Gale Warnings

by

Bayre

 

Chapter 1

 

Knowledge is power, power is protection, protection is safety….Dante West

 

 

 

+++++

 

 

Craven read the email Concha West sent, with the picture of her and the three young men.  

 

All debts have now been paid. 

 

The torch was passed.

 

 

+++++

 

 

 

The first time Sam Winchester headed off to college hadn’t been a happy time for either Dean or Sam.  Dean would never admit it to anyone, barely admitted it to himself, but John Winchester’s parting shot of, “If you walk out don’t ever come back,” to Sam was the closest he’d come to pounding his father to the ground.  The closest he’d come to hating his father.  His father had taken Sam from him, a part of Dean would never, could never forgive or forget that.  It was the first time Dean was hit square between the eyes with the fact Sam was number one to him.  Sam, who he’d raised, was his, a brother and a child rolled into one.  He’d picked, though neither his father nor brother ever really knew, though possibly John suspected but never asked.  Dean picked Sam, sticking as close to California for as much of each year as he could.  His brief forays to the south or east were just that, brief.  He went, did what he had to do, and was back to western United States within a few weeks or a month.  John, and sometimes he and John would swing through Palo Alto, checking on Sam, but Dean doubted their father knew Dean practically lived within fifty miles of Stanford.  Maybe he couldn’t stand up to John at the time, but nothing and no one was preventing him from being close enough if Sam needed him.

 

Quite a few years had gone by between then and now, a lot happened to Dean, and to Sam, in the time between.  The Dean today would have told John to take a flying leap, followed his obstinate brother, cracked the back of his head and told him to get in the car…..Dean would drive him, and no way would they not talk much for a few years.  If he’d done that then, Sam would have listened, probably welcomed him along.   Dean was the only person Sam ever really listened to.  Sam was his responsibility, his alone, would be no matter how old they lived to be.  Dean was proud of that, taking care of Sam, doing what was right for him, helping him…in some cases shoving him…down life’s road.  He might not have always been right, but no one could say Dean Winchester didn’t try his hardest, put forth his best effort or use good parenting instincts and skills.  It may not have been his only goal, but it was sure his most important, give Sam as good a life as he was capable, provide for him in any way Dean could.  He’d been a child who’d raised a child.  There was no one, not his father, not anyone who’d take away the accomplishment, his pride in it and his brother.

 

Dean learned, in bits and pieces, for Sam, leaving for college had been just as traumatic.  Thinking his father’s words final and law, and without Dean interjecting, he’d been devastated.  He’d wanted to go to school, not become an outcast.  Even after meeting Jess, Sam was an outsider there.  His first year must have been incredibly difficult.  He’d admitted to Dean how lonely he’d been, how he’d almost given up and called Dean to come get him.  But he’d never ask Dean to pick between his father and he, Sam didn’t think he’d win, though was never afraid of Dean’s rejection.  Sam knew better now, Dean made sure of that.  He’d told his kid brother he’d have found a way, negotiated around John if need be.

 

So the day Dean got his second chance at taking Sam to college he didn’t honestly know who was more excited, and who was happier, he or Sam.  For once in his life Dean Winchester was given a gift he’d never dreamt he’d experience.  The fact that this time Dean was partially responsible for it happening made it a hundred times sweeter.  Maybe he and Sam didn’t have a lot material things, or a big house, but they had each other.  There was no reason they couldn’t provide as many wishes granted for one another as possible.  It might not be a law degree, but Sam sure seemed happy being given the opportunity to finish school and do further study.  The fact it was in their line of work gave Sam a sense of purpose, he was really helping to save lives.  Dean couldn’t argue with that.

 

They’d left Wyoming, and Dante and Concha West, just under a week ago.  Sam had them up every morning at six, and out the door by six-thirty.  Somewhere in Michigan Sam wanted to stop for supplies, scouring the aisles of a Target for the right pens, and notebooks and paper, and files and more blank CD’s.  To Dean’s utter amusement, and surprise, apparently peanut M&M’s were required for studying….who knew?  The warm glow blossoming somewhere in his middle when he and Concha told Sam about the chance to study at Cornell doubled by the time they’d paid for Sam’s supplies and were back on the road.

 

Sam emailed this Marcus Crandall or Craven as he liked to be called, Dean still didn’t know why, when they were two days out of Wyoming, with their expected arrival date in Ithaca.  Then he’d paced their motel room for two hours waiting for a response before Dean dragged him out for a beer and some food.  Sam nearly slapped him when they’d returned and lack of response brought fits of laughter to Dean.  Fortunately the email was returned the next morning.  Sam was not the most patient sometimes.

 

Dean wasn’t so sure what he’d do in Ithaca, but he’d find something to amuse himself he was sure.  They expected to be there maybe a month or so, but Dean would have stayed for as long as it took.  For the first time Sam was excited about hunting.  For the first time Dean was excited about school.

 

It was with a minimal of fuss they found their way through the town, then the campus to the address Marcus Crandall emailed to Sam.  His home doubled as his offices for the grad students.  He’d have a class of one, Sam….well maybe two if Dean tagged along too. This was specialized training, his research and database where in his home.  Dean didn’t really question it…much.

 

Pulling up in front of Crandall’s house, Dean cut the engine of the Impala, expecting Sam would have been out of the car before it completely stopped.  Dean couldn’t help but smile when he looked over at his brother.  Stealing a glance out the front window at the house, his brain played the theme from Psycho, the house inspired that song.  He wondered if bats lived in the turret near the roof.  He could occupy some of his time with a bit of landscaping, because damn, this house needed it.

 

A second look at Sam had Dean grinning broadly, not that Sam would notice.  His attention was focused on the house. He’d bent over, nearly doubled in the seat.  His neck stretched, his gaze trained on the top of the house.  Mouth dropped open, he was a bit wide-eyed and definitely transfixed on the creepy house.

 

“Sammy, you look like a turtle.”

 

Sam turned his head, settled his gaze on Dean for a few seconds, wrinkled his nose and turned back to the house.  After a few more minutes Dean sighed.

 

“I think you’re going to actually have to get out of the car and go inside Sam.”

 

This time Sam barely turned his head, lifted an eyebrow, gave him a dirty look and didn’t move.  Running his tongue around the inside of his mouth, then popping it through his lips Dean sighed more heavily, pulled on the door latch and got out of the car.  First he straightened, and then stretched…Sam still hadn’t moved.  Dean trotted to the far side of the car, wrapping his knuckles lightly against Sam’s window.  He bit back a laugh when Sam jumped, nearly hitting his head on the ceiling of the car.  Sam rolled down the window, looking up at him expectantly, sort of looking like he had the day Dean left him in kindergarten for the first time.

 

“Sammy, really, you need to get out of the car.  I don’t think he’s going to bring the work out here for you.”  Dean opened the car door.  Sam’s gaze shifted from Dean to the house and back again.

 

Finally the kid got it, and unfolded out of the car.  They started to the house, Dean going as far as the front of the Impala, sitting on the hood, he didn’t think Sam wanted him trailing along.  Sam got a few feet farther along before he stopped, turning back to Dean, hands spread wide, ducking his head with a silent ‘coming?’ question.

 

Dean lifted his eyebrows, surprised.  “You want me to go with you and hold your hand?”

 

Sam turned back to the house, then faced Dean, then the house, then Dean, “Well, you can’t sit out…um….it’s sort of….I mean…”

 

“Dude, you seriously want me to hold your hand?”  Dean hopped off the car, grabbing Sam’s hand as he walked by, heading along the path to the door.

 

Sam’s face turned red then white then settled on some odd shade of pink.  He yanked his hand away, “Don’t actually hold my hand!”  And punched Dean’s shoulder.

 

Dean just laughed, shaking his head, “It’s the first day of kindergarten all over again.”  Wondering how his brother managed to get through the front door at Stanford the first day.  Every other first day of school Dean had gone along, right through high school, driving Sam the first day, waiting out in the car until his brother was safely inside his current school.  Feeling simultaneous twinges of silliness and warmth, Dean led the way to the front door.  Sam was twenty-four, six-foot-four, been to a college on his own for three years and now nervous, meeting this man, wanted Dean’s reassurance.  It touched Dean very deep down in a way he didn’t expect.

 

They stopped at the front door, hands folded in front of him, rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels a few times, Dean waited for Sam to ring the bell.  Sam backed up a step or two, moved back next to Dean, glancing sideways at him.  Heaving another sigh, Dean scratched the back of his head, “Uh, Sammy, maybe ring the bell?”

 

Sam gave him a deer in headlights on the first day of kindergarten look.  “Maybe I should have called first.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes, reached across Sam’s chest, finger hovering over the bell.  The door swung open before his finger could land.  “That’s sort of creepy.”  He tried to sound nonchalant.

 

They both looked in, Sam unexpectedly backed up a step.  Dean’s reflexes were honed and instantaneous. He brought up his hand to press against Sam’s back, stopping his retreat.  “Sam, enough.”  He gave Sam a push, shoving him through the door and down another of life’s roads.

 

The entry-way was large, sort of dark and creepy.  Dean chuckled, the guy sure liked to set the stage for his ‘class-work.’  One wall was covered with tapestries depicting scenes of vampires, werewolves, something Dean took for a shtriga, and of course good ole’ Ichabod.  A second wall had paintings of Norse demi-gods, a soul-eater, wraith, something looking Incan, or Mayan, Australian aboriginal dreamscapes, and of course good ole’ Ichabod.  It was New York after all, dear Mr. Crane and his big, black horse and decapitated rider were everywhere.  The foyer ceiling was two stories up, a railing wound around the second floor.  One wall was a staircase leading to a second floor, seen from the foyer.

 

“Maybe he’s not here.  I should have called.”  Sam said.

 

“Sam the door was open, someone is here.  Say something.”

 

“Me?!”

 

Rolling his eyes, Dean huffed a laugh, “Yes you genius, you’re the reason we’re here, the man doesn’t want to meet me.”

 

“Sure he does, Dean, why wouldn’t he want to meet you?”

 

“Actually I’ve been looking forward to meeting you both.”  A man strolled down the stairway, surprising Dean, since the hallway of the second floor was perfectly visible from all parts of the entryway.  He wasn’t as tall as Dean, but close, with gray hair and pale gray eyes.  He wore khaki’s and a sport jacket, no tie.  He was one of those men who could have been anywhere between forty and sixty, it was difficult to tell.  He looked from one brother to the other, “So, which one is which?  Concha, the dear girl told me your names, sent me a picture, but didn’t bother telling me who was who.”

 

Sam sort of jerked around when Crandall spoke, then edged close enough that Dean’s elbow could nudge firmly into his side.

 

“Sam, I—uh—I’m Sam.”  He grabbed Dean’s arm, pulling him along, “This is Dean.”

 

“Nice to meet you.”  Dean lifted one hand to his waist and let it drop.

 

Crandall walked in a circle around them, seemingly appraising them.  Sam turned in one direction, Dean in the other, following the man’s movements.  He didn’t speak until he was back to his starting point.  Dean thought the guy was more than a bit creepy.

 

“I’m Marcus Crandall, but you may both call me Craven.”

 

Dean still wondered why.

 

“Because I like that name.”  He looked from Sam to Dean, talking to them both.  It gave Dean a shiver, he instinctively took a step forward, leaning his weight to one side so he was between this strange man and his brother.  A move which apparently didn’t go unnoticed.  “Ahh….just like Dante and Concha a nice set.  I suppose you’ll be hanging around here with him?”  Craven addressed his last question to Dean.

 

“I..uh…not if…”  Dean stammered.

 

Sam was slightly more articulate, “He..uh…is it ok?”

 

Craven ignored them both, waving one hand in the air, “He’s the hunter,” pointing at Dean, “And can only benefit.  Besides it would take too much effort to lock him out.”  He turned, Sam sprinted after him, Dean shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and wandered along after Sam.  Leading them out of the large foyer, into an even larger room lined with books, computers, CD’s.  Maps covered the walls, papers covered the tables.  It was as much a contrast to the outer room as it could be, this room was modern, work-filled, no art, no clue as to the purpose it served.  Dean liked it.

 

He motioned them to take a seat.  There were plenty of places to sit, a couch, three large chairs, two desks with chairs.  Craven settled behind one of the desks.  Sam and Dean each in one of the chairs. 

 

“So, I understand you two are one set of the Elements.”  It wasn’t a question. “I’ve arranged for a place for you to stay, nothing much, but it’s within walking distance and I’m told in the winter the heating is good.”  He slid a paper across the desk, which Dean retrieved.  “This is what you’ll need to work on to finish your degree, and will get you started on your further study.”  He picked up a rather large stack of books and, standing, dumped them in Sam’s arms.  “Now,” Craven resettled in his chair, leaning back comfortably, “Tell me about these visions.”

 

Dean straightened, stiffening.  Sam’s eyebrows bounced up under his bangs, his mouth dropped open.  He glanced over at Dean.

 

“Why do you need to know?  How do you know?”  Dean snapped out.

 

Now it was Craven’s turn to raise his eyebrows.  “Concha told me, I naturally asked why she’d been convinced you were one of the Element sets, and why I should take Sam as a student, well both of you it seems.  Did you expect I would accept a student, and what comes with him…?” Craven glared pointedly at Dean…“on blind faith?  Not know anything about either of you?  Not anyone can sign up for this, I chose, accepted you as much as you chose to come here and do this.  You think I don’t know exactly what Concha does, what she is?”

 

“I get these, ah…” Sam shrugged, looking at Dean, then down at the books in his lap, “Headaches.  They usually start with headaches—“

 

“Unless they happen while he’s asleep.”  Dean cut in.  Drawing in a deep breath he pointed at Craven.  “And if you breathe a word of this, anything freaky happens to him, he gets—“

 

Craven waved him off, looking bored.  “I know, believe me, I know.  He gets hurt, you’ll kill me.  I’ve heard the speech before, don’t’ forget you’re not the first overbearing, very overprotective sibling I’ve ever dealt with.  Now, if you’re done with your theatrics, or if you’re not I can direct you to the drama department.  Shall we do what you came here to do?”

 

Sam’s head ducked down a bit, smiling a bit too much Dean thought when he gave Dean a sidelong glance.  “The visions, it’s like I’m in the middle of it, but can’t interact.  I just watch.  Usually they show me someone dying, or about to die.  Sometimes we can get there in time to stop it, most the time not.”

 

“That’s it?”

 

“Isn’t that enough?”  Dean countered.

 

Nodding a bit Craven said, “I’m sorry, it wasn’t what I expected.  Concha only told me there were visions; she didn’t give me a lot of details.”

 

That revelation made Dean only feel marginally better.  He was definitely going to have a conversation with Concha later, though he couldn’t feel much anger towards her, she knew better than to endanger Sam, she had no reason to.  In fact she had every reason to want Sam alive and healthy.  Still he wished she’d given them some forewarning, well maybe she thought she had.  He’d find out later.  This man knew the information; it was no reason to try convincing Sam not to follow through with this, especially since he wanted it so badly.

 

“Can you…” Sam shifted his gaze for an instant to Dean again, “Help me with them, the visions?”

 

Craven’s face softened for the first time.  “We’ll look into it, see what we can find out.  Though Concha’s theory is sound.”

 

Dean’s heart fell, he wanted the damn things gone from Sam maybe more than Sam wanted them gone.  With that final statement Craven sent them on their way.

 

 

+++++

 

 

Sam got to carry the books, somehow the only thing Dean carried was the paper with what would be their home while in Ithaca.

 

“Dude, that guy is seriously creepy.  He didn’t creep you out totally?”  Dean unlocked Sam’s door before jogging around to the driver’s side of the car.

 

“Yeah, a bit.  I guess.”  He hoped Dean wasn’t so freaked he’d want to leave, quit this.  Sam wasn’t sure he didn’t want to quit this.  But Dean, being Dean surprised him.  Just got in the car, and handed Sam the paper with the address, asking him to find directions to the place.  Sam told himself for the millionth time that week, his brother really was a great guy, an ass, but a great guy.

 

The apartment turned out to be small, but clean and nice.  It was one giant room, with a kitchen and a bathroom.  Beds were along one wall, and a small sitting area with a couch, chair and TV along the other.  They’d stayed in much worse.

 

“I don’t know Sam, I don’t mind telling you, I don’t like it he knows so much about us.”

 

“You mean me.”

 

“Yeah, ok, you, I mean you.  Ok?  Guilty as charged! Happy Sam?  Yeah, it bothers me when people know about the visions, bothers me because they make you vulnerable whether you want to admit it or not.  I don’t like it when you’re that vulnerable to others, ‘cause some people think you’re something you’re not.  But we need some answers, and I’m fresh out of ideas where to get them.  You want to do this, we’ll do it…..WE will do this.  But I don’t have to like everything about it.”

 

“Fair enough.”  Sam agreed happily, he really didn’t want it any other way, but telling Dean that would get a huffy noise, waved hand and some snide comment.  “He already knows, so there’s no point worrying about it.  I need to know, find answers.  What we know now, it sort of conflicts with what Dad told us about the demon, the plans.”  He dropped his eyes to the floor, then looked up again, meeting Dean’s.  “I don’t want to die.  I really don’t want you to have to….”

 

Holding up one hand, Dean predictably halted Sam’s speech.  “I’m not, we’ve been over this, not happening, so just don’t go there.  Just don’t.  You’re right, conflicting information for sure.”  Dean shrugged.  “But maybe now you, we, will have the resources to figure it out.”

 

Sam smiled his agreement and began unpacking.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Craven sat back, considering the two young men who’d just left his home.  He’d trained many before them, Concha just being the most recent.  She’d been special, Concha West, but not nearly as special as Sam Winchester.  How long had it been since there’d been the right combination, eight hundred years, a thousand?  He couldn’t remember the last time.

 

Sam Winchester, that boy was special indeed.

 

Equally as special was his brother, Dean Winchester.  Dean, maybe even more so than Sam, just in a different way.  It was Dean who Craven had to be careful of, Dean, who if Craven would ever fear for his existence, he would fear Dean.  Even if Concha hadn’t already filled him in on some details he would have guessed these brothers had more than sibling bonds, just as Concha and Dante did.  Dean wasn’t merely an overprotective sibling. Obviously he felt responsibility for his brother.  Sam, for his part, plainly felt, welcomed the comfort and familiarity offered by his brother’s care and protection, sense of responsibility in the older Winchester.  Craven had an idea there were far deeper bonds running through those two.

 

He needed to know more about them, more about how they’d become the people he saw today.  He mixed a few herbs together in a bowl, added a few well chosen words, a wave of one hand, a match dropped in the bowl, and he was able to see.  Scenes rolled by.  Filling the air in front of him, bits and pieces of the lives of the Winchester brothers, some mundane, some important.  As he watched Craven jotted in a notebook, he was looking for something specific, and would only know it when he got there. 

 

His suspicions about the bond, the relationship between the Winchester brothers was repeatedly confirmed by the time Craven found something deeper, more important, something he had to investigate further.  Watching this in detail, being able to see it entirely, this would require much more complicated spell-work.  Not something Craven was incapable of by any means.  He’d simply need a few more supplies.

 

An hour later, the proper tools, ingredients, in place and a formal circle cast Craven used skills learned in what seemed another lifetime.  Sitting in a large, comfortable chair in the middle of his circle Craven let go, went back to a time not so long gone, eighteen months, two years maybe he guessed and became a very interested observer in the events of the three Winchester men.

 

There were people everywhere, not only people, but all sorts of machinery, cars, vans, helicopters and one very mangled black car.  Craven immediately recognized Dean, though he wasn’t looking so good right then, all bloody and so very, unnaturally still.  His eyes slid to the next one, the boys’ father, John Winchester, recognizing John him from his earlier investigation.   Not looking as bad as Dean, but close, maybe not as still, but just as damn bloody.  A car crash of some sort, probably that truck, a semi, wedged up against the car had played some part.

 

Finally Sam.  Had Craven not been essentially ethereal, sprit walking, he was sure his legs would have given out and he’d sink to the ground at the sight of Sam.  He was bloody, his face beaten, pulpy looking.  It wasn’t his physical condition shocking Craven so.  Sam was in better shape, much better shape actually, than either father or brother.   Craven’s heart bled for Sam.

 

Sam was saying things, shouting for Dean mainly, asking some woman if he, they were alive.  Asking over and over if Dean were alive?  Craven followed Sam to a helicopter, watching, wishing he could ease the boy’s fear, obviously Dean had not only survived, but was fine.  However, Sam then didn’t know that, had no way of knowing.  Craven sat silent next to him, tied to a gurney, locked in place along one side of the helicopter.  Sam craned his head, trying to look around, all the while being told to be still, his father and brother were being cared for.  Sheer panic and unadulterated fear rolled off Sam, slamming into Craven like a tsunami, would have bowled him over if he’d been solid and corporeal at the time.  If he’d been able to he’d have shed tears for this boy.

 

Skipping beyond the mundane details of getting to the hospital, things like surgeries he wasn’t interested in seeing Craven found himself standing beside Sam, who stood in the doorway of a room, trembling, staring through tears at Dean. 

 

Dean.  In a bed, tubes and wires and things breathing for him.  Dean looked terrible, but not as bloody as he earlier.   Craven advanced, leaving Sam in the doorway.  Waving one hand just above Dean’s chest he jerked back, lips curing in a snarl.  “Demon wounds, a demon did this.”  That angered him.  Finally Sam came closer, and Craven wished again he could offer some sort of comfort, he’d only known these two for a few hours, but he liked them.  Sam at long last took up a position first next to Dean’s bed, then perched on it.  Craven didn’t have to hear words from Sam to know what emotions boiled within him.  Not only was he terribly afraid Dean would die, leave him alone, he was maybe more so terrified Dean would die and leave him alone with their father.  Either way Sam looked at it, he’d be alone.  Begging Dean to wake up, Sam, Craven knew would do anything, give anything for his brother back healthy and whole.  There was no room for thoughts of anyone else, he didn’t care then about anyone else, just Dean.

 

Except for a few isolated incidents, the only time John saw Sam was when he went to Dean’s room.  Unless forced out, Sam didn’t, wouldn’t leave, not at first.  No one seemed inclined to challenge him.  Craven smiled, wondering how far anyone in that hospital would have gotten a determined Sam Winchester who didn’t want to be moved.   Dean’s presence, bright and vibrant, in actuality more like his essence was in the room, but not attached to his body. Even in his current state still trying to comfort Sam, watch out for him.  Dad seemed to be on his own.  Craven had the distinct impression Dean’s spirit was aware of him, watching him from time to time, especially when Craven wandered too close to Sam.

 

During one of those infrequent times Sam left Dean’s side was to visit with their father, report on Dean’s condition.  It seemed John couldn’t get that information himself, Craven found this disturbing, became the first in a long line of happenings that would disturb him about the entire situation.  Craven didn’t really believe John’s words, telling Sam he’d find help for Dean.  It was pretty obvious to Craven Sam wasn’t totally convinced either.  Thinking Dean would not have misled Sam for anything Craven watched as more occurred.  John’s motives were clear. He was interested in some gun, and some supplies.  Craven peered over Sam’s shoulder reading the list, constantly mindful of Dean watching him keenly, with more intensity now.  He wondered if Dean remembered him from that time at all.  The Dean he’d recently met hadn’t acted as if he had, but it was difficult to tell.  This Dean, here and now, his eyes followed Craven too well for it to be a feeling or coincidence on his part.  Dean here could see Craven.  Dean Winchester might very well be the most powerful hunter Craven had ever known, or even heard of.  He’d definitely be adjusting his training of Sam, he was going to be teaching Dean and Sam.

 

The explanation given Sam by his father, the supplies being for protection for Dean, Craven knew by reading the list, it was a bold-faced lie.  After Sam left, the look on Dean’s face told Craven Dean knew it too.  When Sam returned later, not overly friendly or happy John was, in no uncertain terms, informed Sam knew what they were for too, how he’d been duped into leaving Dean for a time.  When they argued, Craven couldn’t help laughing when Dean sent a glass of water flying across the room.  That sure stopped the yelling!  Using a Ouija board to communicate with his brother Craven saw Sam’s hopes crash when Dean told him of the reaper following him.  Sam didn’t have to say it, Craven, in this state could feel it plainly enough.  There wasn’t any length Sam wouldn’t go to, nothing he wouldn’t sacrifice to have his brother back, have him alive.  It was all for one simple reason, the only good reason as far as Craven was concerned. Sam Winchester loved his brother more than anyone or anything.

 

Which brought Craven back to why was Sam so afraid of being left alone with his father?  In fact, Craven was sure Sam would merely be alone, on his own, he doubted those two would have stayed together beyond Dean’s funeral rites, if they managed to go that far.  Sam plainly felt the same.  But then, as Craven was realizing in leaps and bounds, John Winchester may have fathered his sons, but Dean took care of he and Sam, raised Sam, was the center of the known and probably unknown universe to Sam. 

 

Craven turned his attentions to Dean.  It was more difficult following Dean’s essence, since Dean was definitely aware of Craven.  That little bit of knowledge shook Craven, was more than an interesting fact.  He’d been around the essence of the near-dead before, they’d never so much as sensed him, let alone looked him straight in the eye and arched a questioning eyebrow at him.  Some reaper, calling herself Tessa was who Dean spent time with when he wasn’t watching over Sam.  This reaper, this Tessa tried, gently at first to convince Dean to let go.  Craven had seen this before too, people just couldn’t let go of life, grasp that they had to move on.  After two minutes of listening in, Craven realized Dean was different, vastly different than other people. 

 

Dean hadn’t wanted to live for himself, he never once asked Tessa for himself.  The reaper was surprised, Craven could tell with no effort.  No, this man, Dean Winchester, wanted to live to care for his brother, protect him, fearing without him Sam would be alone, eventually die in some messy, painful manner.  A justified worry Craven knew.  Beyond that he wanted to fight a fight against humanities nemesis.  Not once did Dean ask for himself.

 

Following John Winchester next, Craven wasn’t too surprised by what the man did, he expected it in fact.  Making his way down the hall, to the elevator, John never saw Sam.  Or if he did, never acknowledged the boy, a common trait in the man Craven came to know.  Sam carried a package, probably the Ouija board.  Seeing his father moving slowly to the elevator, Sam ducked into a small waiting area where vending machines lined both walls.  The minute John stepped into the elevator, carrying the duffel Sam had thrown onto his table earlier, Sam darted forward.  He looked up at the lights over the elevator doors, frowning, probably wondering, as did Craven why it was headed to the basement.

 

Sam stood for a minute or two, considering the elevator, and its destination before turning and walking down the hall to his brother’s room with a small shrug of his shoulders.  Craven sensed a new batch of emotions rolling off Sam.  Something beyond just wanting Dean to survive, be healthy.  Curiosity in his father’s actions, but not enough to inspire him to follow.  Resignation maybe?  Definitely resignation his father would do whatever he damn well pleased, Sam’s feelings aside.   Resignation John’s obsession with hunting a certain demon was more important than anything, and there was nothing Sam, or Dean, could do to change that, ever.  Sam and his brother would always be second to John’s personal demon hunt.  For the first time Sam didn’t care, he had the only family, only parent he ever really knew or needed in his brother.  Sam never looked back, focused only forward toward Dean, saving Dean.  Absolute resignation that no matter what the cost Sam’s brother would live. 

 

Craven was starting to see, understand.

 

The basement Craven followed John to was a typical large building basement.  Damp, filled with all sorts of pipes, machines, things, who knew what they were all for.   This basement had its very own demon, dressed as a janitor no less.  John was after the demon all right.  Maybe not for the exact reason Sam thought, suspected or maybe so, it was difficult to tell.  Craven listened, sorry he couldn’t step in, tell this foolish, foolish man he was being stupid.  Never, ever trust a demon.  

 

Sam got his miracle, got his brother back.  He didn’t care how or why it happened, never really even questioned it.  Just said a quiet thank you and took the gift he, and Dean had been given.

 

Finally Craven listened, horrified by John’s calmness, matter of fact manner when he sent Sam away, the man knew as much about where Sam’s heart and loyalties were embedded as Sam did.  That was disturbing in and of itself, but what he did to Dean in the end, that was inexcusable.  Wrong on so many levels, in so many ways, inaccurate in ways Craven couldn’t even begin to count. 

 

When their father died Dean grieved, felt loss and abandonment and a deep down fear for Sam.  Sam grieved too, not nearly as much, and mainly more for Dean.  What Sam did feel, and felt deeply and profoundly was guilt, guilt he’d done some wrong to Dean. 

 

Craven returned to his present self, leaned back in his chair and contemplated what he’d witnessed.  Very interesting was the final feelings, inner turmoil from Sam, guilt because of something done to Dean, something Sam felt he’d done.  Craven knew exactly what.

 

Craven was going to have to have a little chat with John Winchester, and being dead was neither an excuse nor deterrent.   

 

 

Chapter 3

 

“Whatcha doing?”

 

Sam looked up, meeting Dean’s eyes, happy to see their corners crinkle with his brother’s smile.  Dean dug two beers out of the fridge.

 

“This.”  Waving at the sprawl of books over the table Sam snorted a disgusted noise and flipped his pen in the air.  

 

“Not going so well?”  Dean patiently retrieved the pen from the floor, laying it beside Sam’s hand.  “And here I thought you loved this stuff, studying, school.”

 

“No, Dean, I love learning.  Actually I hate studying, more to the point I hate doing it alone.  I always joined study groups.  Why do you think I always tried getting you to sit with me and help me when I was a kid?”

 

Swinging the other kitchen chair around, straddling it, Dean pulled one of the books closer.  “This is….eeuuuwww.  At least what we research for hunts is…well…”

 

“Interesting?”  Sam finished for him, smiling at Dean’s smirk and nod.  “I need to complete these to finish the degree I started at Stanford.  And, um…..we sort of have homework.”

 

“We?  What’s this we shit Sammy?  I said I’d do this with you, not do your homework.  I’m here for the sorority girls.”

 

“It’s a hunt.”

 

Dean nodded, considering what Sam told him.  “For sorority girls?”

 

Huffing a sigh, Sam stood and stretched.  “I don’t think so.  I have a location and some details.”

 

“Ok,” Dean shrugged, cracking open one beer, then the second handing it to Sam.  “I can get into that, what is it we’re hunting?”

 

Sam handed him a slip of paper, a single road name and some directions were written on it.  “I..uh…think I put together some theories, what we’re dealing with.”  Sam just knew Dean was going to laugh at this, he really was.

 

Taking a swig of beer, Dean held out one hand, shrugged his question.  Sam figured he may as well get it over with.  Rubbing the back of his head, focusing on the mess of books all over the table, he mumbled, “Bridge troll.”

 

Sammy…..a what??”  First Dean choked, then coughed, then made some noise Sam really didn’t even want to try and identify, and lastly sprayed beer all over Sam’s chest.

 

Head dropping to look down at his showered torso, Sam heaved another sigh.  “Dude, that’s just gross.”  He pulled off his shirt, taking two steps to toss it into the laundry bin in the bathroom.

 

“We’re hunting down faerie tales now?”  Dean wheezed.  “And waste of good beer.”

 

Sam shot his brother the dirtiest look he could muster, then looked down, maybe Dean wouldn’t notice he was turning the slightest shade of pink.  Well, he was naked from his belt up, Dean would notice, since all of him was turning pink.  Sam retrieved a clean shirt and pulled it on. 

 

It seemed silly, but maybe, just maybe there was something to the legends.  “Lots of myths are based on actual things.  Look at these.”  He held out a folder.

 

Snatching it from Sam’s grasp Dean rifled through the contents.  “Sam.  Come on, you could do these on your computer if you wanted.”

 

“This one is from 1956.”   Sam pulled one from the folder.  “When the bridge was built.  It’s a wooden covered bridge.”

 

Shrugging, “So? You can do that on your computer too.” 

 

Sam just looked at him, chin dipped down a fraction, head tilted slightly to one side, mouth curled up to a lopsided grin.   “You know you want to.”

 

“No.  No, Sam I really don’t.”  Dean stared him down.  All it took was for Sam to drop his gaze to the floor, the picture of defeated.  Rolling his eyes, Dean let the beer bottle clunk to the counter top.  From deep in his chest a low growl rumbled out.  Sam hid a smile by biting his lip, the growl he’d learned somewhere around age four was totally fake.  “If this is part of your training, then I suppose the Brothers Winchester can hunt down the Brothers Grimm, but so help me if this is one of your half-assed attempts at a joke…..”

 

“Dean, man, would I even think of doing that to you?”

 

Shaking his head, walking away, mumbling, “Bridge troll of all the…..”

 

“Don’t you want to know the details I dug up?”

 

Dean swung around mid-step, returned to his chair, plopping down.  He gazed up at Sam with his infernally patient, big-brother expression. 

 

“You’re making fun of me.”  Sam snapped, suddenly infuriated and feeling like a little kid asking permission to cross the street all at once.

 

“No, Sammy I’m not, but come on, a bridge troll?  It’s a kid’s story.”  He actually, to Sam’s surprise, managed to look contrite, not quite apologetic, but almost.

 

“Not everything is demons and ghosts.”  Shrugging a bit, digging his toe against the linoleum of the kitchen floor, “Never mind, it’s silly, I’ll just go by myself, it’s my thing anyway, the schoolwork.”  Sam sat down at the table, started shuffling through his books again.  He nearly burst out laughing when Dean made that growling noise again.  Looking up meekly, “Something wrong?”

 

“Go on a hunt by yourself?  As if you’ll ever be big enough for that.”

 

”I’m bigger than you.”

 

Dean snorted, then growled.  Sam was starting to like the growl.  “So, other than the pictures, why a bridge troll?”

 

“Well,” Sam scooted his chair around so he was next to Dean, picking up the folder again.  “Since this picture was first taken, in 1956 a few people a year vanish there.”

 

“Bridge Sammy, they probably jumped.”

 

“Water isn’t deep enough, and the bridge is really only about ten feet off the ground.  After each disappearance there is a note left nailed to the bridge entrance, saying ‘They couldn’t answer.’”

 

“College prank.”

 

Nodding, “Maybe,” Sam agreed.  “I thought of that too, but people really are disappearing there, a few each year.  All kinds of people, I couldn’t find any correlation between the victims other than they vanished at that particular place.  According to legends trolls turn into stone in the sunlight.  And I found these sigils, they should trap the troll long enough for the sun to come up.”

 

Dean groaned, not nearly as entertaining as the growl. Sam decided his brother had more noises than most people did words.   “Until the sun comes up?”

 

“Yeah, at night.”

 

A sigh and a rumble, “Ok, why should I expect a gig in the afternoon anyway?”  Dean shoved one of the books at Sam.  “In the mean time, I’m here, we have a group of two, what do I have to do to help you get this crap done?”

 

Somewhere around midnight Sam was beginning to regret getting Dean to come along.  First Dean wandered up and down the bridge, reciting bad limericks.  Then he threw stones off the bridge at some imaginary monsters in the water.  Then he hung up-side-down from the railing of the covered bridge by his knees, throwing stones at imaginary monsters in the water.  After that he bitched at Sam because he’d been trying to reach Concha, give her what for because she’d told Craven about Sam’s visions, and was only getting her voice mail.  She’d returned his calls, but gotten his voice mail.

 

“Dean,” Sam sat on the bank, leaning back against one of the pylons supporting the old, wooden bridge.  “I think we’re supposed to at least pretend we believe in the troll.  You’re not really taking this very seriously.”

 

“Don’t you have some way of calling the thing?  I’m hungry.”

 

“Will you quit whining?”

 

“I’m not whining Sammy.  I don’t whine I speak with effect.”

“Whining.”  Sam rolled his eyes.  He let his head bump against the old, somewhat rotting wood of the bridge.  “There is no pattern to when the people disappeared, and I couldn’t find a way to call it.”  He mumbled the last few words, hoping his brother wouldn’t really hear, or pay attention.

 

Dean homed in on Sam’s words like a possessed pigeon.  “Jesus Sammy, you know better, hunts have to be researched so A, we don’t waste our time and B, we don’t die.  If this is how this guy is teaching you to research, well kiddo, I’m a helluva lot better teacher than he is.  In fact I bet Professor Creepy is…..”

 

“Is what Dean?”  When Sam got no answer he straightened, looking around.  “Dean?”  He shone the flashlight across the bridge.  Just as it landed on Dean, who looked a bit confused, and was waving at Sam, the light flicked out.  “Damn piece of crap.”  He thwanked it hard against the palm of his other hand.  He peered more closely at his brother, “I’m coming, what is it?”  Lengthening his stride, Sam covered the few feet between him and where Dean stood in a few seconds.  He stopped quick when he suddenly realized Dean wasn’t waving him forward, but trying to wave him away.

 

Sam opened his mouth to ask, he gasped in surprise when Dean was sucked under the ground.

 

“Sammy’s got a secret.”

 

Jerking around, Sam heard the rustle of underbrush.  Barely saw something moving just beyond his vision.  A breeze skimming over his arms and the back of his neck made him shiver a bit, at least that’s what he told himself.  “Dean?  DEAN!”

 

“Sammy’s got a secret.”

 

Spinning back toward the bridge, the voice was behind him again.  “Dean, so help me if this is one of your lame-ass pranks….”

                                          

More rustling.  “Dean doesn’t know Sammy’s secret.”

 

Sam froze. 

 

“Sammy’s got a secret.  Should tell Dean his secret.”

 

Moving only his head, Sam looked around him.  The small, crescent moon provided little light.  The old, wooden, covered bridge, quaint before now appeared like some menacing creature, its gaping maw of an opening leering at him.  He wondered if he stepped onto the bridge if the thing would close up and swallow him whole.  Most importantly where the HELL was Dean?

 

“De-Dean?”  Yeah, he sounded incredibly dangerous. Some hunter.

 

Something ran, on bare feet Sam could tell, from one side of the bridge to the other. Sam peered into the murk.  It wasn’t Dean.  His brother wouldn’t wander around here without boots and socks for any reason at all.  They weren’t Dean’s footsteps anyway, Sam knew those, had them ingrained in him since infanthood, what his brother’s footsteps sounded like.  A splash got Sam moving cautiously to the stream.  It was a noisy little stream.  The water bubbled and cascaded over countless rocks and branches and who knew what else in the water.  Sam squinted at the water, tried the useless flashlight again.  Not seeing any Dean-sized lumps in the water he heaved a sigh of relief.

 

“Secret…secret..Sammy’s got a secret.”

 

Hedging closer to the bridge, careful not to get sucked in and eaten by its jaws, Sam took a box of chalk from his pocket, began drawing the sigils on one side of the bridge.  He started on the left corner, he’d at some point have to cross the bridge to mark the other side, but he’d have to find Dean first, or risk leaving him trapped where ever he was.

 

“What secret is that?”  Sam answered, his voice sounded surprisingly calm, at least to him.  “Where’s my brother?”

 

“Right under your nose, brother is.  Sammy’s got a secret.”

 

Wonderful, it was really Yoda, not a troll.  Sam instinctively looked down.  Nope, Dean wasn’t there.  Something danced out of the shadows, splashed from the stream just beneath the bridge.  Sam resisted the urge to back away, couldn’t quite stop the short gasp from bursting out of his throat.  It was maybe half his size, with huge clown-shoe sized feet, except there were six bony, gnarled toes attached to plump legs with what looked to be two knee caps apiece.  Yet another reason to not be so terribly fond of clowns.  Little pointy teeth smiled at him through lips that didn’t quite close.  A long snout any Great White would give to have, and on top of that eyes that blinked sideways.  Skinny arms hung at its side, six fingers on the end of each to match the toes.

 

Sam really wished he knew where Dean was.  Really wished Dean was here.

 

“Brother loves you and you don’t tell him your secret.”

 

“I don’t need you to tell me what my brother feels.  And I don’t know what secret you’re talking about.  I’ve never kept anything from Dean.”  Well…almost…he actually didn’t have any secrets Sam finally decided, at least not from Dean.

 

“My bridge.  Must tell if you want him back.”

 

Well, crap, that was too easy.  Sam shrugged in what he hoped looked like utter defeat.  “Ok, give him back and I’ll tell him anything you want.”  He finished drawing on the left most support, moved across to the right corner.  “Is this a recent secret or from when we were kids.  I’ve known the guy my whole life, might have to narrow it down for me.”

 

“Sammy’s got a secret.  Sammy’s daddy died.”

 

Eyes sliding to the troll, who was maybe uglier than the first look, “It’s no secret my dad died.”

 

“Sammy knows, daddy died.”

 

Sam dropped the chalk.  Spinning to face the troll, “It’s S-…..” Waving one hand in the air in disgust,  “Oh, never mind.  We talked about it, all of it.  I told Dean everything I knew.”  His voice cracked one too many times.  Retrieving the chalk Sam continued his drawing.  “I certainly can’t tell him anything right now, you took him, and I want him back!”

 

“He’s right here, right under your nose.”  The troll danced away, rather annoyingly as Sam swatted at its head.  When the creature stopped on the same spot Dean had vanished from Sam stopped drawing, straightened and glared at it.

 

“Please.”

 

“Anything, anything at all you’d do to have him back.” 

 

It wasn’t a question.  Sam didn’t give him a response, he had the sense he didn’t need to say anything, anything more than a repeated please.

 

The troll raised one hand, waggled his fingers at Sam and dropped through the ground, right where Dean had gone. 

 

“No!  Nooooo……”  Sam covered the distance in a few strides, dropping to his knees, digging frantically at the ground.  “I need him.  Please.”  It was hard and rocky and unforgiving and made his fingers bleed.  His next tactic was to pound his hands over and over against the hard packed soil and thin grass, most of which he’d yanked out.  Finally gathering himself up, he stood on shaky legs to his full height and was surprised to see the crescent moon had moved quite a distance along its path.  It seemed only a few minutes had gone by during his little conversation with the troll, but in reality it was hours.  A glance at his watch told him he had three hours left before dawn.  If he couldn’t find Dean, free him by then, Sam shuddered, maybe he never would. 

 

The wind picked up for a few seconds, and whispering, seemingly from the trees caught his attention.

 

“Sammy has a secret. Sammy answered.   Now Dean has to answer my question.”

 

Sam couldn’t help feeling he’d somehow been tricked into a deal, he just couldn’t figure out what kind.

 

 

 Chapter 4

 

Dean sat on a rock, elbow propped against one knee, head resting against his upturned palm.  His other hand was against the rock, fingers drumming in no particular rhythm. 

 

It was…ugly…outstandingly ugly.  If he hadn’t been looking at it for the last ten minutes or so, he’d have never believed it.  And damn, the thing was ugly!

 

Clearing his throat, getting the ugly spud’s attention, Dean gave it his most menacing glare.  “Where am I?  More importantly, where is my brother, where’s Sam?”

 

“You right under brother’s nose.”  Its sing-song, too cutesy voice for its face and body grated on Dean’s last nerve.

 

“Sure hope he doesn’t get the sniffles.”  Dean dug his flask out of his pocket, opened it, and took a sip.

 

“Sammy’s got a secret.”

 

“Umhum.  Don’t we all?  Where is he?  If you hurt him, I’ll rip your head off with my bare hands.  You just stay away from my brother.”

 

The troll sat, cross-legged in front of Dean, but out of reach.  Dean’s eyes narrowed, he watched the thing’s face, which gave him very little clues.  Extending his arm he offered the flask.  Silly troll took it too.  He had to make a real effort to keep the smirk from his face.

 

It made what Dean took to be some sort of sour face, hard to tell on a troll, cocked its head to one side in a gesture that reminded him a bit too much of Sam, “All in there you got is water?”  Trolls, it seemed, were totally unaffected by holy water.

 

Smiling Dean took back his flask, fished the other one out of the other pocket, offering it to the troll.  “Here, maybe you’ll like this one better?”

 

The troll took the offering, taking a deep drink.  “Better, much better.  Like this.  Sammy has a secret.”

 

Dean sighed, “So you said.”

 

“Daddy died, Sammy knows.”

 

“Yeeaaahhhh….”  Dean took back his flask, wiped off the opening and took another sip.  He held it back out to the troll.  “Dean knows too, that’s not a big secret, we were both there.  Try again dude.”

 

Sitting perfectly still, only Dean’s eyes followed the troll as it danced around.  The troll took two drinks from the flask. 

 

“Sammy should tell Dean.”

 

Smiling Dean shook his head, retrieved his flask, wiped, and another sip for himself.  “Sammy tells Dean everything, some days the boy never shuts up.  And you’d better not let him hear you call him Sammy, makes him irritable.  He might just squash you.”

 

Getting close enough to Dean to snatch the flask away, the troll put it to his lips again.  Then snarled and held the flask up side down, shaking it.  “All gone.”

 

“So aren’t I supposed to answer a question or play with a billy goat or something?  Cause dude, my kid brother is up there, probably freaked the hell right out, and frankly I’m not spending forever down here.  Where am I anyway?”

 

“Under brother’s nose.”

 

Scratching the back of his head, Dean sighed deep and heavy. 

 

“Only have to answer question, can have brother back.”

 

Dean straightened, “What do you mean have him back?  Where is he, what did you do with him?” 

 

“Brother right where you left him, brother fine.”  The troll staggered, dropping to the ground drunkenly.

 

“Ask the question.”  Dean snapped.  “Or let me out and I’ll get you more of that.”  He dipped his head at the empty flask still gripped in the troll’s spiny fingers.

 

The troll looked from Dean to the flask and back again.  Brother for booze, not a bad trade Dean reasoned, making a mental note not to actually tell Sam what the trade was.

 

“Sammy knows about daddy.  Sammy has a secret.”

 

Dean stood up, snatched his flask from the ugly thing, “You know what?  I don’t care.  And, for the record, I get to call him Sammy not you!”  Holding up the flask, waggling it back and forth a few times, “Want more or not?”

 

“Secret make Dean angry, very angry at Sammy.  Not want to talk to Sammy.”

 

Hunkering down so he was face to face with the troll, Dean shook his head.  “Not going to happen.”

 

“Sammy has a secret, knows about daddy.”

 

Standing to his full height, throwing both hands in the air, Dean shouted, “I don’t care!”

 

“Bring more?”  The troll tapped the flask.

 

“You bet I will, ten minutes, and I’ll be back.”

 

In the next instant Dean was back, next to the bridge, muttering, “Stupid thing,” then, “That was different.”

 

 

 

+++++

 

 

 

Sam finished the sigils on the right pylon, glancing at the opening to the bridge.  He’d have to go through and cross to the other side.  Taking one step, his foot stopped before it hit the old wood of the bridge.  He backed up a few steps, looking again at the opening.

 

“Ok, Sam, get a grip, you’re being silly.”  He said aloud.  Dean was definitely going to call him a girl for this.  Tapping the chalk against the palm of his other hand Sam began to pace back and forth in front of the bridge.  Why was he so sure the thing was going to eat him whole, it was just a bridge?  But, he did have to free Dean before he finished the sigils, he was quite sure of that fact. 

 

Secret, what secret?  “Sammy’s clueless.”  Scratching the back of his head he paced, and thought, what secret did he have to tell Dean?  “Hey, Dean, remember when you were ten, and you got into trouble because you left the ammo in the wrong place?  I did that.”  Turning a slow circle, no Dean.  “Well, what else?  Ummm….I know you love me more than the car, but only slightly.”  He talked louder.  Raising his voice more, “I…um…filled up with the wrong grade gas last week, but since you love me more than the car, it’s ok, right?”

 

No Dean.  Sam was running out of secrets.

 

“I sent that Cathy chick you had the hots for when you were seventeen the Valentine’s card.”  He dropped his voice to a mumble, “The one that made her never talk to you again.”

 

He was getting desperate, turning a circle, hands out, “Would a hug once and a while kill you?”  Actually a question not an admission, but Dean would get the point and understand.

 

Five minutes more of pacing and thinking, Sam had come up with no better secrets.  Nothing came to mind about their father’s dying that he and Dean hadn’t talked about, but was there something?  Was there something unimportant to Sam, which would matter to Dean?  Or something Sam had maybe not mentioned, then disregarded purposely?  Something he knew Dean didn’t?  Dean was still pretty prickly on the subject, so Sam, liking his teeth and face the way they were, avoided it. 

 

It nagged at his brain, chewing a small hole through his mind.  Something he knew, Dean didn’t, something his father had….Sam sucked in his breath and felt a bit light headed.  He’d told Dean, he was sure, or had he glossed it over?  Had Dean not seen the true ramifications?  Probably not, since it was just now sinking into Sam’s mind, and Dean had been unconscious at the time, and was still prickly on the subject and Sam never brought it up after those first few days, and…CRAP!

 

Sam nearly jumped out of his skin and passed out when a firm hand grabbed his arm and yanked him around, then along toward the snapping jaws of the bridge entrance. 

 

“Dean!  Where…how…I thought…”

 

“Sammy, we’ve got…” Dean glanced at his watch, “Eight and a half minutes, shut up, give me some chalk, we need to get down to the other end and draw!”

 

Standing there with his mouth open wasn’t very helpful; neither was just standing there while Dean ran right onto the bridge with the snapping jaws.  Turning he barked at Sam to put a move on.  Following, Sam hesitated at the bridge’s entrance, somewhat reluctant to cross.  Dean’s voice from half way across, again telling him to hurry, to follow him, got Sam’s feet moving.  With one final, wary glance at the opening, hoping the jaws didn’t snap shut on them both Sam sprinted after his brother.  When they were on the other side Sam felt silly, of course the bridge had stayed a plain wooden, creaky, old bridge.  He dug the box of chalk from his pocket, tossing it to Dean’s waiting hands.

 

They started marking the sigils, each one taking a pylon.

 

“How’d you get out?  What did you have to tell him…her…it….whatever?”

 

Dean grinned wickedly.  “Got the thing plastered on Jack, then when my flask was empty I promised to be back in ten minutes with more.  It kept rambling on about some secret you know, but I said I didn’t care.”

 

“Dean.”  Sam stopped, immensely relieved to hear Dean didn’t care about what Sam knew or didn’t know.  Which was odd, since Sam still wasn’t positive what this secret was, but he was positive it had the potential for causing big trouble.  “If you promised it you’d be back in ten minutes and you’re not, it’ll just come after you and probably won’t let you go a second time so easily.”  A twinge of fear threaded through his chest, he pushed it away.

 

“Sam, keep drawing.  I know.  That’s the plan.”

 

“We have a plan?”

 

“No, I have a plan. You’ve been fumbling around up here in the dark.  Don’t mark the last one till I tell you to.”

 

“And how did you come up with this plan?”

 

Dean smirked, “It just sort of popped into my head.  What can I say?  I’m that damn good.”

 

Sam rolled his eyes and groaned, “Excuse me while I go vomit.”  He turned when he felt Dean’s hand grip his elbow, moving him along, back onto the bridge.

 

“Stay on the bridge, don’t get off, no matter what happens.”  Dean drew the final sigil on Sam’s pylon.  He handed Sam the flask and jerked his chin toward the middle of the bridge.  “We need the little guy to come get his whiskey.  And Sammy, no matter what, you stay on this bridge until I tell you otherwise.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It can’t do anything as long as we’re on the bridge.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

Dean shrugged, “I don’t know, I just do.  The trap is on the bridge, so it makes sense I guess.”

Sam admitted as much, and didn’t admit, at least not out loud to Dean, his brother was usually right about these things.

 

“Sam.  Stay on the bridge.  No matter what.”  Dean held up one finger and enunciated every word, using the tone of voice that told Sam arguing or not doing as requested would lead to more trouble than anything supernatural could dish out at him.  When Dean talked like that, he meant it, and going against his brother at time like this was something Sam never really considered.  Funny thing was, he’d often realized, if his father or anyone else had spoken to him in that manner, Sam would have done what they said not to, just to prove he could.  When it came down to it, was really important, Sam rarely, if ever, questioned Dean, especially during a hunt.  Sam never thought much about or questioned why he accepted Dean’s authority, possibly because Dean quite readily accepted Sam’s input, and in most cases explained his motives and reasons.  Sam may have been raised predominantly by this brother, but that same brother never treated him like a child, even when Sam had been a child.  What Sam thought and felt was always valued by Dean.

 

So when Dean said stay on the bridge, Sam decided staying on the bridge was wise and prudent.  Baiting the troll with the flask is what Sam would be doing.  Dean never wanted to risk Sam more by putting him in actual danger, in this case danger of being sucked under ground to wherever the troll had taken Dean.

 

“I will.  You’re going to stay on it too, right?”  There was no reason Sam couldn’t expect the same thing of Dean his brother did of him.

 

Dean gave him a swift, searching look, immediately acknowledging Sam’s apprehension.  “That is the plan, Sammy.  Don’t worry.”

 

Sam exhaled, relieved.  Dean glanced at his watch, eyes shifting quickly back to Sam’s.  Moving back to the far pylons, Dean hung over the edge for a look around before leaning against the pylon he’d been marking on.  He held one finger up, then after a second pressed it to his lips.  Sam understood perfectly.  After what Sam suspected was ten minutes since Dean reappeared he heard rustling in the shrubs, then the slapping of bare feet along the ground.

 

“Sammy’s got a secret.”

 

Sam’s eyes met Dean’s, he shrugged, palms up he scrunched his nose and made a ‘who knows’ face.  Holding the flask chest high, he waved it around a bit.  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’ve been there, done that.  I answered your question, so let us go.”

 

The troll stopped beside Dean, looking up at him in what Sam could only guess was a mixture of annoyance and victory.  It was difficult to tell on a troll.  “You promised to bring me something back.  Promise broke.”

 

Dean grinned, “Nope, not broken.”  He tipped his chin at Sam, “He’s got it right there.  Go get it from him.”

 

Smiling broadly, looking friendly and innocent, Sam held out the flask.  “Here.  All yours.”

 

Looking from one brother to the other, the troll didn’t move for a few seconds, and Sam was beginning to think Dean’s plan might not work.  Moving its upper body in something resembling a shrug the troll gave Dean one last leer, and trotted towards Sam.  Hanging onto the pylon with one hand, Dean swung his upper body around, feet still planted on the bridge, and drew the final sigil.  Righting and turning back to Sam and the troll when he heard Sam’s voice, and probably the tinge of panic in it Sam reasoned.

 

The troll’s snout had grown not one, but several impressive sets of teeth.  It might have been half Sam’s height, but it was moving at him with lightening speed looking plenty menacing and plain scary.  Sam looked around as he backed up.  He could only get so far from the troll, the bridge wasn’t that big.  When the troll roared some high pitched screech Sam started backpedaling, trying to hedge around it, and closer to Dean. 

 

“Dean!”

 

“Sam, run!  RUN!”  Dean straightened, and was running hard at Sam inside of two seconds.  “Jump!  Get off now!”

 

Dean didn’t use words like ‘run, jump, stay, stop or down’ because he could.  He usually had good reason, and the harsh quality of his voice only added to Sam’s haste.  When Dean said those words, in that way, Sam never, ever questioned or thought or resisted.  Sam did.  He bolted down the bridge, hearing the troll’s footfalls right behind him.  Swerving to his right he grabbed the bridge railing.  It was awkward, trying to duck his upper body under the cover part of the bridge, and vault his long legs over the railing, but he managed to get himself clear.  His jump and subsequent landing was less than graceful, and not in the least organized.  He slipped on the wet stream bottom, lost his balance and ended up flat on his back in chilly, icy waters.

 

Running first at the troll, then back the way he’d come, Dean was finally able to dodge around the thing coming at him with surprising speed.  “Sammy?”

 

No doubt Dean heard the rather large splash Sam made hitting the water.  “I’m wet.”  The sun was coming up.  Standing, Sam shook water from his hair.

 

Dean ran full tilt the length of the bridge, he and the screaming, nasty, ugly troll getting there in what would have been a great photo finish had this been the Kentucky Derby.  The troll couldn’t cross onto the ground, the sigils held it trapped.  Dean, however could, but wasn’t quite fast enough.  Colliding with the first rays of sunlight the troll solidified into granite, clunked on the bridge and rolled…..right onto Dean’s foot.

 

“Aww…for the love of….you’ve got to be kidding….SAAAUUUMMMYYYYYY!!!!!!  Get this thing off me!”  Dean dropped to the ground, yanking on his ankle in an attempt to free his stuck foot.  “I’m gonna beat the crap out of you for this!”

 

“Me?!”  Sam lumbered out of the stream, shivering.  He shook more water off.

 

“Yes, you.  This is..” he waved at his trapped foot.  “…your fault, this was your bright idea.  Will you stop shaking off water like an overgrown golden retriever?”

 

“I’m wet.”  Sam complained.

 

“Shut up and get this freaky thing off me.”

 

Sam laughed, he couldn’t help it.  Dean growled, which only made Sam laugh harder.  When Dean glowered at him Sam managed a more contrite expression.  “Ok, ok, give me a minute to find something to lift with.  You know threatening to beat me up isn’t great incentive.”  A minute’s worth of scouting the area produced nothing helpful.  “Where’s the keys?”

 

“Where are yours?”

 

“Left them at home.”

 

More growling as Dean dug the car keys from his pocket, tossed them to Sam’s waiting at-a-respectable-distance hand.  Sam grinned, “I’ll be right back, going to get a crow bar.”

 

When Sam jogged back to his brother Dean looked even more pissed, if that was if all possible. 

 

“Wait a minute.”  Dean slid his jacket off, threw it at Sam, hitting him in the head with it.  “Put that on before you freeze.  So help me you get a stain on it and I’ll….”

 

Sam wedged the crowbar under the stony troll.  “You’ll what D-dean?  You’re sssstuck under this r-rock.”  His teeth were starting to chatter, pulling the warm jacket on, Sam took a few deep breaths.  Giving a push, grunting under the strain Sam lifted the troll far enough that Dean could slide his food free.

 

“Ooowwww”  Dean grumbled, yanking his foot out and boot off, he rubbed his foot and toes.  “Got any paper?  Pen?”

 

“Yeah, th-think so.”  Sam patted his jeans and sweatshirt pockets, extracting the requested objects. 

 

Dean scribbled on the paper, grinning he held it out for Sam to see.  Sam burst out laughing, Dean had written a note he put under the turned-to-stone troll…Question answered!  Pulling up on Sam’s offered hand Dean grumbled more, making Sam smile more.  “Come on, let’s get back to the car, you’re going to get sick, or freeze or both.” 

 

Sam shivering and chattering and Dean limping from a bruised foot, not really so bad on the hunt hurt scale.   Sam settled happily in the Impala, Dean had the heat cranked up full, was still bitching at Sam about his foot while he tucked the jacket around Sam a little tighter.  Sam bunched the soft leather in both fists.  “Thanks.”

 

“You get it dirty, you’re getting it cleaned.”  More growling.  Maybe someday Sam would tell him he’d figured out the growl long ago.

 

“I wasn’t talking about just the jacket.”

 

Dean looked sidelong at him, reaching out and patting Sam’s knee, he nodded.  They drove most the way back in relative silence.  Sam stole a glance at his brother every few minutes.  Dean wore an expression that told Sam he was mulling something over.  Asking would do Sam no good.  Waiting, being patient, was what would provide results.  Dean would tell him what was on his mind, he always did, eventually.  It might come out at the most unsuspected time, but Dean for all his bravado and wall building was an open book to Sam.  Dean really didn’t keep things from Sam, he didn’t share them immediately, often wanting time to think them through.  Sam was amazed really Dean had managed to keep their father’s revelation to himself for as long as he had.

 

“So what was it?”

 

“Humm?”  Sam turned to his brother.  This time he wasn’t going to have to wait so long he sensed.

 

“The secret you have, the question you answered, what was it?”

 

“I thought you didn’t care?”

 

“I told the troll I didn’t care.”  Dean took his eyes from the road, gave Sam a meaningful look before looking forward again.  “Well?”

 

Sam had never been so happy to be sitting as he was at that moment.  Feeling a bit queasy, and dizzy Sam focused out the front window, resisted the urge to wipe a hand over his face or through his hair.  He shrugged in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner.  He’d buried it, what he knew, what he’d done.  Hadn’t done was more the accurate case.  Nothing could be changed.  He’d never intended Dean to know, not ever.  He’d not once looked back, made such an effort to forget, push it to the back of his mind he’d actually blocked it out until tonight.  It would be trouble beyond trouble Sam knew.  He’d made a choice, the right choice he knew deep in his heart.  Never once had Sam doubted it was his only choice.  He’d bury it again keep it secret no matter how old he lived to be.  No good would come of it being revealed.  None, never.

 

“I don’t know, something stupid probably.  He was a troll, what’s the difference?”

 

“It said you knew something about Dad, when he died.”

 

“You were there, you know everything I do.  Well, you actually knew more.”  Sam stared out the passenger window now, trying to look like he was sulking.

 

Dean wasn’t buying it.  “Sam, a good part of that time I was in a coma.”

 

“I don’t know.”  Sam snapped.  “I told you what happened then.  What difference would it make anyway?”  That was the wrong thing to say, and Sam knew it.  The look on Dean’s face told him his brother wasn’t going to forget this, or let it drop anytime soon.  Sam’s only hope was that he didn’t crack and could just weather this little storm long enough for Dean to give up, or for Sam to come up with something convincible.

 

Following Dean up the steps to their apartment Sam shivered as the wind picked up.  He stopped and turned, looking around, swearing he heard a voice.

 

Sammy’s got a secret.

 

 

 Chapter 5

 

Sam managed to get a shower, and grab a few hours sleep without any further conversation on the matter of inquiring troll minds.  When he slipped silently out of bed, settled with his laptop at the kitchen table Dean did little more than roll over and grumble something unintelligible in his sleep.  Smiling, turning his attention back to his task, Sam completed entering the details of their hunt into his journal.  Unlike his father and brother, Sam’s journal wasn’t handwritten; it was kept in files on his computer.  Craven expected him around noon.  He’d finished, thanks to Dean’s nagging, the work he needed to complete what he’d started so long ago at Stanford.  Sam was honestly surprised by all Craven outlined he, really he and Dean, would be learning.  There was much more than either brother knew about.  Sam was only just beginning to see the things they hunted were but a small slice of the supernatural world. 

 

They’d still be in Ithaca for a few more weeks.  Sam would continue his work online once they were on the road again.  But for now it was old fashioned books as well as his computer.  The small kitchen table was littered with the books, and Sam’s notes, their father’s journal, and Dean’s.  The texts had pretty much taken up residence there, Sam and Dean either ate out or in the small sitting area near the TV.  So, not giving much thought to leaving his work littering the table, or that it would bother Dean, Sam left a note on top of the computer in case his brother woke before his return.

 

He could have taken the car, but when he stepped outside the brightly shining sun and crisp, late autumn air cinched his decision to walk.  He liked to walk, it helped clear his head, helped him relax.  It would be snowing in another couple of weeks, Sam figured he and Dean might head south around that time.  They’d both be more than ready to be moving again. 

 

The ten minute walk to Craven’s house gave him a chance to turn thoughts over in his head, concentrate more on what the troll revealed or more to the point wanted to force Sam into revealing.  Not sure he’d tell Craven about those details, Sam decided he’d avoid it if he could, which was probably unlikely.

 

Along with the assigned work, Sam carried the list his father gave him.  Lied to Sam to coerce him into gathering the supplies.  He’d gotten a brief explanation from Bobby, but Sam was hoping to get more from Craven.  At some point, not too long after his father died Sam asked Bobby to keep quiet about the list, as far as Sam knew, Bobby had done just that, probably reasoning as Sam did, bringing it up wouldn’t change anything.  Would make Dean feel worse.  Bobby had almost certainly forgotten about it by now.

 

That damn list.                                                                                                                                                                   

 

It was the only thing Sam could think of the troll might have referred to.  Might be the only true secret he had from Dean.  The list, its implications and accusations he’d worked so hard to forget about.  Planning to get the information he needed about the individual supplies on the list, and burn it as soon as his questions were answered.  Dean would be irritable for a month or three if he didn’t get an answer from Sam, but Sam could deal with that.  If Sam kept denying there was anything to know, Dean would eventually give it up.  Telling Dean what he thought the troll meant, that would do far more than anger his brother, it would hurt him in a way Sam never wanted to see.  Sam understood he, beyond anyone or anything else, had the most power to honestly hurt Dean, cut right through him like no knife ever could, even in a way their father never could.  He vowed to himself, he’d never be responsible for causing that sort of hurt to Dean.  Sam worked to care for his brother, protect him as much as Dean did Sam.  His methods were just different.   Dean irritable was far better than Dean wounded to the core by something Sam may or may not have known or something he might have done differently.  Other than feeling guilty for a short time immediately after John’s death that Dean had lost his father, Sam never regretted or even gave much thought to it.  He was able to forget it.

 

If that made Sam selfish, because he was quite sure that’s what Dean would say, well so be it.  He still knew, deep down, he’d made the right choice.  He reasoned away any guilt telling himself his secret about their father only concerned Sam’s own feelings.  Not anything with ramifications now, beyond what it would do to his brother.  Not anything which could change what transpired that day, at least he didn’t think any of it could have been changed.  Sam buried it once so deeply he’d forgotten it.  He could do it again and was wholly determined to do so.

 

He stopped at the front door, reaching, as always, for the bell.  The door swung open.  It made him shiver, the way the door consistently did that.  Other days he dragged Dean, generally grumbling, along with him.  Dean never really asked why Sam insisted he go along, Sam never offered an explanation.  He figured he didn’t have to, Sam knew it was probably clear to his brother anyway.  Craven gave him the creeps in a deep down way, did Dean too.  Sam just didn’t like being there by himself.  Dean seemed to honestly take an interest in what Craven taught, and why wouldn’t he?  Sam reasoned it involved what he did as much, well more than it did Sam.  Some days Sam used Dean’s drive to protect him unabashedly.  It was his own personal safety net, he wasn’t too embarrassed to admit to himself at least how much he’d come to depend on it.

 

Wandering to the middle of the large foyer Sam waited politely, but less than patiently.  The guy always popped up, seemingly from no where.  No matter how closely Sam watched the doors or stairs.  He and Dean made a game out of it, trying to see exactly where Craven came from, but they never did. 

 

“How did it go?” 

 

Sam spun around, Craven stood behind him, smiling pleasantly. 

 

“Uh, good.  Well Dean got his foot bruised, but otherwise good.  The troll is now a pretty cool tourist attraction on the bridge.”

 

Craven’s eyebrows shot up.  He looked genuinely surprised.  “You mean to say you….what’s the term…offed him?”

 

Smiling, Sam nodded, “A crude way to say it, but yes, we got him.  He’s a chunk of granite, an ugly chunk of granite.”  Looking down at the books in his hands, he admitted, “Dean actually did it, figured out how to use the sigils to trap it.”

 

“Dean?”  Craven headed to the library doors, stepping aside to allow Sam entry.  He stopped in the middle of the room, repeating, “Dean,” Nodding, “Is very good at what he does, is very special.”

 

“I don’t need you, or anyone, to tell me that.  I know more than anyone.”  Not everyone in the world had a Dean in their lives, Sam felt blessed beyond words he’d been given the gift of his brother.

 

“Yes, I suppose you do.”  Craven sat at his desk.  “Do you, Sam, have any idea how old that troll was?  How many before you and your brother managed to not only not defeat the troll, but ended up defeated, destroyed by it?”

 

“The bridge was built in 1956, I figured…”

 

“You figured wrong.  You took only the information I gave you, maybe added some more to it, but didn’t really dig back as far as you should have.  Correct?”

 

Sam nodded sullenly.

 

“Yes, that particular bridge was built in 1956.  Prior to that there was another bridge, a smaller one, with a stone foundation.  Do you know where those stones came from?  How old they were?”

 

Another shake of Sam’s head.

 

“I suppose you also didn’t know trolls, at least that type of troll, they’re not exactly spawned by demons, but they are connected to them.  Maybe pet would be a proper way to explain it.”

 

Sam went completely still, eyes fixed on Craven.  He swallowed convulsively.  “No.”  He finally rasped out.

 

“Maybe you should have found out that too, before going after the thing?”

 

“Didn’t Concha…she, you taught her too?”

 

“Have Concha hunt anything?  Please.  She wouldn’t have lasted three minutes with that troll, I know it, and she does too.  Concha is no hunter, not by a long shot.  She’s never even pretended to be.  Concha, the dear girl, sets traps, gathers information, aides and abets the real hunter, in her case Dante.”

 

“But he wasn’t here with her?”

 

“Not much, no.  She lived here full time. Her brother came through every few weeks, sometimes it was months.  Interesting man, Dante.  But neither of us is here to discuss Dante and Concha West and what they may or may not know or do.”  He leaned back, folding his hands over his lap.  “I’ve found jumping right in and asking makes the whole process so much easier.  What is your question you’re so anxious about asking Sam?”

 

Sam silently held out the paper John Winchester had scrawled a list on, purposely ignoring the fact Craven honed in so easily on what Sam really wanted.  Craven looked at it, picked it up, studying it more closely.  He frowned.  With a disgusted noise he let the paper drop to the desk.  Sam retrieved it, folded it and slid it inside one of his books.

 

“Why do you want to know about these things?”

 

He couldn’t place it, but Sam had the feeling Craven already knew, was only asking questions to hear Sam explain.  “My, uh…Dad, he..uh…he had me get these for him, not too long before he died.”

 

“Did he tell you what they were for?”

 

“He told me they were for protection.  Dean… was….” Sam couldn’t help his voice cracking from the memory; it still hurt so very much.  “Dean was in a coma, he was dying, mostly dead.  My dad told me those things were to protect him, all of us I suppose, from a demon.”

 

“But?”

 

Sam looked at Craven, then down at some point on the desk.  He drew a deep breath.  “But, he lied to me.  Lied about the whole thing.”  Somehow saying out loud what he’d held in for all this time wasn’t as bad as he thought it might be.  He could let go of it, something was lifted off his shoulders as surely as he’d felt a weight physically removed.  However, Dean would not be so forgiving or impassionate as Craven.  Maybe if he just told Craven he could deal with it, let it lie still, and avoid telling Dean.

 

“Why did you get them, those supplies when you found out the truth?”

 

A small shrug of his shoulders.  “I guess because he told me to, ordered me to.  I don’t really know.  I guess maybe I wanted to believe it was to help Dean somehow.  I mean, I guess it did, help him, Dean’s still alive.  My father died a few hours after I gave him those things and a special gun he sent me to get too.  There was a reaper there for Dean.  But he, Dean, came out of the coma, was ok.”

 

“And you think your father and this demon had something to do with that?”

 

Sam nodded.  “I don’t know for sure, but it looks that way.”

 

“Yes it does.”  Craven agreed.  “Let me ask you, what could you have done?  Or would your father have done whatever he planned anyway?”

 

“I don’t honestly know.  What I do know, what’s never changed is Dean was dying and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t have done or given to stop it, to have him back.  Maybe I should have at least tried.  But at that point, I didn’t care what he did.  I only cared what happened to Dean.  So I guess I never gave it much thought.”

 

“Could you have stopped him?  Made him do something else?  You’re not responsible for what someone else chooses to do.”

 

Another shrug.  “I never even tried.  I could feel Dean around me, like his spirit or something was there.  I wanted to try and communicate with him.  That’s how I found out about the reaper.”  Sam studied, in great detail, his hands for a minute or so before looking up at Craven.  “Are you going to tell him?”

 

“Dean?”

 

A hesitant nod was all Sam could manage at this point.

 

Craven’s head moved side to side, slowly, thoughtfully.  “No, of course not.  It’s none of my business anyway, that’s between you two.  But if you’re asking my opinion, then I’d have to say I don’t think you should tell him either.  Nothing will change, you don’t even know for sure what happened.”

 

Sam gave him a small, quick smile.  He didn’t feel much better, he was pretty sure he knew what happened.  Was pretty sure he was at least partially responsible for it.

 

On his way home he stopped, grabbed a few groceries.  Noticing the Jeep parked outside his building Sam realized he’d gotten a reprieve.  Concha, bless her heart had come to visit.  Maybe that would distract Dean long enough for him to forget the whole troll question thing.  Yeah, and maybe he’d win the lottery, and discover the cure for the common cold too.

 

The wind blew up just then, whispering to him, reminding him…..Sammy’s got a secret!

 

Taking the stairs three at a time Sam muttered a harsh, “Shut up!”

 

 

 

 

+++++

 

 

 

 

Dean’s hand connected with the nightstand, fumbling for his cell phone.  It rang again.  Flipping it open without looking at the caller ID he grumbled, “Hello…Sam?”

 

“Nope!”

 

God, she was just too freaking cheery in the mornings.  Shaking his head, pushing up to sit against the head board he ran his free hand through his hair.  “I’ve been calling you.”

 

“Yeah, I know.  I finally didn’t get your voice mail, I called you back.  How are you?  What’s new?  How’s Sam?  How’s it going?  You both happy?”

 

Dean resisted the urge to hang up and throw the phone out the window.  “Hang on a minute, I just got up, you caught me on the way to…”

 

“Oh, sorry.  Rough night?”

 

“Something like that.  Troll hunting.”

 

“Oohh the troll.  Get him?”

 

“Yeah, of course I did.  Concha I really got to go.”

 

“I’ll hold on.”

 

Back a minute later, Dean put the phone to his ear, picked up the note, tossed it in the garbage after reading it.  He started coffee.  “Ok, much better.  You and I have to talk.”

 

“So you said.  What’s wrong?  Did something happen to one of you?”

 

“We’re fine.”

 

“Since I kept getting your voice mail I decided to come see you.  I’m just getting off the highway.”

 

“Good.  See you in fifteen then.  I’m making coffee.”  Irritated with her still he snapped the phone shut before she could say another word.  He was glad she’d arrived while Sam was out, he could say what he needed to say to her without his brother trying to smooth things over.

 

Fifteen minutes later, right on time, there was a knock on the door.  When Dean opened it, Concha was smiling at him, taking the mug of coffee from his hand as she walked into the small apartment.

 

“Hey, this is where I lived too.”  She turned, facing him.

 

Dean stood, wearing a perturbed face, arms folded over his chest, un-bruised foot tapping the floor in irritation.

 

“What?”  Concha spread her arms wide, careful not to spill the coffee.  “Got any sugar?  Cream?”

 

“I like mine black.”  Dean took the mug, sipped from it and nodded at the counter.  “Milk’s in the fridge, and there’s sugar in that container next to the coffee maker.”

 

“So, what’s up?”

 

“You told him about Sam.”  Dean had to struggle not to slap her, he wanted to.  “You realize if you were a man I’d have beaten the crap out of you by now?”

 

“What?”

 

The fact Concha didn’t back away, flinch or even seem to take his threat seriously didn’t get by Dean.  Other than Sam she seemed to be the one person he couldn’t con.

 

“You told Craven about Sam’s visions, about him.”

 

Concha shrugged.  “I didn’t realize it was a secret.  All I said, in these exact words were…Sam has visions.  That’s it.  I didn’t give him any details, I figured Sam would tell him as much as he wanted him to know.  I had to give him some explanation for The Elements theory, which seems to be correct.  He knew about it, what they are, he would have figured it out eventually.  He’s not going to tell anybody, why would he?  And what’s the difference?”

 

“The difference is there are people, hunters, who would like to see Sam dead because of those same visions.  They think he’s something evil or some such shit.”

 

“Evil?”  Concha sputtered.  “We’re talking about the same Sam here, right?  Your brother?”  Holding one hand above her head, “Tall guy, cute smile, dimples?”

 

“Yes.”  Dean said through gritted teeth.

 

“Sam?!  Oh come on.  Evil?  Like what?  He’s going to stop flossing?  Bad hygiene, but hardly worth hunting someone over.”

 

Dean blinked, then burst out laughing so hard he had to set the mug of coffee down or spill it all over himself.  Concha, it seemed, saw the same Sam he did.  For reasons he decided not to question that calmed him.   “The visions, being demon related and all.”

 

“Ooohhhh.  That.  So he sees people die, again not really reason to hunt someone.  I realize you probably don’t know, or want to know many other hunters, but some aren’t so stable, upstairs, eight or ten crayons short of a full box, and missing most the colors.  Craven knows too, he does.  He is completely trustworthy, and I swear to you he’s the only one I told, and only because I had to for all this…”  She waved one hand at Sam’s books.  Pulling a kitchen chair out, and sitting, she looked up at him.  “This is really important Dean.  What Craven can offer not only Sam, but you too.  Dean there’s a whole lot more out there than poltergeists and demons, the occasional werewolf and vengeful spirit.  The troll is a good example.”  Resting her chin against her knuckles, “You really got him huh?”

 

Dean nodded.

 

“Wow, no one’s ever done that before.”

 

He smiled.  “As I told Sam, I’m just that damn good.”

 

Concha groaned, holding out her mug.  “You make good coffee.  Think you could hunt me down some more?  Being you’re that damn good and all?”

 

Rolling his eyes, he poured her another mug full of coffee.  “Conch,” he sat opposite her, “I’m serious about this.  You saw what happened in White Water, that wasn’t the first time.  These freaks think Sam is some kind of freak, or worse, some monster, something dangerous, and honestly I’m really starting to worry I won’t be able to keep him safe.”

 

“I wouldn’t tell anyone, even if they asked.  I only told Craven because I had to, that’s it.  If I heard anything, if someone contacted me for research or details, I’d tell you.  I would.  I’m quite sure you’ll do just fine.  So please don’t beat me up.”  She smiled brightly.  “Besides if anything happened to Sam, I’d be stuck with you and Dante, and one of you is far more than enough for any mere mortal such as I.”

 

“Ok.”  He sighed, nodded and rubbed the back of his neck.  “Ok.  Can you hang around for a bit, Sam should be back soon.  We can go get something to eat.”

 

“Sure.  I want to go visit Craven anyway.”  Her arm had been lying across one of Sam’s books.  She glanced at it, picked it up, looking more closely.  “He, Craven has Sam doing this?”

 

Dean shrugged, “I don’t know, I haven’t been paying too much attention to all the books he brings here.  What can you tell me about this troll?”

 

“Dean, forget the troll.  Has Sam done any of this?”

 

“Done it?  He’s studied it.  I help him when he asks.”

 

“No!”  Her voice rose, making Dean shiver.  “I mean tried any of it?”

 

“Why would he…”

 

“I have to talk to Craven.  When will Sam be back?”

 

“He should be here soon.”  Dean waved at the cluttered table, “Concha, what is the problem?

 

“Dean, do you know what this is?  For you or me, wouldn’t be much of a problem, but Sam’s been possessed.”

 

Flipping the book around for a better view, Dean recognized some of the symbols, but couldn’t place exactly from where.  “What is this?  Concha, what is it?”

 

“It’s black magic, very ancient black magic.  Craven wouldn’t know, I should have told him that too.”

 

Holding up one hand, “No!  You told him enough.  And Sam’s got more sense than to….”  Dean started when the door opened, not even grasping the relief he felt for no particular reason when Sam wandered in.

 

“Hi.”  Setting bags on the counter Sam looked from one to the other.  “When did you get here?”  Then to Dean, “I got most of our list I think.”

 

“Just a bit ago.  I need to talk to Craven, we need to.”

 

Sam’s eyes fell on the book she had her hand on.  He laughed.  “You two weren’t sitting here thinking I’d actually do anything more than read about this, were you?”

 

Dean sipped his coffee, eyeing Concha.  She’d started it after all, she could talk their way out of it.

 

“Come on, Dean.  You should know I wouldn’t.”  Sam’s wounded tone gave Dean a pang of guilt.

 

“Of course I did Sammy.”  Even to Dean’s ears he didn’t sound so convincing.  Sam gave him a dirty look, obviously not buying it.  Holding out a fresh mug, “Uh, coffee?”

 

Depositing the books he carried on top of the ones already on the table Sam shook his head.

 

“I still want to talk to him.”  Reaching over, Concha snagged Sam’s shirt sleeve, giving it a tug.  “Come on.”  She looked from one brother to the other.  “Please?”

 

Dean was about to agree, thinking Craven must creep Concha out as much as he did Dean, Sam too.  Sam’s response, however, surprised him a bit.  It was very much not like his brother to turn down a request for help.

 

“Why don’t you just go by yourself?  You don’t want us along.”

 

Studying Sam, Dean noticed for the first time he looked off, not upset exactly, but not his usual self.  Something was up with him, Dean was sure.  Something he couldn’t talk about with Concha there.  About to agree with his kid brother, Dean stopped, mouth open when Concha spoke up again.

 

“I can’t call him.”  Concha said as if Dean was supposed to know what that meant.

 

“Your phone dead?  You can use mine.”  Sam offered immediately.

 

“Phone?  I don’t need a….ohhh.  You don’t know?”  She looked from one to the other.

 

“Know what?”  Dean asked.  No way she was skipping out now.

 

“He didn’t tell you?”

 

“Tell us what?  Does everyone in this town talk in riddles?”  Dean complained.

 

Before either of them could ask, or say another thing, Concha was out the door and down the steps.

 

“What the hell?”  Glancing at Sam, who looked as perplexed as Dean felt.  Sam shrugged.  Dean growled.  “Come on.”

 

Sam followed him willingly out the door.  They had to run to catch up to Concha.  She grumbled something unintelligible under her breath the whole way.

 

Dean bit back a laugh when she got to the front door, and didn’t even slow down, just walked straight at it, apparently trusting it would open.  It did.   Stopping in the middle of the foyer, Concha turned to Sam, irritated.  “Call him.”

 

Looking over at Dean, Sam was obviously confused.  Dean lifted one shoulder, let it drop and held the palm of that hand up then let it drop to his side.

 

“Crav—Craven?”  Sam’s voice was small, he sounded embarrassed.

 

“You really don’t know?  How do you let him know you’re here?”

 

“I…we…just wait, and he always seems to know.  I can’t figure out how.”

 

Dean would have laughed at the look on Concha’s face had he not been confused and growing more wary by the second.  This wasn’t sounding right.  In fact it was starting to sound completely off.  Something nudged at the back of his head, almost tickled his back like an itch he couldn’t reach.  Instantly he was on alert, as if he was hunting.

 

Stalking to the middle of the room, Concha shouted, “Craven!  Get your ass out here now.  Maybe he…” she pointed back at Sam, “Can’t use black magic, but nothing is stopping me, and so help me I’ll send you so far back…”  She was pacing now, waving one finger in the air.

 

“Please, do you have to shout?  I’m happy to see you too Concha.”  Craven was behind her.  Dean caught the fact neither he nor Sam had seen the man enter the room, again.

 

She spun to face him.  “You didn’t tell him…them.”  It wasn’t a question.  “How could you not tell them?”

 

Craven sighed deeply.

 

“Why do you do that?”  Concha yelled at him.  Dean put one finger against an ear, she was getting screechy.  He silently thanked whoever his sibling really wasn’t a girl.  Girls were unpleasant when they yelled.

 

“Do what?”  Craven asked, oblivious to her upset.

 

“Breathe.  Sigh.  How could you not tell them?  That’s part of the deal, telling them?”

 

“What deal?”  The brothers asked together.

 

Craven picked at his jacket sleeve, nodded briefly at Dean.  “He scares me.”

 

Concha spun to face Dean.  “He…?  Dean?  He’s not scary.  What could he possibly do to you?”  Now she was waving both hands at him.  Dean was very happy Sam was a him.

 

“Me?!  What did I do?  I haven’t done anything.”

 

“He’s the hunter.”  Craven said, somehow Dean had the idea that was supposed to make buckets of sense to her, all of them.

 

“Dante is a hunter, you weren’t bothered by him.”

 

“A hunter.  He’s the hunter.”  Craven shrugged, looking innocent.  “And they didn’t ask.”

 

“Didn’t…how could they….why would they?!”  Her words sputtered out.

 

Before either Dean or Sam could stop her, and in the midst of their shouts of, “What are you doing,”  and, “Don’t do that you’ll hurt him…”  Concha took a step away from Craven, spun around lightening quick and swung her leg in what Dean could see was going to be one helluva kick.  It would seriously hurt the guy, Dean was frozen by her sudden violence.  Before he could move her foot connected with Craven’s middle and….skimmed right through.  What the hell?  The look on Sam’s face was as astounded as Dean’s he was sure.

 

Craven gave Concha an irritated look, shimmered and flickered, then became translucent for a few seconds.  Before Dean could really wrap his mind around that, Craven evaporated.  He coalesced behind Concha, returning to what he normally looked like.

 

Concha crossed her arms over her middle, smirked at Craven.  “I’m quite certain they’ll ask now.”

 

 

 Chapter 6

 

“You’re a…”  Sam stopped mid-sentence, mouth open, looking at Dean.

 

“Ghost?”  Dean finished.

 

“I prefer the term ethereal entity.  I am not a mere ghost.”  He looked definitely insulted.

 

Eyes narrowing, Concha focused on Craven.  “Black magic, ancient black magic?”

 

“My dear girl, there is a vast difference between learning about something and learning to practice it.”  He paced around her.  “I have done this once or twice before.  I know what I’m doing.”  He sounded irked, maybe even angry with her Dean thought.

 

“How many times, done this, how many times?”  Sam’s voice was a little unsteady.

 

Craven looked from one to the other, rubbing one hand over his chin, “Let me see, I have to think about that.  Dozens at least.”

 

Sam looked over at Dean, his face a mixture of surprise and fascination and maybe a little bit of fear.  Dean had to forcibly keep himself from grabbing his kid brother and shoving him, bodily, out the door.  Maybe he’d take Concha too. Then again she seemed more intent on arguing with the man…ghost…whatever.  “What, exactly, are you?”  He settled for stalking to the center of the room, stopping when he was between Sam and Craven.

 

“You can’t teach him black magic!”  Concha yelled at Craven.

 

“Will you forget that?”  Dean’s voice rose despite his best efforts to remain calm.  “What the hell is this guy?”

 

“I’m not learning it, I was reading about it.  He’s right, there is s a difference.”  Sam shoved against Dean’s shoulder.  “You should know me better than that.”

 

Concha turned to face Dean, “A ghost, spirit, entity, whatever.  It’s not like you haven’t seen one before, get over it.”

 

“He’s got bones somewhere.”  Dean pointed at Craven, but looked at Sam. 

 

Frowning, Sam shook his head the slightest.  “I don’t think we need to do that.”

 

“No, actually I don’t.”

 

“Oh, will you both stop?”  Concha snapped.  “Craven had you just told them to begin with it wouldn’t be an issue.”

 

“Yes, it might have.”  Sam said. 

 

Dean smirked, crossing both arms over his chest.  Atta boy.

 

“And you two, that’s very much not having an open mind.  Why does it matter?”  Concha glared at them both.  “Don’t be bigots.”

 

“Because he’s a….”  Dean sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.  “I still haven’t gotten an explanation as to just what he is.”

 

“I’m in the room.”

 

“Who better to learn from?”  Concha’s voice dropped, softened.  “He’s never hurt anyone, is hardly angry, and not vengeful.  Have you even seen a light flicker?”  She turned to Craven.  “Go away.”

 

“Pardon me?”  Craven straightened, huffed a noise and crossed his arms over his middle.

 

“Away.”  Concha made a shooing motion with her hands.  “Go wherever it is you go when you’re not here.  Away.  Go away.  Had you not wimped out and told them right from the start this wouldn’t have happened.  Now I get to explain.  So go away.” 

 

Holding both hands up in mock defense Craven nodded his head.  He looked at Dean, “I’ll answer all your questions, and Sam’s a little later.”  He turned to Concha.  “If you need me you know how to get me.” 

 

In the blink of an eye, Craven was gone.  No smoke, no whoosh, no sign what so ever he was there at all.  The temperature in the room never changed, and there were no flickering lights, no odor of sulfur.  Feet still rooted in the same spot of the floor, Dean twisted his torso around, first one way, then the other.  It was just Sam, Concha and him now.

 

“And no listening!”  Concha shouted at the ceiling.  She looked from Dean to Sam.  “I’m sorry.  He was supposed to tell you right away, when you first got here.  I had no clue he wouldn’t.  He’s a nice man…”

 

“Ghost.”  Sam cut her off.  Dean wasn’t sure what Sam was, pissed or something else.  He had a feeling it was something else.

 

Sighing Concha looked at him for a few seconds before continuing.  “He was a man, at one time.  I have no idea how long ago that was.  He’s got feelings, and he’s smart and he knows—“ throwing both hands in the air, dropping them to her sides, voice softening, “—Everything about things you hunt.  He knows about things supernatural that don’t need to be hunted, that are harmless, or not evil.  He’s not evil.  I’m not sure exactly what sort of spirit he is, but I do know he’s not a bad one.  Most importantly he’s my friend, and I trust him.  I would never have arranged for you, either of you, to meet him if I didn’t.”

 

“Concha, this is insane.”  Dean started to pace.

 

“No, it’s really not.  Dean,” She followed him.  “There’s more out there than what you hunt.  Those things are a little slice of the big picture, Craven can and will show you the whole damn pie.  It’s important to have the big picture, resources.”  She stopped, focused on Sam.  “You don’t have to do this, no one is forcing you and you’re certainly not being held captive here.  If you want to quit, leave.  No hard feelings.”

 

Dean stopped pacing, looked at Sam.  He’d only wanted to give his brother back something taken from him, a chance for Sam to finish his education.  It was important to Sam, for reasons Dean would probably never understand.  Not understanding in no way preempted its importance to Dean as well.  This was unusual, to say the least, but Concha made valid points.  Craven had done nothing, other than be friendly, nice to them.  Most importantly he’d offered Sam something real and tangible he’d very much wanted.  Something useful to their lives.  Something that made Sam happy.   Craven scored big points from Dean for offering those to Sam.

 

Sam’s eyes met his.  The kid was a bundle of uncertainty.  Dean knew exactly why, which pretty much cinched his decision.  It was plain to Dean at least, Sam was completely torn.  He wanted to learn, to do this, complete this work, no matter how long it took.  Dean suspected Sam wasn’t so concerned as he’d said over Craven being a spirit…entity…whatever, not after a few minutes to think it over.  It wasn’t fair that no matter what Sam did, things seemed to backfire on him.  Not this time Dean vowed silently.  Not this time.  If Sam wanted to continue, then he would.  Dean could live with the fact Sam’s teacher, their teacher, was a ghost…spirit…entity….whatever, as long as Craven was on Sam’s side Dean would be on Craven’s.

 

Dean knew immediately Sam’s indecision, conflict wasn’t due to Craven, or what he was.  It was due to Dean and what he was.  His brother, Dean knew, would never ask him to stay now.  If Dean didn’t like this, wanted out, wanted to leave, Sam would willingly go.  He might very well prevent Dean from doing any damage to Craven, or trying to banish him, destroy him, but Sam would never ask Dean to essentially live with him, be in regular contact with him.  Sam would never put himself in a situation, a place that would purposely send Dean into a tailspin.  Which is exactly what would happen if Sam struck out on his own, refused to leave Ithaca.  They both knew it.  Dean also knew, without any doubt or hesitation, Sam wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t abandon him, not now.  Those days were gone.

 

It had nothing to do with how Dean looked out for his brother, cared for him.  Sam was perfectly capable of caring for himself.  It went far deeper.  Dean was more important to Sam than anyone, and Dean knew he’d always been so.  Sam simply wouldn’t hurt him in such a way, purely didn’t want to be separated from his brother, he never really had.  It’d taken Dean a long time to understand that.  Sam’s time at Stanford had been without Dean not because Sam wanted it that way, but because at the time Sam hadn’t been able to separate Dean from John.  He’d assumed, wrongly as Dean had since been able to convince his brother, Dean felt the same as John had when Sam left for school.  Not being able to live with their father had for Sam meant living without his brother.  A situation and belief Dean corrected.  Sam, Dean learned, never wanted to be without his brother, any more than Dean wanted to be without Sam. 

 

As much as Dean loved his father, the man was some days a total stranger to him.  Something he’d never felt about his brother.  The responsibility he felt for and toward his brother he’d never felt where his father was concerned.  Somehow Dean managed to grow up in two families, his dad and him, and him and Sam.  Sam had always been his, never John’s.  For Dean it was almost as if the whole time they were growing up he’d been wedged between his parent, and the brother he’d been parent to, the brother who was as much his child as if he’d fathered him.

 

If Sam wanted to stay, do this, Dean wasn’t going to stop him.  Hell, Dean would help him.  They were in this together, they always had been, always would be.

 

When their eyes locked and Dean tipped his head just a fraction, Sam didn’t have to ask, or wait for Dean to say anything, he knew.  Dean would go along with whatever Sam wanted this time.  He’d told Sam he’d work it out so Sam could go to school, he’d meant it, and wouldn’t back out no matter what.

 

“We’ll stay, for a bit anyway, see what all this about.”  Sam said softly, again looking at Dean, who nodded, in full agreement.

 

“I still haven’t had breakfast yet.”  Dean griped.

 

Concha grinned, “First let me show you both how to call Craven.”

 

 

 

+++++

 

 

 

Not knowing how long Concha, along with the brothers would stay in the house.  Craven knew he’d have to act fast.  He’d been waiting for a chance to find something, something he’d need to have his talk with John Winchester.  Generally he made it a hard and firm rule to never leave the house, never invade someone else’s space.  But this time was different, it was important.  Dean and Sam had done exactly as Craven would have predicted, they’d salted and burnt their father’s corpse.  Craven wouldn’t be able to conjure John’s spirit in the normal way, he’d have to use more powerful methods.  The biggest obstacle was getting in there when Dean wasn’t.  Feeling confident he could navigate the apartment even if Sam where there without being seen, sensed or felt maybe, but not seen.  He wasn’t so confident about doing so if Dean were there.  Dean’s natural hunting instincts combined with his tendency to be immediately on alert should he feel Sam threatened in any way made it a risk Craven would not take.  He was quite sure Dean would not only know his presence, might actually see him on his mission, and might mistake his actions for aggression. 

 

This might very well be his only chance.

 

He needed something of John Winchester’s, some personal, valued possession and a list of demon summoning supplies given to his younger son wasn’t going to be enough.  Though Craven was fairly sure he could convince Sam to let him ‘borrow’ the list for a short time.  Going immediately to the efficiency Sam and Dean shared Craven moved quickly through the space.  One hand hovering over dressers, table, counter tops, every surface he finally homed in on a useable object.  It was, predictably, with Dean’s things.

 

Small, buried away in Dean’s duffel bag, not even unpacked, buried almost as deeply as Sam’s mind buried what he knew.  Craven extracted the object, fingered it, hoping it wasn’t something Dean used or looked at regularly.  He doubted it, considering where the man kept it.  It was old, maybe an antique, at least by today’s standards, not by Craven’s.  He reasoned he was an antique too.  Recognizing the instrument as a compass, simple but nice.  At some point Dean had had words engraved on its backing. ‘From Dean, Nov. 2003’  Craven had no idea what the occasion was, if any.  There was no stated sentiment, but he suspected it wasn’t something spoken between Dean and his father, merely understood.  Sam, and possibly Concha, might be the only people Dean would express true sentiments to, and then sparingly, Craven understood that from the first time he’d met the young man.

 

He’d use this, get it returned as soon as possible.  Not sure how he’d return it, he’d worry over that detail when he needed to.  Hopefully the fact the object was also attached to Dean wouldn’t alert him to what Craven was doing, there was a risk of such a thing happening.  Craven would worry over that if and when he got to it too.                          

 

His house was empty when he returned, with the compass.  He locked up, if any of the three of them returned they’d not be able to get inside without Craven letting them in.  Even spirits needed privacy.  Creating a circle using candles and markings on the floor Craven prepared for his task.  It took little time, really, to summon the man he wanted to speak to, get answers from.

 

Craven considered it pretty typical, the difficulty he had in the summoning ritual.  The man had been difficult in life after all, why not in death too?  He wasn’t surprised in the least.   Taking a full five minutes, long really in the scheme of summonings, Craven sat back, folded his hands placidly in his lap and considered the man appearing before him.  The guy stood there for a minute or so, looking around him, down at his feet, then holding both hands up in front of his face for a look.  His eyes finally fell on Craven, raised eyebrows indicating the question.

 

How clever, he realized he was dead.

 

Craven was not impressed.

 

Rising slowly from his chair, Craven paced a slow circle around him.  Thinking what words he should use to start this conversation, then settling on what he truly felt.

 

“You, John Winchester are a camel’s ass.”

 

 

Chapter 7

 

He was a scruffy looking man, spirit, Craven thought.  Well, it sort of fit.  He could not imagine Dean or Sam looking like bums.  Or being so angry.

 

“Stay inside the circle or you’ll…”

 

“Why the hell would I do that?  Who are you?  What gives you the right to do this?”  John was immediately in motion, long, quick strides taking him out of the circle and he dropped through the floor out of sight.

 

Shaking his head, sighing and rolling his eyes, why couldn’t they ever listen?  Craven dropped through to the basement, the warded sandstone foundation would stop John’s descent.   Kneeling on one knee in front of John, Craven tried to put a pleasant expression on his face.  The man’s spirit was visible from the waist up, the rest of him below the floor boards.  One hand resting on the floor, fingers pretending to drum the boards and mostly sinking through.  John looked, if possible, even more angry.  He looked like….well….like a really pissed off dead guy.

 

“Let’s try this again.  You’ve been dead how long?  Two years tops?  I’ve been at this a millennia or two longer, so I’ve had more practice.  You’ll need to listen to me, or spend your time here stuck half out of the floor, which honestly makes you look silly.”  Craven stood, holding out one hand.

 

“Why am I here?”  John crossed both arms over his chest.

 

“Because I want to help your sons, but I need some filler information.”  And to personally give you my opinion of you and what you did.

 

“My sons?  Are they ok?”

 

“For now.”

 

“Where am I?”

 

“At this moment you’re in my house, in Ithaca, New York.  Cornell University.”

 

“What about Dean and Sam?”

 

“They’re here too, in Ithaca.”

 

John snorted, some sort of realization spreading across his face.  “After you no doubt.  When Dean gets to you, you’ll be toast.”

 

Craven added a groan to his eye roll. “I hardly think he’s going to, as you would say, toast me.  Now, can we please go back upstairs and talk, like civilized people?” 

 

Again Craven offered his hand, this time John took hold, tentatively.  He really had no choice, and Craven hoped John would at least consent as much.  This time reason won, at least for now.  With a defiant, truly irritated glare John grasped Craven’s hand and allowed himself to be hauled up out of the flooring.  In the blink of an eye Craven had them returned to his library.

 

“Now, if you please stay inside the circle, I don’t have the time or inclination to continue chasing you down.”

 

“You’re a damn spirit.”  John snapped.

 

Huffing a sigh Craven pointed out, “So are you.  Believe me when I say I don’t like this anymore than you do, and the minute we are done back you go.”

 

“Where are my boys?”

 

Craven stuck both hands in his pockets.  “They’re not here, so I couldn’t actually tell you exactly where they are at this particular moment in time.  As of a few hours ago they were here, and as far as I know they had no plans on leaving Ithaca for the next few weeks.”

 

“They were here?”  John pointed to the floor under him.  “You talked to them?”

 

“Yes to both.”

 

“And they’re not hunting you?”

 

Craven shook his head.  “Not that I’m aware of.  They’ve no reason to.”  That seemed to confuse John.  Craven decided to forge ahead.  “You’re sons aren’t here to hunt, they’re here to research, to learn.”  He decided the simplest approach was the best approach.  “What I’d like to know is whatever possessed you to tell that boy he’d have to kill his brother?”  Craven was pacing now.  “Firstly it’s stupid, and…”  He stopped, faced John, “Do you have any idea what it’s done to him?  Oh, and it’s wrong.”

 

“How do you know about that, Dean wouldn’t tell you.”

 

“Dean didn’t have to.  I’m a spirit, I hear things.”  He leaned closer to John, losing the smile and placid expression.  “The fact is John, you screwed up, screwed it up big time.  Don’t tell me, let me guess, some demon plan for a group of people, some way to go to war with mankind?”

 

John nodded mutely.

 

“Huh.  Imagine that.  Demons have been spouting that drivel for a few thousand years that I know of.  Did you take that little bit you found out, from who by the way….a demon??”

 

“Of course not.  Not directly.”

 

Craven would have hit the guy in the side of the head, but it would do no good.  “How far did you bother to dig?  Not far enough.  Do you know just exactly what Dean and Sam are?  Do you even realize it was never about Sam, not ever?  Did you ever stop to think you might have been wrong?  Did you ever look for other answers?”  Craven was fully aware up until this point, he was the only one of the two of them mentioning Sam.  Sam’s apprehension over what he knew, the supplies he’d gathered and kept the information from Dean was making more sense.

 

“So set me straight.”  John sneered, chest puffing up.  Obviously wrong was not a word he associated with himself.

 

“Fine.”  Craven straightened, arms crossed over his middle.  “Fine.  Your sons are one of two sets of siblings called The Elements.”  He grabbed a book, shoved it at John.   “Two sets of two siblings.  Dean and Sam being one set.  They know the other set, have already worked with them.”

 

John looked up from the manuscript.  “Sam is the psychic.”  He sat roughly on the ground.  Well, at least you remembered the boy’s name.

 

Nodding, Craven continued.  “Yes.  The right combination comes along, and survives to adulthood maybe, if things are going really well, once every thousand years or so.  But it doesn’t end there.  Since demons and humans have been on Earth, there also comes along someone, an individual, a hunter born and who survives, it happens maybe every ten or twelve generations.  A very special hunter.  One who can kill, destroy demons, without anyone else, without The Elements.  Believe me when I say, demons, they want this hunter not only dead, but his soul destroyed.  They can’t do it themselves, he’s protected.  It can be done, however, he has to do it himself.  So, there’s this very special hunter, who is also one of the Elements, that’s never happened before, not as far as I know.  And there’s only one way demons can get to this one.”

 

If ghosts could blanch, Craven was sure John would have.  He exhaled one shaky, breathless word.  “Sam.”

 

Craven nodded.  “Sam.  It was never about Sam, it was always about Dean.  If you want to help Dean, help them both, then tell me what ever made you think Dean would have to kill Sam?  Because that’s the only weapon demons truly have against him.  You might as well have cut off his head and handed it over on a silver platter for all the good you did.”

 

John winced.  “The information I found, demons using humans as their soldiers.  Sam is someone, one of those, or could be.  I told Dean if he couldn’t stop it, not let Sam turn, he’d have to kill him.  Why would they let him live, agree to my trade if Dean were that hunter?”

 

Laughing, Craven couldn’t believe how naïve, and single-minded this man was.  “What better way to destroy your enemy than to watch him take himself down?  They are demons after all.  Human suffering is like a drug addiction for them.  How could they possibly turn that down?  The only way to get rid of Dean is through Sam.  You gave them plenty of ammo for that John.  On top of which you taught those boys nothing but hate when it comes to things not human, other worldly.  How could you possibly think they could do anything, survive without knowing the full story?”

 

John sat there, looking up at Craven.  “Dean is some special hunter?  Can kill a demon?”

 

“Arrrgghhh…”  Craven threw both hands in the air.  This man was exasperating. 

 

Something in John seemed to snap, click into place.  “I have to tell them.”

 

“Well, you’re not going to be able to.  Salt and burn, and all that.  What you taught them, I’ll give you credit you taught them very well.”

 

“Then how can you bring me here?”

 

“Because I’m a spirit, different methods and rules apply.  Because you weren’t truly in Hell, having done that selfless act at the end, two actually.”

 

“Two?  How do you know all this?”

 

“Fair enough question, and you deserve an answer.  I was able to observe most of what happened the day you died.  What I couldn’t find was your motivation.  Since I knew only Dean and Sam I was only able to see what they were themselves involved in.  When you made the trade, the deal for Dean…well let me ask… without Dean how long would Sam have lived?  How long would Sam stay with you?”  How quickly, at the first sign of trouble would you have put him down?  His last, silently asked question Craven didn’t want, nor needed an answer to.

 

“Sam wouldn’t have stayed, not with me.  Not unless he was forced to.  He might have for a short time.”

 

“I think it’s pretty safe to say the demons had no idea what Dean and Sam are together, more to the point together with the other set of siblings, or that deal would never had happened.  Demons, are rather stupid, and narrow minded.”

 

“What about Sam’s visions, the demon trying to kill him when he was a baby?”

 

“Of the Elements, the psychics are the only individuals a demon can track down.  Odds are they were targeting children with that potential, making their abilities latent to make them easier to turn later.  If there were older siblings, demons usually try to kill those, if the psychics are born during specific time frames, when there is more energy for them to draw on.  1982, the year Sam would have been conceived was a banner year for that energy.   I don’t think that particular demon wanted to kill Sam. I believe it wanted to kill the rest of you, specifically Dean.  I doubt at that time demons could know, or sense what Dean is, but I’m just guessing on that.  The very thing that makes a psychic a psychic also leaves them open, vulnerable to attacks, possessions, whatever uses demons need.  Part of gearing up for a war, as I’m sure you well know, is chipping away at your opponents defenses.  So, in the case of those children they had a bonus, destroyed the potential for an Element group, and created humans they could later turn and use.  As for anyone else, or their true plans, if there are any--“  

 

Craven’s head snapped around, attention leaving John.  “Damn.”  John gave him a curious look, which he ignored.  Crossing the room Craven quickly prepared a closet.  Back to John in a minute he grabbed the man’s arm, yanking him along, surprised John put up little fight.

 

“Hey, what the…?”  When he was pulled out of the circle his legs up to his knees skimmed under the flooring.  Craven shoved him, grumbling, in the closet.

 

“Now, stay in there and shut up.  Just incase you get any ideas, I don’t care what they say on those silly TV shows, you try to walk through that door and you’ll just end up in the basement again.  People, live ones, won’t see you or hear you.  If you give me grief you won’t be found for another three thousand years at least.” 

 

Before John could say a word, or do much more than give him another irritated look Craven slammed the door shut.  John would probably hear the conversation he was about to have, but that couldn’t be helped.  He had the room righted, evidence of his circle covered in but a few minutes.  This one at his door was neither patient nor going to be polite, Craven could tell.

 

Just to prove his mental point Craven heard the sharp, irritated voice bark his name.  Plastering a smile on his face Craven stepped out to the foyer to meet this unplanned for arrival.

 

“Dean.”  Craven greeted him.  “Is something wrong?”

 

“Yeah.  What did the troll do to Sam?”  Dean paced around the foyer, glancing under the table near the door.  Moving next to a table along the far wall he glanced under it too.

 

“I wasn’t there.”

 

Facing him Dean sighed.  “I know that.  But it did something, or said something and he’s been rattled ever since.  We took Concha to see the stone version, he wouldn’t even get out of the car.  What did it do to him?”

 

“Why don’t you just ask Sam?”

 

“Because, I’m asking you.”  Dean stopped in the middle of the room, arms over chest.  Looking around again, his gaze settled on the library door.  “Maybe you could fill me in on what I don’t know.  Tell me what he told you?”  Craven was offered that disarming smile he’d come to recognize as purely Dean.  He was through the library doors before Craven could stop him.

 

“Damn.”  The spirit cursed under his breath, following Dean.

 

“I’m going to ask again, nicely, don’t make me ask not nicely.”  Dean paced the room.

 

Craven thought Dean’s pacing, his not so casually looking under and behind things, opening a few cupboard doors odd.  Usually when there with Sam, Dean would sit quietly, once and a while asking a question.  Mostly he read, or used one of the computers.  Other than the occasional glance at Sam, checking on him, Dean left Sam and Craven alone.  The realization hit him like a hammer, Dean sensed the presence of the other spirit.  Whether he knew it was his father’s spirit or not, Craven did not know.  Dean’s little foray around the room was taking him to the closet door John Winchester was behind.  Great.

 

Not knowing for sure what would happen if Dean opened that door, and not wanting to find out Craven got there first, just as Dean was reaching for the handle.  Leaning against the door Craven smiled.  “Sam told me the troll asked him a question, which he answered, or thought he did.  He didn’t tell me what the question was.”

 

“You didn’t ask?”  Dean snapped.  The closer he got to that closet the more tension built in him, Craven could see that very clearly.

 

“No.”

 

Dean stopped a few feet from him, taking another look around the room.  “I agreed to this, hell I asked Concha to help me arrange it, and I can put a stop to it just as easily.  He’s supposed to be happy with this, not given more nightmares and jangled nerves.  He’s broody enough, I don’t need you adding to my problems getting him to lighten up just a bit.  So, if you know anything, tell me or so help me…”

 

“Yes I know, we’ve had this discussion, you’ll send me so far away no one will ever know I existed.”

 

“As long as we understand one another.”

 

“We do.  You’re going to have to ask Sam, find out from him.”

 

Dean turned away, eyes scanning the room again, sighing deeply.  “Ok, thanks.”  He froze, Craven saw his shoulders stiffen, his entire stance change to something guarded, angry.  He crossed the room, grabbing something from Craven’s desk, holding it up.  “Sam bring this here?”

 

Silently Craven cursed himself abundantly, he’d left the compass out.  Well, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about getting it back where it belonged.  “I have no idea, never saw it before.”  Craven kept his expression neutral.  Dean Winchester wasn’t the only one in the room who excelled at games of chance.

 

Dean studied him for a few seconds before sticking the compass in his pocket, eyes narrowing.  “If I find out you lied to me.”

 

“I haven’t.”

 

Nodding, Dean dropped it, but only for now Craven was sure.  Without another word he left, carefully closing the doors behind him, just as he did when he came with Sam.

 

Opening the closet door Craven turned to John, who looked a mixture of smug and apprehensive.  “Dean always was a little over protective when it came to his brother.  Were you telling him the truth?”

 

Craven turned a critical eye on John.  “About what Sam told me, yes.  I don’t know what the troll asked. I have a good idea though.  Dean didn’t want speculations.  You honestly don’t see it do you?”

 

“See what?”

 

Turning, eyes focused on the door Dean had left through, Craven waited a minute or so before answering.  “Dean isn’t a man protecting his sibling, that’s a man protecting the most important thing in his life, his child, the only child he expects to ever have.”  Turning, his eyes met John’s, which were unreadable.  “Time for you to go.”

 

 

 

+++++

 

 

 

Dean walked the short distance between the house and the apartment he shared with Sam.  He kept one hand in his pocket, fingers curled around the compass.  He couldn’t imagine why Sam would take it, or leave it anywhere.  In fact he had thought, up to now, Sam hadn’t even know the thing existed, or if he had, not paid much attention to it. 

 

“Hey.”  Sam didn’t look up from the book he was reading when Dean came through the door.  A few deep breaths, just stay cool Winchester, he struggled with the effort to keep his voice from sounding accusatory.  “Did you take this, leave it with Craven?”

 

Glancing up, Sam focused on the compass, held out in Dean’s hand.  “I’ve never seen that before.  Where’d you get it?”  Reaching out, Sam took the compass, turning it over a few times before laying it carefully back in Dean’s palm.  “It’s nice.”

 

“You didn’t take it?”

 

“Didn’t I say that already?  Why would I take it anyway?  Even if I knew where it was?”  Sam looked up at him, the innocent expression was no act.  Sam didn’t really ever lie to him, it was useless.  Dean knew him too well.  Sam was an honest person, at least to Dean he was.

 

“Then how did it get there?”

 

“I don’t know man.  Until two minutes ago never saw it, and if I had, why would I take something important to you and leave it somewhere?”

 

Dean had no ready argument for that.  Sam wasn’t mean, thoughtless sometimes, took Dean for granted sometimes….often, impulsive most the time, moody and overly sensitive, but Dean could never say Sam was mean. 

 

“It was sitting on a table in his library.”  Dean continued. 

 

“If I knew anything I’d tell you, I swear I would.”

 

Dean fixed his younger brother with a stern gaze.  Sam didn’t flinch, or squirm, he just looked back docilely for a minute before repeating in a soft voice, “I don’t know, I don’t.”

 

Nodding, Dean tucked the compass back into his pocket.  “Ok, tell me something you do know.  What is it about the troll that has you so freaked?”

 

Sam grinned, shifting his gaze to the kitchen sink.  “Maybe something to do with the fact it stole my big brother, and sucked him under ground right in front of me.”

“Come on Sam, you’ve seen stuff happen to me before.  I was fine.  Not buying it.”

 

“Um….dude, never saw you sucked into the ground before.  Make fun of me if you want, but it sort of disturbed me.”  Sam’s voice changed, Dean picked up immediately he was getting defensive.

 

“That’s all it is?   You sure?  Cause you’re freaked out, having nightmares again.”

“I thought you didn’t care about it.”  Sam shot back.

 

“I told the troll I didn’t care what you knew about Dad dying.”

 

“He wouldn’t have let you go if you’d been lying.”

 

Dean huffed a breath, “He let me go to get him more whiskey. I’m getting tired of asking the same question.”

 

“Then stop.”  Sam snapped. 

 

Dean knew Sam wouldn’t lie to him, but he also wouldn’t necessarily volunteer information.  “The troll told me it was something that would make me angry enough to stop talking to you.”

 

“Then probably neither of us wants to know.”

 

“That’s not an answer.”

 

“You know what Dean?  I’m not having this conversation again.”  Sam started gathering up his books, a piece of paper slipped from one, fluttered to the floor.

 

Dean stooped, picking it up, just going to hand it back to his brother when the writing, and Sam’s barely audible exhaled, “Crap,” caught his attention.  Just as Sam’s fingers were about to close on the end of the paper, Dean snatched it back, taking a closer look.  He stared at it, then studied it more closely.  Sam stood, reaching for it, but Dean stepped back, out of reach.  He caught Sam’s sudden swallowing and thought maybe the kid lost a shade or two of color.

 

“This is Dad’s handwriting.”

 

Sam nodded mutely.

 

“Where’d you get this?  How long have you had it?  What is this stuff?”

 

Sam reached for one of the books, his hands shaking.  Dean slammed one hand over it, flipping it around so he could read what was on the page it was open to.  He read it, then reread it, then turned it a bit more to read notes Sam had scribbled in the margins.  An unpleasant thought was forming in his mind, one he tried to shove away, one that just barged forward again.  “Sam!”

 

Flinching, backing up a step, Sam wouldn’t look at him directly, but fixed his gaze somewhere on Dean’s shoulder.  That’s what set him off, that was Sam guilty over something, something real and tangible and not just Sam being Sam and thinking he was at fault and should feel guilty.  This was genuine guilty.  Dean had the distinct feeling he’d found out what the troll was talking about.

 

“It’s what Dad…he…um….when you were….”

 

“When I was what?”

 

“When you….after the truck hit us….in the hospital.  He wanted me to get the Colt, and those things.  I didn’t want to go….but he…I was so scared the whole time I’d come back and you’d be….I couldn’t even seem to breathe right…and he…”  Sam was looking down at the table, fumbling with his books and notes, and damn that was just driving Dean up a wall.

 

Reaching out, fingers winding around Sam’s wrist, clamping down like a trap Dean gave a sharp jerk.  “Stop that!  Sam.  What is this stuff for?”  A sick, queasy feeling wormed its way through his chest.  He was pretty sure he already knew what those items were for.  Making Sam confess would do no good, and in all honestly Dean would prefer to end this here and now, forget either one had said anything.  But he couldn’t.  Something deep within him wouldn’t let it drop, wither away like it should.  “What is this stuff for?”  He hissed out.

 

Jerking away, Sam backed up a step or two, color draining from his face.  “He lied to me Dean, gave me this list and told me to get this stuff and the Colt.  I didn’t want to leave the hospital, to leave you.  He knew that.  I was terrified you’d die while I was gone.  And he tricked me, lied to get me to go.” 

 

Sam’s words came out in such a rush Dean was having a hard time keeping up, processing them all at once.  “Why would he lie to you?  To do what?”

 

“That stuff, he lied, told me it was to help you, that’s the only reason I’d leave, but it wasn’t, they weren’t.  He told me it was my fault, what happened, that you were in a coma.  Said he never should have let me come along, it was my fault.”

 

“Sam,” Dean’s voice and face softened.  He didn’t doubt his brother believed that, with all his heart, but it couldn’t be what really was said, meant.  Or could it?  “I’m sure he didn’t mean…”

 

“He lied to me Dean!  Lied about what this shit was for, and what he was going to do.”  Sam was shouting.

 

The implications, realization of what Sam meant, what he’d kept bottled up thundered home in Dean’s brain, nearly knocking him down.  “Sam, what…is…this…stuff…for?”  Dean shook the paper, advancing a few steps.

 

Sam had the uncanny ability to look everywhere at once, except at Dean.  It always creeped Dean out, how Sam could do that.  Now, he couldn’t even find feeling in his heart for the tears pooling in Sam’s eyes.  “He told me it they were for protection, for you….he…l-lied.”

 

“Sam.”  Dean snarled out through gritted teeth, the speech was getting old.

 

“To call….they’re to call…”  Sam stopped, backing up another step.

 

Dean felt his lungs clear out, as if deflating.  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t do anything but stand there, staring at Sam, watching tears begin to drip along his cheeks, watch his hands shake, his head turn side to side a little. 

 

“You….knew?”  Dean finally was able to get his voice going, barely, his words coming out harsh, hateful, angry.

 

Shaking his head, Sam stayed rooted to his spot, bangs flopping side to side with the movement of his head.  Sam’s breath, and whatever else he was going to say caught in his chest when Dean flung the paper down and cleared the books off the table with a wide sweep of his arm.

 

“You knew?!  You goddamn knew!?  You LET him?  Could have STOPPED him?”

 

Arms wrapping around himself, tears spilling freely down his face Sam shook his head again.  “No.”  It was the voice of a little boy, for the first time Dean didn’t care, or really notice.  “No, I didn’t know, he lied.  I wanted you to….I just wanted you to wake up, to get better.  I didn’t put it together, figure it out…”

 

“Bullshit Sam!  You’re not stupid!  You think I’m stupid enough to believe as soon as you found out what that stuff was for you didn’t know?”

 

“I did what he wanted,” Sam’s voice rose, fists clenched now, “He lied, and the only thing I was capable of thinking about was you not waking up, you dying.  He told me it was my fault and those things were to protect you.  I wanted you to wake up and I DIDN’T CARE HOW!”  The last few words were literally bellowed at him.

 

The color drained completely from Sam’s face.  The silence that followed was deafening, shattering, it closed in on Dean like a vice grip.  Sam knew. Dean just couldn’t wrap his mind around that.  Sam knew. Let their father die so Dean wouldn’t.

 

“You let him die.”  Dean spat.

 

“No, Dean, I swear I…”

 

“Shut the hell up!”

 

Sam jerked, then flinched, took another step back, eyes wide, face completely white.  “Dean?”  If Dean hadn’t seen Sam’s lips move, he probably would have missed the mention of his name.

 

Holding one finger up, pointing at Sam, Dean backed away, toward the door.  He had to get out, get out now.  “Stay away from me.  I mean it Sam.  Stay the hell away from me.”  Spinning on one heel, he stormed out the door.  Just before it slammed shut he heard Sam’s voice, begging him with only one word, “Dean.”  Saw more tears streaming down his brother’s face, his body trembling.

 

 

Chapter 8

 

Dean ran down the steps, to the parking lot.  The entire way telling himself he was wrong, he should listen to Sam, it wasn’t Sam’s fault, Sam had been hurt deeply too.  Their father had spent Sam’s whole life pushing the kid away, never letting him (either of them really) measure up, hearing him, but never listening to his words, what was in his heart.  Now it looked as if Dean was going to repeat his father all over again.  Like father, like son.  Dean snorted, for once in his life he didn’t want to be anything like his father, not when Sam was concerned.

 

Slamming the door to the Impala shut after him, gunning the engine to life, Dean headed to the other side of town.  He’d learned his way around pretty well, knew where the good spots were.  He needed a bit of time away, just to think.  He wanted to get drunk, get laid and get the crap beat out of him in a good old fashioned bar room brawl.  Not necessarily in that order.  He needed to think this through, cool off, cool down and go back and have a civil conversation with what would probably be a very freaked out little brother.

 

His cell phone rang.  It had taken Sam ten whole minutes, his restraint was amazing.  Dean looked at it for a few seconds, before shutting off the ringer.  Not yet, he couldn’t do this.  He needed some time, just a little time to himself.

 

Drunk, laid, fight.  A man needed goals. 

 

Dean had goals.

 

 

 

 

+++++

 

 

Concha drove, windows down, taking in the crisp autumn air.  She loved cool weather, and snow would be coming soon.  Snow was the best.  Most people wanted warm and beaches.  Concha wanted snow and mountains.

 

Her cell phone chimed.  Sighing, she considered letting voice mail get it.  Did that man have some sixth sense telling him she was driving and enjoying the sunshine and shouldn’t be on the phone?  Another ring.  Apparently so.  With another long suffering sigh, she answered.

 

“Dean!  How are you on this bright, sunny day?”

 

“It’s daaaytiime?”

 

Pulling the phone from her ear, she stared at it for a few beats.  “Are you drunk?”

 

“Drunk?  Naaawwww…..sweetheart I’m freaking traaashhed.”

 

A glance at her watch, “Dean, it’s one in the afternoon.”

 

“See, I knew if I called you, you’d give me the time.  I need a favor.  A really big, important favor.”

 

“What, come get you?  Cause if you vomit in my car….”

 

Giggling came from the phone.  Giggling!  Dean never giggled.  “Take care of Sammy for a bit for me…make sure he eats…is….”

 

Concha could swear she heard giggling turn to a muffled sob.  “Where are you, what’s wrong?  Are you ok?  God, you’re not driving are you?”

 

“Twirling.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Bar stool, twirling.  Will you please...”

 

“Hang on, hold that thought.”  Clicking to her second call, “Hello.”

 

“Concha, I need help.”

 

“Sweet Jesus,” Concha remembered to pull the phone away before saying that, one was bad enough, but the two of them tag-teaming?  “Sam?  You ok?”

 

“Yes.  No.  I’m mean I’m not hurt or anything, no cuts or broken bones.  But not really.”

 

“Ok, hang on a minute…don’t go away.  One minute.”  She clicked to Dean.  “What the hell is going on?”

 

“I can’t… please will you look out for Sam, take care of him for a few days?  I need some time.”

 

“Are you doing something stupid?  Where are you?  So we can talk face to face.”

 

“A baaarrr…and did stooped already.”

 

Clicking to Sam, without bothering to tell Dean, “What’s wrong?”  Why in the name of all things holy had she ever bought a cell phone?

 

“Dean…I’ve tried finding him, called him all day yesterday.  I…will you help me look?”

 

Not missing, twirling, in a bar.  She so didn’t want to be in the middle of this.  “What happened?  Of course I’ll help you look.”  Back to Dean.  “He’s twenty-four, doesn’t need a babysitter.”

 

“Who doesn’t need a babysitter?” Sam asked.

 

Crap, forgot to click, Concha scrunched her nose.  “Hang on again, just another minute.”  Making sure to click to Dean this time.  “Dean, you asshole, he’s twenty-four, he doesn’t need a babysitter.  You want him watched, YOU do it.”  Now she was shouting.  She pulled to the side of the road.

 

“Please.”  Another broken breath, smothered sob.  “I can’t right now, just a little time, take care of him for me.  Please?”

 

“Dean, you’re seriously scaring me.”

 

“I’ll call you in a day or so.”

 

He was gone, the other end silent.

 

“Goddamn.”  Concha spat, slamming the phone shut.  Then she rested her head against the steering wheel.  “Ooooppsss…”  Quickly she redialed Sam.  “Hey, Sam, sorry, call got dropped or something.”

 

“It’s ok.”

 

Concha could see him biting his lip, thought she heard a soft sniffle.  “What happened?”

 

“We got into an argument, a really bad one.  I need to know he’s ok, he hates being alone.  I understand if he doesn’t want to talk to me, but I don’t want him getting hurt…or…he really hates being alone.” 

 

Sam didn’t sound too thrilled with being alone either.  Concha decided they both needed a babysitter, and eight-fifty an hour just wasn’t enough.  “Where are you?”

 

“I just got home.”

 

Sighing, “Ok, Sam I’ll be there in an hour or so.  Take it easy, we’ll find him.”

 

Pulling back onto the road Concha headed for the opposite side of town from the apartment the brothers shared, from Craven’s house.  She’d lived here for years, and it was a college town, there were only about a bazillion bars.  But she knew the kind Dean liked, would gravitate to were the ones the students didn’t frequent as much.  And one old, black Impala couldn’t be too hard to spot.

 

It was pathetically easy for Concha, but then again she was an excellent tracker and Dean was a piss-poor drunkard.  Standing outside the place, hands on hips, glaring hatefully at the car parked in the parking lot Concha considered her options.  She settled on the one she liked best.  She was going to kick Dean Winchester’s ass.  Actually maybe she’d kick him elsewhere.  Kick him so hard his grandchildren (if he could even have any after she was done) would feel it and cringe, no beg for mercy.

 

Stepping inside, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting she almost felt sorry for him when she saw him.  He looked utterly defeated and just plain sad.  Until he saw her, groaned, and dropped his head to the bar, mumbling something sounding suspiciously like ‘damn woman.’  Concha made her way to Dean, nodding at the sweaty guy with no teeth wearing a wife beater and sitting a few stools down from him, who was now leering at her.

 

“Dean,” She hissed in his ear, “That guy is wearing an actual shrunken head on a chain.”

 

Slowly turning his head, eyes following even more slowly, Dean flashed the guy a smile, slipped one arm around Concha’s waist and tipped his chin up and down.  “I think,” he leaned forward, whispering in her ear, his breath nearly knocking her over, and certainly giving her a buzz.  “It’s the last person who commented on his attire and accessories.”

 

“Where’s you car keys?”

 

Dean shrugged.  “Pocket I guess.  You check on Sammy?  How is he?”

 

“I talked to him on the phone, and I’ll go there after I get you somewhere that’s not a bar.”

 

“Lady, you going to get this clown out of here?” 

 

“Concha, this is Ted.  He’s the bartender here, damn fine one too.”  Dean’s words slurred.  “Ted, this is Concha.”  Sliding unsteadily off his stool, leaning against Concha he started patting his pockets.

 

Concha smiled at Ted.  “Keys Dean, now.”

 

“Got ‘em somewhere.  Not leaving my car.”

 

“Either you give them to me, or I’ll dig around and take them myself, and you won’t enjoy it.”  Concha snapped.  Ted winced.

 

“You’re a bossy little bitch some days, you know that?” 

 

Concha let go her hold on Dean, and stepped back.  He teetered precariously for a second or two, then stumbled and fell over the stool, slumping against the bar.  He scratched at the back of his head, gave her a half-hearted grin.

 

“You’re a jackass!”

 

“Yeah, I deserved that.”

 

Ted cleared his throat and jangled something.  Concha turned her attention to him, focusing immediately on the keys dangling from his finger.  Seems she was spared the trauma of having to molest a very drunk Dean Winchester to get his keys.

 

“Took them away yesterday.  The only thing he did in that car last night was sleep.”

 

Snatching the keys in his hand, Concha smiled gratefully at him.  ‘You are my new best friend.  Thank you so much.”

 

“Take my car.”  Dean grumbled again.

 

“And what?  I’m supposed to leave mine here?”

 

He looked at her, concentrating as if she’d asked him the meaning of life or something.  Nodding slowly he said, “Yes.”

 

“I’ll look after it for you, what car is it, your plate number?”  Ted was turning into a very helpful guy.

 

“The green Jeep Liberty…”

 

“My car is a classic.”  Dean slurred.

 

“Shut up.”  Concha turned back to Ted.  “I’ll get back here today to get it.  Wyoming plates.

 

Dean fumbled with his cell phone, “I have a hundred and seven missed calls.”  It vibrated….“a hundred and eight.”  He hiccupped. 

 

Concha’s phone, as if in cahoots with Dean’s chimed happily.  Concha groaned, flipped it open and answered.  “Does this call involve broken bones, flood, fire or nuclear war?”

 

“Is that Sam, lemme talk to him.”  Dean reached for the phone, missing by a foot or two.

 

Concha twisted, elbowed his middle, stepped on his foot and shoved him away.  “No? Good.  I’ll be there in a bit.”  She snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into her pocket.  Turning to Dean she snarled, “You had a hundred and eight chances.”  Reaching down Concha grabbed Dean’s arm, hauling on it.  He lurched unsteadily to his feet, letting his arm be dropped around her shoulder.

 

“Don’t be mean to Sammy, it’s not his fault, it’s mine.”  He paused when Concha wheeled him around, “Really it’s my Dad’s.”

 

“Yeah, hold that thought till you sober up.”  She heard, and then felt Dean sniffing her neck.  “What are you doing?”  Shoving his face away.

 

“You smell nice.”

 

Concha stopped long enough to kick the door open, she gave him a seriously incredulous look.  “You don’t.”

 

“Will you take care of Sammy?”

 

“You want Sammy taken care of go do it yourself.”  She opened the passenger side of the Impala, shoved him in, not bothering to stop him from hitting his head.

 

“I get to call him Sammy.  And he wouldn’t have let me hit my head.”  Dean groused.

 

“No, I expect not.  Sam would have probably knocked you cold and dragged your ass out here.”

 

“Probably.”  Dean agreed happily, and then passed out, blissfully silent.  Well mostly silent, he snored the entire drive.

 

Concha stopped the car behind Craven’s house.  Wrestling a mostly comatose, still pretty drunk Dean out of the car was even more fun and adventure than wrestling him in the car had been.  She briefly considered driving him back to the apartment and leaving him to Sam.  They both deserved each other.  In the end she decided that would be mean. Besides getting Dean up the flight of stairs would probably be impossible.  If she hadn’t had telekinesis to call on, getting Dean in the house would have never happened.  Mostly she had to steer, not really support his fairly considerable weight.

 

“Craven!”  She shouted as the door swung shut behind her.

 

Dean grumbled something about her being screechy and a girl to which she replied she was a girl and he’d better shut up.

 

“Oh my.”  Craven appeared a few feet in front of her.  “Is he…”

 

“Drunk off his ass.”

 

“It’s only two in the afternoon.”

 

“Awww great the ghost tells time too.  Thanks buddy.”

 

“Ok if I leave him in there?”  Concha’s chin jerked at a small bedroom off the back hall, near the kitchen.  Craven nodded.  Shoving Dean along through the door, and toward the bed she gave him one last, hearty push which sent him sprawling on the bed.  “Stay there, sleep it off.”

 

“You’re going to leave him with the boots and clothes on?” Craven asked, looking a bit surprised.

 

“Yes.”  Concha hissed out, making Craven flicker.  She pulled the door shut.  “Make sure he stays here till he’s all sobered up.”

 

“I should do what if he wants to leave, tackle him?”

 

Concha faced Craven fully, hands on hips.  “I know you can keep him here.  I don’t care what he does when he’s sober, but I don’t want him driving around like this.”  She dropped the keys on the kitchen counter as she walked through, heading to the door.  “I have to go get my car, then I’ll go see what’s up with Sam.  If he’s drunk you get him too, and I’m leaving town.”

 

Craven barked a short laugh.  “I didn’t realize that was part of the deal.”  He looked back at the door, guilt crossing his face.  “This is my fault.”

 

“Why?”  This brought Concha to a stop.  “Did you hold him down and pour the alcohol down his throat?”

 

“It has something to do with the troll I sent them after.  I have a feeling I know what it wanted, the question Sam answered has to do with.  If I’d known, I should have researched further.  I wouldn’t have…”

 

“Oh, come on how could you know?  No amount of research is going to reveal someone’s feelings, which is what the troll focuses on, isn’t it?”

 

“I suppose.”  Craven sighed.

 

“Anyway if Dean was going to just take off he’d have done it, not stopped off to get totally wasted first.  I’m sure they’ll work it out, whatever it is.”  She gave him a kind smile.  “I’ll talk to you later.”  She ducked out the door.

 

The entire cab ride back to her car, then the drive back to Sam and Dean’s apartment Concha repeated one sentence like a yoga chant….dontbedrunk…dontbedrunk…dontbedrunk….She kept it up all the way to the apartment door.  She had no idea what brought this behavior on, but she seriously considered calling Dante and getting him to come here and deal with it all.  He was so much better at all this emotional healing crap than she was.

 

 

 

+++++

 

 

 

Sam had no idea how long he stood in the middle of the room, tears running down his face, chest heaving erratically, fist clenching and unclenching, watching the door Dean had just vanished through. Willing that same door to open, for his brother to come back, even if it was to shout more angry words at him, even if it was to hit him until Dean was too exhausted to move.

 

His first coherent thought was ‘call Dean.’  It was a good thing the number was preprogrammed into his phone. Sam would have never been able to punch in the numbers with his shaking fingers and watery vision.  When Dean didn’t answer, even though Sam expected it, what little reserve he’d held onto left him completely.  Shaking, not able to breathe steadily or control the too many emotions bulldozing over him, through him Sam sank to the middle of the floor.  Hurting too much even to cry.

 

Hating himself, wondering how he could ever say those words, letting them just bubble out of him, unstoppable.  He had no idea how many times he called Dean’s phone, getting voice mail immediately.  Gone.  His brother was gone.  Left him.  Sam had no one to blame but himself, and certainly he couldn’t blame Dean.  Lonely, empty and scared didn’t even begin to describe the feelings, thoughts rolling through him at light speed.  How could he have ever been so thoughtless, so cruel to do this same thing himself, in the middle of the night no less?  What he’d taken for granted would always be there for him was suddenly gone, leaving in its wake a huge empty, painful vacuum. 

 

Sam realized, possibly too late, he didn’t deserve the brother he had.  He realized, not for the first time, his brother deserved more from him than Sam often gave.  He depended on Dean, in ways he wouldn’t even admit to himself half the time.  Except now Dean was gone, and Sam had no choice but to make those admissions. 

 

Pulling up on the counter, standing on very unsteady legs he turned and leaned heavily against the sink, not even sure when he’d moved from the main room to the kitchen.  Anger he couldn’t control, couldn’t stop shot through him like a bolt of lightening.  Shouting, roaring wordlessly Sam’s grabbed the coffee maker, yanking it from its home on the counter and flung it against the far wall, shattering it into tiny pieces.  Everything else on the counter met the same fate.  Five minutes later he was surrounded by broken glass, and mangled small appliances.  Dean was just going to bitch him out royal for the mess.  His head pounded, his breathing short, harsh pants, Sam grabbed a garbage bag and began to pick up broken pieces of glass.  Wondering if he could pick up his broken life.

 

How long after darkness settled in Sam sat there in the dark he had no idea.  Finally he fell asleep.  It was still dark when he’d awoken, sweating, trembling, headache worse, shouting Dean’s name.  The nightmare had been one of the worse he’d ever remembered having.  It was more like a series of them, not visions, actual nightmares all centered on his brother going away, being taken away for good, never to be seen again.  Not even completely awake he’d called Dean’s phone, getting voice mail.  This was the most desolate he’d been.  No matter how angry Dean might have been, a call from Sam (or anyone really) in the middle of the night was never ignored.  Especially a call from Sam.

 

Not being able to sleep after that Sam left the apartment, prowled the area.  Half expecting to see the Impala parked outside, or maybe a block or so away with Dean sleeping in it, not giving up his post of watching over his little brother, Sam was heartbroken when he wasn’t met with that sight.  He kept at it, going back to the apartment, hoping Dean would be there until the middle of the next afternoon.  Normally, when he didn’t know what to do or where to turn next he had Dean to talk to.  His brother might not have been much in the way of offering many words, but Dean listened very well.  Sam didn’t need any demon turning him evil.  He was doing a fine job of that all on his own.

 

The thought finally occurred to him to call Concha.  He was without a car, and needed some sort of transportation to hunt Dean down.  He didn’t want to steal a car from someone here in Ithaca, which would be adding more wrongs on the one he’d already accomplished.  Concha, with some annoyance he thought, agreed to help him find Dean.

 

When she showed up at his door he knew, somehow just knew she’d already found Dean.

 

“You’re not drunk, are you?  Cause if you are, you’re head is hitting that ceiling.”  She pointed up.

 

Smiling, Sam shook his head, that confirmed it, she’d found Dean. 

 

She stepped by him, into the apartment, surveying the mess.  “Apparently he was right and I was wrong.  You do need a babysitter.  Which one of you did this?”  Concha waved at the remains of what Sam had thrown and not cleared away.

 

“Me.”  Sam watched her, waited for her to say something, when she didn’t he asked.  “Is Dean…”

 

“Going to have the biggest hangover in the history of hangovers, of his life?  Yep!  Otherwise he’s fine.  Look, I don’t know what brought all this on, and I really don’t want to be in the middle.  But if you want to talk….”

 

“No, thanks, I really just wanted to know he is ok.  If Dean wants to talk to me, he will.”

 

Concha’s face softened, “Are you ok?”

 

Sam had to think about that for a minute or two.  “No, not really.”  He motioned vaguely to the apartment.  “I guess I should do something about this.”

 

Nodding, Concha, he could tell understood.  “Ok.  Call me if you need anything.”

 

“I will.  Thanks, a lot.”

 

She patted his arm kindly, leaving.  An hour later she was back.  Walked in when he opened the door, pushed a coffee maker into his chest.  “Poltergeists, demons, tartums, those I can deal with.  You without coffee, way too scary for me.”   On the way out the door she stopped, turning.  “You know, I’m sure if he intended to just cut out on you I wouldn’t have found him and he’d be hundreds of miles away.  Not ten minutes from here.”

 

Sam smiled and thanked her.  He knew exactly what she’d done, told him where Dean was.  It would have to be good enough for now.  That night was worse than the one before, but this time he didn’t call his brother’s phone.  He tried getting some work done, some studying, but it was too difficult to concentrate.  Dean may not have left Ithaca, but that didn’t calm Sam’s fears any, settle his jumpy stomach.  When daylight filtered through the windows he took a walk.  On the way back he saw the Impala, parked in front of one of the rows of shops near their building.  Later that day he saw it on the campus several times.  Twice he got brave and walked up close enough to see if anyone was in it, but it was empty.  Dean was too good, if he wanted to stay hidden he easily could.  He’d purposely left the car where Sam would see it, he was sure.  If he hadn’t wanted to be seen, Sam never would know where his brother was.  The Impala was like leaving a trail of where Dean was.  He might have been pissed as hell at Sam, but Sam had the distinct feeling Dean was watching him, doing what Dean always did, watch over him.

 

Not having his assignments done for the past few days, Sam reasoned he still had to go see Craven, explain why.  Though Sam figured Craven probably knew, at least somewhat why.

 

Waiting in the foyer, he still felt funny about calling Craven, as Concha showed him.  While not afraid of Craven, he continued to give Sam a bit of an odd feeling, like he knew more than he let on, like there was more to him than apparent.  Oddly enough, Dean was the one who was turning out to like Craven more.  Sam still wasn’t too comfortable coming here alone, maybe he would never be, but he didn’t really have a choice just now. 

 

Craven greeted him pleasantly enough.  As Sam predicted he didn’t seem too surprised when Sam confessed to not having his work for the week done.  Nor did Craven seem overly concerned or angry; which Sam found was a great relief.  He’d been so worried over Dean his concern for Craven’s reaction took a back seat, not really letting him know it was there until he confronted it.

 

Handing him a stack of folders, Craven said, “I suppose you’ll have to work a little extra to get all this done before you leave.”

 

Sam nodded, looking around the room.

 

“He’s not here.”  Craven leaned back against his desk, his face and voice utter sympathy.

 

“Dean’s ok?”

 

“I don’t think his stomach will agree with my assessment of ok, but yes, Dean is fine.”

 

“My dad told him he’d have to kill me.”  Sam, for the life of him had no idea why he blurted that out.  He hoped this wasn’t becoming a habit.

 

Craven blinked at him for a minute, then asked the obvious, “Why would he do that?”

 

“There’s the demon, and my visions, and they’re connected somehow, and this demon has plans to make me something evil.  So my Dad…he told Dean he’d have to kill me.  But Dean says the demon can’t do that, only I can control what’s in me.  Dean says he’ll never do it.”

 

“Good.” Craven’s tone was soft, “Sam, demons take what you fear and use it against you.  They twist how your mind sees reality, and that’s how they make people who aren’t possessed do things they normally wouldn’t do.  Your brother is right.  If you think that’s what will happen, it will.  Everyone has some evil in them…”

 

“Dean doesn’t.”  Sam said quickly.

 

Smiling Craven looked down at something on the floor before looking up at Sam again, “Yes he does Sam.  Of course he does, but the difference is, he channels it, redirects it to something useful.  It’s how each one of us chooses to live with it that’s important.”

 

“Hunting?”

 

“More specifically the killing of what you hunt.  Did any of you ever stop to think where this information came from?  Do you know?”

 

Sam shook his head, “No, my Dad never told us how he got it.”

 

“Well, I’m of the mind it was erroneous information.  Because honestly I don’t see it.  I think your brother has the right idea, about not killing you.  And I’ll give you a bit of information I dug up that I also gave to your brother.  Those special children as you call them, the one the demon supposedly wants for something.  Did you know of them you’re the only one who’s older sibling survived?  All the others, they died.”

 

“No.  I didn’t.”

 

“Another missed piece of information then.”

 

Sam left a short time later, walking slowly back to their apartment.  He dumped the folders and other things Craven had given him on the table, not even looking at what it was.  He headed for the shower, grateful for the hot water pouring down over him.  Dean had kept a secret from Sam, they’d gotten beyond that, they’d get beyond this too.  Dean had only done so because he wanted to spare Sam.  Doing so, Sam saw now, nearly killed Dean.  Sure, Sam had gotten his hackles up, thinking he had to go it alone to find his answers, but he’d been wrong.  To add to it he’d gotten the bejesus scared out of him when they were targeted by Gordon Walker declaring open season on Sam, taking Dean hostage as bait.  Couldn’t Dean see Sam did the same thing, keep his feelings, the details of what John had done to himself to spare Dean any further hurt?  Well, it might have worked out better if Sam had actually managed to keep his mouth shut.  It wouldn’t change a thing whether Sam said anything or not.  Did Dean honestly think Sam could have stopped John, or would have?  He had no idea.

 

He wondered, standing in the shower, hot water turning to lukewarm, flowing down his back if Gordon Walker was still in jail, and if not if he was busy today.

 

 

 Chapter 9

 

Cracking one eye open no farther than a mere slit, only far enough to let light through, Dean immediately wished he hadn’t done that.  Other thoughts of what he wished he hadn’t done in the past few days filtered into his head.  He lay there, wherever there was…in a bed was all he knew for sure…letting the haze clear.  His brain felt like a bundle of cotton balls, his mouth tasted like a bundle of cotton balls dipped in cow manure.  He wasn’t even sure what day it was, that scared him a bit, more than a bit.  He’d never been so drunk in his life, he had no idea how long it’d been since he’d bolted out, left the apartment.  Since he’d left Sam.

 

Sam.

 

He knew he had one seriously freaked out little brother, which at some point would lead to one seriously pissed off little brother.  Well he’d deal with it, but not now.  He had more pressing needs right now.

 

Vomit.

 

His brain was demanding vomit, so was his stomach. They were definitely together on that.  He probably had to pee too, hard to tell with all the vomit wandering around wanting out.  With a groan, Dean pushed himself onto his elbows, slowly pulling his arms under his chest and carefully, very carefully, he lifted off the bed.  Getting brave he managed to turn his head, first one way, then the other.  No one was in the bed with him, pity, or maybe not since he wasn’t exactly at his best right now.  Thankfully there was a bathroom off the small bedroom he was in. It was a long haul, and he tripped a few times, but managed to make it to the bathroom, vomiting in the toilet, and not all over himself or the floor.

 

Always a bright spot.

 

Drunk.  Laid.  Fight.  Well, one out of three wasn’t so bad Dean reasoned.  Though he might have picked one of the other two to excel at.  Which brought him back to his original question of where was he, and how did he get there? Which were really two questions, but whatever.

 

Fifteen minutes later, stomach sufficiently empty, Dean was grateful to find a toothbrush, some towels and a shower.  Cleaned up, he almost felt like maybe someday he’d feel human again.  At least the stink that followed him mostly went away.  Crossing the bedroom to the window, careful not to anger his insides any more than he already had, Dean pulled aside the curtains and peered out.

 

A small gravel parking area where his car was parked lay just beyond a walkway and narrow strip of grass.  Looking at the outside of wherever he was through the window Dean realized he was staring at the back of Craven’s house, which settled him down a bit.  For about three seconds before he had thoughts of why was he sleeping in Craven’s house.  Worse yet, had he driven here?  The queasiness in his stomach was driven out, replaced by a hot coil of anger worming its way around his insides.  Anger at himself.  More than anger, he despised himself right then.  He couldn’t form a coherent train of thought, he needed to get his head cleared and straightened out before he could do anything constructive.  There was the matter of what Sam told him, the implications and just what Dean intended to do about it, if anything.

 

Resting his cheek against his bicep, gazing out the window at his car one memory filtered through, one-hundred-eight missed phone calls.  Digging his cell from his jeans pocket Dean flipped it open and checked, he actually had one-hundred-eight missed calls, all from the same number, Sam’s phone.  He’d turned the ringer off before he’d gotten to his car after leaving the apartment and had pretty much ignored it until….until…until he’d called someone.  Someone not Sam.  Who else would he call?  He started going through the calls, for the first forty there were no messages.  Called someone to ask them to do something…what?  Take care of….the memory was hazy, take care of…it was right on the periphery of his mind….Sam!  Someone to take care of Sam.  Call forty-three stopped his mental ramblings.

 

“Dean…come on man, I know you’re pissed….just….” an odd breath Dean didn’t want to acknowledge held tears and something far beyond apprehension in Sam’s soft voice.  “…just, please….lemme know you’re ok.”  That one was the day after he’d left.  He hadn’t thought himself a cold-hearted bastard until now.

 

Bar.  He’d been in a bar, with some guy named Ted, and how he hoped Ted worked there.  Called someone from the bar to take care of Sam, yeah, he’d done that.  Concha!  Holy hell he’d called Concha.  Memory of her driving his car, shoving him onto the bed, leaving…..call number ninety-seven stopped him, sent a cold spike through him, piercing the anger and making him feel worse than any hangover, or anything, ever could.

 

“Dean?  It’s me….I keep calling, guess you know by now…I wish you’d answer, so I could know you’re ok.  I didn’t…I mean maybe some day you’ll…..” Deep, heavy sigh, Sam wasn’t crying, was he?  No, yes. Damn.  “I just want you to know man, something else I never told you, more important than anything, what I got from…You know what I think, everything that’s in me that’s good and right, I didn’t get that from Mom and really not from Dad, I didn’t get it from anyone but you…”

 

Ok, that did it Dean was officially a cold, heartless bastard.  That is if he had a heart left, since it’d just been torn out.  Maybe he could find it one day soon.

 

He needed to go talk to Sam, or duke it out with him, or whatever, and he would too.  But Dean had forgotten where he was right now, again.  He did manage to think enough to realize he might have consumed near lethal levels of alcohol.  Real bright Winchester.  Craven’s house, he remembered with sudden clarity, he was in Craven’s house.  He needed his head cleared of the fuzziness, which he realized he’d thought of a few minutes before.  On shaky legs Dean made his way to the door, he couldn’t do damn thing from this room, other than vomit.  With even shakier hands he fumbled with the door-knob finally succeeding in pulling the door open.  He took a step out into the hall, the kitchen he could see was off to his right.  He’d never been in this part of the house.  A deep breath, another step, maybe he could just sneak out, not encounter the ghost.  Having no idea where his keys were if he didn’t see them soon he’d just come back later for his car, nothing would bother it here.

 

Two steps farther down the hall Dean’s stomach lurched violently when Craven materialized in front of him.  “Well, nice to see you walking by yourself.”  The spirit greeted him brightly, happily.

 

“Yeeaah….thanks, for letting me stay here.  I hope it wasn’t, that I wasn’t….”

 

“No worries, either of you are welcome here whenever you want.  Though I must say your snoring is loud enough to wake the dead.  Oh, wait, it did.”

 

Dean glanced sheepishly at the floor.  “Be lucky it wasn’t Sam snoring.  Cause dude, damn.”  Feeling suddenly dizzy, another harsh wave of nausea and reality crashing over him Dean swayed, then staggered.  Instinctively he reached out, intending to steady himself on Craven.  Grabbing at the man’s shoulder Dean realized too late that wasn’t a good idea.  His hand passed straight through Craven, overbalanced he dropped to the floor.  Wiping one hand over his face, then through his hair Dean looked up.  “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”  He knew full well when Craven wanted to he could do anything a solid, living person could.

 

“Yes.”  Craven nodded, smile plastered all over his lean face.

 

“Bastard.”  Dean flipped his middle finger up at Craven, which caused the spirit to throw his head back and laugh heartily.

 

“No, not really.”  He held one hand out to Dean.

 

Dean gave him a vile look, shaking his head, and climbed to his feet.  “I got it.”  Righted once again, though swaying the tiniest bit, he had a hard time looking Craven in the eye, but spoke anyway.  “Thanks, I mean it.  Do you know where my keys are?”

 

“You can’t drive like this.”

 

“Fine.  I’ll walk.”  Dean tried for long, determined strides, managed short, shaky ones, but was headed down the hall to the outer door at the far end of the kitchen.  As soon as he stepped into the kitchen he found he was back in the hall, just at the far end.  Sighing deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger he glared at Craven.  Craven watched him with a mild, almost innocent look on his face.  Dean tried again, and again as soon as he entered the kitchen he was back in the hall, this time right in front of the bedroom door.  Hands dropping to his sides, shoulders sagging, “Dude!  What?  This isn’t great for the headache, knotted stomach, and hello--man with hangover here!  Have some compassion.”

 

“And whose fault is the hangover?”

 

Dean groaned.

 

“I have plenty of compassion, I’m loaded with compassion, I’m a compassion barrel overflowing.  Which is why you are not leaving until you can at least walk without falling, and not until you’ve had something to cure that hangover.   Along with a decent meal.”

 

Dean glared.

 

Craven turned to the side, holding one arm out motioning Dean to the kitchen.  With a deep, irritated sigh (Dean knew defeat when he saw it), and wary watchfulness aimed at Craven he stepped forward, again going into the kitchen.  This time, thankfully, it stayed the kitchen.  Craven pulled a chair away from the table, nodding to it.

 

Dean sat, glared, groaned and dropped his chin into his palm.  His eyes followed Craven, only partially interested in what the spirit was mixing up.  “Ya know,”  He drawled, “Here’s an interesting fact I read the other day.  In Indonesia, the penalty for masturbation is decapitation.”

 

Swiveling around on his heels, Craven leveled a look at him, making Dean grin.  “Drink this. It’ll help with the hangover.” 

 

A glass was set in front of him, Craven settled in another chair, mug of tea in hand.  “What is it?  You drink?”

 

Craven’s eyebrows shot up. “Yes I do, and smoke, not like it’s going to hurt me.”  He waved his mug at Dean’s glass, “That’s an ancient Egyptian remedy, never found anything better.”

 

Sniffing the mixture, deciding it had an odd, but not gross unpleasant type odor Dean took a tentative sip.  “This isn’t Yak piss or anything is it?”

 

“Goat.”

 

Dean choked and gagged, slamming the glass down, “What?”

 

“It’s a joke Dean.  Herbs, some fruit, no bodily fluids of any sort.  Now, drink up or don’t leave.”

 

Growling, Dean lifted the glass and sipped the thick, tan liquid again.  Craven simply watched him placidly.  Apparently the growl didn’t impress Craven anymore than it did Sam.  He was going to have to work on that.   The drink turned out to be pretty refreshing, and calmed his stomach enough for him to realize there were interesting, enticing smells coming from the other side of the kitchen.

 

“Feeling better?”  Craven rose, crossed to the oven, pulling something out.

 

‘Yes, I actually am.”  Straightening Dean turned, stretched his neck a bit to see.  The aroma wafting through the kitchen at him was starting to make his stomach grumble, and not because it wanted to expel its contents at any unsuspecting passerby.  “Um…what’s that?”

 

“It’s called strata.  Eggs, ham, cheese layered in a crust.”

 

“You…cook?”

 

“I eat too.  Besides the ladies like a man who can whip them up something wonderful for breakfast.”

 

Dean’s gaze popped to Craven’s face.  “You--?”

 

“Yes.”  It was one firmly spoken word, in the way that plainly said, none of your business.

 

“Oh.”  Scratching the back of his head, Dean looked out the window and around the room.  “I don’t suppose you have any coffee?”

 

“I do, but you get more of this.”  Craven handed him another full glass of  ‘hangover remedy.’ 

 

Dean sheepishly took it, terribly interested in the tops of his boots for a few minutes until a plate of strata appeared on the table in front of him.  He glanced up, smiled for a few seconds at Craven, saying, “Thanks a lot.  You’re not such a bad guy for a ghost.”

 

“Ethereal entity.  And thank you.”

 

“Right, ethereal entity.”  Making a mental note to himself that the next time someone offered Sam a scholarship Dean was going to remember to ask exactly how old the teachers were, and if they were dead or alive.  If dead, how long had they been dead?  Sam was right, their lives were too weird sometimes. Most of the time.  “This stuff is great.”  He said between mouthfuls of food.  “Sam would love this.  Not that there’ll be any left for him.”

 

Craven chuckled.  “I think there’ll be enough to pack him up some.”  Leaning back in his chair, he studied Dean for a few seconds.  Dean tried to not notice, he wasn’t totally successful.  “Did you find out what the troll asked your brother?”

 

Forkful of food stopped halfway to his mouth.  He was motionless for several breaths before setting it down, looking Craven straight in the eye.  “Yes.  I did.  But you probably already know that.”

 

“No.  It was just a guess.  I haven’t talked to Sam since before you came here a few days ago.  I believe Concha went over for a visit.”

 

Dean didn’t miss the fact Craven referred to Concha’s mission as a visit, not Dean requesting his brother be checked on, looked after like a child.

 

“I had no way of knowing what the troll would want from him.  Either of you really.  The thing needed to be gone, I thought, correctly, you could accomplish that.”

 

Immediately Dean recognized the apology.  This certainly wasn’t Craven’s fault.  Not really Sam’s either, Winchester, you cold, heartless bastard.  “It wasn’t your fault.  I know you didn’t do anything intentionally.”

 

“Then put the blame where it belongs.”

 

Dean set the fork down completely, leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together.  His stomach might have been mended by the magic hangover remedy, but his head was still a bundle of cotton.  “I’m listening.”  

 

“Sam showed me the list of supplies, told me what happened, rather what he thinks happened.  So, tell me, what do you think, could Sam have done something?  If he had, where would your brother be now?”

 

Dead, possessed, dead and possessed…evil, dead and possessed…Alone, no way to be saved, which led to evil, dead and possessed.  “No where I really want to think about.”  Dean said with complete honesty.  But of course he already had thought about it plenty.

 

“It must have been a terrible position for him to be in, knowing what those things were probably meant for, having to decide what to do.”

 

Dean couldn’t respond to that, his throat picked that particular moment to constrict down, and in reality, Craven was right.  He could only nod, acknowledging what the man said, really said in so few words.  Craven sat quietly, letting Dean collect himself.  Finally, after a few deep breaths Dean was able to speak.  “Sam, he never really took to hunting, never really liked it.  He still doesn’t.  He does like that we’ve helped a few people.  He told me once he does it because it’s what our Dad would have wanted.”

 

Craven snorted, “I think it’s more because it’s what you want, for your approval.  I’m willing to bet he told you that because he probably thought it was what you wanted to hear.  You think he would have continued if you’d died?”

 

“I doubt it.”  He probably wouldn’t have had much of a chance to decide either way.  “And he’s never needed to do anything for my approval.”  Dean snapped.

 

“Does he know that?”

 

“I guess, I never really thought about it.” 

 

It was true, Dean never thought about not offering Sam approval, for anything he did.  He might not have always agreed with Sam’s methods, but withdrawing his acceptance, his approval as Craven put it, was simply unthinkable to Dean.  It was something he prided himself on. He worked very hard to take people, especially Sam, for what they were.  To accept his brother as he was.  He’d never really cared if Sam was good at hunting or not, or what Sam’s motivations were for continuing.  He cared that he had his brother, and that was all.  He’d always offered Sam his approval, because lord knew no one else would, freely, without reservation, without ever thinking about it.  Sam always happily took it.  The thought Sam hunted because it was what Dean wanted never once occurred to him.  But he could see it, Sam would willingly (if not always without protest) follow him along on whatever, or into wherever. 

 

“Maybe you should, once and a while.” 

 

The revelation came to him, Sam didn’t like hunting, but would do so with Dean, had only really hunted with Dean.  For Dean.  Because of Dean.  Sam would probably do just about anything Dean asked of him.  He’d certainly allowed himself to be put into situations he normally would have shied away from, trusting it was right because Dean said it was, because Dean said it was important or necessary.  Sam had more personal motives now, but that hadn’t always been the case.  Even without those motives Dean believed Sam would hunt with him, all Dean had to do really was ask.  It was all he had had to do. 

 

Head spinning, Dean couldn’t be upright and maintain an intelligent thought at the same time.  For now Sam was fine, he knew, and he certainly couldn’t carry on a decent conversation with the kid in his current state.  He opted for a nap.  Thanking Craven again, and grateful his offer to help with dishes was brushed off, Dean headed back to the small bedroom.  Stretching out on the bed, one arm over his face his mind drifted around, not really letting him sleep.  Thoughts, ones he’d always known and never really given the opportunity to form, take shape, be real to him, rumbled around his fuzzy brain.

 

Their dad, hopefully without realizing it, had in a way forced Sam to choose, he or Dean.  The only thing Dean could process about that was how the hell could he do that to the kid?  How could he lay yet one more thing on Sam, on both of them?  Just when had John Winchester become one of the things Dean protected Sam from?  Their father wasn’t supposed to be on the list of things Sam needed shielding from.  But he had become just that to the point Sam often said to Dean their father did nothing but shove Sam off on his older brother.  It was something totally different Dean saw now, something completely, totally different, Dean could see now after thinking it through, it’d happened so long ago he couldn’t even remember it not being that way. 

 

John had never been a physically abusive parent, though if anyone could have provoked him into it, it would have been Sam and his mouth.  Dean couldn’t deny John loved his children, or hadn’t tried his best, but loving and showing were two different things.  Dean understood, always understood his father just didn’t have it left in him to leave himself open like that again.  Risk losing so much again.  It was exactly that which put John and Sam at odds, and Dean forever in the middle, between them.  Guarding Sam from their father, sometimes to the point of standing between them, physically forcing Sam behind him and away.  The funniest part was, as soon as Dean got in there, both loud, belligerent little brother and pissy, louder father backed off, backed down.  Dean had taken another approach, not getting the outright affection and approval he craved from his father, he’d poured what was never given to him into his brother.

 

Dean was beginning to understand.

 

Waking with a start, when had he fallen asleep, and for how long? Dean sat up, shaking his head and rubbing his face.  He felt much better, still not completely normal, but far better than he had when he’d come back to the room.  Time to go.  Not finding Craven anywhere, Dean scribbled a note of thanks before picking up his keys and a package of what he suspected was left over strata left for him in the refrigerator.

 

Sliding into his car, Dean caught site of his father’s journal on the passenger seat.  Sam would never have left it there.  He had a vague recollection of having it with him in the bar, so Concha must have put it there, knowing Dean would see it.  Picking it up, back out of the car in the same movement, he intended to put it in the trunk, be on his way.  He stopped as he was about to push closed the car trunk.  Like father, like son.  Dean stared at the journal for a few seconds.  He almost always had his dad’s journal.  Sam would read it, look things up, always, always returning it to Dean.  Eyes sweeping the trunk for his own journal, Dean knew before he did it the act was fruitless.  His journal wasn’t in the trunk. It was almost never in the trunk unless Sam’s duffel was in there too.  Dean’s journal lived, pretty exclusively, in Sam’s duffel bag, or with Sam’s books, or in his laptop case.  He’d seen Sam reading it for no real reason on more than one occasion.  How was it Dean never really noticed this before?  Why was it Sam had Dean’s journal, he wasn’t really any more organized than Dean was about their hunting supplies? 

 

Giving it one final glance before quietly closing the trunk, Dean climbed back into the car, driving away deep in thought. 

 

He couldn’t go back yet, he had a few things he needed straightened in his head, and it seemed when one got that way three more questions popped up to take its place.  Really not helpful.  He drove around for a bit, but not wanting to go too far from their apartment Dean opted to park, and walk around campus.  There were plenty of interesting things to see and do, mindless things.  Crowds he could get lost in, no one would bother him, and he could put it all together.  Making sure to leave the Impala where it would be easily seen, if Sam was looking, and he probably was, Dean knew Sam would take that for what it was.  Dean hadn’t really gone anywhere, was just in a want to be alone mood.  It wasn’t the best, he knew he should at least call Sam, but he didn’t have it in him right now to hear the hurt in his brother’s voice, or the anger.  He didn’t have it in him right now to face the horrible thing he’d done.

 

So he wandered around.  Thinking as he went into this place or that, he should get Sam to come back with him later, he’d like these places, these things.  When they’d first arrived Dean wondered what on earth he’d do while Sam studied.  He’d found there was plenty to occupy him, and he’d done almost as much of the studying as Sam.  He discovered he enjoyed the college town.  Sam only went out to explore when Dean coaxed him along.  Sam, the poor kid, never really seemed to fit in anywhere, and Dean was like some kind of human chameleon, adjusting to any setting, almost thriving on the challenge of it all.

 

Which brought him right back to thoughts of how many times had Sam blindly followed Dean into a situation or a place simply on Dean’s say so?  The same thing Sam often accused Dean of doing, having blind faith in their father.  Like father, like son.  Yet Sam repeated the same actions without thought for Dean.  He might argue, or question the whole way, but he’d follow Dean wherever Dean asked him to go.  Why?  Dean had to ask again, but he didn’t really, he knew that answer.  Sam trusted him.  Sam believed in him.

 

The sun was low in the sky when he stopped at one of the exhibits the students put together.  He’d been to several, usually they were pretty cool things.  This one didn’t disappoint, he made a mental note to bring Sam back, he’d enjoy this very much.  Dean wandered through.  The theme for this particular exhibit was medieval weapons.  There were replicas, artwork involving the different pieces and a few authentic ones.  Each display had plenty to read on the history, folklore, whatever on the different weapons.  Dean knew plenty about weapons, but only recently discovered how interesting the history of what were tools of his trade really was.  If he ever got a hobby, this might be it.  Sam would enjoy the art and history parts of the exhibit.

 

Sam knew about weapons too, but he didn’t like them.  They didn’t hold the interest or reverence they did for Dean.   Sam could use them, care for them just as well as Dean, but that was as far as it went for Sam.  Having learned the same lessons from their father as Dean, the difference was what Dean flourished in Sam despised.  Somehow, along the path through childhood, that became a character flaw from John’s point of view.  Their father loved Sam, but didn’t like what he was, or more to the point what he wouldn’t become.  John always wanted Sam to be something he simply couldn’t be.  Dean could see now, it made a difference to their father in a deep down fundamental way.  Sam felt it, sensed it, he had to.  It made a difference to Sam too.  Even up to the time Dean and Sam found their father Sam expressed to his brother his fears of John’s rejection.

 

Funny, even after several years apart neither brother feared, or even thought of the other’s rejection.  Dean knew, because they’d discussed it, Sam always felt a call to Dean would be answered.  Sam would never be rejected, or pushed aside for something else.  Dean knew the same of Sam. He knew the comfort of that sort of security, they both did, from each other.  Like father, like son.  Well, until a few days, and a hundred-eight calls ago Sam knew.  Now, Dean reasoned, the kid probably wasn’t so sure.  He’d fix that.

 

Dean’s final stop before home was a diner, they had the best pie.  He and Sam both loved a good piece of pie.  While he waited for his order to be completed Dean’s mind filled with other thoughts, twenty-three years of memories.  Twenty-three years caring for someone, being the center of their world.  Twenty-three years of skinned knees and secrets only the two of them shared, twenty-three years of learning to ride bikes, and shoot crossbows, how to send off a vengeful spirit, and still do your homework.  Twenty-three years of first dates, and broken hearts, of always being the new kid in school, learning to shave and catch a ball.  Twenty-three years…..ok, year sixteen had been a moody bundle of irritation….Dean smiled, that part hadn’t actually changed, Sam was still a moody bundle of irritation, he wondered when that phase would pass.  Twenty-three years of a smile that not only lit up a room, but Dean’s soul as well.  Twenty-three years and Sam had paid him back how?  With a love and loyalty the depths of which Dean realized he might never see the bottom of.

 

It was a short drive back to the parking lot in front of their apartment.  Armed with strata, and two pies, Dean sat in the car, stared up at the dark windows.  Sam had made a choice, what choice would Dean have made?  He knew the answer, it popped into his head the minute he’d thought up the question.  What would he have done, if it were Sam who’d been in that coma?  Their father, Dean knew, would have been more likely to tell Dean what he was up to.  Dean would have been more likely to listen, but that didn’t change anything.

 

Then Dean got real honest, deep down, hard core honest with himself.  He knew what his choice would have been. 

 

Taking the steps two at a time, Dean slipped quietly into the apartment.  It was dark, the only light coming from Sam’s laptop.  Sam was at the table, hunched over, arms sprawled out and cheek against one forearm.  He’d fallen asleep there.  He also must have gotten very little the last few days or he’d have woken up by now.  Setting down his packages, Dean opened the refrigerator, taking a quick scan.  It pretty much looked like it had when he’d left, so he reasoned Sam hadn’t eaten much either.  Moving the computer out of the way, closing it quietly Dean reached out with one hand, about to move Sam’s bangs away from his face.  He pulled back at the last second, fingers curling in on themselves.  He’d quite likely scare the daylights out of the kid and get punched.  Which he deserved. 

 

In the next second he decided to hell with it, resting his hand lightly on Sam’s head.  “Sam.”  He kept his voice low.  “Sammy.”  Dean couldn’t help but notice how Sam, even asleep, wore a scared expression.

 

Sam grumbled, then flinched upright.  He blinked at Dean for a minute, still mostly asleep, confused.  Grabbing him under one arm, Dean pulled him straighter in the chair.  Sam looked at him, frowned for a second more before realization set in.

 

“Dean?”  He swallowed hard.  “Are you ok?”

 

“Yeah.”  Straightening, Dean moved to the counter.  “Have you eaten anything?”

 

Sam shrugged, which meant no.  He pulled the pies out, grabbed some plates, fully aware the entire time Sam’s eyes followed his every move.

 

“I’m sorry.”  Sam stuttered out.  “I did that to you, and I didn’t know where you were or if something happened….and I’m sorry when I took off on you.   It was the meanest thing I ever did to you and I’m sorry.”

 

Completely not expecting that, Dean half turned, arched one eyebrow and wondered how to respond.  He didn’t know what to say, so he said the first thing that came to mind.  “I couldn’t remember if my favorite was blueberry and yours was peach, or if mine is peach and yours is blueberry.  So I got both.”  He moved Sam’s books from the table, replacing them with plates of pie.  “And get this, Craven, he cooks.  This stuff is awesome.”  He put the strata, after warming it, in front of Sam.

 

Sam just sat and stared at him like he’d grown another head or two and lost his mind.  Maybe he had.

 

 

 Chapter 10

 

Sam saw by Dean’s startled expression, and sudden interest in which one of them liked what kind of pie, Sam’s apology took him totally by surprise, completely threw him off balance.  He watched Dean, not sure what else to say, or do, finally deciding to see what Dean did or said.  Dean might have almost died on him a few times, but never in Sam’s memory had Dean willingly left him.  At least not like he had a few days ago.  This was new territory for him, and he had no clue what to do, or not do. 

 

“New coffee pot.”  Dean motioned to it.  “What happened to the old one?”

 

“Broke.”

 

“Ummm….blender and toaster are gone.”

 

“They broke too, just didn’t get replacements.”

 

“Oh.  Well, priorities.  I hate when all the appliances opt for mass suicide and jump at once.”

 

After setting a plate of warm food in front of Sam, Dean sat in the other chair.  He seemed calm, himself, but Sam knew better than anyone, Dean could be like the weather, sunny and balmy one minute, a deadly, destructive wind the next.

 

Drawing in a deep breath, Dean ran one hand over his face before looking at Sam.  The look Dean wore nearly killed Sam, it hurt so much, Dean obviously hurt so much, making Sam hurt even more himself.  Dean sat for another full minute at least fingers intertwined, elbows bent, chin resting against his clasped hands.  Looking down at the plate he knew Dean wanted him to eat, but the thought of putting food into his already tumultuous stomach made him feel worse.

 

“You tried to tell me something the other day,” Dean finally began, his voice low, soothing and softer than he normally spoke, even to Sam.  “And not only did I not listen to you, I…well…I didn’t listen.  I’m an ass, but I’m also the only brother you have, so I guess you’ll just have to deal with that.”

 

That made Sam smile for an instant.

 

“Before you tell me, and this time I promise to listen and try very hard to not be an ass, there’s something I need to tell you.”  Dean reached over, putting a slice of each kind of pie on a plate, pulling it closer.  Then he tapped Sam’s arm, “Eat, cause I know you haven’t had much, if anything since I left here.”

 

Sam picked up his fork, but didn’t do anything with it.  Dean, Sam decided might very well eat his way through the Apocalypse.   Dean eyed him, but didn’t push the issue.

 

“A few months before you were born the neighbor a few houses down, her dog had puppies.  And I wanted a puppy.  I wanted one in the worst way.  I’ve since found out they were annoying, yappy little biters, but I was four, and at the time they were cute and fuzzy.  But I couldn’t have a puppy, ‘cause Mom couldn’t take care of me and a baby and a puppy.  So, I decided in my four year old wisdom that when you were born, if I could take care of you, I could get a puppy.  So, ya know, you were born and all.  I wasn’t really allowed to hold you much, because I was four and a lot of….well most…ok everything I picked up I dropped…”

 

“You dropped me?”

 

“Ummm…not…well maybe there was one…ok, three or four times…I was two feet tall it’s not like it was that far to the ground.”  Dean looked down at his plate, blushed a bit and shrugged, “It does sort of explain a lot.”

 

When Sam snorted, Dean grinned.  Deciding pie looked better than the strata Sam pulled one closer for a forkful.  Dean pulled the pie away, shoving the strata back in front of Sam.

 

“Real food first.  Anyway I was still on this mission to get a puppy.  Ever since you came home, you’d scream, I mean, dude, you’d howl loud enough to make all the neighbors lose sleep.  So, somehow they figured out if I sat in your crib with you, you’d shut up.  Every chance I got, I’d get in there.”

 

“I thought you only did that after…”

 

“Na, I think Dad only noticed after.”  Dean laughed a little, “Mom let me in there all the time.  It was cool, I’d get in there with you and you’d stop screaming and crying, make all sorts of gooey, cooing noises, or just go to sleep.  No one else could do that, just me.  Even back then Dad would get near you and you’d blow off at him, actually I used to think it was sort of funny.  So, then there was the fire, and I figured the puppy wasn’t going to happen, but by that time it didn’t really matter so much, your diapers smelled a lot like the puppy anyway.”

 

Sam scrunched his nose, and reached for the pie again.  When Dean tried to stop him, Sam refused to let it go, raising his eyebrows.  It was his universal given birthright as little brother to torment his big brother whenever possible.  Dean gave him an annoyed look, shrugged and let go of the pie plate.  It appeared he was going to refuse to be tormented, or even slightly riled, so Sam gave up and ate his pie.  The tight knot that was Sam’s chest loosened a little.

 

“The night of the fire Dad, he just grabbed you out of the crib, and shoves you at me and tells me to run outside, to not let go, run as fast as I could.  After all those months of ‘couldn’t hold you because I’d drop you…um…again’, he just hands you over, sort of says ‘here, yours now, take care of him’.  So, I did.  But Sam, what you don’t get, what Dad never got, I did that before anyone ever told me to.  Not to the same extent of course, but as much as I could.  Ok, the first month or so after you were born it was to prove I could take care of the puppy, but that changed. No one, not Mom, not Dad, no one had to tell me to do that.  I didn’t take care of you because they told me to, or because I was forced to.  Maybe Dad did shove you off on me,” Dean shrugged, “I don’t really know.  Hell, I don’t know what he thought half the time.  If he did do that, it was never what I thought, or how I felt.”

 

Hearing Dean admit their father was anything but perfect made Sam’s head spin a little, and oddly made him feel more relaxed, less fearful his brother was leaving.

 

“I did it, Sam, because I wanted to, still want to.  I did it because I liked it, do like it.  It’s something I’ll never stop being proud of.  Do you know all those times Dad said, ‘take care of Sammy,’ it just pissed me off.   As if I’d forget or something, or like someone else would, or even could, it was never a burden Sam, never.  You’re my brother and taking care of you makes me happy, makes me feel good, not just about myself, or you, but because I did that, took care of you, raised you.  I’m proud if doing that, and of you.  Let me tell you something else too Sammy, Dad lost a helluva lot of sympathy points with me the day he told me I’d maybe have to kill you.”

 

Sam stared at the table, not really knowing what he could say.  He’d always known Dean loved him, but hearing the words made it almost surreal.  “I…you never said…”

 

“I didn’t ever think I had to.”  Dean cut him off quickly.  There was no malice in his voice.  Sam realized it was something Dean never realized needed saying, or that Sam simply didn’t know his feelings on the matter.  “And you were about three before you caught onto the fact that I’d taught you to play fetch.”

 

Trying desperately to give Dean an evil stare, Sam failed, miserably.  First the corners of his mouth wouldn’t cooperate and turned up, then despite trying not to, Sam laughed.

 

“Sam, I don’t know what all this is about, but I do know one thing.  Mom and Dad, they’re gone.  They dumped this shit in our laps and left us to deal with it and clean it up.  Keeping things from each other, it’s stupid and only leads to problems.  I’m not going to do that anymore, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t either.”

 

“I didn’t mean to.”  Sam looked down at the table again, picking at the end of his fork with his thumb.  “You don’t know how many times right after Dad….afterwards, I tried to tell you, wanted to.  I didn’t want to think about it.  It’s not like I didn’t love Dad, just not the same as for you.  I didn’t want to think about it, and I didn’t want to remember, so I guess I didn’t.” 

 

A quick glance at Dean’s face, Sam was already worried he’d gone too far.  To his surprise Dean was impassive, simply listening.  His expression was more of curiosity than anything else.

 

“Dad, he didn’t really want to talk to me much, I was sort of on my own the whole time you were…after the crash.  It was horrible, you had a tube down your throat, and there was all this equipment, and wires and IV lines and stuff I don’t even know what it was.  There was one doctor, he was really cool.  I think he was an intern.  He was probably the same age as you.  He was nice, really nice to me.  I could tell he felt sorry for me, for us, but he didn’t act all sappy.  He kept explaining all this stuff to me, what they’d do to you and why.  I could tell he was trying to make me understand…what happened to you was…”  Sam stopped, bit at his thumb nail for a minute before continuing.  “I told him about you, what you were like.  How you were the only real family I had, ever had.  I think he really got it, really understood.”

 

He ventured another tentative glance at his brother’s face, but there was no trace of anger, Sam was a bit taken aback Dean had no comment about him being Sam’s only real family.

 

“I’ve never been so scared in my life.  Really deep down scared, like I couldn’t even breathe right scared.  Every time I left your room, it was nothing but agony until I could get back, and I was terrified something awful would happen, that you’d die while I was gone.  Then Dad comes up with this errand he wants me to go on for him.  He wanted the Colt, that’s when he gave me that list of stuff.  I told him I didn’t want to leave, I couldn’t leave you all alone there.”  Sam tried to stop the tears blurring his vision from forming.  With a shaky hand he brushed them away.  Dean sat quietly, watching him intently.  “He told me…told me I had to go, even after I told him Bobby was getting your car, there was no need for me to go.  But he insisted.  Told me I had to, he tricked me, lied to me, said the things he needed were to protect you.  He promised he wouldn’t do anything about the demon until you were better.  He…he…he told me it was my fault you were hurt, that I shouldn’t have been allowed along, near any of it.  He said it was all my fault…”

 

“Sam—“  Dean’s voice was soft, his hand came to rest on Sam’s arm.

 

“He meant it Dean!”  Sam didn’t mean to snap, or sound as harsh as he did.  Dean’s hand drew back, rested on his lap.  Had Sam been a second faster he would have grabbed it, held on, not wanting his brother so far away.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.  You didn’t hear him say it, or see the look on his face.  He meant it Dean.  He thought it was my fault you were hurt, that you were dying.”

 

“He had no right Sammy.  It wasn’t your fault, not at all.  He had no right to say that to you.”

 

Sam’s chest loosened a bit more.  He looked up, met Dean’s eyes.  There was anger there, but not, Sam immediately understood, at him, but for him.  Sam knew for him Dean’s face, voice, eyes held only compassion.

 

Dropping his gaze to the floor he went on.  “He told me since I didn’t shoot him, it was my fault, said I had only myself to blame if you died.”

 

Hearing Dean’s breath catch, Sam looked up quickly at him.

 

“I asked you not to shoot him, so it’s hardly your fault.  It’s not mine either.  It’s the demon’s.”  Dean spat.

 

Smiling a bit, Sam very much appreciated that, and Dean’s unconditional acceptance of Sam’s innocence.  “Thanks.  I went out to get the Ouija board that was the only other time I left you.  When I was coming back from the store where I bought it I saw him.  I don’t know if he saw me, he didn’t act like he did.  He had the bag I brought the Colt and his supplies in to him.  I didn’t know what the stuff was for, or where to get it.  I had to ask Bobby for help, he told me what they were meant for.  When I brought them back we got into a fight, same old stuff.  I didn’t have much to do with him after that, didn’t really say much to him, just stayed with you, in your room until you woke up.  He got on an elevator with the bag.  I didn’t care what he did, or why.  At that point all I cared about was that you woke up, that you’d come back to me.

 

“I didn’t want him to die.  I didn’t give it a lot of thought though, what he might have been doing.  I wanted you to live, I didn’t care how or what it took, the only thing I could think about was you living.  It was like my brain didn’t have room for anything else.  I sort of figured it out later, or thought maybe it was possible.  But by that time it was too late, so I just didn’t think about it anymore.”

 

“Sam, I want you to listen to me, because damn I’m tired of repeating myself.  None of this, not a single part of it is in anyway your fault.  Not what happened to Mom, or Dad, and certainly not what happened to me.  I’ve told you before, you’re a victim, no less than they were.  And laying that crap on you, telling you it’s your fault…”  Dean was on his feet so fast Sam flinched before he could stop himself.  He honestly thought Dean might hit him.  Giving him a searching look, Dean relaxed his shoulders, but paced along the narrow kitchenette.  “If he was here right now I wouldn’t tell him that, I don’t think I could do more than punch him.  It was wrong, and just plain mean.  Even if it was your fault, and it was not, saying that was so wrong, on so many levels.” 

 

Dean stopped, stared down at Sam for a second or two.  Sam didn’t know what to do, was at a loss for words.  The actions, the words scared him some.  He braced himself for Dean to bolt out the door again, maybe this time not coming back.  The knot which had slowly loosened in his chest was back, full force, tightening on him like a vice grip.  The next words that came from Dean’s mouth sent his head spinning, the implications taking a bit to sink in.

 

“He should never have said that, he was wrong.  Then to let you just go on thinking it was true, to not say anything when he knew he was going to die.  To not say anything to you other than ‘go get coffee’ and pull the stunt he did.  I still don’t agree with what he did, but there isn’t squat I can do about it.  Honestly I don’t blame you one bit for feeling the way you do about him, not at all.  And it just pisses me off.”

                                                                                                         

Sam’s chest suddenly felt as if some huge weight had been dropped on it, then removed with lightening speed.  The knot completely untied and fell away.  His head spun, all he could really process was Dean understood, wasn’t angry with him, wouldn’t leave, would always be behind Sam, catch him when he stumbled, look out for him, would try to understand him.  It was far more than Sam had ever gotten from anyone else.  How he got so lucky, or why he deserved this he did not know.

 

Not seeming to notice Sam much, Dean continued on.  “Christ Sammy, you were twenty-two, a kid, and he lays this bullshit on you?  Then what he lays on me?  I think that damn demon fried his brain, and long before he got possessed by it.  He had no right.  He was wrong.”

 

“You think he was wrong about me?”  Sam’s voice sounded too soft to his own ears.  It must have to Dean too, he looked down at Sam so suddenly, head cocked to the side Sam wondered if Dean had even heard him.

 

“Wrong about you!?  Hell yes he was wrong about you.  It’s my new working theory.  If he thought for one minute I’d kill you he was wrong.  If he thought I’d stand around and let him kill you he was dead wrong.  If he thought you’d ever turn into something evil he obviously wasn’t paying any attention to the kid who lived with him for eighteen years.  He was beyond wrong.  And if I ever hear you saying you think otherwise, I’ll beat the crap out of you.”

 

Sam laughed a bit, but the glare Dean turned on him had his smile sliding off his face.  His brother scared him a little when he got like this.  He had no doubt Dean’s word were gospel, and should be fully heeded.

 

Turning to the counter, Dean asked, “You want some coffee with that pie you didn’t want to eat that is now half gone?”

 

Dean growled out something else, but Sam didn’t catch it, his brain was too muddied up.  Wheeling out of his chair, he seemed to know only one word, “Dean.”  He barely whispered.  Dean hardly had the chance to half turn towards him, eyebrows up in question.  Wrapping both arms around Dean’s neck like he had when he was little, Sam pressed his face against his brother’s neck, not caring if it got wet from his tears or not.  Sam’s weight suddenly pressed against him forced Dean back a step, but his arm around Sam’s back held him tight.  Not that he had a snowball’s chance in hell of dislodging Sam until Sam was damn good and ready to be dislodged.

 

“Whoa, hey, Sam, it’s ok.”  Dean’s voice was soft and calming in his ear.  “It’s ok Sammy.”

 

 

 Chapter 11

 

“You’re not going to spit beer all over me again, are you?”  Sam backed up a pace just to be on the safe side.

 

Smiling a truly wicked smile Dean swished beer around his mouth for a second, arched one eyebrow (he seriously creeped Sam out some days when he did that) and shrugged before swallowing his brew.  Sam relaxed, rubbed the back of his neck and laughed self-consciously.

 

“Sam, get real, the boogeyman?  Maybe we should call it the boogey-person, don’t want the spirits getting all hurt and angry and suing us for being insensitive.”  Dean picked up the stack of papers Sam dropped on the table between them.  “I mean come on, what am I?  Dean Winchester, demon hunter, saving the world one faerie tale at a time?”

 

“The troll was real Dean.”  And how did Sam delight in pointing that fact out.

 

Dean snorted, then growled, Sam decided the growl was some sort of term of affection, endearment.  Sam liked the growl.  “Sammy, don’t talk to me about the troll, I hate that damn troll. It was a trouble maker.”

 

“Craven said it was related to demons somehow.”

 

“You’re still talking about the troll.”  He was looking through the files.  Sam could tell by Dean’s expression, he was already interested.  Watching Dean as his brother flipped back and forth, comparing one page to another.  Finally closing the folder Dean laid it quite carefully on the table, palm resting on top of the thick file; he looked up, intense gaze meting Sam’s eyes.  “There are hundreds here.  This is just the last decade, the eastern half of this country.”

 

Sam nodded, “I know.  It’s a lot farther, a lot more than we ever knew, than I ever thought existed.” He didn’t even try to hide his confusion, apprehension, fear from what he’d been handed this time.  “These pictures, drawings, the eyes.  They all have red, or black, yellow, green eyes, almost demonic eyes, but not exactly the same.  Maybe more than one thing is doing this, a whole different type of being, demon than we’ve come across before.”

 

“I noticed.  Where did he get the information, the statistics, statements from these…” Dean waved his hand over the folder, disgusted, repulsed, “sorry excuses for humans?”

 

“I don’t know, he just gave it to me, didn’t really tell me much about it.  They couldn’t help it Dean.  This thing, this boogeyman, this is proof it’s not just a child’s tale.  I don’t think those people had a choice, they were forced to do these things.”

 

“Sam, these are rapists, child killers, psychopaths, we don’t hunt these.”

 

“We hunt what did it to them.  All these people, every one of them, they saw the same thing as children, over and over, were visited by the…”  Sam stopped and shrugged, it sounded silly to him too.  “…the boogeyman.  In legends the boogeyman is often associated with serial killers.  Maybe for a reason?”

 

Flipping again through the sheaf of paper Dean shrugged.  “I have to admit it looks that way.  But where do we start?”

 

“I think we’re supposed to start here, with this list.  Current children in treatment, all their files, they’ve all seen the same thing, not been able to sleep at night because of the same bad dreams.  There are a few in the same general vicinity as convicted killers, serial molesters, rapists, like it preys on one generation then the next.”

 

“The boogeyman?”

 

Sam nodded.

 

Dean pinned him to the spot he stood with such a blazing, intense gaze Sam couldn’t help squirming.  “Sammy,” He spoke slowly.  “Tell me, please tell me you’ve never seen…none of your dreams, nightmares have been about…this?”

 

“No.  Never.  Have you?”

 

Shaking his head no, Dean let out a sigh of obvious relief.  “Got a starting point?”

 

“There are a few hot spots here in New York.  We can start there, follow this thing, demon, whatever it is.  Maybe stop it, them.”

 

Sitting at the table, Dean pulled the folder closer, started sorting out the different files and papers.  “Look at this Sammy, an outbreak in the south during hurricane season, in the west during blizzards, the mid-west when there’s a tornado every other day.”  He looked up at Sam.  “Maybe when Bobby told us there was a storm coming, think he meant it literally?”

 

“No.  I think if he’d noticed this he would have said so.  Concha’s theory about the demons, their energy needs, maybe this is related somehow.  The atmosphere has more energy built up and expended during storms.”

 

“Well either way, it’s a trail to follow.  We can’t do more than research what happened beyond fifty or sixty years ago, those people would be dead.  But we can still see if they fit the pattern, maybe it’ll help us predict what to look for next, what will come along.”

 

“Find a way to stop it?”

 

“Absolutely we need to find a way to stop it.”  Dean stood, closed Sam’s laptop and stuffed the newest folders along with the computer into the laptop carry bag.  “I guess we hit the road for a few days.”

 

“Should we call Concha, have her come along?”

 

Dean shook his head, “No.  I don’t think she’s too happy with either of us right now, and this is supposed to be what you…what we need to learn, to hunt.”

 

Sam nodded, not sure he entirely agreed or not.  For the first time the thought of he and Dean on the road, tracking something down, hunting, excited him.  He looked forward to it, to spending time with his brother, to doing what they really did do best.

 

Packing supplies into the Impala, they headed north from Ithaca to a small town on the St. Lawrence River called Battersfield, the site of several school shootings, a killer who snatched children from their beds, and an unusually high incidence of child and adult psychosis.  Sam recited all these facts to his brother as Dean drove.  The first few hours were spent by Sam going over the details with the occasional question from Dean.  They both agreed, this was big, very big, something they could spend the rest of their entire lives on big.

 

“So there’s a pattern to all this?”  Dean glanced sideways at Sam.

 

Nodding, swallowing half a water bottle at once, then handing it off to Dean, Sam twisted in his seat to face Dean, files balanced precariously on his knee.  “Yeah.  It starts when they’re young, really young.  Some of these kids can barely talk and they draw descriptions of the same creature, monster under the bed, in the closet.  Guess their dads didn’t think to hand them a gun.”

 

Dean laughed.  “You’re never going to let that one rest are you?  I’m just glad when you climbed into bed with me you left the gun.”  Blowing a breath through puffed cheeks and shaking his head, Dean reached over and gently smacked Sam’s arm.  “It could have been ugly.”

 

“Focus Dean.”

 

“I’m hungry, wanna stop and eat?”

 

“Ok, in the mean time, can you focus?”

 

“I’m focused Sammy, I’m the epitome of focused.  Hey, I told Craven this, but he wasn’t too impressed, but did you know in Indonesia the penalty for masturbation is decapitation?”

 

Letting both hands fall to the file folder Sam leveled his most serious glare at Dean.  “Guess you’d better stay out of Indonesia then.”  He deadpanned.

 

Dean growled, which made Sam smile.

 

“Now that we’ve got that important fact out of the way, can we focus on our case?”

 

Shrugging in some noncommittal way Dean began tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs.  Sam ignored it. Most the time Dean only did this to annoy him.  Dean may be the person Sam loved most in the world, and the only person Sam ever looked up to, but damn he could be annoying.  Especially, Sam decided, when he worked at it.  Dean, when he wasn’t busy being the overprotective care taker, was busy being a regular big brother, irritation included.  He completely caught the stolen glances and quickly covered smirk as Dean tried to look serious and focused.  Shaking his head, Sam turned back to his files.

 

“What?”  Dean could sound so completely innocent when he wanted to, it was amazing.

 

“Nothing.  So, as I was saying, these children all saw this thing, had no gun, and no big brother Dean to hide them and keep them safe…”  Sam was cut off by Dean reaching over and pinging the side of his head with one finger.  Before Sam could react much a chunk of his hair was wrapped up in Dean’s fingers and tugged gently.  Sam poked at his brother’s ribs, which drew Dean’s hand back to the steering wheel and more thrumming.  Settling his shoulder more deeply against the seat back the tension of the past week eased away replaced by warmth not in a small way due to the content expression Dean wore and a return of being ‘Sammy’, poked and teased.  It hadn’t always been so, but now he liked being Sammy.

 

“Feel better now?  Focused Dean?”

 

“Focused Sammy.”  Another few beats pounded out on the steering wheel before Dean’s lips curled up and another glance flashed to Sam for a few seconds before returning to the road.

 

Rolling his eyes Sam huffed, “Where was I?”

 

“Well, you were carrying on about masturbation, I was wondering what those poor kids did when the monster came and there was no awesome big brother with a spare pillow…Hey!...”  Dean’s words were cut off by the folder whacking him over the head.  “Dude, driving here.”

 

“Hummmm.”  Sam rolled his eyes, making sure Dean saw him.  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

 

“What?  Now I can’t drive?”  Dean grumbled.  “Drive better than you.”

 

“Do not.”

 

“Do too.”

 

“Not.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Dean!  Could we pay attention to the case, and the road?  You just passed up the second turn off where there are places to eat.”

 

“You’re not hungry.”  Now Dean was being smug.

 

“Yes I am!  I never said I wasn’t.”

 

Grinning Dean elbowed him again.  “I saw a sign a few miles back for World’s Best Steak Sandwich, I was heading there.  See, Sammy, always gotta have a plan.”

 

“Steak sandwiches?”  His stomach grumbled, it was hopeful.

 

Dean nodded, “Yeah, I know your favorite.  I do love me a good steak sandwich.”

 

“You love anything you can eat.”

 

“Sam, have you seen the amount of food YOU put away?”

 

Looking down at his files, Sam smiled sheepishly.  Leave it to Dean to torment him while at the same time finding his favorite food.  It was no mystery to Sam why he admired Dean so much, depended on him so much and just plain hero-worshipped the man.  Sam wondered yet again, what had he done to deserve Dean for a brother?  Whatever it was he hoped to keep right on doing it.

 

“So, fill me in some more focus-boy.”  Dean glanced behind him to change lanes, edging over to the far right lane, the exit must be coming up Sam reasoned.  As he did so he glanced down at the papers in Sam’s lap, then reached over and tapped Sam’s forearm lightly.

 

“The reports are of this thing, this creature, showing up, almost like it’s a haunting.  There isn’t anything about them being talked to, or any of the things the demons we know do.”

 

“Sammy, do me a favor and don’t talk about demons like we all go to the same parties and hang out slugging beers together.”

 

“My point is there is no real contact other than reports of this thing being seen.  So how is it affecting them?”

 

Dean shrugged, “Maybe what they see is some sort of cover, projection?”  He hit the blinker, the Impala glided smoothly off the highway, speed easing down as they hit the main road.  “It’s possible they don’t hear it say anything, but it communicates some other way, with emotions, something like that?”

 

“Yeah, very well could be.”  Sam agreed.

 

True to his word Sam saw a sign declaring the World’s Best Steak Sandwich on the right.  Dean turned and grinned broadly, making Sam shake his head and smile, then laugh.  He was reminded how good it felt to have someone care for him so much.  Problem was Sam didn’t always feel he repaid these gestures.  But then again maybe his appreciating it was all the payment Dean really wanted or needed.  He tapped Dean’s shoulder, “Hey.”

 

“Humm?”  Dean turned a curious gaze on him as he parked the car.

 

“Thanks.”  When Dean’s eyebrows raised and he shook his head a fraction Sam continued.  “For noticing this place.”

 

“I love steak sandwiches Sammy.”

 

Sam didn’t miss the happy glow Dean’s eyes took on just before they left the car.  They wandered in, finding a booth near the back of the diner.  Sam’s stomach alerted him further to the fact it had been empty since early this morning.  While they waited for their orders Sam opened the folder again, taking out records specific to the town they were headed.

 

“It’s been going on there for thirty years or so.”  Sam passed a paper to Dean, then another.  “They had a teacher go on a rampage through an elementary school in the mid-seventies. That seems to be the first.  He snapped, no one knew why.  Took his deer hunting gear and killed other teachers, and a few kids with arrows.”

 

Dean winced.

 

“Then there was this one a few years ago.  The recent one was the middle school, held a group of kids and teachers hostage.  He was the school doctor.”

 

“What did he use?”  Dean moved the papers to one side when their food arrived.

 

Not answering right away, too busy enjoying his sandwich Sam gulped some pop, pointing to the top paper.  “Same story, seemed fine, never bothered anyone, no violent tendencies, just snapped one day.  He held them for over fifteen hours before shooting them.  Just lined them up and shot them.”  Sam looked up at his brother. Dean’s expression told him this was as disturbing to him as it was to Sam.  “As children they’d all had this same thing, drew pictures in school, told friends about seeing the boogeyman.  There’s others who had more of a history of problems, violent behavior, psychosis.”

 

“With a history of seeing this thing?”

 

“Yeah, but as children.  No one seems to see the thing after age eleven or twelve.”

 

“Puberty.”  Dean wiped his hands on a napkin, sat back, sipped his pop.  “Or they just stopped talking about it.  Got told they were too grown up to be afraid of the dark, stupid shit like that.”

 

Sam snorted, nodding.  “You know you never said that to me, I was too big to be afraid of the dark.”  He said softly, still feeling the need to somehow let Dean know how grateful he was for his brother’s care.

 

This made Dean laugh in earnest.  “Are you kidding me?  Neither one of us is that grown up.”  Dean stretched.  “What else is there recently?”

 

“A string of kids disappearing, some snatched from their beds.”  Sam shivered a little, “Child molester, who may or may not be the same person doing the kidnapping.  More than half the kids molested had some sort of story about seeing a boogeyman.”

 

“What about the two school shooters, were they ever molested?”

 

Sam rifled through his papers.  “Yeah, well at least the most recent one was. Nothing here about the first one.  But I bet it’s a safe bet to say he was.  Oh and get this the second shooter, he was in elementary school when the first one let loose.”

 

“Let me guess which school.  So this thing appears to victims and attackers, sometimes the victims become the attackers.”

 

“This is so screwed up.”  Sam knew how much Dean would want to find this, stop it, he hated when things happened to kids.  So did Sam.  “How could nobody look out for them?  Keep them safe?”  His eyes met his brother’s.  “I mean you and I, we grew up around all sorts of seedy, just plain lowlifes and never once was I afraid someone would do anything like that to me.”

 

“I would have killed anyone who messed with you like that, or any other way.”  Dean snarled. It was a real snarl, not one of his fake endearing ones.

 

“That’s what I mean.  These kids had parents, some had siblings, there were friends, teachers, and no one looked out for them, believed them?”

 

“I don’t know Sammy.  I really don’t.  I could never understand how someone could do that to a kid, to anyone.  At least the demons are consistent.”

 

“There doesn’t seem, at least from these records, to be a centralized place, it’s like this thing is just everywhere.”

 

“All right,” Dean moved his now empty plate to the side.  “We’ll interview some of the families, let’s start with the kidnappings and child molesters.  Maybe if we’re lucky we can head off more.”

 

It was well after dark by the time they rolled into Battersfield.  Even though it wasn’t very cold out Sam couldn’t help shivering.  Dean gave him an odd look and flipped on the heat.

 

“You coming down with something?”

 

Sam shook his head, “No, I don’t think so.  This place is creepy.”

 

“Tell me about it.”  Dean mumbled.  “Got directions to a motel?”

 

Angling their GPS so Dean could see the small map without really paying attention to it, Sam’s interest was on the streets they drove down.  Their way through town took them through a residential development, by a school.

 

“You know it’s really hard to read the directions sideways.”  Dean snapped, yanking the GPS from Sam’s hand.

 

“Huh?  S-sorry…did you…”

 

“Crap!”  Dean sputtered, slamming on the brakes so fast Sam had to brace against the dash to keep from being thrown from the seat.

 

“Feel that?”

 

“Feel?”  Dean turned from staring out his window to gawk at Sam.  “How about see it?  What do you mean did I feel that?  Feel what?” 

 

When Dean’s hand reached the door handle, Sam jerked across the small space of the car seat and grabbed him, stopping him from opening it.  They both sat, watching for a minute as small wisps of light flickered and danced in the darkened windows of the school.  In the next instant their attention was drawn to the playground on the side of the building.  Swings on the swing set moved, some in unison, the slide swayed under some unseen weight.  Even though there were streetlights nearby that should have illuminated the whole area, it was shroud in dark, in shadows.

 

“Sam, what the hell is wrong with you?”  Dean jerked free of his grip, but Sam dove after him, hanging onto Dean’s arm with an iron grip.  “Sam!”

 

“No, you can’t go out there, not now, no.”

 

“Sam, spirits, ghosts, job.”

 

Shaking his head furiously he could only repeat, “No.  Dean please.  Not now.”  When something moved swiftly by the driver’s side of the Impala Sam flinched away, dragging Dean with him.

 

Dean’s head whipped around to look out the window before turning back to Sam, frowning, obviously confused by Sam’s sudden behavior switch.  Another glance toward the school and playground Dean shook his head, restarted the car and drove down the street.  This time he didn’t make the effort to get free of Sam’s desperate grip, and drove a few miles using one hand until Sam relaxed a bit.

 

“We’re not ready.”  Sam tried to stop his voice from trembling, but it was a useless effort.  This only earned him another odd look from Dean, one his brother didn’t try to mask, didn’t try to hide his concern. 

 

After a few miles Dean studied him while waiting for a red light.  “Are you ok?”

 

“Hum?”  Sam looked over, turning immediately back to staring out the side window.  “Yeah.”  He ignored Dean’s snort.

 

The motel was actually a series of small, one room cabins.  Dean calmly laid his hand over Sam’s, gently removing Sam’s hold on him as he got out of the car, announcing he’d book them a cabin.  Sam trailed behind Dean to the office, which brought more of the Dean Winchester What the hell? looks that invariably turned to Dean Winchester What’s wrong with you? looks.  But he didn’t say anything, Dean understood, Dean always understood, even when Sam didn’t talk or explain, Dean understood him.  Fear that deep didn’t resolve in a few minutes, made worse by the fact Sam had no idea where it’d come from or why.  He’d never felt like that before.   Sam’s sense of security was firmly tied and rooted to his brother.  He didn’t have to say he was too spooked to wait in the car, he felt silly even thinking it.  He didn’t say he was scared something would happen to Dean if he weren’t there with him, that something awful might happen to Sam if they didn’t stick together, his brother got it.  His brother always got it where Sam was involved.

 

Sam waited patiently while Dean arranged for their cabin.  Leaning casually against the counter, eyes wandering the small room, he tried to collect himself.  He’d felt fear before, it wasn’t exactly new to him.  But this, this had been beyond fear.  This was an unbridled terror he’d never experienced before.  Not paying much attention to the conversation between the older woman behind the counter and Dean, Sam nearly jumped out of his skin and just barely stopped the hoarse gasp rising out of his throat when her fingers wound around his wrist.

 

“You should be more careful about where you go.”  She said.

 

“Huh?  Y-yes ma’am.”  He had no clue what she was talking about, only that the black feeling he’d had at the school yard returned with a vengeance.  Stepping back too quickly he stumbled a bit, yanking his arm away, sticking both hands in his pockets.  Dean gave him a reproachful glare. He was going to get it once they were in their cabin.  There would be no way to deflect Dean now. 

 

Sidestepping, Dean slid between the counter and Sam, shouldering Sam back a step.  “Sorry, my brother, he’s been a little sick.”  Turning to throw Sam another glare, “Not himself at all.”

 

“Well, I hope you’re better soon.”

 

“Thank you.”  Sam mumbled, finding his feet far easier to look at than anything else.   Sam didn’t care if Dean was irritated with him right now, he could only be grateful that Dean no matter what was big brother first.  He let Dean nudge him out of the door and braced for Dean’s anger when they were back in the car, pulling around the back of the cabins to their assigned one.  His brother surprised him by just giving him a quizzical look, shaking his head. 

 

When Dean unlocked the door to their cabin, Sam balked, back pedaling a few steps.  Now blatantly irritated Dean grabbed Sam’s jacket collar and yanked him through the door.  Depositing their bags on the floor near the small table against the wall opposite the beds Dean wandered the room, turning on lights. 

 

“Not so bad, eh?”

 

Sam sat on one bed, stared at the floor and nodded.  He rubbed his forehead, this was giving him a headache.  He was vaguely aware of Dean opening a door, closet.  In the next instant Sam was up and moving toward his sibling.  Dean screamed like a total girl and jumped back nearly a foot.

 

“What is it?”  Sam spun in circles.  “Dean!”

 

Dean was doubled over, his shoulders shaking, leaning his weight against his palms on his thighs.  It took Sam a minute to process the fact Dean was laughing.  Not just laughing, but laughing so much his entire body was wracked with spasms.

 

Straightening, gasping air, Dean pointed back to the closet.  “Ha!  Gotcha Sammy, there is no monster in the closet.”

 

“Mon…whaaaa?  Dean?  You…”  Crossing the room in a few strides Sam landed a punch to Dean’s jaw.  “Asshole!”

 

Dean was sent sprawling over one bed.  Looking a bit stunned, and less than pleased he half sat up, rubbing his face he stared at Sam for a few seconds before pulling himself up.  “Sam, lighten up, it was a joke.”  Dean shouted.

 

“It’s not funny!”  Sam shouted back.

 

“Ok, I’ve had it.”  Dean moved so fast Sam had no time to react, his brother had him by the arms, wheeled him around and planted him, none too gently in a chair.  When Sam struggled to get up he was shoved twice as hard back down.  “Sam, stop!  What the hell is going on?  What is wrong with you?”

 

“That wasn’t funny.”  Sam shouted again, pointing at the offending closet.

 

Dean’s shoulders dropped a bit, he sighed.  “I’m sorry, Sammy I’m sorry.  I was only trying to get you to ease up a bit.”

 

“By scaring me?”

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

“You didn’t feel it?  You don’t feel it?”

 

Shaking his head, settling on the bed, leaning down to rests his elbows on his knees Dean watched him intently.  “No Sammy, I’m sorry, I don’t.  Feel what?  You said that before, in the car.  Explain it to me.  What did you feel?”

 

“I don’t even know how to explain it, it’s everywhere.  That woman, the school yard.  Just blackness, deep down…”  Staring at his hands he tried for the right word, but only one came to mind, “…evil.  Like it radiates fear.  I can’t get a grip on it, just terror.”

 

When he could finally look up, meet Dean’s eyes Sam could see his brother’s expression was guilty, and worried.  Dean drew a few deep breaths.  “Ok, Sam you stay here, you don’t have to go anywhere near that place.  I’ll go check it out.”

 

“No!”  Surging to his feet, fists bunched, Sam was completely prepared to battle however he had to. 

 

Dean’s mouth dropped open, expression changing to stunned.  “Sam—“

 

“No, Dean, please, we have to stick together on this one.  Please, promise me, please, we don’t split up.  Dean please?”  Sam understood a few things never changed, and asking for what he wanted, asking Dean to give him something was never denied.  It was a dirty trick, and manipulative, but he wasn’t above using it when he needed it.  Dean going alone would prove disastrous, Sam was sure.  If a bit of emotional exploitation kept his brother safe, then so be it.  Sam would use whatever weapon he needed to protect his brother.

 

“All right.  But we can’t go there during the day, kids will be in school.”

 

Sam didn’t even try to hide his relief.  “Maybe after school is out, or on the weekend?”

 

“Let’s just start by asking around, doing some interviews, we’ll save the schools for last.”

 

“Ok.”  The jittery feeling his insides experienced since they pulled into town eased off a bit. 

 

The following day they spent trying to talk to whoever might offer them some clues.  More to the point Dean spent the day interviewing.  Sam spent the day following his brother, trying to dodge the annoyed looks.  Two people he flat out refused to do more than say hello to, and could only sit, frozen in one spot while Dean talked.  The fact Dean was losing patience at an almost amazingly slow rate was not getting by Sam.  He was powerless to stop it, or make himself do otherwise.  The feelings washing over him were overwhelming at best and paralyzing at their most intense.  Dean’s general annoyance was, by the hour, less and less hidden.  They hadn’t spoken four consecutive words by lunch time.

 

By early evening Dean was eager to return to the school, investigate the activity there.  Knowing they had to do that, terrified to go into the building, and more terrified to let Dean in the building Sam’s protests fell on mostly deaf ears.  Dean argued they had to do this, couldn’t ignore what they’d seen, and couldn’t continue their investigation without going in there.  Sam basically had two choices, go or not.  Being afraid wasn’t a reason not to. They did all sorts of jobs that involved all sorts of fears.  Even Dean’s reassurance they’d go together, stick together, his flat out demand Sam stay behind him, stick close did nothing to allay Sam’s feelings.

 

So swallowing more fear he’d felt maybe ever Sam picked the locks to the school just after dusk and followed Dean inside.  Hesitating near the doorway to some room in the basement Sam thought he saw movement.  He’d only taken a step or two inside the room before turning to look for Dean when he was assaulted by a wave of what he could only describe as blackness, a blackness that carried with it a powerful terror.  It paralyzed him, held him powerless to move or act or even think much beyond wanting to flee, be free of this bottomless fear.

 

He realized it had taken form, puddling at his feet the blackness wound its way up his legs, over his torso and chest to slither around his head in a motion that made it seem the blackness wanted to whisper in his ear.  He tried, repeatedly, to call for his brother, but his shouts were nothing more than breathless murmurs.  Throat squeezing tight, heart racing, stomach flipping Sam was helpless, able to do nothing but stand there and shake.

 

“Sammy, where the hell did you go?  What happened to stay together?”  Dean rounded the corner, stalked into the room, angry and impatient. 

 

For the first time in his life Sam didn’t want his brother anywhere near him, this thing, this blackness it was coming for Dean and Sam couldn’t stop it.  Dean slammed to a halt, gun immediately up.  Sam’s eyes met Dean’s. He pleaded a silent apology to his older brother.  Dean’s eyes widened in response, breath sucked in and held.  Sam saw Dean’s hands shake, his eyes widen, fear, no panic creep across his face.  All the things Sam never really saw in his brother’s face, all the things he never wanted to see. 

 

For maybe the first time in his life Sam felt Dean couldn’t help him, couldn’t save him, couldn’t protect him.  That scared him even more than the blackness swimming over him. 

 

 

Chapter 12

 

Dean glanced behind him for probably the sixtieth time in the past five minutes, checking to be sure Sam was still there.  He was.  Never considering Sam the scare easy type of kid, Dean was more than a little concerned about his brother, more specifically his brother’s sudden reaction to this place.  Then of course Dean, being the insensitive moron he could be some days went and made it worse with the monster in the closet stunt.  Sam had been so quiet since entering the school Dean had to keep looking to be sure he was still following along.  That in itself was unsettling to Dean since his brother was always yammering something.  Feeling these things now, Sam said he’d felt the spirits or whatever they’d seen the day before.  That didn’t sit well at all.  The ramifications of it Dean wasn’t too sure of yet, but he decided it just couldn’t be good.  Now Sam was feeling the damn things, that was new, totally new for Sam.  Dean didn’t like new, he didn’t do new.  Hell, he had enough problems keeping track of the old.

 

“Sammy I think this is a bust. Have you seen anything, ‘cause I sure haven’t.” 

 

No response.  The kid was probably still pissed off at him, not that Dean blamed him...much.

 

“Sam, come on, I said I was sorry.”  Dean glanced behind him for the sixty-first time in five minutes and saw nothing but empty hallway.  “God-damn!” 

 

One brother, one freaking, damn, pain in the ass little brother, not six, one.  Sam wasn’t triplets; there was just one of him, which Dean considered a good thing since he went broke half the time feeding that one brother of his.  Just one brother, and could Dean manage to keep track of him?  No. Sam apparently hadn’t outgrown the wandering off phase either.  Dean back tracked, grumbling a bit.  There was damn near six and a half feet of the ONE brother he had, the boy could be loud and bitched more than most girls Dean knew, but nooooooo……..Dean managed to lose him every other day.  Sam was one person, one big, stands out in a crowd type of person, how the hell hard should it be to keep track of him?

 

Obviously a little harder than Dean thought. 

 

“Got to stay together Dean.  Can’t go alone Dean, something will happen to you Dean.”  He retraced his steps, pacing back the way he’d come.  Movement near one of the doors had him swerving in that direction.  “I can feel it Dean, it’s evil Dean, gotta stick together Dean.  Goofball kid, can’t you ever make up your mind?”  Pushing the door open wide, giving his eyes a few seconds to adjust, he stepped inside, “Sammy, where the hell did you go?  What happened to stay together?”

 

Dean stopped so fast his shoulders swayed forward before centering over his feet.

 

It took him a few seconds to register why Sam was just standing there, a few feet inside the room.  His eyes drifted to the movement along the floor, followed it for a few seconds before realizing it was holding his brother captive.  Trembling all over Sam’s eyes met his.

 

This was like no demon Dean had ever seen, he wasn’t even sure it was a demon, but Sam was right, it was evil.  He could feel it now too, it didn’t want death, didn’t want to kill, it wanted fear, to feed off fear.  It wanted Sam.  Dean could feel how much it delighted in Sam’s fear, Dean’s fear.  The thing entwining his brother was after Sam, had waited for him.

 

Concha’s words about Sam being the one to bring a demon came crashing back to him.  Craven’s simple statement about Dean being the hunter followed immediately on its heels.  He may very well be the hunter, but that did him didly right now, he hadn’t a clue as to what to do about this thing.  He only knew it wanted Sam, for what or how it planned to take him Dean didn’t even have a reasonable guess.  What he did know was Sam was his, all he had, and this thing couldn’t have him no matter what.  The thought permeated his brain, it wanted Sam, it wanted him, it was paralyzing how strong that single thought was.

 

Dean drew his pistol, but couldn’t fire at the thing.  It was circled around Sam, wrapped around him like some sort of perverse ribbon.  Black, with no reflection, no shimmer or glint from the slight lighting, still it had a slick, oily, almost liquid appearance.  It was as if light hit it and was absorbed, swallowed whole by this thing.  Dean felt cold, raw fear wind its way along his spine, circle in his stomach, and inch to his brain as he watched it.  This was what they’d come to hunt, Dean had no doubt at all.  This was what for centuries folklore and children’s tales called the boogeyman.  Dean wished right then and there he’d never heard of the thing.

 

It had them both captive, and it knew it.  Dean could feel its pleasure, it physically held Sam, but may as well have been holding Dean who wouldn’t leave his brother there with the thing, alone.  Swiveling the upper portion of itself around, it looked at Dean, which was interesting considering it had no features, no head, and no eyes.  It certainly wanted to be sure Dean was watching, paying attention to what it did to Sam.

 

Moving slowly, Dean put his gun behind his back, into his waistband.  That got the thing’s attention.  Hold both hands at shoulder height, palms out, Dean ground out low and deep, “Get away from him.”  It wasn’t going to get what it wanted from him, either of them.  He hadn’t spent his life hustling pool and poker and not learned anything.  This was another opponent, Sam was the prize.  Forcing his breathing to stay even Dean stared at the thing draped around his brother, refusing to give into his fear.  Words filtered into Dean’s head, words he heard in Sam’s soft voice, rapist, child molester, murderer.  Now Dean had an idea how this thing did what it did.

 

It sort of waggled at him, and wound itself around Sam’s legs further, slithering up, then along his torso, winding, stretching itself to encircle his brother’s waist, flowing an erratic pattern across his chest, curling around Sam’s forearms, biceps.  Sam watched with wide, horror-stricken eyes as the thing moved over his shoulders, a small, thin tether of it slipping across his neck, wrapping around.  Every bit of it moved, twitched, creeping along.  Dean could see Sam’s clothes move slightly where it touched him.  A larger tendril slithered along Sam’s back, over his shoulder, and sniffed at the nape of his neck.  Sam sucked in his breath, made some odd, tortured sound deep in his throat and winced.  He turned his head just enough to see it on his shoulder, moisture trickled down his cheek.

 

“Sam.  Look at me.”  Dean commanded, keeping his voice as low and steady as was possible for him.

 

Sam’s eyes flicked to Dean’s, he mouthed the words Get out, run.  But obviously not wanting Sam to focus on Dean another tendril broke free of the main stream of the thing to swipe almost delicately along Sam’s jaw