Chapter 5.

It was like a dream, but not. A vision, although somehow different.

Caleb Reaves shifted in his sleep, even subconsciously trying to hold onto the elusive images that his body sensed were important.

He felt the heat first. Its blinding intensity startling him, burning his skin, almost eliciting a cry of pain. The hunter swallowed hard, steeling himself for the other sensations he could feel building just on the peripheral. Fear and curiosity battled for control of his emotions. As usual, his insatiable inquisitiveness winning out.

The smell of burning wood came, bringing with it the stinging of his eyes, the dirty taste of charcoal to his mouth-the unforgettable stench of seared flesh. A roar filled his ears, the hiss of something living and feeding, growing larger as it mercilessly consumed all it came into contact with. He felt himself cough, his lungs tightening at the lack of oxygen.

And as always, sight came last. Vivid and sharp, the images tore through his mind with a surreal viciousness.

He was in a house. A small room. There was a crib, and a baby.

A woman’s voice called out in agony from above. And he looked up.

Spread out like a gauzy white butterfly pinned to a display board, an angel snared in spider's silk. Her green eyes met his, her refined, delicate features were twisted, her mouth open in a silent scream. Caleb watched blood drip in impossibly slow motion from the bloody slash in her white gown, mesmerized by it’s blazing decent through the air.

His eyes widened as he watched it strike and splinter like a liquid ruby across the head of a small baby. Sam.

The hunter made a move to step forward, even as he realized the inability to change the past, but then the whole ceiling was consumed by the fire he’d known was coming. The child cried out, and before Caleb was torn from sleep by the sister scream he felt building in his own throat, he saw a sixteen-year-old Sam be taken by the flames.

“No!” He gasped, sitting up in bed, realizing the moment that his eyes opened that the dream was not his, nor was it a vision. “Sammy,” Caleb sighed, raking a hand through his hair, frustrated that his psychic mind had been traveling without his permission or cognition-seeking out another like presence. One that it found in the midst of Sam’s nightmare. The hunter tried to decide if he should do something, or wait for the inevitable.

Before he had a chance to ponder long, consider his options, a terror-filled cry shattered the silence of the apartment. A chill raced over the hunter’s bare arms and chest at the raw panic his senses wicked from the emotionally-charged room. He collapsed back onto the bed, rubbing at his burning eyes. The nagging, residual feelings of fear and pain threatened to send him to his knees in front of the porcelain god, but a few deep breaths steadied his raw nerves, prepared him for the inevitable.

Sam screamed again and Caleb heard Mac’s door thud open, John’s footfalls beat against the hardwood floor that would take him past Caleb’s room, lead him to where his boys were. He pushed himself from beneath the blankets, swung his legs over the side, and hoped he was steadier than he felt as his bare feet touched the cold surface.

His eyes had adjusted to the dark by the time he reached the hallway, peered out towards the guest room at the far end. He could make out the familiar tall form lingering near the door, hand hovering just out of reach of the doorknob.

John’s head came up as Caleb stepped out of his own room, and the younger hunter felt, more than saw, the apprehension on his friend’s face. “Nightmare,” Caleb said softly. “Nothing’s here.”

Of that Caleb was sure. The only presences he could sense were familiar ones, and although fear and pain lingered, there was no urgent sense of danger that demanded a battle. At least not one of the physical kind.

“You sure?” The question was whispered, but Caleb could detect the relief in the deep, sleep-roughened voice.

“Yeah.”

Caleb waited to see if John would go in or not, already knowing that he wouldn’t. He’d witnessed it before. Nothing scared John Winchester, except for what lay beyond that door.

“You want some coffee?”

John accepted the lifeline like a drowning man. “Only if it’s Irish.”

Caleb snorted. “What other kind is there at three o’clock in the fucking morning.”

After all, at three o’clock in the morning, most normal people were sleeping peacefully in their warm beds.

Unfortunately, there was very little normal about the Winchesters and sleep of any kind was not to be found by Dean Winchester. He had just been torn from his oh so delicious dream of Syria Delacroix and tossed into harsh reality where his younger brother was screaming bloody murder.

Without thought, the twenty-year-old hunter’s hand had gone for the knife beneath his pillow even before his eyes had opened. His head instantly came up, eyes blinking against the darkness, to scout for the source of the threat even as his other hand sought out the restless form in the bed bedside of him.

Sam screamed again, and Dean realized the intruder for what it was. Nightmare. And although Sam hadn't had one so obviously terrifying in years, a part of Dean was relieved that no corporeal evil was lurking nearby.

The hunter sighed, shoving the knife back under the pillow and pushed himself to a sitting position. “Sammy,” Dean reached out, and clasped his brother’s shoulder, giving him a slight shake. “Sam!” He hissed, determined to break the hold of whatever monster was torturing his brother this time, so they both could get some much needed rest.

The younger boy stirred, his head tossing listlessly from side to side. Dean pushed himself to a seated position, turned on the lamp beside their bed. “Sammy,” He said again, rubbing his eyes, trying to fight off the last traces of his own deep sleep.

Sam gasped, sitting straight up in bed, his breath coming in short, harsh pants. “Dean?”

“I’m here,” The older boy said, shaking his head slightly at the condition the teen was in, wondering at what had brought this latest night terror on.

“Dean?” Sam said again, blinking, his hand reaching out, as if he hadn’t heard what his brother had said.

“Hey, you awake?” Dean wrapped his fingers around the wrist of his brother’s out-stretched hand, gave it a squeeze. “You with me?”

Finally, the teen looked at him. “Yeah,” He swallowed thickly, shoving his free hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “Sorry.”

“Don‘t worry about it,” Dean sighed, placing a hand on his brother’s forehead, frowning as the skin he came in to contact with seemed much too hot. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Sam had been asleep when Dean had returned to the room they were sharing. The older boy had finished his dinner and watched part of an old Western with his father and Caleb before finally turning in. Sam had seemed fine, a little warm, but nothing like he did now. Dean remembered the episode from before and couldn’t help but to link the two. “How’s your stomach?”

Sam looked at him, still seeming a little dazed. “Okay, until you mentioned it.” The teen winced, as the pain returned signaling that his sleep-induced reprieve was over.

“You feel sick?”

Dean didn’t have to wait for an answer as Sam quickly shoved the covers off of him and stumbled to the small half-bath in the corner of the room. “Great,” Dean muttered as the sounds of his brother’s misery floated into the adjoining room.

The older boy pushed himself up, made his way around the bed, and placed a hand on the closed door. “Sammy? You okay?”

“No,” He heard his brother gag.

It was a stupid question, but one born out of habit. Dean took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m coming in.”

Sam didn’t protest as Dean wet a hand towel and draped it over his neck, as he stayed curled around the commode seat, emptying the meager remains of his lunch from the day before.

After a painful bout of dry heaves, the teen finally leaned back, pulling the cool rag from his neck, using it to wipe his mouth. Dean knelt beside of him. “You done?”

Sam’s glassy moss-green gaze met his. “God, I hope so.”

Dean nodded, smiled grimly and then took his brother’s arm. “Then let’s get you back to bed, sleeping beauty.”

Sam didn’t resist the help, which was unnerving enough considering his stubborn streak when it came to anything resembling coddling these days, and even more disturbing was the fact that he leaned into his big brother‘s support. “Man, I feel bad, Dean.”

Dean felt his heart clench in sympathy, his grip tightening slightly on the younger boy. “That’ll teach you to stay away from the hard stuff, kiddo.”

Sam snorted. “I haven’t had any hard stuff.”

“I’m just saying that if you think this is bad, wait until your first run in with Tequila. Makes this look like a stroll in the park.”

“I’ll think I’ll pass then.”

“See, your suffering hasn’t been in vain. No chance you‘ll be caving to peer pressure.”

Sam looked up at him as they made it back to the bed, intent on telling Dean just how full of shit he was when the world tilted, tossing him cruelly back into the depths of his nightmare.

Heat and flames rushed out to greet him, feeling as if they were intent on searing all the skin from his bones. A burst of pain, that left the one from earlier paling in comparison, rushed from his feet burrowing through his nervous system until coming to rest in the recesses of his mind where it exploded with a dizzying array of colorful shards that sent spikes of torture into the teen’s brain.

He heard himself cry out as if from a far distance, felt his feet betray him and would have undoubtedly met with the uncompromising floor if not for his brother’s quick reflexes.

Dean quickly reached out to steady Sam, as the teen stumbled and clasped his head in his hands. He caught the younger boy, guided them both to the plush carpet floor. “Sam!’

He could hear his brother’s breath quicken, coming in short, harsh pants again, like before when he first awoke from the dream. “Oh God.” Dean heard him gasp, trying to curl in tighter around himself. “Dean!”

It was the little boy quality to that urgent plea that was nearly the older hunter’s undoing. “Hey, Sammy, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“My head,” Sam panted, his eyes still squeezed shut. “It hurts,” He managed, through his clenched teeth.

Dean kept his hands on Sam’s shoulders now, peering intently at his twisted face, trying to think of anything that might help. “Just breathe, Sammy. Take it easy.”

Sweat had popped out along the teen’s furrowed brow, his skin taking on an unhealthy grey sheen. “Dean,” Sam said again, “Something’s…wrong.”

That was obvious. Dean gripped his brother tighter. “Can you move? Let’s get you back on the bed.”

Sam nodded, tightly. The fire receded slowly and he sighed, the relief in his exhalation of air almost palpable. He opened his eyes, traces of tears clinging to his dark lashes. “I’m…okay,” Sam told him, shakily.

Dean wasn’t sure if the consoling was for him or self-soothing in nature, but he nodded in agreement, not at all convinced or in the least relieved. He wrapped an arm around his brother’s waist and hoisted them both up. “Sure you are.”

“Probably freaky-ass growing pains,” Dean muttered, as he gently helped his brother back onto the bed. “But I got to say, man, if you get much taller, I’m going to have to stop walking next to you. I have a reputation as the older brother to maintain.”

Sam tried to smile, though its effect was tainted, by the hitched breath he was ashamed to hear come out sounding a whole hell of a lot like a sob. He would not cry. So what if it had felt like someone was inside of his skull trying to hack their way out with a searing hot knife. Damn it. He was a Winchester. He had a reputation to uphold, too.

Dean carefully pushed him back on the bed. “Just hold on, okay. I’m going to get Dad.”

“No,” Sam’s hand shot out, wrapping his fingers around his brother’s wrist. “I’m okay now.”

“Dude, you nearly blacked out.” He frowned at Sam, when the boy tightened his grip. “And you look like shit, Sammy.” The older hunter laid the back of his hand against Sam’s forehead, his frown deepening. “You’re burning up. Not good, little brother. Definitely not okay.”

“Please,” Sam knew he was being petty, using the look that had gotten him his way many times when honestly he shouldn’t have had his way. “Just give me a minute. Dad already thinks…”

“What?” Dean asked, not liking the pain of a different kind that raced through the dark hazel gaze. “What does Dad think?”

Sam licked his lips. He was suddenly very thirsty. “That I’m weak. That I can’t take care of myself.”

“Sammy, that’s not true.” Dean shook his head. Where did his brother come up with some of his ridiculous ideas. “Is this about the trip to Jersey?”

Sam nodded. “He thought I’d get in the way.”

“He was worried about you, that’s all.” The older boy sighed. “If he had doubts about anybody, it was me.”

“Please,” Sam tried again. “Just get me a Tylenol and some water. The pain’s going away. Really.”

“I don’t like this, Sammy.” Dean stared at his brother, hating the self-doubt he read on his face almost as much as the blatant pain etched in to every crease. Maybe it wasn’t necessary to bring their father into it yet. “I’ll do it your way for now. But you have to promise me that if you start feeling worse you’ll tell me. None of that suffering in silence crap. Stoicism doesn‘t suit you.”

Sam couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. “This coming from the king of ‘suck it up’ himself.”

“Yeah, well, that’s me.”

“You’re such a hypocrite, you know that?”

“Older brother prerogative. Do as I say, not as I do.”

“I thought that was a parent thing.”

“Well,” Dean waved his hand in the air, without saying anything, but Sam knew what he was thinking. What they both were thinking. Dean was more Sam’s parent than their own father.

“I promise,” Sam said softly, and although he still looked torn, Dean nodded and left the room.

The twenty-year-old was still muttering under his breath about what a pushover he was when he shoved through the swinging doors of the kitchen. The overly bright lights reflecting off the painfully white walls was enough of a surprise without his father’s stern voice almost sending him into a defensive posture.

“Damn, Dad, give a guy a heart attack, why don’t you.” Dean had had enough shocks for one night. He palmed his eyes and blinked at the two men seated on opposite ends of the small table, a pot of coffee and a bottle of whiskey between them. “So, Felix, Oscar, what the hell are you two doing up?”

“Hard to sleep through Amityville Horror,” Caleb shrugged, pointed towards his own head. “Especially when your wired for picture and sound.”

“Sleep-snooping again, Reaves?” Dean yawned, ignoring the questioning look his father was shooting him. He walked over to the sink and filled a glass with water, before turning back to Caleb. “Serves you right. You should keep your mind in its own yard.”

“Third cabinet on the right,” the older hunter answered, before Dean had voiced his intended question.

The twenty-year-old growled, and the older hunter grinned over the rim of his coffee cup. “Back off, Caleb.”

“What?” He asked innocently.

“You know what.” Dean grabbed the Tylenol and started back towards the door.

“Sammy okay?” John asked, before he could slip out.

Dean turned, casually avoiding eye contact. “Nightmare.”

“That all?” It was Caleb again, and his unsolicited concern earned him a patented Winchester glare.

“Yes,” Dean said tightly.

Dean watched as Reaves brow furrowed and he had the tingling sensation he was being read without his permission, which they had discussed before. “I swear to God, Reaves…”

His threat was lost though as Caleb’s frown turned into a twisted expression of pain, and he nearly dropped the hot drink he was holding. He managed to roughly sit it on the table, the dark brew sloshing over the sides, before he brought both hands to his forehead and hissed. “Damn it!”

“Caleb?” John’s inquiry was wary, his eyes going from Reaves to Dean.

“We’ve got company,” The psychic managed through bared teeth, seconds before the doorbell rang.

“What?” John stood, pushed his chair back. “Who?”

Caleb’s face had relaxed some, but still held a shadow of pain as he pinched at the bridge of his nose. “I was wide open, when that bitch…”

“Who!” John demanded again, his muscles tensing, preparing for the worst. The doorbell rang once more, and he wondered at what kind of self-respecting bad announced their arrival before attacking.

“Hughes‘ witch,” Caleb snapped, pushing his way to his feet. He stepped towards Dean who was looking between him and his father with confusion. “Duran is with her.”

“What’s going on?”

“Go take care of your brother,” John ordered, and watched as his older son visibly bristled.

“First, tell me what’s going on.” Dean sat the glass of water he was holding down and looked at his father. “You didn’t say what happened between you and Duran earlier. Sammy hinted that not all was so Kosher with you two. What did he want? Is there going to be trouble? ”

For some reason the younger hunter had a sinking suspicion that Duran wasn’t merely paying a cordial visit at the ungodly hour of three in the morning. As usual, his sharp mind was putting together pieces that would most likely reveal a very ugly picture. After all, it was too much of coincidence that they were all awake, almost as if Hughes had known what was taking place. But that didn’t make sense. Because Duran Hughes was a medium, not a visionary, not an empath. But Caleb had mentioned Syria…

“Can you tell why they’re here?” John asked Caleb only to receive a scowl for his trouble.

“I’m kind of having a hard time keeping her out of my head.” That was probably exactly what Duran had wanted. “She’s not exactly full of finesse.” It was an understatement. In actuality the sensation could be likened to that of the woman hacking her way around his mind with a crow bar. “ Why don’t you open the goddamn door and ask them yourself.”

Dean didn’t give his father a chance as he pushed his way into the living room, strode to the front door and opened it himself.

“Good morning, young Winchester.” Duran smiled and had the nerve to shove a box of pastries in Dean’s direction. “I brought breakfast.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” John snarled, not two steps behind his son.

“What? No invitation in, brothers?” Duran frowned when neither man spoke. “Good thing I’m not a vampire,” He said, hopping theatrically across the threshold.

“Where’s your cheap Marti Gras souvenir?” Caleb asked, trying to keep the grimace from his face. He jutted his chin towards the entranceway. “I can smell her cheap perfume.”

Duran raked his eyes over the younger hunter, and Caleb couldn’t help but to wish he’d put on a t-shirt. “Now, Caleb, you’ll hurt Syria’s feelings.”

“Call her off, Duran, or I’ll put your head in a vice grip.” John said, stepping towards the other man.

Duran laughed. “Oh you’re no fun, John.” He glanced over his shoulder, back to the entranceway. “Syria, retract your claws darling. Caleb’s being a big cry baby.”

The woman sashayed into the room as if she were making a grand entrance from the red carpet. She smiled at the three men, as Hughes helped her off with her coat.

Despite the situation, Dean couldn’t help but to notice the black dress that Sam had described to him earlier. It was just as tasty as he had imagined, and any other time he might have made an effort to flirt or at least offered a comment.

“Again,” John’s voice was harsh and held nothing but the barest of patience, “What are you doing here, Hughes?”

The other hunter hung Syria’s coat on the rack by the door, making a deliberate display of depositing the pastries carefully on the stand beside of it, before turning to face his captive audience. “I’ve come to work out the specifics of this hunt. I think the sooner we get started, the better. I know Mr. Kline is anxious to have his son back. And timing is important with this ritual. The new moon is in two days, and spirits that have crossed over for long periods of time can be testy to say the least.”

John and Caleb exchanged a look. “I told you I wasn’t going to be a part of this.”

“And I still believe in the power of persuasion.” Duran gestured between them. “And what of the loyalty of the brotherhood? One for all and all for one.”

“That’s the Musketeers, you ass.” Caleb rolled his eyes. “You don’t see us running around with swords on horseback, do you?”

Duran grinned. “No, but the image is quite arousing, I must say.”

John held a hand out to keep Caleb from advancing on the other man. “Necromancy isn’t part of the code, Hughes. In fact, it goes against the grain.”

“Oh, pish posh,” Duran waved a hand in the air, striding farther into the room. “Dark magic is used all the time amongst us, and you know it, John. Not all of our brethren are so pure.” His eyes fell on Caleb. “Demonic devices have been in our ranks for years.”

“Somebody should have definitely enforced a more selective policy,” Dean spoke up, his green gaze pinning Hughes. "Where was the hall monitor when you got in?"

The man smiled back, ignoring the jab, moving closer to the younger hunter. “I must say, Dean, you have grown up since I saw you last.” He looked the boy up and down, his eyes lingering on the silver ring on Dean’s right hand. “I see you have officially joined us.” Duran inched closer. “You’ve built quite the reputation already. Perhaps you would like to assist in this venture, since you and Caleb have returned ahead of schedule. I‘m sure we could make an interesting team.”

Caleb moved so fast that John didn’t even register his intent. He shoved his way between Dean and Hughes, grabbing the medium around the throat and slamming him up against the wall. “I will cut your fucking heart out, Hughes. Do you understand me?”

Duran didn’t look surprised or worried, but highly amused. He laughed or at least attempted to, despite the oxygen flow he was being denied. “What? I was just being friendly?” He gasped.

Caleb squeezed tighter. “You forget I’m psychic?” He growled. “I can read your fucking mind, you sick bastard.”

“I couldn't help myself. ” Duran whispered. “Kind of reminds me of you when you were that age.”

Caleb shook with rage, his hands instinctively closing around the man’s neck. He could feel the rush of his enemy's blood through the carotid artery, almost taste the slight fear that was now inching up from the pit of Duran’s stomach. The hunter leaned in against the medium, his mouth almost brushing against his ear. “Go near him and I won’t hesitate in killing you-brotherhood or not.”

“Caleb!” John shouted. “Let him go.”

The other hunter reluctantly did what the older hunter said, giving Hughes one more vicious shove against the wall. But the fact he kept himself placed between Duran and Dean didn’t go unnoticed, by either Winchester.

“Dude, cut the bodyguard routine,” Dean muttered, once Caleb had backed close enough that the younger hunter didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard.

Reaves glared at him, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t move either, and something about the look Duran had given him right before Caleb had intervened, kept Dean from pushing the issue.

The oldest Winchester pointed a finger at Duran, his own protective instincts on over-drive. The man was still slightly hunched over gasping, trying to restart his air flow. “Get out, Hughes, before I forget that you wear that ring,” John motioned to the door. "Now!"

Duran finally straightened, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt, pulling himself together. “I’m not leaving until we finish our business.” He said, rubbing at his throat.

“Are you really that stupid?” Caleb demanded. “We’re not going to help you?”

"Unless it's into a shallow grave," Dean added, coldly. He hadn't had many run-ins with Duran, but he'd seen and heard enough to know that Sam had been right. He wasn't a friend.

“Ah, but you haven’t even heard what I’m willing to give you in return.”

“We’re not interested in your money,” John replied. “I think you know me well enough to know that I don’t care about that.”

“I know what you do care about.” Duran’s face was serious now, all amusement gone, replaced by a twisted frown that marred his handsome features. “What you both care about.” His gaze included Caleb, before flicking to Dean. “And you, young Dean, should be especially interested in what I have to offer.”

Caleb growled deep in his throat. “Leave him out of it.”

“Why?” Duran snapped, a hint of anger in his voice. “Come now, Caleb, it seems you understand all about little brothers and the desire to keep them safe. He has a great deal at stake here. ”

“What are you talking about, John Edwards?” Dean demanded, stepping from behind Caleb, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, as the ice blue eyes found his gaze.

“I’m talking about your little brother, Dean. Sammy. I’m sorry to tell you this, but he’s in great danger.”

Dean’s eyes scoured the room, looking for any source of a threat that he might have missed. His hand convulsively tightened on the Tylenol bottle he still had grasped in his hand, and he looked back towards the hallway.

“Where’s the witch?” Caleb suddenly snarled, bringing Dean’s gaze back to him. John’s head swung around too, looking for Syria, who had apparently disappeared during the distraction that Duran had created.

“Sam,” Dean said, his body turning, feet swiftly carrying him towards his little brother, even before his mind made a conscious decision to do so.

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