Chapter 3

Sam's optimism for a night filled with much needed sleep had unfortunately been unwarranted.

The young hunter found himself plagued with dreams he couldn't quite grasp clearly enough through the thin veil of disturbed rest to make much sense of. And more than once he found himself awake, staring at his sleeping brother, as if he might somehow disappear if he wasn't on the watch to keep him safe.

At least Dean seemed oblivious to all the scrutiny and actually got to sleep the whole night through and much to Sam's stomach's delight Dave had been right on the money about Maggie's culinary talents.

The woman could put together a spread to make Martha Stewart pant with envy. The only thing that tarnished the meal was the cat centerpiece, which sweet old Maggie insisted on telling everyone used to be her beloved pet Tapioca, before his untimely death at the age of 14. Tapioca was curled in the center of a basket of lilies and daffodils, watching them through jeweled emerald eyes, but neither Sam nor his appetite was deterred and hepolished off more than his share of the blueberry pancakes and cranberry muffins. It only confirmed his older brother's belief that Sam could eat at an autopsy.

Dean wasn’t thinking about breakfast, however. His first thought as he and Sam exited the inn was how his baby had been violated. Not only once by the phantom asshole's rendition of the Massacre at Wounded Knee, but by an unknown mechanic putting his greasy and uncaring hands on his baby. Damn them to hell.

However, when his eyes rested on his prize sitting, almost whole, in the inn parking lot, he released the breath he'd been holding. Okay, she didn't look all that bad.

The tire had been replaced with a matching new one and the back window didn't have the ugly duct-taped look, but was handled as artwork with a plexiglass replacement until a new window came in. All in all, Dean had to admit his car had been put into excellent care. Apparently the mechanic could appreciate a work of art when he saw one, giving the town at least one redeeming quality.

“See, you worried for nothing.” Sam punched his brother lightly on his uninjured arm.

The younger hunter had to admit that he had been anxious himself over the car's predicament. Dean could be worse than the Devil when it came to his car. Sam assumed it had something to do with an unholy psychological attachment to a favorite childhood toy, or just Dean and his macho testosterone driven attitude. Either way, it made Sam's life more pleasant when Dean's baby was in peak condition.

Dean threw his brother a mock glare. “You're just lucky.” He pushed Sam ahead of him and quickly positioned himself behind the wheel of the car. “Let's get this party started. The quicker we get this thing figured out and taken care of, the quicker we can get the hell out of this one-horse town.” The car fired up and the two brothers headed to the center of town or at least what acted as the hub of New Hope.

Dean hadn't been far off by describing the place as one-horse. As they drove down Main Street, the only buildings that greeted them were the sheriff's office, the courthouse, the town library, and a bunch of small gift shops. Antique-looking houses were scattered about between the buildings, many of them boasting historical prowess with cheerful signs dating their structure and listing famous people who had lived or visited there.

“So, what is our plan again?” Sam shot his brother a curious look.

Dean shrugged, wincing slightly as he was reminded of events from the previous night. “Well, we know from your research on the net and what Rose told us that there have been three deaths so far. I think you should check out the library to see if you can dig up anything historical that might link what's going on now with something that's gone on before.”

“Like Rose mentioning that this wasn't the first time people had died in New Hope.”

“Exactly.” Dean pulled into an alleyway between the sheriff's office and the gift shops. “If we can find a pattern, maybe we can isolate a cause of the deaths, or at least isolate a source of the evil this place has obviously got going on.” They locked the car and made their way around the corner, assuming that all of their investigation destinations should easily be within walking distance. “I’ll check out the Sheriff’s office and see if the law has anything new to add.”

“You know, Dean, if this is a curse, like back at that realty development, there's not going to be a lot we can do.”

Dean stopped at the edge of the streetand looked at Sam. “I thought about that, but if this has to do with a curse on New Hope then why did one of the victims not even live here? The second person to die, that girl from California, she apparently had no ties here.”

As they stepped up onto the sidewalk, they were immediately cut off by an elderly man, who had just exited one of the shops. He was dressed as if he had walked right out of the pages of an Old West dime store novel and all comments Sam had been about to make to his brother fled his mind as he took in the unusual quality of the stranger.

The man was easily as tall as Sam and adorned in a dusty black suit reminiscent of the undertakers from the 1800's era and to top it off, a Bat Masterson bowler adorned his head of white flowing hair, which reached past his shoulders. Both Winchester's were stunned speechless for a moment, when he smiled and tarnished yellow teeth greeted them.

“Morning, gentlemen. I'm sorry if I startled you.” The newcomer took his hat off and cast his eyes to the clear blue sky above them. “Nice day, isn’t it.” He raked a long-fingered hand through his hair and then placed his hat back on his head.

“Yeah,” never big on small town pleasantries, Dean nodded to the guy and started to walk on. Unfortunately, the old man moved in front of him.

“I was hoping to interest you boys in a photograph.” The man extended his hand and in it was a business card. “I own the local 'Old-timey Photo Shop', he nodded his head to the storefront window behind him, "where you can make your fantasy come to life.”

Sam reluctantly reached out and took the card. Something about the man, other than his attire and lack of dental care,had the younger Winchester hesitant. “Thanks, Mr...”

“Monroe.”

“Mr. Monroe. My friend and I are reporters just passing through, but thank you for the offer.” Sam started to walk around the man, with Dean following close behind, but Mr. Monroe wasn't going to take no for an answer.

“We’re all really just passing through, now aren’t we.“

“I guess.” Sam shot a quick look at his brother, who rolled his eyes. Sam could easily read the impatience in the gesture. Move your ass, Sammy.

“Even those just visiting usually want something memorable to mark their passing.” The man's grin broadened. “I'm sure two gentlemen like yourselves would understand the need to cherish certain moments in life.” Monroe reached over and patted Sam on the shoulder.

The young man visibly winced from the contact. A shudder of pure ice raced down his spine, and he faltered. Dean, who had already turned away, ready to move on, noticed that his brother had stopped and did an about face. “We have work to do, Sam.”

“It seems your friend may see the value in preserving a memory. You never know when it could be your last.”

When Sam didn't move, but continued only to stare at the card, Dean stepped a little closer to the old man. “Listen, we're kind of in a hurry and not looking for a Kodak moment, got it.” The older Winchester leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Besides, pictures fade.”

He grabbed Sam's sleeve, “Let's go.”

Mr. Monroe's eyebrow raised at the double meaning echoing in the young man's words. But before he had the chance to reply, Sam seemed to snap out of it and stepped closer to Dean.

“Sorry, but we don't have time to change. You probably do great pictures and all. It's just that we're in a hurry.” Sam handed Monroe back his business card and turned away once again.

Monroe was not to be deterred and he reached out and took hold of Sam's arm this time. “Well, how about just a quick picture, then. No costumes and no props, just a shot of you and your friend.” Monroe directed his last word towards Dean, then quickly turned back to Sam. “I have my camera just inside the shop door and it wouldn't take more than a minute.” He held Sam’s gaze, willing the younger man to agree.

Sam's resolve began to crumble. His thoughts immediately began to replay memories from his childhood and his recent life as a college student. Mental images of people and places flashed in front of him in a dizzying array, and he felt empty. Nothing. He couldn't seem to grasp not one moment in dazzling clarity. Everything seemed a blur. Not his mom. His dad. Not even one clear image of Dean could be recalled and captured. What would one picture hurt?

Dean knew the moment his brother caved. The look that crossed his face and the pleading puppy dog eyes that latched onto Dean's skeptical gaze was a clear give away. “No.”

Dean turned away from both Monroe and Sam again and started to walk away, but stopped when he heard it.

“Dean?” The name wasn't the cause of the hesitation, it was the small voice of a baby brother he could never in his life refuse. Damn it. There had to be a charm or something he could pick up to ward off the Sammy jinx. He'd have to remember to ask Missouri about that the next time they met up with her, but for now he was screwed and he knew it.

Dean whirled around and stalked back to where Sam stood. They didn’t have time for this, they were on a fucking hunt for crying out loud. People’s lives were at stake and his kid brother was turning into a freakin’ tourist. “Fine, but I'm not smiling, and don't even ask me to say cheese.”

Dean was still glaring at Sam when they walked out of the camera shop five minutes later. “You could have at least dropped the loathing look of disdain.”

“Yeah, and you could have not been a pushover for once and fell for that lame sales pitch. Memories last forever.” The last part was said in a whiny, mocking tone that was reminiscent of Dean's days as a teenager.

Sam rolled his eyes. “It was just a picture.”

“Yeah, a picture taken by the freaky preacher from Poltergeist. I feel creepy just thinking about it.”

Sam couldn't even deny the resemblance, as the identical thought had crossed his mind too, and he wasn't even sure why he had agreed to the absurd picture idea. The thought that he hadn't been exactly acting on free will wasn't acceptable, even as something about the man's touch still sent a shiver through him. He did feel kind of grimy, as he recalled the way the man had leered at him. There wasn't much he could do about it now, although he was sure his brother would not let him forget about it anytime soon. “Just let it go.”

Right. Dean glanced down at his watch and then motioned towards the Sheriff’s office. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to get back to work.”

Sam stuffed both hands in his pocket and shrugged. “I’ll be at the library when you finish.”

Dean stepped backwards from the sidewalk and pointed an accusatory finger at Sam. “Just don’t stop off for a Geronimo T-shirt or a New Hope snow globe on the way.”

Sam pretended not to hear his brother and kept on walking. Sometimes children did better if you simply ignored their behavior.

“No magnets either!” Dean called and Sam couldn’t help the little birdie that flew right out of his hand.

So much for shaping. Dean was beyond help.

The old library was just the kind that Sam loved.

It was housed in a two-story building with a wrap around porch, that had probably been someone's residence at one time. The dark wooden floors and crimson walls with oak molding gave it a warm feel, and a sudden pang of longing had him thinking about college and all that he had left behind.

Although, a quick glance at the tall Grandfather clock in the corner of the room he was in, had him pushing those feelings aside and focusing once more on the task at hand.

The librarian, Sally, had insisted on sharing some of the history of the place with him as she showed him around, and even though he was impressed that the structure had been in existence since the early 1800's, he had wasted a fair amount of time listening to her speech. He was pleased however that despite the town's small population, the library housed a wealth of old texts, maps, and county records. Just what Sam needed.

He leaned back in the Queen Anne chair he’d chosen to sit down in and picked up one of the texts that Sally had suggested from the large mahogany table in front of him. It was a history of New Hope and the surrounding area.

The smell of old books wafted to him, and he smiled. This was one thing he had always loved about the hunt.

Research and reading were two of his first loves, and it was a talent for finding elusive information that his father had recognized and cultivated in Sam. Funny, that John Winchester had lit the fire in his son that would eventually cause the unforgivable rift between them.

Mysteries and puzzles were things Sam couldn't resist. He liked the challenge of weaving together a story behind a place, or event, or reconstructing the past of a person. It was one of the reasons he had loved the idea of Law. A friend of John’s had planted the seed when he was just a kid and Sam had nourished it with books ranging from the Philosophy of Justice to true crime magazines. As he grew, so did his determination to explore that side of himself more thoroughly. But now that desire was gone, or maybe just hidden, by a much stronger one. Revenge.

Again, he shoved away the memories of his past. He was a hunter now, not a law student. It's what he'd been born to do. That's one of the things he'd become sure of in the months since Jessica's death.

"So what are you waiting on, Sammy?" he mumbled to himself ,as he opened the book and began the task of peeling away the layers that held the hidden truth about New Hope.

On the other side of town, Dean was doing what he loved.

Playing the part.

If he hadn't been a hunter, Dean thought he mightwould have liked to be an investigative reporter.

Sure Sam was more the Jimmy Olsen type, but Dean felt he would have made a good correspondent, delving into the evils of the human side of the world. He'd still been able to work with weapons, become anybody he needed to be, and the job would still be physical. Of course, he'd have had to fly a lot more, and that might have been a problem.

Maybe he would have just become a secret agent, yeah, that would have been cool. Or a super hero-even better.

Pulling himself from his thoughts of life without hunting, Dean looked up to see he had made it to the Sheriff's office.

The first thing that popped into Dean Winchester's mind as he entered the small non-descript building was- where's Barney?

He looked around the tiny New Hope jail and seriously began to think he had been caught in a weird time warp. The whole place was an exact replica of Mayberry's finest.

The left side of the room was filled with two barred cells. A gun rack with a shotgun and rifle hung from the back wall and there was a desk with a rotary phone in the middle. The only thing missing was the old drunk guy- Otis.

The Sheriff was sitting behind the desk talking on the antique phone, and he waved Dean in with a quick, easy, smile. From the twinkle in the hazel eyes and tone of the man’s deep voice, Dean gathered that the person on the other end of the line was more than likely female.

Dean, always a quick study of his opponent, casually sized up the sheriff as he waited for the man to finish his conversation. He looked to be well-built, athletic, and not the stereotypical pot-bellied, donut eater, than one would expect to find in a small one-cop town. He was middle-aged, with dark hair, rugged features, and a fully grown mustache reminiscent of Thomas Magnum.

The phone call ended and the sheriff was suddenly giving Dean just as much scrutiny as Winchester had just given him. The face had lost some of it’s animation, but the smile was still cordial and inviting. The voice that followed the appraisal was laced with slight suspicion and complete authority. “Can I help you, son?”

He stood slowly from his chair and decided from the wary look of his visitor to treat him like he would a stray dog- with a little caution.

“Yeah.” Dean stepped all the way into the room, moving to stand opposite the man behind the desk. “My name's Dean White and I work with the Denver Post. I'm here with an associate researching the recent deaths you’ve had here in New Hope. I was wondering if I could get some information from you?” Dean placed his hands in his pockets and decided looking anywhere but into this man's eyes was preferable.

The sheriff stared hard at the man before him. He seemed barely old enough to be out of college, let alone be a reporter, but what the hell did he know about kids these days. “ I see. Well, I’m Sheriff Buck Landry. Welcome to New Hope.”

Buck extended his hand and Dean shook it firmly. “ So you work for the Post?“

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “ Free lance mostly. My partner and I thought that this might be a story worth our effort.”

“Well, I don't know how much help I could be, Dean. The facts and information gathered from witnesses has already been plastered on our local newspaper's front page.”

Buck retook his seat and started to comb his mustache with his index finger and thumb. “I can only tell you what you probably already know. There‘s been three victims. All with the same flu-like symptoms, but nothing that the officials can find to link them together, medically speaking, anyway. As far as my investigation goes, none of the autopsies haves shown anything that would make me suspect foul play”

Dean felt the sheriff's action of sitting was an invitation for him to do the same. He sat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk and stretched his legs. Last night wasn't the best night of his life and sleep, including rest was not abundant. He watched the sheriff for a few minutes before he asked his next question.

“There seems to be something rather odd about the deaths though, don't you think? I mean I know that the CDC has given some excuse about a Paraguayan fruit epidemic, but New Hope just doesn’t seem like the type of place that would be interested in Central American cuisine.”

Buck nodded. “Usually not, but old Francis Dearling, she runs the Jalepeno, greatest burgers this side of Texas by the way, got herself a really good deal on these strange little fruits that she thought might make some interesting salsa.”

“Salsa?” Dean raised a brow. “Salsa killed three people?”

Buck grinned. “There ain’t nothing entertaining about those people dying, but just between me and you, those CDC people are some damn good magicians. They pulled that story right out of their assess, if you ask me, just like a bunny from a hat.”

Dean frowned. “The government’s not always big on telling the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” Hell, John Winchester still thought Elvis was alive.

“Yeah, well you and me could probably debate Roswell and Ruby Ridge all day, son, but Uncle Sam is going to have the last say, because he’s sitting in that big White house on the hill.”

“Are you saying that there’s a cover-up going on in New Hope?”

“I’m not saying any such thing, Dean. I’m just giving you my opinion on the whole freaky fruit thing.”

Dean nodded and decided to put all his cards on the table. “What about the curse?”

At that, Buck did laugh. “Curse? You mean the idea that old Geronimo is seeking revenge on the good folks of New Hope

“Stranger things have happened.”

“You sure you don’t work for The National Tattler, son? Curses don’t seem to be something the Denver Post would be all that interested in.”

Dean didn’t miss the fact that his own insult had been tossed back at him. “I’m just exploring every angle.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I have a source that says this type of thing has happened in New Hope before.”

Buck sighed. “Listen, Dean, I don’t know who your mysterious source is, but I can assure you that New Hope isn’t cursed. I’ve lived here all my life and I don’t rightly recall there ever being a phantom Indian out killing people.”

“Well, Buck, I hate to break it to you, but someone decided to do some target practice with my associate and myself last night. I have the arrows to prove it.” Not to mention yet another soon to be scar.

Buck’s face grew serious. “I hate to hear that.“ The lawman jotted something down on a piece of paper. “Did you get a look at who it might have been?”

Dean decided telling about their phantom attacker now wouldn’t be the most prudent of avenues, so he shook his head. “It was dark, and I was a little worried about being skewered at the time.”

“You say you have the arrows?”

“Yeah, your local mechanic removed them from my car.”

“If you want to bring them in, I have some connections with some of the locals of the Apache Nation still living in this area. They may be able to tell us something.”

Dean remembered his father‘s journal and the writing there concerning New Hope. “Do you think that they might take a look at some writing that I happened across. I think it may be written in their language. It‘s for our piece.”

Buck shrugged. “The man I’m thinking of use to be a teacher. If it’s Apache, he’ll know.”

Dean stood. “Could we do it this afternoon?”

“Afraid not, son. My deputy doesn’t come in until tomorrow afternoon. My shift ends at three. How about we meet here then?”

He didn’t like the idea of waiting, but he couldn’t exactly be pushy. “Sure. That will give me and my associate some time to talk with some of your local citizens.”

Buck nodded. “Most folks are friendly enough. I just wouldn’t mention that whole curse thing again if you want to be taken seriously. You wouldn‘t want people thinking you and your friend were a couple of loonies, now would you?”

Dean smiled and shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t want that.”

Sam had just finished leafing through the last of the town’s records from 1955 when his brother’s voice rang out from somewhere behind him.

“He’s tall and kind of geeky looking.”

Sam rolled his eyes and pushed himself up from the table, peering around the corner of the tall pillar blocking his view of the circulation desk.

He cleared his throat and waved when Dean looked his way.

“Never mind, I found him.” The older hunter smiled at Sally and walked towards his brother, who was practically barricaded by stacks of books and ledgers. “Looks like you’ve been having fun?”

“I have.” Sam answered truthfully and grabbed a pile of papers from in front of him. “Did you make nice with the local lawman?”

Dean nodded. “Sheriff Andy is going to take us to meet a real live Indian, who might be able to read what Dad wrote in the journal, and give us a heads up on those arrows that nearly took me and my baby out.”

“Native American is the politically correct term.”

“Huh?”

Sam shook his head, “Never mind.” The younger Winchester grabbed his notebook and a map that he’d had Sally photo copy. “I’ve found out some very interesting things about New Hope.”

Dean grinned. “Do tell.”

“I’ll fill you in over dinner later, but first I have a little treck into the back country planned.”

Dean waved his brother ahead of him. “Lead the way, Sacajawea.”

Sam shook his head. “You are disturbed on so many levels, you do know that right?“

“What?” Dean shrugged and started off after his quickly retreating brother. “You never heard of Lewis and Clark?”

“So this is where the massacre took place?”

“Not the original one.” Sam shoved his hands in his pocket and huddled against the slight wind that had kicked up.“This is supposedly one of the ranches that Geronimo raided after his family was killed.”

Dean looked around at the falling down buildings and dilapidated house. “I’m guessing it’s not on the historic homestour?”

“No.” Sam grinned. “Sally told me about it.”

“Sally?” Dean smirked. “The Grandma at the circulation desk?”

“Yeah, she said that this place has been abandoned for almost a hundred years, but that New Hope doesn’t own the property. An unknown investor pays the taxes, so it just sits here. She called it one of the town’s many skeletons.”

“She tell you anything else?”

“Yep. Seems that Sally remembered this same type of thing happening about fifty years ago. She said there were five victims then.”

“Interesting.”

“Very.” Sam nodded to the car. “I have some research to show you that definitely makes a case for this being something right up our alley.”

“Then why exactly are we out here if you have already done the research?”

“Because when I asked about the curse, Sally told me this was the place that started it all. Not Geronimo‘s village.”

Dean‘s brow knitted in confusion. “So, the curse, or whatever, wasn‘t cast by Geronimo, but by one of his victims?”

Sam sighed. “I‘m not sure. Sally just said that people use to talk about the man that lived out here. He supposedly survived Geronimo’s attack by hiding in a root cellar. He was just a kid when everyone in his family was murdered.”

“Really?” Dean shrugged. “Maybe I should get the EMF from the car.”

“I don’t know,” Sam grinned again. “Sally also told me that she saw Elvis at the Jalapeño yesterday.”

Dean sighed. “Great source there, little brother. You'll make a fine reporter some day.”

“Didn’t see you coming up with anything more brilliant.”

“Well, we’re here, so we might as well check it out. I‘ll grab my EMF from the car and you head on over to the outlying buildings with your…” Dean waved his hand in the air, making a face, and Sam tried to reign in his irritation, “…built-in EMF, while I take the main house.”

The youngest Winchester didn't bother with a comment, and merely turned and started for the barn. Sometimes he wished he'd never told Dean about the strange things that had been happening to him. Even though he knew that teasing his younger brother about it, was in a way Dean's means of dealing with something he couldn't control, it still pissed him off. Just once, Sam would like the shoe to be on the other foot.

Dean watched his kid brother walk away and felt a tinge of remorse. He knew he had been giving Sam a hard time about his new- found ability since leavingKansas, but in reality, the whole idea of it scared the hell out of him. And being scared just wasn't something he could afford at the moment. So if poking fun at it and making light of it were the only ways he could trick himself into believing it less of a threat, then Sam would just have to deal.

The house wasn't locked, and even if it had been the cracks in the walls were almost large enough that Dean could have squeezed through them. Dust fell from the doorframe as he entered and cobwebs brushed against his face, causing an involuntary shudder to run through him.

Despite the late afternoon sunshine streaming through the planks that had been used to board up the broken windows in the structure, the house was mostly dark and Dean felt around in his pocket until he latched onto the flashlight. Pulling it out he turned it on and instantly felt a sense of security as the area was cast in artificial light. He'd never admit it, but he fucking hated the dark.

Okay, where to start. The home was more like a sectioned box and Dean was pretty sure that he'd been in motel rooms that were bigger, but a room off to the side caught his eye and he made his way towards the curtained off area, holding his EMF out in front of him.

The material that hung from the door was rotten and smelled strongly of mildew. It was spotted with something that looked like blood but could have been rust, and when Dean reached out to move it away, it practically crumbled in his hand.

The young hunter shook his head and tossed it to the plank floor. Just as he moved inside and decided what he thought had been a room was more of a closet or pantry, the EMF suddenly came to life. He panned the flashlight around and something glistened in the light from the corner on the floor.

Dean bent to pick it up and he‘d just squatted down and scooped up a small black bead when he heard it.

The growl was low at first then grew louder and more fierce as Dean swallowed hard and turned to look over his shoulder. The EMF continued to flash wildly, even as Dean dropped it to the floor.

The white wolf that he'd seen on their first day in New Hope was standing not six feet from him.

It was massive, bigger than any dog, at least four feet from snout to haunches. It's legs were longer and bigger than a German Shephard's and it's frame although lanky, was ripped with taught, quivering muscles.

What held most of Dean's attention at the moment however was it's bared teeth, very large and sharp teeth, and the glowing gold eyes which seemed to be focused entirely on the hunter in front of it with deadly intensity.

“Good boy,” Dean slowly stood up, trying to remember if he'd brought his gun with him.

For some reason he was sure he'd meant to slip it into the back of his jeans, but then what exactly was there to be afraid of in a deserted homestead. After all, wolves and such weren't indigenous to Arizona. That's the last time he'd listen to the college boy.

The wolf inched closer, hunching down and snapping it's teeth together. The growl grew deeper and louder, more threatening, until it seemed to be filling the room. Dean could almost feel the vibration on his skin.

He backed up, until his shoulders touched the wall, and tried to think of any defense, besides the lightweight flashlight in his hand. Sam was only a short distance away, but yelling wasn't exactly something the wolf was probably going to like.

Dean averted his eyes from the amber gaze, trying to look submissive. Wasn't that what you were suppose to do? Damn John Winchester for not ever letting them have a dog. Of course, there had been Ivy, but she was just a puppy and Cujo didn't look anything like the happy black Lab that he and Sam had kept that one summer.

He was completely enclosed in the small closet-like structure. Dean was trapped, his only exit now filled by the bulking form of the animal baring down on him like he was to be the main course at its evening meal.

White Fang growled again, and Dean knew what the wolf was planning even before he saw it move.

It leaped and hit him hard in the chest and the wall behind them gave way, sending both man and lupine crashing to a floor that shouldn't have been there, and then through said floor to a hidden dirt room below.

Dean felt himself falling and tried to reach out for anything to brace himself, but grabbed only air. He hit hard, his head landing on something unforgiving and sharp. There was a solitary moment when he wondered where the wolf had gone, and then he couldn't think of anything at all, as a bright-searing pain brought the darkness that quickly claimed him.

Sam had finished exploring the barn, half frustrated and half relieved at not having felt anything out of the ordinary, when he noticed something sticking out through the straw in the last stall that he’d come to.

He bent over and picked up what looked to be a child's toy, when a searing pain and flash of white light had him grabbing his head in both hands and nearly falling to his knees.

“God!” he choked out as the agony stole his breath and nearly ripped him from consciousness.

Bracing himself against one of the still standing stalls, Sam fought to stay vertical. Images flashed behind his eyelids, showing a scene from long ago. It was dark, a wealth of stars filled the sky. The old farmstead was freshly painted and new again. Cattle were grazing in the distance.

Sensations overcame him as they assaulted his body unrelentingly. He heard screams, smelled carnage and smoke, and felt the heat of the flames and the warm wetness of blood seeping between his long fingers as he pressed his hands to the ragged chest of a man he didn't recognize.

Tears streamed down his face, he tasted their saltiness as they flowed onto his lips, but the grief threatening to drown him wasn't his own.

Then the old man's anguished features twisted and blurred, morphing into something even more terrifying. The foreign fear suddenly became his own. Dean.

Sam gasped, his eyes snapping open, the wooden toy horse falling from his hand. He took a gulping breath of air, trying to regain some semblance of the control he'd so easily lost.

His heart was racing, making it hard to breathe, but one thought kept him from giving in to the nausea churning in his stomach. Dean was in trouble.

Sam let go of the vision or whatever the hell it had been and stumbled towards the house where he'd last seen his brother. “DEAN!”

Dean felt warmth on his skin, and then a soft panting breath brushed over his face.

At first, a slight feeling of anxiety washed over him as he wondered if he were going to have to quickly remember the name of whatever girl he'd hooked up with the night before, but then something wet and rough slid across his ear and he found himself sitting upright with a start.

“Shit!” he blinked rapidly, trying to dislodge himself as quickly and gracefully as possible from the bundle of white fur that was now standing over him.

“She likes you.” An amused voice had him looking around wildly, and he nearly collided with a tree as his eyes met the dark gaze of the phantom Indian that he and Sam had encountered the night before.

“She usually doesn't take to strangers.”

The wolf whined, its tail beating against the dirt as it stared up at Dean.

Dean tried to stand up straight, his hand going to his still aching chest. “Yeah? I have that effect on most women.” Of course when women pounced on him, he usually had a soft bed behind him to break the fall.

The Indian laughed. “You have spirit. My dreams told me that you would-like the Mountain Lion. It is not an easy totem to possess, but you do well with it.”

“Where are we?” Dean asked, ignoring the man's confusing words, and finally gathering enough of his bearings to look around him.

He was outside, that much was obvious, and it was dark. Only hills and sparse trees cast looming shadows in the distance. A small fire burned within a circle of rocks, and the old man sat cross-legged beside it, opposite of Dean.

“We are nowhere, yet everywhere.”

“Great,” Dean rolled his eyes. “And I thought Dad was into Yoda-speak.”

“I would explain, but that would only make your head hurt worse.”

Dean involuntarily reached up and rubbed at the back of his head. It did hurt. A lot.

“Who are you?”

“Who do you think I am?”

“The asshole who owes me a tire, a window, and some new upholstery.”

“I did not attack you, Mountain Lion.”

“Right.” Dean looked at the wolf, who was still staring at him with great affection. “And wolves aren't indigenous to Arizona.”

“Not anymore.” The man motioned for Dean to sit. “There is no longer room for things as free as she and I.”

Not seeing much chance of going anywhere else and not entirely sure of the ability of his legs to keep him upright, Dean carefully lowered himself to the ground again, flinching slightly when his new friend decided to join him. The wolf curled up near his feet, emitting a small whine, her head resting on her paws in a dog-like fashion.

“What do you want from me?”

The old man shrugged. “In the beginning I only wanted for you to leave.”

Dean frowned. “So you didattack us.”

The Indian shook his head. “I did not, but the Crow wanted you to think that I had. He is a master at manipulation.”

Dean rubbed wearily at his eyes, hoping like hell he was still asleep somewhere curled in a soft warm bed. “Mountain lions, crows, and a wolves-Oh My!”

“It is not for you to understand, but do know that you have jeopardized us all by your desperate need to come here. You have risked what is most precious to you, and brought more years of pain for me and those I love. You have placed yourself in great jeopardy. ”

Dean glared at the man. “I didn't ask to come here. I was sent here for a job.”

“You are looking for someone who isn't here, and have stumbled upon what you were trying to avoid.”

“I did what I had to do.”

The Indian smiled patiently. “The coyote also believes chasing his tail is prudent.”

“Whatever, Chief So Full of Bull.”

“You have given the Crow his fire, and now you must fix it. Only you will be able to because the spell has been cast.”

“I don't know what the fuck you're talking about.” Dean felt another sudden stabbing pain in his head and he couldn't help the gasp that escaped him.

“You will.” The old Indian looked off into the darkness and the wolf whined again. “Our time grows short. He is stronger than I imagined.”

Dean held his head with both hands to keep it from falling off his shoulders. “He-who?”

“Follow your instincts, Mountain Lion.” He smiled. “We will talk again.”

The flames of the fire grew larger, leaping out at Dean. He jerked back, glancing up to see the old man's face waver before him through the orange and red glow between them, then his image faded away like smoke.

The wolf got to its feet, barking once, before turning and running off into the darkness.

“Great,” Dean groaned as the ground beneath him suddenly shifted and began to feel less solid, mud-like.

He let go of his pounding head and pressed his hands against the earth, trying to lift himself up, only to see his fingers slip beneath the surface as if in quicksand.

Panic overcame him as his feet disappeared too, and then he was falling once more.

This time the landing wasn't hard, but waking up was a whole hell of a lot more painful.

“Ow.” Dean blinked, trying to lift his hand to his pounding skull without much success. “That's going to leave a mark.”

“Dean?” Sam's frightened voice cleared what was left of the murky fog surrounding Dean's thoughts and he forced his eyes open. “Dean, can you hear me?”

“People in Phoenix can hear you, Sammy. Shut the hell up.” Dean attempted to roll over on his side, his head, threatening to explode with even that slightest of movement.

His groan of pain had his brother leaning over the gaping hole in the floor, and Dean had to squeeze his eyes shut as the bright glare of the flashlight nearly blinded him. “I'm coming down. Just hold on.”

“Watch that first step,” Dean managed, curling into himself, and wondering what in the hell had just happened.

His mind conjured an image of the large white wolf that had moments before been about to eat him and he stared into the darkness to make sure he was alone, in case he needed to warn Sam.

However, a rope was the only thing that appeared out of the blackness, and it had been tossed through the hole from above him. The heavy knotted end landed a couple of inches away from Dean's face, and soon Sam's feet joined it.

“Dean?” Sam quickly knelt near his brother, his hands going to either side of Dean's face. “Are you okay?”

“That depends…”

“On,” Sam's eyes were searching his older brother's face with such worry and intensity that Dean had to resist the urge to reach out to comfort him.

“Is my head still attached to my body?”

Sam closed his eyes and smiled. Sometimes he believed that Dean could be on death's door and still find a way to laugh at the Grim Reaper. “Yeah it's still there.” He let his hand slide through Dean's dirt covered hair until he found the huge lump he was looking for. “Although you're going to probably wish it wasn't.” Sam felt the wet stickiness of blood and gently pulled his hand away.

“Man, what the hell did I land on?”

Sam felt around in the dirt by his brother and to his surprise uncovered what looked to be a metal strong box. “This.”

He held up the rusted find and Dean groaned. “Please tell me it's filled with gold.”

Sam tried to pry the lid open but the sturdy lock wouldn't give. “If your hard head didn't bust it open, then I'm guessing we're going to have to take it back with us and find a blow torch.”

“Cute,” Dean smirked. “If it is treasure, I'm not sharing.”

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Sam discarded the box for the moment and ran his hands over his brother's arms, chest, and legs, thankful not to find any protruding bones. It was a miracle considering the good twelve feet that Dean had fallen.

Dean did a quick mental run down. Nothing felt broken or dislodged, although he was sure he wasn't going to be moving too well in the morning. “No, I'm good.”

“Sure you are.” Sam slipped an arm beneath his older brother's shoulders and helped him to a sitting position. “What happened?”

Dean swallowed hard, trying to bring some moisture to his mouth. He was sure he'd swallowed more than his fair share of dirt, dust and other unknown substances, and for some reason he tasted smoke. “I saw that wolf from before. It attacked me.”

Sam quickly reached out and lifted his brother's chin so he could see into his eyes. “Are you sure you're okay?”

Dean swatted him away, and sighed. “I'm telling you the truth.”

“I didn't see any wolf, Dean.” Sam glanced around the small area they were sitting in, wanting to accept what his brother was saying, but finding it difficult. “We're alone.” After all, Dean had a head wound. He could have been in shock or hallucinating.

Dean also looked around at the tiny dirt room they were in, deciding that maybe it had all been a bad dream. “What the hell is this place?”

Sam sighed and glanced at the wooden boxes and barrels strewn around them. “I'm guessing that you found the hidden root cellar.”

Dean raised his head to look up at the hole above them. “Lucky me. What's the prize?”

Sam stood up with a sigh and pulled his unsteady partner to his feet also. “The prize is that now you get to climb up that rope and hope it holds our weight.”

Dean sighed. “Have I mentioned how much I hate this fucking town, Sam?”

“A couple of times, yeah.” Sam gave his brother a boost and waited for his boots to disappear over the lip of the floor above them.

Once he was sure Dean had safely reached the top, he tied the rope around the lock box, so that he could pull it up after him and started the climb himself.

“Something really freaky happened here, Sammy, ” Dean told him once Sam had reached the top and was slowly pulling up the box behind him.

His brother was sitting not too far from where the floor had given way, and Sam didn‘t miss the fact that he was breathing harshly and had worked up quite sweat on his climb up.

“Yeah, you're telling me.” Sam didn’t even want to think about what had happened to him in the barn. Seeing things in his nightmares was one thing, but he was wide awake, and he wasn’t quite ready to deal with whatever that meant for him.

Dean picked up his EMF, that was lying in the dust along with the flashlight he had dropped when the wolf had attacked him, and looked at it. “No, I mean just now. This thing went crazy right before the lights went out.”

“You think a spirit put you in that hole?” Sam bent down in front of his brother and bit his lip as he got another good look at the older hunter’s pale pallor and the blood marring the side of Dean's face. He looked much worse in the brighter light. This was twice he'd almost lost his brother on this stupid hunt, sponsored by no other than John Winchester.

Dean rested his head in his hands. “ I told you what landed me in that cellar, Sam.”

“Right. White Fang?”

Dean lifted his head and glared. Okay, now Sam was being the smart ass.“No, it was a girl wolf.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Do I want to even know how you know that?”

Dean wasn't quite sure of that answer himself, but he knew it was true. “Just trust me.”

His younger brother nodded. He did trust Dean, with his life. He took his brother by the arm and pulled him to his feet for the second time that day. “So now you're the psychic?”

“Shut-up,” Dean growled, needing to lean against Sam more than he wanted to. “This family can't handle any more freakiness than it already has.”

Sam smiled, leading his brother outside and to the car. “Next thing we know Dad may be hosting a talk show.”

“Speaking of Dad,” Dean closed his eyes against a sudden feeling of dizziness and tried his damnedest to stay upright. “He's not here.”

Sam would have laughed if anything about the situation would have been even remotely funny. “I've noticed.” He let go of his brother once they reached the Impala and held out his hand for the keys. “I didn’t really expect him to be.”

Dean fished the keys out of his pocket and handed them to Sam. “I'm sorry.”

The youngest Winchester had started around the car, but stopped at his brother’s apology and looked sharply back at Dean. Apparently, he was hurt worse than he had originally thought. “For what?”

Dean shook his head, looking past the homestead into the desert beyond it. There was a strong feeling of dread starting to stir in the very pit of his gut, like the beginnings of a dust storm. “I‘m not sure,” he whispered more to himself than Sam.

And he wasn’t sure, although a faintnagging memory told him it was bad.

In the distance he caught the glimpse of a shimmering blur of white and he swallowed hard. Maybe Sam really wasn’t the only freak in the family.

Onto Chapter 4

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