“We forget that there is no hope of joy except in human relations. If I draw up the balance sheet of the hours in my life that have truly counted, surely I find only those that no wealth could have procured me. True riches cannot buy friendship of a companion to whom one is bound forever by ordeals suffered in common.” -Antoine de Saint-Exupery

“It’s not like it was a lie,” Sam grumped, turning the page he had just spent the last ten minutes reading and re-reading. Since having his brother hang up on him, the teen had gone from fuming to feeling slightly guilty. It was like his emotions were on some kind of roller coaster he had no manual control of. “I mean…Dad hates the holidays-especially Thanksgiving. He usually drinks like a fish.” Sam looked over the top of the book, giving his quiet companions a knowing look. “This is the first year in the last three that we’ve even celebrated it. And that’s just because we ended up here because of a job.”

Scout whined, nuzzled her snout beneath the teen’s arm until the kid let the big Lab root her way half into his lap. Harper Lee yawned and stretched lazily on her pillow by the fireplace in the far corner of the library. “And Dean was being a jerk before he left. If he’d just stood up to Dad then I could have gone, too, instead of staying here with Pastor Jim like some kind of little kid.” Sam and his father had gotten good at putting Dean in the middle of their disagreements. And Sam had gotten use to his brother taking his side.

“I’m almost seventeen,” Sam pointed out, putting down Dickens’ Christmas Carol, and picking up the phone. He fingered the buttons, trying to decide if he should call his brother back. “A ten-year-old could have done the stupid research.”

Scout sighed in contentment as Sam hit the appropriate doggie erogenous zones. “Of course, that’s the problem. I’m the closest thing they’ve got to a ten-year-old.” He let his head rest back against the couch cushions. “I’m always going to be the baby to them. I’ll probably be ’Sammy’ until the day I die.”

Scout rolled over belly-up begging for the next level of canine rapture. The teen obliged her, continuing his lament. “And if they had really wanted to eat Tom, they shouldn’t have given him a name. I mean you don’t name your food. Next thing they’ll want to eat the chickens, Pearl and Buck, or Harper Lee over there.” The Beagle pup raised her head and cocked an ear as if suddenly interested in the dialogue. “I couldn’t let them do it. Did you see the way he was looking at us when we fed him this morning? He knew his days were numbered.”

Harper Lee rose from her pillow doing a quick bowing stretch before picking up the worn furry squeak toy by her side and bringing it to drop ceremoniously at Sam’s feet as if to say enough with the pity party, kid, let’s play.

The teen sighed and picked up the matted brown and gray fur that in its prime had passed for a squirrel. He felt his heart clench as he turned the toy over in his hands. It didn’t even make much of a noise anymore, but it had been Atticus Finch’s favorite. Jim hadn’t the heart to throw it out after the big, lovable Golden Retriever had died at the ripe old age of seventeen.

Even though it had been five years ago, Sam still remembered the summer they came to Jim’s and only Scout was sitting on the wrap-around porch. He had known the instant he was out of the truck and across the yard. Atticus, even in his senior years, had made an effort to be the first to greet the Winchester boys.

Sam could recall the sinking feeling of foreboding as if it were only yesterday.

His stomach twisted, and the overwhelming sense of loss and pain shook him. The teen blinked feeling Harper lick his fingers which were hanging loosely, the toy having been dropped to the floor forgotten.

The sixteen-year-old shook his head slightly, feeling as if he had spaced out for a moment. He licked his lips, taking a deep breath to get his heart beating again. Unfortunately, the sick grief-like presence remained, even after his thought of Atticus Finch passed.

Something was wrong.

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Something was wrong.

That was the first thought to reach clarity in Dean Winchester’s Swiss-cheesed mind as he struggled to get his uncooperative eyes to obey his command to open. He was certain he hadn’t drunk more then a couple of beers and a shot or two of tequila the night before. Definitely not enough to give him the mother of all hangovers. Nor did it account for the aches and pains providing a full frontal assault on the majority of his body.

The sound of groaning reached his ears and it took just a moment to realize the noise was coming from him. “Damn,” he muttered, slowly reaching his left hand up to his head. For some reason, his right one wasn’t working. At least his skull was still attached and making its presence known loud and clear. Finally his eyes obliged him and he blinked, trying to bring his bleary surroundings in as best he could.

Darkness kept him from seeing much. It took a few moments to recognize the white spots he kept trying to blink away for what they were-snow flakes. “Fuck!” He swore as images of the moments just before the crash assaulted him. “Holy fuck,” he ground out as he remembered the deer, the truck going airborne, and then the blinding impact as steel had met mother nature in a battle that obviously the tree won. Jim’s truck was totaled.

Even with his limited view, Dean knew the Ford was nothing but scrap metal, because most of it had folded in around and on top of him. It was probably a testament to the craftsmanship that he was still breathing.

With that thought, he quickly tried to catalog the extent of his injuries. The lack of any significant pain didn’t relieve him, as he was pretty sure his body was still in shock. One thing he knew for sure was that his left arm and legs were pinned. He was wedged in tight and it would take some work to get himself out. In an instant all concern for his own well fair disappeared.

Dean‘s heart quickened and he felt light-headed as he swung his gaze to his left. “Caleb,” he managed to croak, through the growing restriction in his chest. Surely the other side of the truck had been spared.

Unfortunately, a quick look cleared up one little mystery. Jim’s secret box sure the hell did not hold any kind of good luck charm. On the contrary, it could have very well been a cursed relic, if the accident was any testament.

The driver’s side of the truck was just as damaged as the passenger‘s. The side window was shattered like the windshield; the steering wheel and the dashboard were folded inward, accordion style. In fact, everything on that side might have compacted quite nicely if not for the six-foot-two, one-hundred and eighty- five pounds of flesh and bone getting in its way. “Caleb!”

Caleb didn’t move at the sound of his name, or stir at the subsequent string of curses that Dean let loose with. He didn’t even flinch when the younger hunter called him a shitty-assed driver either, which would have easily earned Winchester a decent glare and a quick and dirty hand gesture had the other man been anywhere near consciousness.

“Come on, man. Don’t do this,” Dean heard himself say as if in some strange dream-like state. Commanding his hand to move was twice as difficult as getting his eyes to function. He was sure it had more to do with the act he was about to perform than with any injury.

His arm shook as he lifted it enough to reach Caleb. The other hunter was less than two feet away from him, slumped towards the damaged driver-side door. His head was angled towards the window, preventing Dean from seeing the psychic’s face but giving him easy access to his neck, his pulse. If he still had one.

The twenty-year-old swallowed back the rush of fear and dread and let his cold fingers rest against Caleb’s neck. His own heart nearly stopped when nothing registered, but then he took a quick, panicked breath, dropping his touch lower and pressing harder. He bit his lip, closing his eyes. Waiting. There it was.

Strong, but slow. “Thank God,” he breathed, letting his hand fall away, his head resting back against the bench seat. “Wake up, Sleeping Ugly!” By sheer will, Dean raised his head before he had a chance to drift off again, turning his gaze slower this time to take in any visible injuries he could see on his friend. The more he concentrated on Caleb, the less he had to think about what exactly had happened to him and the pain he would soon be in. Besides, when Reaves woke up, he’d think of something to get them the hell out of there.

That was if he did wake up.

Dean grimaced as he took in the condition of the other man. For one, the way the steering wheel was crushed against the psychic’s chest couldn’t mean anything good, but it was the shiny wetness he could now see smeared on part of the truck’s door frame that had him worried. Blood.

It had more than likely come from Reaves’ head, which probably impacted with either the dash, the windshield, or the side window. Possibly a combination of the three, considering the impromptu roller coaster ride they had endured thanks to the walking venison.

The seeds of panic started to unfurl, curling up his spine like English Ivy. “Caleb!” Dean tried again, cursing the tremble of fear he could hear laced in each desperate syllable. He made his hand move again, giving the other man a meek shove. “Wake-up, damn it.”

Lectures about not moving the victim before assessing what types of injuries they had sustained floated through his mind, but his selfish desire to hear his friend’s voice, see him move, won out over medical protocol. “Caleb!”

Caleb Reaves’ first awareness was one of pain. Pain and panic. Then fear. Somewhere in his scrambled mind, he realized not all of the emotions were his own and that prodded him to pay attention, not sure if he was dreaming or having some sort of vision he needed to explore. In fact, he wasn’t sure of much except for the ridiculous pounding in his head. He was pretty sure the painful drum solo was all his.

“Caleb?” Dean wasn’t sure if he imagined the movement or if the other hunter had actually jerked. “Can you hear me, man?”

The voice was familiar, but wrong. It sounded too young, and too frightened. “Yeah?” Reaves tried to move his head, but felt the whole world tilt on its axis.

“You with me?” The voice was back, followed by a touch on his shoulder.

“That depends on…where you are.”

Dean choked on his relief, attempting levity. “Try your ancestral land, only a lot colder.”

“That sounds about right,” Reaves moaned, trying again to move his head towards his friend’s voice without passing out. “What…the fuck…Deuce…” Surely they had not gotten that drunk the night before. The County Line Cantina had served shitty watered down booze. He was barely buzzed when they called it quits.

“You wrecked Jim’s truck.”

Caleb’s eyes snapped opened, and he finished turning his head with a sharp motion that had him stifling a yelp of pain. “Goddamnit!”

“You okay?” Dean got his first good look at Caleb. Blood oozed from a nasty-looking jagged cut running from the edge of hair line, across his cheek and back to his ear, where an impressive display of mottled bruising was already seeping onto the entire side of his left face.

“No,” Reaves bit out, forcing his right hand to his head as if it were the only thing holding it on his shoulders. He squinted through his fingers. “You?”

When Dean didn’t answer right away Caleb tried to straighten himself, dropping his hand, giving the other hunter an appraising look. “Are you hurt?”

The twenty-year-old swallowed thickly, seeing the raw fear and concern flash in Caleb‘s eyes. That was a good question. “I…I’m okay.”

“Okay?” Caleb frowned. He reached his hand out brushing it against the gash on Dean’s forehead. “You’re bleeding, Deuce.”

Dean flinched with the contact, trying to smirk despite the throbbing in his face. “Not as much as you.”

Reaves let his hand drop. “I always win… my competitive nature.”

“Right.”

“Tell me the truth, kid.”

“I’m just…stuck.”

“Stuck?” Caleb seemed to be straining to focus, both his eyes and his attention.

“Yeah.”

Reaves blinked, looking around the cab of the truck as if seeing their situation for the first time. It wasn’t a comforting sight. “Damn.”

“Yeah. We’re fucked.”

“Can you move at all?” Caleb asked Dean.

“My right arm. That’s about it.”

The psychic seemed to hesitate. “Can you… feel everything?”

Dean took a deep breath, did what he was afraid to before. With a slight hysterical laugh he replied. “Yeah, my legs are starting to hurt like a bitch. My side, too.”

“That’s good,” Caleb said, softly. He didn’t like the idea of Dean in pain, but the alternative was worse. “Broken?”

Dean looked at him, not happy with the way his friend was reduced to one word questions or that the syllables were slurred. “Maybe my arm,” Dean confessed. “How’s your head?”

Reaves’ mouth quirked. “Maybe broken.”

Wonderful, a mentally impaired psychic. “Do you think you can move?”

Caleb turned his head back to look at the steering wheel, which currently had him pinned against the seat. His arms seemed like dead weight as he lifted them and pushed against the dashboard. It might as well have been a brick wall. “Not happening,” he replied after a struggling match that left him short of breath and covered in sweat, despite the cold, night air.

“That’s not the answer I was hoping for.”

Caleb looked at him again, although Dean wasn‘t sure if he actually was seeing him, considering the amount of blinking. “You sound worried, Deuce.”

“Nah, we’re just trapped in the middle of no where, and it’s snowing on us and we have no heat, but hey…I’m good.”

The psychic closed his eyes. “Could be… worse.”

“Worse?”

“Truck could…be on fire.”

“Open your eyes, Mr. Sunshine,” Dean growled, giving the other hunter a shove.

“Damn, Dean,” Caleb mumbled, but did as the kid commanded. “Head wound, here.”

“Exactly.” Winchester gave him a hard look. “And it’s cold. Stay the fuck awake.”

Reaves nodded, licked his chapped lips. He seemed to gain some momentary clarity. “We need to… get out of here.”

“How exactly do you plan on us doing that?”

“Me?”

“You’re the oldest.” Dean had that declaration thrown at him enough in the last fourteen years. It was nice to get to toss it back for a change, even if it was a low blow. “The senior hunter. And you’re an engineer. Can’t you figure out a way to lever or shift something, MacGyver.”

“Never did well… in all that mechanical stuff…“ That’s why he hired the best mechanical engineers to bring his ideas to fruition. “… why I majored in architecture.” Caleb sighed. “I could…draw you a picture though…”

“Damn it, Dude, this is serious.” It was obvious Caleb wasn’t thinking straight. In fact it seemed he had yet to truly grasp the severity of their situation.

“Yeah.” Reaves raised his head from the back of the seat, let his gaze go to Dean’s face. He had to get it together for both their sakes. If only the damn truck would stop spinning. “Are we moving, Deuce?”

Dean blew out a long breath. In the darkened cab, with the white snow around them and the moon peeking about between the clouds providing an incandescent-like glow, Dean could tell Caleb’s pupils were dilated unevenly. He hoped to hell it wasn’t anything more serious than a concussion. “No. It’s all in your head.”

“My head.” Caleb frowned. “That…can’t be good.”

Winchester snorted. “No. It’s not.”

“We should…do something.” Caleb shivered as another gust of wind ripped through the truck’s interior.

Dean felt the stab of cold through his layers of clothes and gritted his teeth. They were damn lucky it wasn’t as cold as the wind chill would leave one to believe. In fact, the hot weather lady from WCYB had said it was going to be too warm for snow. So much for that. “I’m all ears, Captain Obvious.”

“Smart ass,” Reaves muttered, and Dean felt his hope blossom slightly. It sounded more like the older hunter than anything else had. He watched as Reaves rubbed at his forehead, smearing the blood across his fingers. “Where…the hell’s my phone?”

Dean followed the other’s gaze to the dashboard where Reaves had tossed his cell after speaking to John a few hours earlier. It was no where in sight, and the younger hunter had the sinking suspicion that it, like everything else not strapped in, had landed either in the floorboard or on the outside of the vehicle. Still, it was a good thought. “Not too shabby for a concussed bastard.”

Winchester started to squirm against his confines, hoping to afford himself a better look into the floor area just in case they caught a break, but a knifing pain in his side brought him up cold. He couldn’t help but to cry out as a fire-like sensation stole his breath.

He blacked out, unsure of how long, but the frantic sound of his name had him jolting back to consciousness with a vicious clarity of just how much pain he was now in. “Sammy?”

“Deuce,” Caleb had managed to squirm himself closer. He roughly patted his friend’s face. Nothing like fear to clear the mental cobwebs. “Come on, kid. If I don’t get to sleep…neither do you.”

Dean blinked, focused on the concerned face staring at him. “Kill joy.”

“What happened?” Reaves didn’t give him a chance to reply before his hands were ghosting over his head, checking for a more serious wound than the one he could see.

“Dude…” Dean shoved weakly at the psychic with his free arm. “Back off.”

“Then tell me the truth.”

“Would I lie…”

“No, but you would leave things out.”

Before Dean could reply his cell phone went off, its muffled rings coming from somewhere to his right. It must have fallen from his pocket in the crash. He and Caleb shared a look. “It’s coming from in the truck,” Dean said, weakly. “Somewhere on this side.”

Reaves nodded, wincing as he leaned across his friend, feeling for the phone as it continued to ring. “Watch it,” Dean snapped, as the psychic tried to reach between the dashboard and the younger man’s side.

“Don’t worry, cupcake…I’ll buy you a fancy dinner later.”

The phone stopped ringing and Caleb cursed, his body stretched as far across the seat as possible. He fumbled for the cell a moment longer; finally realizing the one thing that could save them was beyond their reach.

He eased himself back up, his hand brushing against Dean’s side as he did. His fingers met something warm and wet and he paused, his fuzzy brain still taking longer than usual to process simple information.

“Keep it up and you’re going to owe… me a fucking diamond,” Winchester hissed in annoyance.

Reaves wasn‘t dissuaded. “Don’t…flatter yourself, kid.”

“Ow!”

“What the hell is this?” The psychic held up his hand, and even though Dean couldn’t really see all the blood he could smell it.

“Cut yourself?”

“Goddamnit, Dean!” Caleb shook his head before he thought better of it, growling in frustration at his own helplessness and Dean’s stupidity. “This is just like that time with the lycanthrope.”

“Not really,” Dean hedged, a hint of fear lacing his voice again. “We weren’t stuck in the middle of nowhere and it wasn’t snowing.”

“You have a death wish?” Caleb sighed, wiping his hand on his jeans. The bad situation had just gotten a whole hell of a lot worse. Not only were they trapped, without a phone, but now Dean was trying to bleed to death on him. That wasn’t acceptable. Idiot. “How bad?” Reaves looked at him. “And don’t lie…to me.”

The younger hunter took a shaky breath, tried to reassess himself. He had known his side was hurting, but he really hadn’t realized what had happened until he tried to move. He wasn’t just pinned to the seat; he was pinned to the seat. Some part of the truck, a piece of metal more than likely, had turned him to a giant insect-like specimen. “Bad,” he finally answered, not meeting Reaves glassy gaze.

“Fuck!” Caleb pounded on the steering wheel, then let his aching head rest in his hands. “Forget Tom. We are so having Bambi and his family for Thanksgiving,” he swore.

“It’s okay, man.” Dean tried, only to have Reaves slowly lift his head and glare at him.

“You don’t get to decide when it’s okay…ever. Remember?”

Winchester sighed. “You’re not going to let that go. Are you?”

“I hold onto things. It’s…part of my charm.” Reaves squeezed his eyes shut, and remembered the incident of two years ago. "The only reason I didn't kill you myself then was because you got your ring and it‘s against the rules to kill a fellow brother. . ." That wasn’t exactly true considering Caleb had killed Duran only a few months before.

"Only reason? Didn't have anything to do with me saving your life?" The older Winchester brother snorted.

"And I'm the one with the concussion?" Reaves retorted.

"You tell me what you remember and then I'll tell you you're wrong." Caleb could hear Dean's shallow breathing, and he couldn‘t helped but be sucked back into the past by the hauntingly familiar sound and situation.

Two years earlier. . .

Caleb grunted, as Dean tackled him. "What the hell, Deuce?" He yelled out as a pitchfork thudded into the wall of the wood barn. "Ahh, yeah."

Dean shot his rifle, forcing the lycanthrope to take a step back. It growled in retaliation, then turned, beckoned by the moonlight creeping through the open barn door.

"Go!" Dean gestured with his hand.

Caleb pushed himself to his feet, held out a hand to the younger hunter. "You okay?"

The eighteen-year-old waved him off. "Yeah, go after it! I'll make sure the kids get out."

Reaves nodded and ran out the door, not giving Winchester a second look.

Dean remained against the wall. He touched his shoulder, and blood coated his hand. He felt the object, whatever it was, pierce his shoulder. The immediate adrenaline rush had deadened the pain, enough for him to let Caleb leave to finish the job. The lycanthrope had to be destroyed. It had already done enough damage.

Without giving himself time to hesitate, Dean heaved himself off the wall. It always worked with Band-aides. He let his forehead drop to the hay riddled ground. Pain emanated from his shoulder. He wanted to cry out, but instead coughed. He pulled himself up, and righted himself to a standing position, before he gave into the sudden desire to pass out.

The hunters had tracked the lycanthrope to the nearby woods. There they found David and Ryan, twelve-years-old and attempting to smoke a few cigarettes. The two boys had gotten more than they bargained for. Dean told them a rabid bear was in the area. He ushered them into the barn, and told them to stay quiet in the root cellar.

He stamped on the cellar door. "Okay, Ryan, David, it‘s clear." Dean called out, helping to lift the door, but having the boys take most of the weight by pushing it up.

Ryan's eyes were wide, and looked around the barn. "Wha. . .what's going on? We heard ..."

Dean cut him off. He did not want to offer any explanations of a lycanthrope, or a rabid bear. "My friend went to take care of it. You two need to get on your bikes and get back home."

David looked at his watch and the darkness of the night as they walked outside. "We're going to be in trouble."

"That's why smoking is bad for your health…leads to all sorts of trouble." Dean added as they walked to the rear of the barn where the pre-teens had left their bikes.

Ryan picked his BMX bike off the ground where the boys had haphazardly deposited them. "My parents are never going to believe this."

The cricket filled night air suddenly was punctuated by one gun shot and then another. Caleb had gotten to the lycanthrope. "Can't help you with that kid, although a rabid bear does sound lame," Dean stated, knowing the excuse really didn't stand up to any scrutiny. "You may want to go with abducted by aliens."

"Does that work?" David asked.

Dean shook his head with a smirk. The motion caused the world to sway around him. He reached for David's handlebars to hold him up.

"You okay, mister?"

Winchester swallowed, and tried to right the world again. "Yeah, get going." The boys peddled fast, and headed for the groomed path. Ryan waved, never turning around.

Slowly, Dean walked over to Caleb's Jeep. He eased himself into the passenger seat and waited, placing a hand over his injured shoulder, feeling the throbbing of his heartbeat.

"And that's why this is a job for men not children," Reaves announced as he came into the clearing. He pulled out the lock box in the rear of the jeep, storing his weapons away to be cleaned later. "You missed it Deuce. Had to chase it down, shot it once and then shot it again. That was nasty, but not a problem." Caleb stepped into the driver's seat, hyped up on adrenaline and a successful hunt.

"Not for Damien, super hunter extraordinaire." The teen replied with a quick roll of his eyes, although his usual smirk was missing.

"Exactly. What can I say? I'm good at my job." The older hunter's pride shined through. He started the Jeep. "And my reward is going to be the beer you buy me and that girl. She said she had a piercing to show me." Reaves thought of the bar in the nearby town they had passed through. He broke his reverie and glanced around. "Did you make sure the kids got out?"

Winchester nodded. "Yep, they're fine."

Caleb heard the monotone reply, and could tell something was wrong with the teen. Many times, he too had that tone of frustration when he thought his work wasn't valued by John. "You're just jealous-"

Dean snorted, cutting the hunter's comment short. "Yeah, right, let's just get going."

Reaves was undeterred. He wanted to share what he had learned, hoping to help Dean. "You got to understand-sometimes you're the sidekick and sometimes the hero. It's very simple." Caleb nodded at his own advice, finding it so profound, that perhaps he should write it down.

"And you're the hero?" Dean retorted. "Do you stay up at night making up this shit?"

"Just some pearls of wisdom you can benefit from-I'm a giver." Caleb reached over and patted Dean on the chest. He didn't miss the teen's sharp intake of breath or the wetness on his hand. "What the hell?" Caleb looked at his hand, smelling the coppery blood scent. "Damnit Dean! I asked you if you were okay. What the hell!" The psychic pulled over.

"You had to get the hairy dude and the kids needed to get out safe." Dean moved the jacket away, his hand trembling, so that his friend could see the wound.

The kid‘s face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his breathing shallow and ragged. “Shit. This is not good.”

"Caleb, don't tell Pastor Jim or Sam. Just stitch me up and keep quiet. We're not supposed to meet up with Dad for a few days. . ." Winchester rambled.

"You so don't ever get to decide if you're okay again." Reaves looked at the wound, seeing where an object had pierced through the teen's shoulder, leaving a trail of blood and damage. This wasn't something he could sew up with fishing wire, and slap a bandage on. "No, Dean, we need to go to a hospital."

Dean grabbed the other hunter's arm, as the psychic turned to put the vehicle in drive again. "Caleb, I don't want them to worry over nothing." Which was Dean speak for he didn’t want Sam to worry, and he didn’t want anyone fussing over him. Typical. The kid had a pleading look on his face. One Reaves had only witnessed a few times before. It was worse than the Sammy face, and possibly more potent because it was much more rare.

"Okay, Deuce," Caleb replied, placating his friend. "I'll keep it quiet, but we have to see a doctor."

He kept the teen talking about nonsense and bravado the whole trip to the hospital. Dean was whisked away from him in the emergency room, bleeding injury taking precedence over the other waiting patients. Caleb looked at the blood on his hand. He couldn't keep this promise, later he would convince Dean he was delirious and that no promises had been made.

He called Pastor Jim, explained to him what had happened on the hunt…that Dean had saved his hide but gotten hurt in the process.

Reaves was surprised when the minister arrived alone, and he wondered if the Pastor had locked Sammy up in the cellar to manage the feat. Dean had been placed in a room, twenty-four hours of monitoring being needed after the surgery. Murphy had asked for a moment alone with the teen.

Caleb wouldn't call it eavesdropping; after all he was a psychic. He could just as easily read their thoughts. He didn't want to tax his abilities. He stayed, leaning against the door, knowing Dean was getting his ring.

When the Pastor exited he patted Caleb’s shoulder, but faltered when he heard Reaves's question. "He's the next Guardian isn't he?"

"I didn't say that." Jim twisted his own ring.

"You don't have to." Caleb grinned, closed his eyes and shook his head. He had put it all together. Maybe on a level, he‘d know all along. "He has the heart for it.”

Murphy smiled then, his blue eyes twinkling. “That he does, my boy. That he does.”

"Hey, hey, don't you zone out on me again." Dean said loudly, then his words trailed off when he got a grunted response from Caleb.

"Just taking a little trip down memory lane." Reaves blinked a few times to try to clear his pounding head, unsuccessfully.

“Well stay with me. I’m freaked out enough without your mental bird walking.”

Caleb looked at him. "We're getting out of here, Deuce."

Dean snorted. "Because you say so?"

"Right, because I say so, that's the rule." The act of confidence was costing the older hunter as the world once more tilted around him.

"Isn't in the hunter's manual."

"Sure, in the back in small print, added it after you got your ring. You must not have gotten the update. It says, 'Caleb decides when it's okay.'"

Dean held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. God, he wanted to believe him. "Okay."

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"No, Dad! It's not okay!" Sam barked into the phone, pacing the wooden floor of the library.

"They should have been back by now." He should have known better than to call his father.

"Sam, they probably stopped at some bar on the way back. . ."

The sixteen-year-old clenched his fists. "Okay, Dad, well, don't worry, at all, I'm sure they aren't in some ditch on the side of the road freezing to death or anything. . ."

“I meant what I said, Samuel. You stay at Jim’s and you wait on your brother and Caleb or Jim to come back. Don’t you dare leave that farm alone…”

“Whatever, Dad.”

"Sammy…"

“It’s Sam!“ The kid growled, hanging up the phone. He was tired of beating his head against the brick wall with the graffiti tag ‘John Winchester Knows EVERYTHING’ written all over it.

Sam had tried Jim first only to discover the pastor was out of cell phone coverage, so that had left his father as a last resort. Before caving, he‘d called Dean‘s cell again…getting no answer. Even Caleb’s phone went to voice mail. Dean could have been pissed at him, but Reaves would have picked up, if only under the rouse of rubbing it in.

“They’re in trouble.” He looked at Scout. “Stupid idiots.”

The Lab whined, shifting on the pillow she’d stolen from Harper. “Jim told them to be back tonight. They wouldn’t not listen to him.” No matter what anyone could say about Caleb and Dean, they were loyalists to Pastor Jim. The Brotherhood wasn’t something they screwed around with. Hunting was serious business, especially if the pastor was giving the orders.

“And if they are screwing around,” Sam grumbled as he dug through one of the big roll-top desks to find the maps he would need, “they won’t have to worry about Thanksgiving dinner. I’m going to kill them.”

A phantom pain tore through his gut as the false threat left his lips and the words registered. They could already be dead.

Sam shook his head, blinking away the sudden blur of tears mucking up his vision. “They’re fine. Dad’s probably right.” He glanced at Harper who was fussing with Atticus’ toy again. The kid swallowed thickly as he thought of the Golden Retriever.

He‘d known Atticus his whole life. He was the first loss that Sam had really suffered of someone close to him...someone he’d known and loved. Someone besides his mother, who was more like a fairytale than a real person. “Or maybe the weather is keeping them.”

Sam refused to let himself think any differently as he unfolded the maps of New Haven and spread them out on the desk. No matter what a pain in the ass his brother could be, he couldn’t imagine his world without him. Or Caleb. Sam may have complained about being the baby, about how they treated him like a child. But in all honesty, he wouldn’t know exactly who he ‘would’ be if they weren’t there to play off of.

They had been there for Sam more times than he cared to think about. He couldn’t remember a time when his brother hadn’t been there for him, when Caleb wasn’t always just a phone call away. Belac and Athewm were always saving him...protecting him. But now it was Sam’s turn to repay the favor. The teen looked at Scout, a determined gleam lighting his moss green eyes. “You up for a search and rescue mission, girl?”

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