. The sword trainings and learning how to fight with his whole body made him strong, filled his frame, making his shoulders broad and his arms muscled.

hoot

"Shhhh…"

"Sam."

The voice of his teacher made him quicken his step to get to the end of the room as quickly as possible, because he could tell that Mr. Singer was impatient. The assignments had to be delivered fast to all the Inquisitors, lives depended on it. The spread of the disease depended on it, containing it depended on it.

"Mr. Singer, I've come for the list."

Mr. Singer was sitting on a chair behind the table surrounded by papers of all sizes and types, colors and shapes. If there'd be an earthquake, Mr. Singer would drown in the paper landslide.

"Someday, 'm gonna find you drowning in all this paper, old man."

hoot

"See, even Twirly agrees."

The smile Mr. Singer gave them was part amusement and part scowl: "Well ya know who'd replace me then, so … 'm very certain ya'll save me before I drown."

hoot

Yeah, Sam knew who would replace Mr. Singer.

It would be him. He would become Mr. Winchester then and … and he'd take over Mr. Singers spot. He didn't want that. Despite everything, he preferred his position. It allowed him to go out, allowed him to participate in the affairs of the Land, allowed him to interact with people (he didn't want to think about the way he interacted with them, but still … ), so yeah, to have to be cooped up in this palace all of the time, wasn't something he'd like to do. At all. Ever.

hoot

And it wasn't something Twirly would like to do either, if the yuck in the hoot was to be believed.

"Here."

The slip of paper Mr. Singer held in his wrinkly fingers was green of color, which meant high priority. He had only once seen a paper of that color.

Ruby.

Ruby's slip of paper had been green. Not this bright, but still … green.

He was almost afraid to look at the name written on it with beautiful cursive letters, golden in color.

The green papers always, always held only one name. One soul whose life Sam would interrupt, all but torture and then … well, it would depend on the results he'd get, wouldn't it?

"Bobby …"

"Sam …"

He never ever ever called Mr. Singer by the man's real name, it was … forbidden.

But a green slip of paper? High priority? He wasn't old enough to actually deal with high priority papers, sure he was Grand Master Inquisitor, only one position under Mr. Singer, but this was … too much. Too soon.

"Go get, boy."

He blinked, swallowed down the ball of spit that suddenly formed in his throat, nodded and turned around, clinking his long sword into the table's leg. He cursed inwardly, knowing that Mr. Singer wouldn't appreciate foul language in this place.

"Sam?"

He didn't turn around, just stopped mid stride.

hoot

"Yeah?"

"Ya do what ya haveta do, the Herd will take care of everythin' else."

"Yes, Sire."

"Don't call me that."

He nodded again, gripped the paper until it protested with a crinkling noise and petted Twirly's head again. The soft feathers under his trembling fingers were soothing in a way not many things were.

When the heavy oak door closed behind him, he left out a breath. He knew what name was written on the paper, without even having to look at it.

Dean Winchester, the Hunter.

Fuck. His. Life.

hoot

"Yeah."

A candle burned out next to his free-of-owl shoulder, the smell of smoke invading his nostrils and he looked at how the melting wax produced a mess on the candleholder.

"Shit…"

The sword felt heavy against his leg, dragging his whole body down.

Down.

Down to the smoothly polished marble floor that always made his steps echo through the empty hallways of this palace announcing his presence to all and any. There was no stealth in these corridors, no need for it really. Every Inquisitor had his or her own room, privacy being very important. To have a place to go to where they'd be alone and no one would bother them. No one would demand to know why they were immune, why they weren't affected by the Plague, what made them so damn special that they didn't get sick.

What made him so damn special and Dean wasn't?

What?

Why?

He'd asked the Herd that, but one of them just looked at him, huffed and said 'it is a mystery, my child. One we cannot yet write down.'

Sometimes … really …

hoot

"'m not mad, 'm just," he sighed, "never mind."

He stuffed the small paper into one of the many pockets that lay inside of his cloak and tried not to cringe every time he made a step. He couldn't handle noise right then, couldn't handle anything. He just craved solitude, wanted to go to his room and deal with this.

There'd be no time today for him to visit the Herd and spend time with their mysterious answers or no answers at all. No time to protest this, because surely Dean … his brother would never cross the border in the first place. He knew better, damn it.

But the slips of paper never lied. Never. They always told the truth, always pointed to the right person.

Maybe … maybe Dean just made contact with someone who was sick and the Inquisitors hadn't come to get that person yet. Maybe Dean …

hoot

"Yeah Twirly, maybe's huh?"

The owl flew from his shoulder to where it slept on top of a long, thick tree branch that spanned the whole of the wall.

The room was spacious, looking more like a whole house put into just one space. It had been his home since he'd been a child and it would probably remain his home until the day he'd die.

Death would probably mock him with something like 'well kiddo, now you're going to a much smaller place.'

Death was like that. Funny old man.

While he'd been with Mr. Singer, the sun had travelled away from the huge window and he sat down on the bed, placing his elbows on his knees and hiding his face into his hands.

This was bad. This was … horrible.

"Shit …"

He rubbed his face and reached for the paper with trembling fingers. He had to read the name to make it stick, he had to see it with his own eyes.

Dean Winchester, the Hunter.

Gold letters on a bright green surface. Four words. Name, surname, status.

Fate sealed.

He just hoped (hope was all he had, really) that Dean would be honest in his mind and healthy.

Healthy, Dean. I just need you to be healthy.

He wouldn't be able to stand it, if Dean had the Plague again, because this time … Ruby was dead. Death was in a ''m still mad at you Sam Winchester' mood, still pissed off since when he'd heard how Sam made Ruby steal Dean from him.

hoot

"D'you think he's sick, Twirly?"

hoot

"Yeah, shit."

He folded the paper three times; name, surname, status and placed it on the back of his right hand, covering up the black colored tattoo there.

It didn't hurt at all when the tattoo uncurled and a thin, barely half a finger long tail surfaced, wrapped itself around the small piece of paper and turned it to ashes, taking it with when it coiled back to just black ink on his hand. It took the ash into Sam's bloodstream, where it would float into every part of his body.

He had his brother in him now. Blood, ashes, and fate.

Sealed.

He flopped back to bed, closed his eyes and ignored the strain in his thighs. His muscles were already protesting everything he did today.

But he had a job to do.

Collect Dean.

hoot

PROLOGUE _II_  PART II