Chapter 4

Sam looked across the small distance separating him from his brother, who was sitting in the passenger’s seat of the Impala, and tried to calm the feeling of unease that had settled over him. The vision he’d had in the barn was still too fresh in his mind. He had a sudden urge to reach out and touch the other man, to reassure himself that Dean was still there and not a mirage, but withdrawing a bloody stump wasn’t something he wanted to endure at the moment.

Dean was fine. He was always fine.

As if sensing the silent scrutiny and turmoil, the hunter in question turned his head and smirked at his brother. “That picture might not have been such a bad idea. They last longer you know.”

Sam rolled his eyes and turned his gaze back to the road that would lead them into the heart of New Hope once more. Yep, he was fine. Just fine. “Are you sure we shouldn’t stop by the hospital and have you checked out? It’s only about ten minutes from here, right over the county line in Bowie.”

Dean pushed himself up straighter in the seat. There was no way he wanted to go to a hospital, not when he’d fought so hard to stay the hell out of one. Even the concerned look on his kid brother’s face wouldn’t convince him. This time, he’d hold the Sammy Jinx at bay. “I’m good.” For about the tenth time.

“You can patch me up when we get back to the inn and then we need to talk to the first victim’s family, after we get this box to Morry-the magic mechanic.” Dean nodded to the strong box, which they had discovered was not only padlocked, but rusted shut from the inside. Evidently, Sam had been right about the blow torch. “ It’s already late, and we’re no where closer to the truth about whatever is going on than we were the day we got Dad's email.”

The younger Winchester sighed-not willing to comment on the issue of their father-and raked a hand through his hair. For a moment, his vision blurred and he rubbed at his tired eyes. The lack of sleep from the previous night must have been catching up with him. “Fine.” He was beginning to think that Pre-Med might have been the field he should have chosen after all. Being a Winchester offered a wealth of hands-on opportunities. “But don’t whine if I have to shave your head to stitch it up.”

“You’re not coming near me with a pair of scissors or clippers, Sam.”

Sam laughed. “You trust me to keep you alive, but not to cut your hair?”

“Asked, Shaggy,” Dean scoffed. “Sorry, dude, but you really need a grasp of your own fashion sense before you start butchering someone else’s.”

Sam glared at his older brother as his previous insult was rearranged and tossed back at him. “It’s all fun and games until someone hemorrhages to death, big brother.”

Dean laughed, wincing as the motion shook his aching head and abused body. Sometimes Sam could be half funny. “I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

The younger hunter shrugged. “If you can be the freaky psychic, spirit magnet, I can be the morbid, smart ass armed with dark humor for a change.”

Dean grinned. “Maybe- but you’re never going to be the handsome one. Just accept it, Sam.”

Sam shook his head and pushed the Metallica tape into the player, letting it fill the car with the sharp reverberating sound of steel guitars. “Shut-up, Dean.”

Lucky for Sam that the cut on Dean’s head wasn’t severe enough to warrant stitches, and despite the fact he had some major bruising on his side and back, his brother was basically alright. The Winchesters were nothing if not resilient.

The wound from the night before had reopened and needed to be bandaged again, but Sam considered himself and Dean lucky. After all, in the vision things had been much worse.

The youngest Winchester reached up and rubbed at his forehead. A headache had started making itself known soon after they had left the old homestead, and after dealing with Dean’s injuries it had only increased.

“You alright?” Dean’s deep voice had Sam glancing up and then blinking as the late afternoon sun sent little shards of pain stabbing into his brain.

“Fine.” Sam noticed that the other man had showered and changed, and if not for the quickly darkening bruise on his cheek, and the slightly glassy look of his eyes, Dean would have seemed like his normal, cocky self. The younger Winchester’s eyes still went to his brother’s chest-no blood, no jagged wound, only the necklace that Sam had bought him so many years before. He cleared his throat. “You ready? We can drop the strong box by the garage on the way to the late Reverend Kaplan’s?”

“Yeah.” Dean opened the passenger’s door to the Chevy and waited for Sam to do the same on his side. “You want to be good reporter, or bad reporter?”

“The woman is in her seventies, Dean.”

His older brother shrugged. “Old people can be shifty, Sam.”

“Dave said that the Reverend’s wife was a sweet old lady.”

“And your point?”

Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “My point is simple.” Sam slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. Patience was something he had learned from his father. “It being that you‘re an idiot.”

Mrs. Eliza Kaplan smiled sweetly as she sat a silver serving tray with a China tea pot and three cups down on her mahogany coffee table. The two young, handsome reporters reminded her of her grandsons and she was actually glad for the company- even if the reason that brought them to her home still held misery.

"It's been so quiet around here these days without my Harry." Eliza sat in a chair near Dean and picked up the kettle. "After someone dies there's always so many people around in the beginning- family and friends trying to give comfort and support. It makes the being alone harder when they all go back to their normal lives." She shook her head slightly as she poured Dean some tea and then filled Sam's cup. "I hope you boys have never lost anyone close to you."

The brothers shared a look and Dean answered her. "I lost my mother a long time ago, but I remember what it's like."

Eliza paled. "You poor dear. My Harry and I got to spend a lifetime together, I suppose I should be thankful for that."

"We don't mean to upset you, Mrs. Kaplan." Sam leaned forward and took a cookie from the plate the woman was now holding up to him. "We were just hoping to ask you a few questions about what happened to your husband."

"It's been two months already, but I still feel as though it were just yesterday." Eliza sipped her tea. "We were married forty years, you know."

"Do you remember anything that your husband might have done out of the ordinary before he got sick- any place he might have gone?"

"Oh no," Eliza shook her head at Sam‘s question. "Harry was a creature of habit, not very adventurous I'm afraid. He liked his life well-ordered and in control." She smiled sadly. "He lived for his congregation and the church. His work was his life, and his family was his passion, so he stayed close to home."

Sam nodded, not wanting to push, but knowing that he and his brother needed as much information as possible. "Do you remember when he first started getting sick?"

The reverend's widow nodded. "Yes, a few months back. Our youngest daughter was visiting. She was the apple of her daddy's eye." Eliza stood and went to a stone mantle over the fire place. She picked up a silver frame and handed it to Dean. "That's Carmen and her father. It was taken just a few days before Harry passed away. I'm so glad she talked him into taking it."

Dean looked at the smiling preacher dressed in a cowboy hat and buckskin coat. He was holding a rifle and his daughter was sitting on a bar stool. She was made up to look like a saloon girl, and was holding a bottle of some type of whiskey. "They look happy."

Eliza laughed. "Harry was faking it. He hated to have his picture made, but my daughter and her boys begged him. The kids got a big kick out of Grandpa dressing up as an old cowboy." She took the photo back from Dean and hugged it to her chest. "They adored him."

Sam sat his cup on the table, keeping his eyes on Mrs. Kaplan. "Had your husband been sick in the past?"

Mrs. Kaplan returned the picture to the mantle and then made her way back to her chair. "Nothing serious. He was in excellent shape for a man his age. When Harry first started to feel bad we thought it might be the flu, or maybe a stomach bug. It wasn't until his fever spiked one evening that we began to worry. My daughter and I took him to the hospital, and never did get to bring him back home."

She sighed deeply as if the memories physically hurt. "He was dead within three days of showing any symptoms." Her brown eyes sought out Sam's. "The doctors still can't tell me what took my husband from me, and now there's been two more. They died the same way, and no one can tell us why."

Sam swallowed hard, understanding the woman's frustration and disillusionment all too well. He could feel his brother‘s eyes on him. "It's never easy to lose someone to something you can't confront."

"If I had a name for it, it'd help. I know that sounds crazy, but it's how I feel. Maybe I could let go."

Dean pulled his gaze from his brother, pushing down the twinge of concern he always got when Sam was forced to remember his own recent loss. "You don't buy the theory it had something to do with the Paraguayan fruit then?"

Eliza looked at Dean as if he'd grown a second head. "Pish-posh, dear. My Harry never ate anything he couldn't pronounce. I believe that story almost as much as I believe the one about New Hope being cursed."

The Winchesters exchanged glances and Sam looked at the widow. "You've heard about the curse?"

"I figured that's what brought you boys from the city." She smiled sympathetically. "Everyone likes the idea of mysterious legends, but I've lived here for forty years and I've never seen so much as a feather or arrow head, let along an Indian spirit running around killing people."

For the second time that day, Dean wanted to point out that he had seen one arrow up close and personal, but he held his tongue. Sometimes it was truly better not to get into the whole 'the truth is out there' speech. Ignorance could sometimes be a blessing.

"Did you know any of the other victims?" Sam watched as Eliza folded the napkin in her lap and then unfolded it again.

"I knew Marcus Kinkade. He was our local weatherman, always making and selling those crazy weather vanes of his." She smiled sadly. "He was a nice man-if not a bit eccentric. He left a wife behind, and a little boy."

She sighed. "The young woman was a tourist, I think-or was she here working. I can’t really remember the whole story, but I know she was an artist of some sort. I hadn't seen her before the picture that came out in the paper." Eliza looked at the brothers. “You might want to talk to Carolyn, Marcus’ wife, I think she met the woman’s fiancé before he left town.”

Dean nodded and set his tea cup back on the silver platter. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Kaplan, but I think we should be going."

"Oh, alright, if you must." The woman stood and smiled at both brothers. "Perhaps if you boys are still in town on Sunday, you could stop by the church. The Ladies of New Hope always cook a big lunch afterwards. Everyone is invited."

"That sounds nice, mam." Sam shook the woman's hand. "Thanks for the tea."

Eliza led the Winchesters out and then waved to them before turning and disappearing back into her home.

“Yeah, she sure was manipulative.” Sam smirked at his brother once the woman had gone. He started to step off the front steps of the Kaplan’s porch, when the ground seemed to shift beneath him. It was as if his center of gravity suddenly deserted him, and he was pretty sure he’d have fallen flat on his face if familiar strong hands hadn’t reached out to steady him.

“Sam?” The worried voice that accompanied the save, had Sam shaking his head, and trying to reclaim his equilibrium.

“I’m okay,” was out of his mouth even before the ground stopped spinning, but Dean didn’t let him go until they’d both made it down the stairs safely.

“Sure you are.” Dean searched his brother’s face for any trace of distress, and frowned when Sam reached up to rub at his head again. “What’s going on with you? I‘m the one with the head wound- remember?”

Sam finally found stable footing again, and forced a smile on his face. “Maybe the tea was spiked-or the cookies could have been laced with something.”

Dean recognized the familiar tactics. “Seriously Sam, I’m the one who’s been shot and attacked by a rabid wolf. If anyone should be dizzy, it should be me.”

The younger hunter took a deep breath, letting the cool air clear his senses. He looked at his brother. “I’m okay. Must be the lack of sleep.” Sam had a hunch it was something more, maybe a hangover type reaction from what he had experienced in the barn, but since he hadn’t mentioned the vision to Dean, he didn’t think it a good idea to bring it up now. “Or maybe I just need some real food.”

Dean tore his gaze away from his brother long enough to glance at the western horizon. The sun was almost gone now. “We might as well grab some dinner and call it a night.”

“I can hold out if you want to go to the Kinkade house first.”

“No, we’ll go there first thing in the morning. Besides, I want to hear about this interesting information your girlfriend Sally helped you dig up.”

Sam shook his head, knowing his brother was covering up his concern. “The Jalapeño?”

Dean frowned. “Why not. Maybe we’ll see Elvis and he could put at least one Winchester mystery to rest.”

There was no one even remotely resembling Elvis at the little café, which resembled some of the nicer places Dean had visited in frequent trips to Mexican border towns-with it‘s hot pepper lights and sombrero shaped salt and pepper shakers.

Their waitress was cute though, and Dean found himself adding one more thing to his very short list of things to actually like about New Hope.

The food wasn’t half bad either- Sheriff Landers was right about the burgers- not that Sam would have noticed either way.

“You're not eating.” Dean looked down at his brother's barely touched cheeseburger, and then to Sam who was currently engrossed in one of the books on Native American legends that he'd checked out of the library.

“I'm not as hungry as I thought.” He looked up at Dean. “Did you know that some people believed that Geronimo could change himself into an animal,” a faint smile played on his lips, “a white wolf to be exact.”

Dean ignored the Geronimo comment and the dig at him. “You're not hungry? The human garbage disposal isn't eating his favorite grease-drenched, truck-stop variety cheeseburger?”

Sam sighed and closed the book. “I did eat a big breakfast.”

“That's never stopped you before. You're always hungry.”

"Not today." The younger Winchester looked back to his notes. "I thought you wanted to hear what I had found out so far.”

Dean finished his beer and leaned back against the booth seat. “Go ahead, little brother. Amaze away.”

Sam leaned forward, pushing his untouched plate out of the way so he could spread his notes out. “When Rose said this sort of thing had happened before, she was right. Like I said out at the homestead, there were five victims then. It happened in 1955. Seems the newspapers accredited it to some kind of chemical leak that seeped into Canyon Lake from a factory that use to be around there, although no hard evidence was ever found.” Sam glanced at his brother. “All the deaths took place in a short time span, and stopped just as suddenly as they had started.”

“That was fifty years ago. Did you go back farther to see if there was a pattern?”

Sam rolled his eyes as if his brother thought he was an idiot. “Of course. The records were sketchy from 1905, but I did find mention of an obituary for the town preacher. It seems that he was the fifth person to die from a strange sickness that had been sweeping through the town.”

“Another preacher, and again with the number five.” Dean frowned. “There has to be a connection.”

Sam nodded. “Someone else thought so too. I didn‘t look at all the stuff Sally photocopied until now. But this jumped out at me.”

Sam held up the replicated paper of what looked to be a duplication of a clipping from a newspaper or magazine. Dean raised an eyebrow and his brother rushed on. “This was written by a reporter named Reese Matthers. His wife was one of the victims back in 1955. The article was about Geronimo and the connection to the deaths-it sounds like something straight out of the National Inquirer.”

Something Rose had said back in Tortilla Flats floated through Dean’s thoughts. “Rose said her dad was a reporter, and that her mom had died in New Hope.”

Sam nodded. “I thought the same thing.”

“So what about this Reese? Any way to know if he’s still around anywhere?”

“I’m not sure, but I thought I’d go back and ask Sally about it in the morning. She would have been close to his age.” Sam shook his head and sighed. “I still haven’t found anything that really links any of this to a curse."

His older brother shrugged. "Maybe we're not looking in the right places."

Sam frowned. "Do you really buy the curse idea?"

"I've never seen a curse act like this on a group of people with no apparent connections. I mean there's an Imprint- like when something terrible happens and a certain place is tagged by it's tragedy- like Ground Zero in New York, or that bugged out realty development. I guess it could be a spell of some sort, but those are usually cast on one person or an object."

A faint lop-sided smile appeared on Sam's face and Dean knew exactly what he was thinking. "Don't say it!"

The smile grew and dimples flashed. "Just like in New Orleans."

"I told you not to say it."

"Man, you couldn't stop scratching for days."

"Laugh it up, Sammy. I almost died."

At that Sam did laugh. "Did not, you big baby. The spell was more of an aggravation than anything, but you did look like a Dalmatian for a while."

"I'm glad my suffering amuses you."

"I told you not to touch that box."

"If I recall, I touched it to keep you from touching it. You were such a brat sometimes." Dean shook his head. "Still are."

"Like Dad always said, you have a way with evil things."

"I have a way with women, little brother. I just have a knack for pissing off everything evil."

"Yeah, well, if Dad hadn't found that High Priestess, who knows how things might have turned out."

"Shut-up." Dean tossed a fry at his brother.

Sam grinned in triumph. He loved sticking it to his brother, especially since he so rarely happened on anything that left Dean at a loss for a quick, smart-ass comeback. “You using that jacket?”

Dean looked at the rolled up leather coat tucked into the seat beside him. “You mean my favorite leather jacket which now has a huge hole in it.”

“Yeah, that one. How's the arm by the way?”

Dean rolled his left shoulder, actually surprised by how little it did hurt. “It's good.” He wasn't going to be dissuaded by Sam's diversionary tactics. “Are you cold?”

“Yeah, I left my coat in the car.”

Dean eyed his brother warily. “Are you feeling alright? First you get dizzy, and now you're passing up cheeseburgers and you're cold.” Something scratched at the back of Dean’s thoughts, trying to pry itself into the impenetrable fortress of his unacknowledged fears.

“I'm fine,” Sam lied. In all honesty he felt like shit, but telling his blood hound of a brother that was not an option.

“Sure you are,” Dean handed the jacket to him and motioned to the cute waitress for their check. “I think it‘s time we both got some sleep.”

Sam pulled the worn leather jacket on, feeling a sudden sense of relief from the cold that had seeped into his body sense leaving the Kaplan home. “You sure you don’t want to go by the Kinkade’s? It’s not very late.”

“We have plenty of time to do that tomorrow before we meet with the Sheriff.” Seeing the stubborn look on Sam's face, Dean held up his hands. “Look, I'm tired, okay. Maybe I need some sleep.”

Sam didn't buy it for a minute. The worry reflected in his brother's hazel eyes was completely clear to him, but given that chills were starting to course through his body he decided to play along. “I forget that old people aren’t only shifty, but that they need more rest.”

“Cute,” Dean smirked, tossing a twenty on the table and standing up to go. “Just so long as you remember that I can still kick your ass.”

Sam stood up and gathered his notes and books and followed his brother out. The cold, night air had him shivering and he was glad Dean wasn't watching as his arms involuntarily tightened around his midsection. The pain in his stomach had started shortly after he had sat down to eat, but that was easily attributed to the junk food he'd consumed on this latest job. His overactive imagination was merely trying to catch up with him.Right?

“You've got the keys.” Dean turned towards his brother, as they reached their car that they had left parked in the alley beside the café. “They're in my jacket pocket.”

Sam patted both pockets and frowned. “Sorry, bro, they’re not in here.”

“Damn,” Dean sighed. “They must have fallen out in the booth.” He started for the door of the café again. “I’ll be back.”

Sam watched him go, momentarily wondering if Dean had left the keys on purpose. If he came back with that waitress’s number Sam was going to be seriously pissed. Forget his brother’s libido. He was cold and achy now, and wanted nothing more than to crawl into a warm bed and catch up on the sleep that had evaded him the previous night.

The youngest Winchester put his research on top of the Impala’s roof and leaned his head against his crossed arms, willing the stabbing pain in his skull to a tolerable level.

“He has you in his grasp.”

Sam whirled, his body instinctively going to defensive posture.

Their phantom Indian friend had returned.

“The crow will take the fire and then his set will be complete.”

“Who are you?”

Sam eyed the man cautiously. He was still in the shadows, but from the hunter’s position, the old man’s face was visible and it held a look of what Sam thought could almost pass as sympathy-or regret.

“His power comes from the five great gods-but that is not what keeps him here. To release him, to set us free, you will have to let go of that which you treasure.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Take my hand, and you will.”

The look of misery and confusion on his brother's face instantly caught Dean’s attention as he approached the Impala, but the Indian figure that had just materialized out of the dark shadows in front of Sam had every protective instinct kicking into overdrive.

Dean reached for the gun he had tucked into the back of his jeans about the same time that the Indian reached out for Sam.

“Hey!” Dean yelled, bringing both gazes to him.

“Sam!” Dean made a grab for his brother, but the old man was too quick.

He grabbed the unsuspecting hunter’s arm, jerked him around, and had his arm wrapped around Sam's throat before either Winchester could react. His free hand came up and around grabbing a fistful of Sam's hair, and jerking his head back. “You will listen to my words, young ones.”

Despite the somewhat frail appearance he'd first made, this was not the old man they'd mistaken him for. His face was deeply lined, and his black eyes held a haunted quality that only the wizened and weary contained, but his stare was sharp and hard, and his intent deadly serious. He was obviously corporeal and not like any demon Dean had encountered. Demons and poltergeists rarely took the time to have conversations or hold hostages.

To prove Dean's newest appraisal, he expertly applied pressure to Sam's throat demonstrating his ability to snap the younger man's neck.

Sam gasped involuntarily, his hands coming up to claw at the man’s arm that was efficiently cutting off his oxygen.

He had the displeasure of watching Dean's face twist into a look of rage. “Let him go.” The older Winchester's voice was calm, but icy and the gun he held never wavered from the Indian's face. "Get your fucking hands off my brother."

"I tried to warn you to leave, and then we were not allowed to finish our talk, Mountain Lion. You must listen to me now if you are to save your brother.”

A faint memory nagged at Dean, the Indian’s words sounding hauntingly familiar as his mind tried to retrieve something not quite attainable.

"You call trying to kill me and my car a warning?"

"I have already told you that I had nothing to do with what you speak of. I have no desire to harm you, I merely wanted you to leave."

"If you don't want to harm anyone, let my brother go."

Sam struggled to stay on his feet as more of his air was cut off.” You have sealed all of our fates. I will remain a prisoner and your brother will soon join the other lost ones and all your struggles will be for naught."

"I don't know what you're talking about, old man, but if you hurt my brother you won't have to worry about being anyone's prisoner. Trust me."

The old Indian sighed. “Your weapons will not harm me, or the Crow. This one," Sam hissed in pain as once again his head was jerked back farther, "shares my guide. We are both born of fire- we see that which has not yet come to pass-but you, your power will hold the key in the end."

Every muscle in Dean's body was tense, strumming with the threat to Sam. Forget whatever the hell Chief So Full of Bull was saying. Dean was amazed that his hand was so steady as he slowly squeezed the trigger, challenging the old Indian's resolve. Bullets wouldn't do much to a poltergeist, or whatever the hell he was, but it was all he had at the moment. "Guess what? I’m psychic too-and I see that you’re about to go straight back to the Spirit world if you don't let him go."

A low growl from out of the dark had Dean’s eyes glancing towards the shadows and then back to the Indian. The wolf slowly walked out, circling the three men, it’s tail swishing behind it.

“Navarre believes you are trustworthy-despite your head made of stone.” The Indian nodded to the wolf. “I have never known her to be wrong.” Man and beast shared a look. "You must find the Soul Collector and destroy his power before he completes the pentagram. But be warned, Water will soon be his, and his desire will grow. If you can keep him from the flame, Mountain Lion, you may save us all." As quickly as the capture had happened, the release came, and Dean found himself struggling to keep his brother on his feet.

Sam coughed, trying to pull in the sweet oxygen he'd been denied. Bright spots danced in his field of vision and he was sure he would have hit the ground if Dean hadn't been holding on to him so tightly. "Sam? Sammy, damn it, talk to me."

Dean had managed to push his younger, yet taller brother against the car and was holding him there by the lapels of his own jacket. "It's Sam." Sam coughed again, playing their familiar game.

"Sure it is," Dean sighed with relief. He didn‘t even bother to turn around, knowing that the Indian and his four-legged friend would be gone. "Are you alright?"

Sam reached up and rubbed at his burning throat. "Peachy."

"If I ever get my hands on Tonto, he is just going to wish I was as subtle as Custer."

"What the hell was he talking about? Do you think he was telling the truth about not being the one to attack us?"

Dean returned his gun to the back of his jeans and rubbed at his stiff arm. He had a feeling that the old man was telling the truth-that he‘d already told Dean the truth once before. Of course that idea was way too freaky to be contemplated, so Dean did what he usually did when he didn‘t like something- he mentally salted and toasted the thought. "I don't know. I don't know what the hell to think of any of this."

"Can we go back to the hotel now?"

Dean eyed his brother for a moment before using his fingers to gently probe at the red marks maligning his throat. "You sure you don't need to be checked out."

"What I need is a hot shower and some sleep. That's it."

Dean shook his head. "You need a keeper, that's what you need."

Sam forced a slight smile. "And here all this time I thought I had one."

They’d reached the inn without further incident and Sam had gotten his hot shower, and had even managed to eat some leftover muffins that Maggie had sent up to their room.

“What do you make of that pentagram talk?” Dean was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

The youngest Winchester was now curled on his side, facing the wall, trying to will himself to sleep and to block out the nausea threatening to spurn him from the warmth of the bed. “I don’t know. Before you came out, he mentioned something about five gods.”

“Well a pentagram has five sides and we know it can represent a whole of lot of things, from Venus to protection to black magic. There were apparently five deaths the other times that this-whatever this is-happened.”

Sam rolled over so he could see his brother in the other bed. “He keeps mentioning fire, and water-could be the elements?”

“But five?” Dean frowned. “Earth, fire, air, water-that’s only four.”

“Spirit.” Sam grinned to himself. “Dad would so ream you a new one for leaving that one out.”

The older hunter sighed. “Yeah, well I wish he were here to do it. I really have no fucking clue what’s going on, man.” And a part of him wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know. Maybe getting in the Impala and driving as fast and far away as possible would be the best thing for them all.

Sam could almost feel the frustration in the silence between them. It wasn’t like his brother to let a hunt get to him. The thought of Dean not knowing what to do made Sam more than a little nervous. “At least we know one thing for sure.”

Dean raised up on his elbow and peered through the darkness at his brother. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“Apparently wolves are indigenous to Arizona.”

Dean fell back on the bed with a laugh. Maybe he really was wearing off on Sam. “No shit, Sherlock.” He glanced over at Sam and even in the dark he could see the other hunter watching him. “That will teach you to doubt me, baby brother.”

Sam frowned, despite the joking quality of the other man’s voice. “I’ve never doubted you, Dean.” Hated you. Loved you. Been royally pissed at you. Totally dumbfounded by you-but never doubted you.

Dean held his gaze for a moment longer, then rolled over with a pained sigh and pulled the cover up around him. “There’s a first time for everything, Sam.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d been here. The old house always looked the same.

The fire is coming now, too-just like is always does.

Soon it will be roaring and raging all around him.

But it's nothing new to him.

He's not afraid of it anymore. It's a part of him.

He can feel the heat seeping through his clothes, scorching his skin, hear the animal-like sounds it makes as it breathes and feeds on everything around him.

Sam braces himself for the inevitable- the moment when she'll appear- but Jessica doesn't come this time. It's not her lovely face contorted and twisted in the flames. It's not her voice raised in screams of agony and terror. She isn't calling for him to help her. Not this time.

He thought nothing could hurt as much as watching her suffer and burn, as he stood helpless amidst the chaos- untouched- but he was wrong. This was worse, much worse.

Dean was reaching for him through the fire, begging him to help, not to leave him.

Flames licked at his brother’s clothes, keeping him from moving closer to Sam. The shock of seeing his brother trapped in the burning house with him instead of Jess paralyzed him with fear. He couldn't move, couldn't scream. He could only watch as if he were held captive, being forced to view a movie he couldn't stop or change.

Dean was screaming now. Had he ever heard Dean scream? No. Dean was invincible- untouchable.

Suddenly, Sam was moving towards his brother, determined to save him or die trying.

But hands were holding him back now, instead of the flames.

He pulled against them, silently begging them to let him go-but they held fast.

“It’s too late, Sammy. He’s gone.” A familiar voice rose above the roaring massacre and echoed in his ears, and an old anger swept through him like the heat of the fire. You shouldn’t be here. The thought screamed through his mind.

His brother was dying, slowly and painfully, and all Sam could do was watch as the only person he had left-his only family-was torn from him. Finally, his voice seemed to return and his screams of fury and denial joined with Dean's pain-filled pleas.

“Dean!”

“Hey, Sammy, come on wake up.” Dean was beginning to worry. He'd woken at the very first sign of the nightmare. It was happening less frequently these days but he was still use to this routine jolting him from his sound sleep. But this wasn't one of his brother's typical dreams about Jessica's death.

For one, he was yelling for him and not his dead girl friend, and the sorrow-wrenched sound of his kid brother's voice tore at him. “Sam!” He shook his brother again, determined to stop whatever was hurting his brother, and the younger man's eyes flew open. He jerked himself to a seated position, almost tumbling Dean from his position on the side of the bed.

“Oh, God.” Sam's breath was coming in quick rapid pants, evidence to his racing heart and pulse.

“Take it easy, pal.”

Sam looked startled to see his brother sitting close to him in the dark, just now realizing that Dean had a hold of his shoulder. “Dean?”

His kid brother's voice was hoarse and still held a trace of fear from the night terror. “Yeah, it's me. You okay?”

The reply was as startling as being awoken by the younger Winchester yelling for him. Sam grabbed hold of him and clung to him. Dean could feel his brother trembling as his hands wrapped in the back of his T-shirt and held on for dear life.

Helpless was not a feeling he was use to, but that was the dominant emotion overwhelming him at the moment. Sam hadn't been like this since he was a little kid and would sneak into Dean's room after a bad dream- or after something bad had encountered or attacked their family.

Dean knew he pretty much sucked in the comfort department- avoided such moments like the plague- but for Sam, he'd try it. Surely he could remember how he use to chase his little brother’s demons away. “Sammy, calm down, it's alright. You're okay.”

The older Winchester could feel the heat radiating off his brother as he held him, trying to offer whatever the hell it was that Sam needed. He rubbed his hand over Sam's damp hair. “Take it easy.”

Sam suddenly released him and pushed away, nearly falling as he stumbled his way into the small bathroom on the other side of the room. Dean could hear his brother being sick as he stood up and made his way to the doorway, giving the younger man what little privacy the small suite would allow them.

It was mercifully quick and it wasn't long before Dean heard the sink running and his kid brother emerged looking even more pale and shaken than he had before.

Their eyes met and Dean tried to force a smile. “We're going to have to get you another visit with a shrink or some really powerful sleeping drugs, dude.”

Sam nodded. “Sorry,” his voice was rough from sleep and he looked like shit. He was still trembling, even though sweat glistened on his face and neck.

Dean took a step closer and put his hand to Sam's forehead. “You're burning up, man.”

The younger man moved away and shook his head. “I'm okay. It was just the dream.”

So, Sammy was back to grown up Sam. Dean could do that too. In fact, he preferred it- was better equipped to handle it. “I don't think so. You're sick.”

The words were almost painful, but Dean had realized along time ago that the truth could hurt.

Sam turned away from him and made his way slowly back to his bed. “Don't start.”

Dean headed for his pack that was still on the floor by the door, and rummaged for the bottle of Tylenol he kept. Taking two capsules out of the bottle and grabbing his unfinished Coke from his midnight raid of the Rest Inn’s kitchen, he went back to where his brother was now just a lump under the covers. “Take these, Sam.”

His brother rolled over and glared at him, but took the offering just the same. Good thing too, because Dean didn't feel like wrestling him and forcing them down his throat, which he'd also done when Sam was younger. Funny how he'd been Sam's parent more than their own father had. Funny that things still hadn't changed a whole hell of a lot.

Looking into his kid brother's overly bright eyes, he suddenly felt very tired and very angry that their dad was nowhere to be found. He eased himself back onto the bed, continuing to watch Sam.

His brother had been dizzy, cold at the diner, and hadn't had an appetite. Now he had a fever, and had been sick. All flu-like symptoms. Mrs. Kaplan had said her husband had thought he had the flu.

Of course the fever and nausea could have been from whatever sleep-induced trauma Sam had been facing, but the way that the Winchester luck ran, Dean wasn't counting on it.

“I don't have it,” Sam gave voice to his fears. “We're not from New Hope, we have no connection here.”

The younger Winchester knew exactly what his brother was thinking. He wasn't entirely sure of his lame counter, considering the second victim had no apparent connection to the town either, but he couldn't stand the look on Dean's face. Not so soon after seeing that same face trapped in the deadly flames that had taken Jessica from him.

“Please don't worry.” The words the old Indian had said to Sam about the Crow tried to take away whatever security he was trying desperately to salvage and share so he fought them off with a shiver. “I’m okay.”

Dean swallowed hard, trying not to choke on the lump that had suddenly sprung to his throat from the deep recesses of worst fears he kept tucked away inside. “Get some sleep.” In an uncharacteristic move, he reached out and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “If you're not better in the morning, we'll find the local sawbones in this town and have him check you out.”

Sam yawned. “You gonna’ have a showdown at noon in the middle of town too?”

“Considering how these last two days have played out-it’s a possibility.”

He took the Coke from Sam and placed it on the night stand, resisting the urge to pull the covers up and tuck his kid brother in. Sam was a grown man for Christ's sake. Instead, he raked his hands through his hair and made his way to his own bed.

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam’s voice was quiet, sleep already tugging him back to it’s unforgiving embrace.

Dean pushed his worries away, locking them back where they belonged, and slipped under the covers. For some reason his brother’s gratitude seemed ironic and the older hunter felt a rush of guilt overwhelm him. “Goodnight, Sammy.”

Onto Chapter 5

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