In The Company of Dragons

By: Ridley C. James

Beta: Tidia

Disclaimer: Nothing Supernatural belongs to me. All those lovely men are property of Kripke Enterprise and The CW.

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Chapter 4/7

"Do not trifle with dragons, for you are small and crunchy and taste good with ketchup." --author unknown

“Is this the kind of bridge you're building at school?” Sam held the glue as Caleb carefully locked the next piece of the model into place. They were spread out in the middle of the parlor floor, the seven-year-old sprawled on his belly, Scout curled close to his side, sound asleep.

The dark haired hunter sat cross-legged, his bottom lip held precariously between his teeth as he released the newly bonded crossbeam. Reaves blew out a breath, dislodging his long bangs that had fallen across his eyes, and glanced at the seven-year-old. He smiled. “Kind of, squirt.”

“You're building the Golden Gate Bridge at school?” Dean looked up from the movie he was watching from his perch on the couch and snorted skeptically. “And here I thought you were in the special classes.”

“I'm gifted,” Sam announced, proudly, as he handed Reaves the next beam. “I go to special classes sometimes. There's nothing wrong with that. ”

“Actually,” Caleb pointedly ignored the older Winchester, taking the next piece from Sam, “At school, I'm recreating a very scaled down version of the Tower Bridge….. it's a famous bridge in London. I saw it there last year.”

“Is it the one that falls down? Like the song?” Sam asked and Dean snorted again.

“If Caleb built it, then it will definitely fall down, kiddo.”

“Do you hear something, Sammy?” Caleb asked, as he locked the newest piece in place. “Sounds like old Clemens got into the fescue again.” Clemens was Jim's donkey and he was as loud as he was cantankerous.

Sam giggled. “Yep, lots of braying.”

“Yeah, sure sounds like a real ass.”

“You guys are so funny.”

Before Reaves or Sam could reply, the phone in the kitchen rang. The psychic quickly pushed himself up from the floor. “No building without the engineer.” Caleb pointed a finger at Sam.

“But I'm the architect,” the little boy huffed, watching the psychic go.

“You're a geek is what you are,” Dean said, sitting up and stretching. “A geek who needs to get ready for bed.”

“But I thought we were sleeping outside? And we haven't even cooked hotdogs yet.”

The blond rolled his eyes. “Have you talked to your comedy partner about that, Costello?” Dean nodded towards the hallway, where Caleb's hushed voice could barely be heard coming from the kitchen. “He hates to camp.”

“He'll do it,” Sam said confidently, rolling over onto his back, watching Scout's paws move in a running motion as she slept.

“And what makes you so sure?”

“I just know,” the little boy explained with a shrug. Dean had a sinking suspicion his brother was quite aware of the power he wielded, growing more cognizant of it every day.

“That was your dad,” Caleb said, coming back into the room. “They're on their way home.”

“Then we have to hurry.” Sam sat up, startling Scout out of her bunny-chasing dreams. She yawned and crawled into the kid's lap, with an unhappy grunt.

“To do what?” Reaves looked from the youngest Winchester to his blond brother.

“Eat dinner.” Dean offered. “You were supposed to feed us, you know.”

“You ate.”

“Mayonnaise on crackers does not count as actual food.”

“Didn't stop you from sucking them in, now did it?”

“Hotdogs,” Sam shouted. “Over the fire.”

“Who said?” Caleb planted his hands on his hips.

“Pastor Jim said.” The seven year old stood up, dragging his pup up with him. “We're camping at the pond.”

The psychic watched the boys' faces. “Jim didn't tell me that. And neither did your dad.”

“Since when does Dad tell you what to do?” Dean joined his brother. “I thought you were a big boy now?”

“Don't manipulate me, Deuce.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

“Please, Caleb?” Sam asked, sweetly. “Please, please, pretty please with a cherry on top?”

Caleb shook his head at the master manipulator. “Alright.” The dark haired hunter held up his hands. It wasn't entirely unusual for him to cave, but it usually took more cajoling and sometimes a shedding of tears.

However after the previous night's events and John's information sharing earlier in the day, he felt even more beholding to the youngest of their clan. Still… he had an image to maintain. “But if I so much as get my ass chewed over this, you two are going down. Hard.”

“Down where?” Sam asked, and Dean laughed.

Reaves sighed. “Never mind.” He looked at the older boy. “You two grab the food, and I'll go down to the cellar and get the tent. Let's get things set up while there's still some daylight left.” He waited for the twelve year old to nod and then started for the hallway.

“Told ya,” Sam said softly once Caleb was out of earshot.

Dean frowned, watching the psychic's retreating form as he made his way towards the basement door. Something was definitely off.

First, Caleb had read Sam a story the night before after bringing him to bed piggy-back style, then he'd quit researching early to work on the bridge with his duly appointed 'architect', and now he was agreeing to camp-outside. The adolescent was tempted to toss some holy water on him just to be safe.

“Let's go.” Sam was tugging on his arm now, interrupting his train of thought. “Daddy will be home soon.”

“I better not take the blame for this one, little brother,” Dean mumbled as they made their way into the kitchen. “If Dad blows a gasket again tonight, then you're dealing with it without me.”

“Sure.” Sam grinned, placing Scout on the floor and grabbing the wicker picnic basket that always sat near the table. He opened the refrigerator and began to dig, the black Lab nosing right along with him.

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother's apparent lack of concern. He went about gathering the rest of things they would need for the night, including Sam's jacket and his cold medicine. When they were done, Caleb had not returned from the cellar, so the boys ventured out on to the porch to collect Atticus, and the lanterns Jim hung there.

The sun was setting just beyond the rolling hills and the sky was cast in that odd shade caught somewhere between orange and not quite red. Sam swung the picnic basket back and forth, as he watched a family of ants travel across the railing with minute pieces of bread crumbs donned on their hardworking backs.

“Did you know ants can carry twenty times their body weight?” He asked his brother, and Dean shook his head, turning back to the sunset. Sometimes he just didn't understand where his brother came from. “That would be like you carrying Dad and Pastor Jim and maybe even Caleb on your back.”

“But a magnifying glass and the sun can take them out like that.” Dean snapped his fingers and let his hand hover precariously over the band of insects. “Or…”

“Don't!” Sam grabbed his arm, frowning at the other boy's obvious intentions to wipe out the whole family. “I mean it, Dean!”

“And how are you going to stop me, oh great defender of the arachnid.”

“They aren't arachnids!” Sam retorted. “They’re arthropods. They have segmented bodies and six legs.”

“But they’re still really easy to smash.” Dean taunted, bringing his hand down again, despite his brother's death grip.

“Dean! I'll tell!”

Dean laughed, jerking his arm free just as they heard a car turn into the long gravel drive. “There's Dad now. You can squeal all you want about me trying to murder the helpless insects.”

“That's not Dad.” Sam pointed. “It's a limousine, like famous people drive.”

The older boy turned, holding his hand up to block the sun as he peered in the direction of the twisting drive. His brother was right. A long black car swiftly approached them, thick, yellow dust billowing behind it.

“Does Pastor Jim know somebody rich?” Sam asked, bending down to pick up Scout as Atticus began to bark, and prance about.

Dean shrugged, his face scrunching in concentration as he tried to see through the darkened glass. “Could be somebody Mac knows. Maybe his old man? He had a limo that time in New York.”

Both boys stepped from the porch as the car came to a stop in the drive near Caleb's Jeep and Jim's old pick-up. Sam started to move closer, but Dean reached out a hand and stopped him. “Wait.”

The driver's door of the car opened and a man in a dark uniform exited. He didn't acknowledge the boys or the barking dog as he walked around and opened the back door. Two men piled out, also dressed in dark suits.

Dean took a reflexive step back, pushing his brother behind him. The men were huge, reminding the pre-teen of the men you'd see as 'protection' on the Godfather movies.

“Maybe it is a movie star?” Sam whispered in awe as the door was held for someone else to exit the vehicle.

Before Dean could reply he was betting on Scarface, an older man stepped out. Atticus continued to bark furiously, his hair standing up along the ridge of his back. Despite the fact the most the big baby would do was to probably lick the strangers to death, Dean felt better knowing he at least sounded vicious.

“Hello there,” the newest man called out, taking a small step towards them.

Dean took another step back, shoving Sam behind him once more. He eyed the man, warily.

The guy was at least six feet, tanned, with silvery-blond hair, mustache, and neatly trimmed beard, which was peppered with subtle streaks of a darker gray. His friendly smile and genial speech did nothing to put the well-trained adolescent at ease. “You must be Dean and Samuel Winchester?”

Atticus lunged forward and Dean reached down to grab his collar as the man took another step towards them. “Who are you?” the twelve-year-old snapped, not liking the idea the man knew their names.

“I'm Charles. I'm a friend of your father's.”

“What's the pass word then?” Sam asked, stepping from behind his brother, only to have Dean grab his arm.

“Shut up, Sam.” He ordered, to which Sam's lip puffed out in defiance.

“We're not suppose to talk to strangers without the safe word, Dean.”

“Your brother's right.” Charles conceded with a slightly amused laugh. “Perhaps I should talk to someone else. That is, if anyone is home?” His light eyes flicked towards the farm house behind them.

“We're not alone.” Dean quickly assured the man, inching closer back towards the house, pulling Atticus with him.

“That's good.” The man nodded, “then can I speak with your father?”

Dean feared his brother would speak up again, telling the man John wasn't there, but he didn't have a chance as the screen door banged and the dangerous voice of Caleb Reaves echoed around them instead. “Who the hell are you?”

The psychic was by their side before Dean could turn around to face him. The twelve-year-old suddenly found himself being pushed into the background as the older hunter stepped in front of him and ordered Atticus to sit, and shut-up.

“I'm Charles Conner.”

Caleb and the newcomer appraised each other, before Reaves glanced down to Dean. “You two okay?”

“We're fine,” Dean harrumphed, torn between being annoyed at the hunter for treating him like a little kid, and grateful he was there-standing between this potential threat and his little brother.

“And you are?”

Caleb looked up at the man as if he had just beamed down from a hovering mother ship. “I'm the man asking the questions.”

The two suits who had held back near the car now strode up to flank Conner, like well-trained pit bulls sensing the threat the psychic represented. “I see.”

“Take your brother in the house, Dean,” Reaves said, quietly, as he watched the men step slightly in front of their boss.

“That won't be necessary,” Conner said, motioning for his bodyguards to hold back. “There's no threat to the boys here, Mr. Reaves.”

“Really?” If Caleb was shocked the man knew his name, he didn't show it.

“Yes. I actually came to see them. If you'll get John out here. He'll explain.”

“That won't be happening.”

“And why not?”

“Did you miss the part where I said I was the only one asking the questions? All that money and you can't afford a hearing aid?”

Conner's smile faded. “You are exactly what I imagined, young Caleb. All that money and you still lack manners and good breeding. Of course, your Grandfather's money can't really buy those, now can it?”

“This is private property. You need to leave.”

“I'm not leaving until I talk with Dean and Samuel.”

“Why do you want to talk to us?” The twelve-year-old stepped from around the psychic.

“Deuce…” Caleb growled, catching his shoulder before he could get past him. “Go in the house. Now.”

“I'm not leaving you alone with them.” The kid jutted his chin towards the bulking men.

“Brave and loyal. Two qualities I admire in a young man.” Charles spoke, thoughtfully. “And I must say, you do look so much like your mother.”

Dean's eyes shot up at that comment. Caleb felt his muscles tense beneath the grip he had on his shoulder. He glared up at Conner. “Don't talk to him. Neither of them.”

“You knew our mom?” Sam asked once again evading his brother's protection. He held Scout closer to him, the little puppy wiggling in anticipation to check out the new humans.

“Go. In. The. House.” Caleb bit out, between clenched teeth and both Winchesters looked up at him. The older hunter often snapped at them and bickered with them, but rarely did he take the tone his words held now. Unless they were on a hunt, Dean thought, and only when there was danger present.

The blond reassessed Conner. He seemed harmless. Dean could have taken him out, himself. The muscle was a different story. Probably well-trained and packing, but they'd be no match for Reaves. Even without a gun or blade, the psychic was lethal in hand to hand. Then there were his abilities. But, if these were merely humans, there would be rules where that was concerned. Still…

“Come on, Sammy.” Dean finally decided it was best to do as Caleb had ordered them. He took hold of his brother's arm.

“She was my daughter.”

That stopped them both. Through the slight buzz in his ears, the oldest Winchester heard Reaves's muttered 'fucking bastard' under his breath.

“That's not true!” Dean snapped, his grip automatically tightening on Sam, who was now looking at the stranger with a familiar hint of awe. “Her family is dead.”

“Get the hell out of here now before I call the police,” Caleb threatened, “or worse.”

“Do call the police.” Charles took his eyes from the boys, leveled them on the psychic. “I'd love to explain about your exploits. Tell them all about the Brotherhood. What might they find if they did a search of Pastor Jim's home? How many bodies are buried around the perimeter of this old place?”

So that was it. Caleb snorted. “You have no idea what your messing with Conner.”

“Oh, but I think I do. And I don't think I want my grandson involved.”

The use of the singular didn't go unnoticed by Dean or Reaves. “There's two of us, and we're not anything to you.”

Reaves took a chance and removed his eyes from Charles. He squeezed Dean's shoulder. “Just go in the house.” The word please didn't pass his lips, but the blond was almost certain he heard it echoed in his thoughts, along with an order to go into the secret passage in the library. 'Lock the door, Deuce. Don't come out, no matter what, not without the password.'

Dean hesitated. Even when Reaves squeezed his arm painfully, letting him know the words were not imagined. 'Run.'

Caleb had read Charles' thoughts. The man knew that John was gone. He knew who the young hunter was, that he was alone with the children and had no intention of leaving, not without Sam. He had official papers. His goons were packing. They were ready to make sure the boy was removed. But Reaves wasn't about to let that happen.

Sam had grown quiet, shrinking back after Caleb had telepathically told him the man was dangerous-to follow his brother's lead. The boys had played the secret communication game before. Usually during hunts or some other scenario where the psychic's abilities could garner them some sort of advantage, like when they played Goldfish or Poker for Oreos. John frowned on it, especially with Sam, but desperate situations called for forbidden measures.

“Samuel should stay here,” Charles spoke, decisively. “He'll be accompanying me for the first of many visits.”

“No,” Sam and Dean spoke at the same time. Atticus began barking again as if he could sense the building tension…the fear from the boys.

“That's not going to happen,” Caleb growled, again silently ordering both boys to retreat.

He barely had time to register the goons were moving closer when Charles was reaching for Sam. On instinct, he grabbed the man's wrist, used his momentum to twist him around, so he was now brandishing him like a shield in front of his body.

It was a tried and true maneuver, one that should have worked. One that would have worked if Charles hadn't brought his hands up to try and remove the psychic's arm from his neck.

His fingers wrapped around Reaves' muscled forearm, and the setting sun reflected on the shiny gold cuff-lengths he was wearing. The sparkle was just enough to bring Caleb's eyes to one of them, and the oddly ornate cross etched there.

A burst of intense pain exploded in his skull, a blinding array of laser-like beams of colors flashed on and off. He couldn’t help the gasp of pain. Dean said his name, the fear-laced tone tugging at him to hold on-to fight what he knew was coming. But it was too late. The vision had taken hold.

He felt his knees give way. Not now. His heavier and taller frame crumpled into Conner, bringing them both to the ground.

The Winchesters called out to him as he went down. He heard Atticus' furious barking and felt the gravel kicked up by the bodyguards moving in as it bit into his skin. But his grip failed, and Charles was free.

A disconnected part of Reaves’ brain tried to kick in, knew instinctively he should be in a defensive posture, should have been readying himself for physical combat, but his psychic mind had other ideas. He was on his hands and knees, trying to stay conscious, when he felt the first sharp blow to his side.

“Hey!” Dean yelled, as King Kong and his buddy, Godzilla, advanced on Reaves. The twelve-year-old had recognized the signs of the impending vision, having witnessed the pained look on Caleb’s face only the night before. Dean didn’t understand everything about the psychic’s abilities, but he did know they left him vulnerable. And this was not the time they could afford to be in a weak position. He watched helplessly as the men completely ignored him.

The big ape stopped long enough to pull the Winchester’s self-professed grandfather up from the ground as his slightly larger and uglier friend viciously landed a kick to the defenseless psychic.

Atticus rounded on the struggling men, snapping, growling, trying to defend his family, missing teeth and arthritic hips be damned, as the stormy melee intensified around them.

The vision was so consuming, Caleb now barely heard the barking dog and the shouting. He felt the first blow to his ribs as if from some drug-dulled haze. Still, the force of the action stole his breath, and flipped him over on his back, where he was looking up into the bright sun-a looming body hovering above him.

He wasn't sure if it was the monster he had been dreaming about or one of Conner's goons until he saw the hands coming for his throat just before the scene morphed into inky night, the light becoming mere pinpricks of glowing planets.

There was the sense of danger and then came the intense child-like terror welling up inside of him followed by the second-hand pain as the little boy he was connecting with was struck repeatedly. The viciousness of what was taking place inside of his mind instantly overshadowed the trauma his physical self was experiencing concurrently.

Hands were around his neck now…squeezing. God. He couldn’t move…couldn’t breathe. And then the familiar darkness started creeping into his peripheral vision, slowly covering the bright flashes of color exploding around him. Just as he felt the little boy’s neck give way, he thought he heard Sam scream, and then blackness took him out of both scenarios.

Dean didn't think, he merely moved. Launched himself onto the back of the goon that was viciously stomping Caleb, between kicking out at Atticus.

He jerked the thug's neck hard enough for him to stumble back a few feet from Reaves' prone form. Unfortunately, he didn't have a tight enough grip though, and soon found himself face-down on the dirt as he was thrown from Godzilla's back with a force similar to the time he had the brilliant idea to ride Clemens bareback.

Sam screamed his name. He was afraid his little brother was actually going to try the same stupid move he had, but then the Conner guy was shouting, too, and moving towards them.

“Don't hurt the children!” He ordered, as King Kong was taking over Godzilla's job of beating Caleb. “Leave them out of it!”

Dean pushed himself to his knees just as Charles grabbed his arm, trying to pull him over to where the chauffer had a struggling Sam cornered by the car. “Let me go,” the blond growled, jerking free, just as he watched the ape-like goon grab Caleb so his lizard-faced buddy could deliver a few fisted blows to his mid-section and a powerful right cross to his jaw.

“Caleb!” Sam shouted, fighting vainly to get loose from the driver. “Dean!”

“Stop it!” Dean shouted, going after the goons again. “Let him go. Leave him alone!”

Charles wrapped his arms around the twelve-year-old boy’s chest in an attempt to stop his advance back into the fray. “Do as he says!” He ordered when he realized he couldn't hold the pre-teen back much longer, but the men continued to pound on Reaves. “Monroe! Hankins! Leave him. It's finished.”

Finally the punishment stopped, but the man holding Caleb didn't let him go. Instead, he swung him around slamming him into the side of Jim's old pick-up where his head met the side-view mirror with a sickening crack. Only then, did he release Reaves, and the twenty-year-old slumped to the ground in a boneless heap.

“Ultimate fighter, my ass.” Dean heard the goon laugh as he jerked completely free from Conner. Apparently, the men had been expecting a formidable opponent. Something they would have gotten ten-fold if Reaves' psychic mojo hadn't interfered at the worst possible moment.

Dean glared at the man as he moved past him to get to Reaves. “You don't know how lucky you got, shit for brains,” he grit out as he dropped to his knees by the unmoving hunter.

“Dean?” Sam asked breathlessly, appearing by his side, Atticus and Scout in his wake. “Dean…is he okay?”

The older boy reached a shaky hand out, let it rest against the psychic's throat. He was relieved when a fast pulse pounded beneath his fingertips. “He's alive,” he said, glancing up at his little brother, who was perched on the other side of Caleb.

“He's bleeding,” Sam's voice hitched and Dean glanced to where the little boy's hand rested in the psychic's dark hair. Sure enough, shiny wetness soaked the long strands, now starting to seep onto the pale skin of his forehead. “A lot,” the seven-year-old whispered, lifting his hand. Red coated the palm and each finger.

“Damn it,” Dean growled, suddenly, realizing something was missing. Caleb had yet to move. He'd been still…deathly still. “He's not breathing.”

Sam started to cry, as Dean moved his hands to the older hunter's shoulder and gave him a hard shake. “Caleb!” he snapped, shaking him again. “Come on, man. Don't do this.”

“What?” Conner knelt beside the boy. “You must be mistaken.” He reached out to touch the psychic's chest for himself, but Sam's dark eyes lifted and he lashed out at him.

“Don't touch him! You did this. You hurt him.”

“Caleb!” Dean had moved to roughly tapping the hunter's face now, as he fought off his own emotional outburst. Still, his eyes stung, and the lifeless form of his friend blurred in and out as tears marred his sight. “Please wake up.”

“Call an ambulance,” Charles barked to someone, although neither of his grandsons acknowledged his command. He hadn't planned on hurting the Reaves' boy. The idea was to remove Sam without incident, or at the very most, send a message to John he meant business.

“But Mr. Conner…,” one of the goons objected, only to have the business man cut him off.

“One of you idiots call the damn ambulance,” he ground out, “and if you've messed up my plans I will have you both exiled to the Greenland branch office.”

The bigger of the two bodyguards, stepped away, pulling his cell phone as he did. Conner turned back to the injured hunter and the boys. Reaves had yet to move, and for a moment, Charles felt a pang of guilt at what he had done.

He had lied when he told Mackland Ames' son he was everything he had expected. The business man had not bargained on the fact the boy cared for his grandsons. But it was painfully obvious he did, and the sentiment was returned by Samuel and Dean.

“Dean…do something,” Sam pleaded, his eyes going to his big brother.

Dean lifted his eyes from Caleb's starkly white face to meet his brother's panicked gaze for a moment. He wasn't sure what he should do. Reaves had started breathing on his own the night before. It had been over in a few seconds, and Jim and their father had been there. But now on top of the vision he'd experienced, he was injured.

“An ambulance is on the way,” Conner spoke up.

Dean shot him a glare before placing his ear close to Caleb's blue tinged lips once more. “Come on, come on….please.”

Just as Dean was wishing like hell that he'd paid closer attention to the last lesson on CPR that Pastor Jim had given them, Caleb's body finally jerked beneath his hands and the psychic took a gasping breath. “That's it.” The twelve-year-old released his own breath he'd subconsciously been holding. “Come on, Damien,” he coaxed.

Another shudder and a calmer, but raspier inhale had the brothers looking at each other, sharing watery, relieved smiles. “Caleb?” Sam leaned closer, patted the psychic's face. “Are you awake?”

Caleb blinked trying to bring his surroundings into view. His head felt as if it had been torn from his body, used as the game ball in a battle royal between the Cowboys and the Steelers and then replaced non-too gently for his enjoyment. Then there were his protesting ribs. Every breath sent a fiery pain in his chest. He was pretty sure passing out again was a good idea until he heard Dean's voice.

“Caleb! You need to wake up, man. Please.” Dean didn't know what else to do. Daddy Warbucks was there to snatch Sammy and their best line of defense had just been trashed by Goliath times two.

“Deuce?” Caleb tried to lift his head, but found the slightest movement sent a spike of pain into his skull, radiating through out his central nervous system. “Shit!” He ground out, between clenched teeth.

“Caleb?” Sam's voice was scared and sounded younger than usual. He felt the little boy's fingers wrap around his hand. It gave the psychic the motivation he needed to roll himself over onto his side, where he fought the urge to be sick. He was messed up, but the situation wasn't allowing the luxury of wallowing in his injuries. There would be time to lick his wounds later. After the boys were safe. After he had killed the bastards who put him in the situation in the first place.

“Are you okay?” Dean's hands found his arm, pulling as Caleb carefully shoved against the unforgiving gravel. The bite of the sharp rocks digging into the palm of his hand clearing some of the cobwebs from his addled mind. He could feel something warm and sticky flow across his cheek as his center of gravity shifted and he leaned back against Jim‘s truck.

“I'm…good.” Reaves managed, taking a shallow breath and biting his lip to keep from crying out, when a sharp pain lanced through his side. He just hoped it wasn't a piece of his rib piercing a lung. “It's okay, kiddo.” He gasped as Sam crouched timidly beside of him, Scout crawled into his lap.

“This could have gone much smoother, Reaves,” Conner snapped as if Caleb had cost him time and resources. “You shouldn't have interfered.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Caleb glared up at the man. “But it's only going to get worse if you don't get the hell out of here.”

“I came for what is rightfully mine.” He looked from Dean to Sam. “I'm taking Samuel with me.”

“No!” Dean stood up, his fists clenched in defiance. “Sammy's not going anywhere with you. Ever!”

“Son.” Conner stepped towards the boy. “I don't want you to have a bad impression of me. I'm not the bad guy here.” He held his hand out to the adolescent. “We're family.”

“Stay away from him,” Caleb growled, as he struggled to his knees. Despite the quickly tilting world, adrenaline helped him manage the miracle of actually getting to his feet.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the psychic, and then back to his grandfather.

“Too late for that,” he snorted. “The good guys don't sic their pit bulls on people. And I already have a family.”

Charles sighed, combing his manicured fingers through his hair. “Mr. Reaves brought this upon himself.”

“Caleb didn't do nothin'!” Sam shouted, as he clung to Caleb's hip with one arm, puppy held tightly in his other.

The psychic reached out and wrapped a hand in Dean's shirt, pulling him back against the truck, close to him. He wasn't sure how effective his abilities would be with the concussion, so he hoped to offer some form of physical protection, no matter how meager it was.

“Get the hell out of here, Conner! And take your trash with you.” Caleb glanced at King Kong, and the man let out a startled yelp.

The bodyguard started to claw at his throat, gasping for the air he could no longer take in. Amazing thing, that little gland at the base of the brain which regulated the respiratory system. Reaves grinned, despite the agony his fun was costing him. “That is… unless you want to join all those bodies that Pastor Jim has buried around this old place.”

A look in Godzilla's direction had him collapsing to his knees, cradling his skull in agony. Of course there were rules about using his talents against humans, but no one, including Mr. Morality, Mackland Ames, could fault him this.

He was no good to the boys physically. This was their only chance. Reaves inclined his head to Conner, even as he felt a fiery pain erupt in his own skull. “You're next,” he bit out.

“What the hell are you?” Charles' shocked gaze went from his fallen men to Reaves, who was slumped against the old Chevy, arms protectively outstretched in front of the boys.

“Me? I'm just your average, pissed off, psycho.” Caleb forced a grin. “You know what kind of research my father does. I'm sure your elitist group has had a good laugh over his obsession with parapsychology.”

He watched fear and uncertainty flicker across Conner's face, and decided to monopolize on it. “I won't… hesitate in killing you. If you've done your research so thoroughly-” and Caleb was sure he had. He took a halting breath, “-if you know anything about me-about the Brotherhood- you should know that.”

The businessman's eyes went from Sam, who was still clinging to the hunter's leg, to Dean, back to Reaves. His brow furrowed, and he clenched his hands into fists. It was obvious he was a man use to getting his way, but a warhorse of his caliber also new when to retreat to fight another day. “You realize, I'm coming back.”

“Then you're dumber than you look,” Dean snapped, quickly. “My dad will tear you apart.”

Even as he said it Reaves felt him tremble slightly, heard his voice crack, marginally. The impressive bravado only carried so far when Sam was truly at risk. Sometimes it was easy to forget that the twelve-year-old was still a kid, not a grown-up trapped in a boy's body. But at times, like the one at hand, it was hard to remember him as anything but the painfully quiet, timid five-year-old Caleb had first met. The one he had instantly felt protective of.

Caleb released his mental hold on the two bodyguards, watched them collapse, gasping and panting with relief. He wanted them gone more than he wanted his revenge. “Go, before I change my mind…about the new fertilizer.”

“Get up, you imbeciles,” Conner snarled, casting a disgusted look in his hired protection's direction, gesturing them towards the car. Jerking the back door open himself, he shot another angry glare in Reaves' direction, as the men staggered to their feet and piled in the limo. “I will be calling on Johnathan again tomorrow. Tell him we will come to an agreement, or I'll carry through on my plans to expose the lot of you.”

Caleb replied with a weak raise of his hand, a gesture of body language that spoke volumes as to what he thought of Conner's regards to Winchester. Jim would have been proud he didn't speak the sentiment out loud. “Call first next time. It's…polite etiquette, you know.”

Conner let the slamming of the door suffice as his reply. Reaves watched the black car turn and speed down the drive. Atticus started barking again, but remained in his seated position by Dean's side.

Caleb felt the last reserves of his strength melt away and his legs folded like bone had been replaced by that stuff Gumby was made of. “Shit,” he cursed as his bottom struck the ground, despite Dean's best efforts to keep him vertical.

“Caleb?” Sam was somehow still attached to his side. He winced at the panicked, high-pitch, shrill-like quality of his name.

“Inside voice, Sammy. Inside,” he mumbled as his eyes tried to succumb to the encroaching black void tugging at his consciousness.

“Stay awake!” A sharp stinging sensation had him blinking, and glaring at Dean.

“You did not just slap me, Deuce?”

He heard the familiar laugh, although it seemed to crumble into a sob-like mix at the end. “Stay awake…or next time I'm using my fist.”

Reaves snorted, his head lolling back against the door of the truck. “Like you can hit, Deana.”

“Apparently better than you, bitch.” The twelve-year-old shot back and Reaves groaned.

“Bite me.”

A sound of a vehicle approaching had Reaves's body jerking, as depleted adrenaline reserves tried to kick in. “Easy.” Dean's hand was warm on his. “It's Dad.”

About that time the wail of a siren echoed in the distance and the psychic groaned. “I am in such…big trouble.”

“It's not your fault.” Sam assured, raking his fingers through Caleb's long hair. “You saved us.” The action had Reaves's eyes stinging and a lump sprung to his throat. He'd screwed up big time, given Conner even more ammunition against them, and the boy thought he was some kind of freakin' hero.

“Dean?” Caleb turned his hand, squeezed the fingers resting over his to get the kid‘s attention.

The younger boy looked at him, expectantly. “Tell them what happened…tell them what Conner said. Make sure Johnny knows.”

“You can,” he countered quickly. “You'll be fine and…”

Reaves licked his lips. “Just listen to me for once…“

A hint of panic marred the young face and his grip became crushing. Because he looked so scared, so un-Dean-like, Caleb forced a grin, even as he felt his resolve fail, his consciousness fading. “And Deuce… stop holding my hand…you're turning into such a girl…”

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