Paper Tiger

By Ridley C. James, September 2007

Beta: Tidia

Disclaimer: Nothing Supernatural belongs to me sadly. If it did I’d leave things along.

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Chapter 5/11

Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright
In the forests of the night.
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
-William Blake

“What do you mean Caleb’s disappeared?” Pastor Jim Murphy was not in a Godly place at the current moment. No amount of scripture no matter how heart-felt was offering him any kind of solace. The only sermons he could recall, the only ones even remotely striking a chord were a few that rang with fire and brimstone and promised apocalyptic endings. He twisted the silver ring on his finger, watching the men before him. He was close to losing his patience. “The boy can’t have just vanished.” He turned to Ames. "Did you try to use your abilities?"

"Yes." Mackland shook his head, guilt at his failure easily read in his gray eyes. "It's the same as it was with the boys."

“Dean and Sam vanished.” John was quick to point out. Bobby and Mackland shot him a familiar look. One he easily interpreted. Of course he had left his children alone and unprotected in a house in the middle of nowhere. “Caleb was apparently as vulnerable as they were.”

“He’s not a child.” Bobby defended as if his judgment and competence were being called into question. “I know you didn’t want him hunting with Fisher, John but…”

“He’s my child.” Ames reminded Singer. “My son, who you said would be going on a simple hunt if I’m not mistaken. I don’t recall liking the idea of him hunting with Fisher either.”

“I did send him on a simple hunt! And if you’ve missed this little fact while buried in your mounds of books, Caleb wears a ring now. He’s officially on the big boy roster, and falls into normal rotation whether we like it or not. You knew what he was in for when you signed him up for the team.”

“Boys!” Jim snapped. “Enough of this petty bickering. Caleb’s misfortune most likely has nothing to do with the current hunt he and Fisher were on as we all are well aware. It is more than likely whoever took Dean and Samuel, has also taken Caleb.”

“You’re right.” Mackland ran a finger over his eyebrow. “I’m sorry.” He briefly met Bobby’s eyes before returning his attention to The Guardian. “What did Hughes tell you, Jim?”

Murphy sighed. “Not much. Especially not enough for me to have taken time away from the crisis at hand.” The medium had been hesitant to meet, mysteriously requesting The Guardian come alone. Jim was tempted to tell the man he was the only one in the position to hand out ultimatums, but kept his calm in light of the fact Duran might actually know something. Hughes was prickly. “He told me ‘Et tu Brute’.”

“You’re joking, right?” John shook his head, a curtain of crimson red slowly descending over his face. “The bastard called you out to quote more Shakespeare?”

Jim lifted a hand requesting a rare moment of patience from The Knight. “He said another message from Julian had come through during a private séance. Julian kept repeating the line ‘Et tu Brute’. “

“And that’s it?” Mackland asked.

“Duran did go on a bit about how he found the whole scenario disrupting to his business and how he has high hopes that I will resolve whatever issue I am currently facing so former members of The Brotherhood will leave him be.”

“That sounds about right.” Bobby snorted.

“So we’ve gone from Macbeth to Julius Caesar.” Mackland reclaimed his seat at the table.

“What exactly does that mean?” Bobby asked.

John clenched his fists. “That someone’s going to stab Jim in the back.”

Singer rolled his eyes at Winchester. “Contrary to popular belief I have half a brain, John. I know what the damn quote means. I’ve even read Julius Caesar, thank you very much.”

Mackland looked to John. “So you’re back to thinking this has more to do with Jim than with The Triad?”

“Hell, Mac, I don’t know. But the best damn way to shake The Guardian would to be to rattle The Triad.”

“If someone wanted to kill The Guardian, they would most definitely take out the other members of The Triad.” Bobby agreed with John. “It’s happened before in past generations.”

“Take us out, yes.” John replied. “But they could have easily done that a hundred different ways without taking the boys.”

“It leads me to believe it is not my physical demise that someone wants.” Jim ran his fingers through his hair. “John’s observation holds true for me also. It is not like I live in a fortress or travel with bodyguards. Any hunter worth his salt could fulfill the task if they so chose.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” John snorted. “I know I was a last minute choice as Knight, but I like to think I’d at least provide some sort of obstacle to any assassination plot.”

Jim sighed. “That is not what I meant, Johnathan and you know it.”

“Say your suspicions are true, and those behind this don’t want you dead, what do they want?” Mackland asked.

Something even more frightful. “Power.” Jim stood up from the table going to the coffee maker. “I always feared this might happen.”

“What kind of power could they gain, Jim? It’s not like The Brotherhood is some kind of elite sovereign body or military giant.”

The phone rang, cutting off Murphy’s response. The men exchanged looks and Bobby scooted his chair back in case John and Mackland made a grab for the wall phone. Jim forgot the coffee and went to answer it.

“Hello.”

“Pastor Jim?”

The voice on the other line was strained and scratchy but undeniable. “Dean? Is that you, my boy?”

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Dean jerked the receiver away from Sid, stepping back so he could hold the headset himself. “It’s me, Jim.”

Dean was surprised when Mathews explained what he wanted him to do. They hadn’t asked him any questions or demanded answers he didn’t have. Instead Sid explained in graphic detail what would be done to Sam and Caleb if Dean didn’t do as he was told. There was no choice.

“Where in God’s name are you, son? Where’s your brother? Are you hurt?”

Jim sounded worried, almost frantic, and it sent a shiver through Dean’s already chilled frame. “Sammy and I are with some friends of yours. They want me to give you a message.”

“Dean?”

Dean almost sobbed when his father’s voice echoed across the line. He shut his eyes, took a painful breath. John must have picked up the extension in the farm’s family room. “I’m okay.” The ten-year-old said quickly, not alerting anyone on his side that his father was also on the line.

“Do you know where you are, Ace?”

Dean glanced at Sid who was staring at him with a sadistic smirk. “Sam’s alright, too. He got a little carsick on the way down here. You know how he is after a couple of hours of riding.”

“They’re listening?”

Dean’s father understood what he was doing. “He was upset he missed Gilligan’s Island. You know how the kid loves the Professor, Skipper, Gilligan and the crew.”

“They're seven of them?”

“Yes,” Dean answered his father. That's all Dean had witnessed. Some of the men from his and Sam’s first night at the cabin had not been back that the ten-year-old knew of, but it didn’t mean they weren’t waiting in the wings.

“Is Caleb with you, Dean?”

“Yeah. I’m not so worried about the bears since Damien’s here. And Doctor Porter helped my throat. But it’s still too cold for camping.”

Mathews stood, approaching the boy. “Stick to the script, Dean,” he hissed.

“What do they want, Dean?”

Sid made a slashing gesture across his neck and pointed towards the hallway. “They want the silver for the hunter’s rings, Pastor Jim. And the lost journals. They said you would know what they mean.”

“The silver?”

“Lost journals?”

Pastor Jim and John spoke at the same time and Dean was certain he heard Mackland’s voice in the background. “If you don’t come up with what they want in the next thirty-six hours, they’re going to kill us. Probably bury all four of us under a tar hill.”

The phone was snatched roughly from Dean by Mathews, who shoved it at Sid.

“Thirty-six hours, Murphy.” Sid growled into the receiver. “We’ll be in touch.” He cut the connection and returned the handset to Mathews. “Do you think they got the point?”

Mathews placed the phone on its carriage with a frustrated sigh. He knelt in front of Dean. “I think our young friend is too smart for his own good.” He took hold of Dean’s chin. “You’re quite clever aren’t you, son? Did you give away any of our secrets?”

“I was talking to them like you said. And I’m not your son.” Dean pulled away. “Jerk face.”

“No.” Mathews, rocked back on his heels, his blue eyes still locked on Dean’s face. “But I have two boys of my own.”

“Unlucky them.”

“Maybe so. They don’t improvise or get creative. When I tell them to do something, they do it.”

Dean swallowed. The jagged glass feeling was slowly returning to his throat and he wanted nothing more than to lie down. Somewhere close to his brother. “Or what? You tie them up and hit them?”

Mathews shook his head, cut his eyes to Sid, before returning his icy gaze to the ten-year-old. “I give them a chance to mull over what they’ve done.”

“Time out?” Dean rolled his eyes, making his head hurt worse. “I bet they’re a real couple of girls.”

Sid snorted. “How about I handle him the way my old man did me? This place probably has a woodshed out back. I turned out real fine.”

Dean took a step back from the blond goon. “Caleb will kick your ass if you do anything to me,” he said without much conviction. Caleb was locked up in another room and might as well have been a million miles away. It was almost as ridiculous as saying his father would ride in for the rescue. Dean still couldn’t help looking towards the hallway, hoping for a miracle.

Sid’s steel-like grip wrapped around his arm eliciting a gasp from the boy. The man gave him a good shake. “I’d like to see that trick, Kid.”

Mathews peeled Sid’s fingers off Dean. “We do this my way, Sid.”

“Killjoy.” Sid stomped away, bumping shoulders with his buddy Mike. “I bet his boys are a couple of pussies.”

The last comment was said under Sid’s breath, but Dean heard it and by the way Mathew’s jaw clenched, Dean was sure the dark-haired man had also heard. “You’re lucky I tolerate children and fools very well, Dean.”

Mathews stood up and took Dean by the shoulder. “Come with me.”

As Dean was led in the opposite direction of the room where his brother and Caleb were, he felt anything but lucky.

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“Damn it!” Jim slammed the phone down and stormed out of the kitchen. Mackland and Bobby followed.

John was standing by the couch in the living room, still holding the handset of the line he had been listening in on. “What the hell, Jim?”

“Come with me.”

Murphy didn’t speak and no one offered an objection as they followed The Guardian into the library and waited for him to unlock the secret passage door. Once inside the hidden room Caleb had affectionately tagged as The Hunters' Tomb, Jim headed for the wall of maps where he removed several, taking them to the large round table in the center.

“John?” Mackland questioned, his gaze searching his friend’s face. “Was Caleb there? Did Dean say if they were alright?”

“He’s there, Mac. They’re all there.”

“Including Griffin.” Jim interjected, raking his fingers through his silver hair, causing it to stand up in a way that would have had Sam in a giggling fit. “Dean said Dr. Porter had helped his throat.”

“Griffin?” Bobby frowned. “They took Griffin, too?”

“We’ll have to contact Harland Sawyer to be sure. He’s usually back-up for Griffin, but I’m afraid so.”

“Why Griffin Porter?” Mackland asked as he watched Murphy unfold the maps and align them side by side.

“I suppose because he is someone important to me,” Jim snapped, uncharacteristically. “They want as much leverage against me as possible. They took what was easily taken.”

Winchester looked at Ames. “They want the silver used to make our rings.”

“What?” Mackland’s brow creased and he turned to Murphy again, who was silently studying the maps. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Apparently not.” Bobby pointed out. “Seeing as how these sonsofbitches kidnapped four people to get it.”

“There’s at least seven of them,” John said.

“How do you know that?”

“Dean said Sammy missed Gilligan’s Island,” Winchester explained. It’s a technique we worked on. “

“There’s seven castaways.” Mackland was beginning to understand. It was clever of Dean, although disturbing that a ten-year-old would need such references.

“Damn, that kid’s sharp,” Bobby echoed Ames’s thoughts.

“That’s not all the boy told us.” Jim pointed to the map. “He said they drove ‘down’ for a couple of hours.”

John nodded and pointed to the map. “ South from Virginia. He also made a point of saying that Sam got carsick. Sammy hates curvy roads.”

Mackland arched a brow. “Mountains?”

“Yeah.” John agreed. “ Dean said it was cold there. And that he was afraid of the bears.”

“He also mentioned camping?” Jim offered.

“Like in a tent?” Bobby asked.

“No. I’m guessing a cabin. We’ve camped at Jim’s old place plenty of times.”John looked at Jim, then placed a finger over the state of North Carolina. “You missed the biggest clue, Jim. Dean said they’d bury them under a tar hill.”

“I’ll be damned.” Bobby whistled. “And we thought Sammy was the genius in the family.”

Mackland shook his head as Jim turned and started for the wall of maps again. “The Tar Hill State.” He gave John a weary smile. “With all the moving around you do, the boy should be good at Geography.”

John returned the weak grin. At least they knew their children were alive. “It just kills you that some things don’t have to be learned in a damn book, doesn’t it, Einstein.”

“No. I’m quite aware that books are lacking.” Mackland watched Jim return to the table and spread the topographical map of North Carolina on the table. “I’ve read everything about The Brotherhood and not once have I seen mention of any silver.”

“Maybe that information is s in the missing journals they also want.”

John’s observation had Jim looking up from his study of the landscape. “Those are a legend.”

Bobby grunted. “So are fucking big foots and bridge trolls.”

Jim sighed. “Bobby, you’re not helping.”

“I’m just saying I’ve heard the tales about the missing Century Journals. Who’s to say they’re not as real as those.” Singer gestured to the walls of bookshelves containing the histories of hundreds of hunters long past.

“Century Journals?” Mackland frowned. He turned to look at the shelves Bobby was pointing at. “Are you referring to the fact that there are no recorded words from hunters during the span of time between the 1890’s up until around 1910?”

John shook his head. “Leave it to you, Mac to have catalogued the damn things.”

“They’re our heritage.” Mackland defended. “A genealogy as important as our own family trees and extremely interesting reading.”

“Said the man who’s never broke the cover of Play Boy.”

“Again, Bobby, you’re not helping.” Jim exhaled heavily. “And yes, Mackland, that’s exactly what he is talking about. No journal from any hunter during that era has ever been recovered or documented. Hunters have created lore to explain something quite simple I’m sure.”

“Or not,” Bobby grumbled.

Mackland rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I asked you about it once.”

Jim shrugged elusively. “As I said, it is legend.”

“What’s so special about these journals?” John asked.

“They would have been kept by hunters living in a time when important things within The Brotherhood were taking place.”

“What kinds of things?” Mackland inquired.

“Shifts in power. New alliances. And an age old battle.”

“But those things happen daily.” Mackland was quick to point out. “It makes no sense that countless journals cryptically disappeared.”

Jim sighed, as if he hoped not to have to recant the tale. “Over the years we have come into possession of many objects of power. Mysterious items capable of doing great, terrible, disastrous things if they were to fall into the wrong hands . These objects have been sought not only by other hunters and those wanting to bend the forces of nature to their will, but also by those wishing to collect profit.”

Mackland looked at The Guardian. “But most of those objects are destroyed, aren’t they?”

“That’s our policy now. Yes.”

“But back then, that wasn’t the case?” John asked.

“There are those who think past hunters stockpiled the things they found, keeping them in one central location for safe keeping-incase they were needed for other hunts. Some members of The Brotherhood believe they were never actually destroyed, but rather hidden away by the Triad of that time and that the location is revealed in one or more of those missing journals.”

“A Fort Knox of supernatural fortune?” Bobby groaned. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s just a thought.”

“You don’t know where it might be?”

“No. No one does.”

“Except long dead hunters who might have written it down in their journals.”

“Journals that no longer exist.”

“Or have been hidden away as well.” Jim sighed. “When a hunter passes, if possible his journal is returned to The Guardian of that generation to be used as a resource and historical text.. Unfortunately, not all find their way back. Some are lost or destroyed, discounted as mad-ramblings of a demented man.”

Mackland pursed his lips. “But these men are asking for the lost journals and the silver or they are going to hurt the boys.”

“I’m aware of that, Mackland.”

“Where does the silver come from?” John asked.

Jim went back to looking at the map of North Carolina. “That’s not something I can’t share with you.”

Winchester growled. “Can’t or won’t?”

“You’ll have to trust me when I say that I can no more give them the silver for the rings than I can give them the salt in the sea. It’s not possible.”

“What if the boys’ lives depend on it?”

“We won’t allow it to come to that.”

“But if it did.”

Jim looked up and met John’s dark stormy gaze. “I would die for them.”

“At least we know they’re in North Carolina.” Mackland looked from Knight to Guardian. It was The Scholar’s job to sometimes play peacemaker. “ In the mountains. At a cabin.”

“That’s still a needle in a haystack,” Bobby said.

“Maybe not.” Jim scratched his head. “John mentioned my hunting cabin. Griffin has his own cabin and it just so happens to be located there.”

“That’s right.” Bobby confirmed. “I’ve been there before with Harland and Jarret Mathews.It can’t be a random coincidence.”

“Why Griffin’s?” John asked.

“If they know so much about us, it would not be surprising if they knew of the cabins and other safe lodges spread through out the country. And if they grabbed Griffin it wouldn’t be such a reach that they would take them there.”

The Knight clenched his jaw. “Hiding in plain sight?”

“Perhaps.”

“None of this makes a whole hell of a lot of sense to me.”

Jim shot Bobby yet another look of irritation. “It’s the most we have to go on.”

“So what do we do?” Mackland inquired. “

“We prepare for battle,” Jim replied.

John nodded. “I’m going to call Harland. He’lll know about Griffin and he has probably spent the most time in that location.”

“Will it take him long to get here?”

“Let’s hope not. I have a feeling time is not on our side.”

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Caleb couldn’t help but watch the clock. The minute hand creeping by in excruciatingly snail-like drags was slowly driving him crazy. All he could think about was Dean and his immense failure at keeping him out of the enemy’s hands. The uncharacteristic frightened look on the kids face was haunting him.

Griffin was lying on the other bed, eyes closed, but his breath wasn’t that of a sleeper. Neither was Sam’s. Caleb thought when the kid’s crying had ceased Sam had finally given up the ghost, but true to form the little boy shifted in his arms and raised his head to look up at him. The faint glow of the lamp illuminated the wet cheeks and red-rimmed eyes.

“Tell me a story,” he whispered.

“You want me to read you a book?”

“No.” Sam hiccupped. “Just a story.”

“What kind of story?” Caleb shifted on the bed, allowing Sam to curl up in the crook of his arm. It wasn’t like Reaves was as good at the fairytale stuff as Jim. In fact, he was bad at it. His talent and imagination were limited to art in the form of paint and graphite, not literature. Except for some really shitty poetry he wrote in high school, Caleb refrained from embarrassing himself.

“A real one.” Sam’s hand curled around a fold of material in the teen’s flannel over-shirt and he sighed. “The one about Dean’s blue shirt.”

“That’s a classic.” Caleb smiled at the request.

To compensate for his ability in the area of ‘spinning a yarn’ as Griffin had dubbed it, Caleb had ingeniously devised a method of entertainment which Sam found hilarious. He told true stories about things that happened in their lives on the farm. Some of it was exaggerated and a few really good ones were out and out lies. But the ‘blue shirt’ story was true and it was a Sam favorite. Hell, Caleb loved it too, mostly because it drove Dean crazy.

“It’s classic Dean.” Sam nodded against his chest. “I like the end the best.”

“Okay.” Maybe they both needed to feel a little closer to Dean. Caleb cleared his throat, preparing his best theatrical voice. “It was the first time I knew that I was Dean Winchester’s hero.”

Sam giggled softly. “This is where Dean groans and says you’re a stupid A-hole.”

“Yes. But that’s just his way of cheering me on.”

“I wish he was here to call you an A-hole, Caleb.”

“Me too, Sammy.” Caleb rested his chin on the little boy’s hair for a moment and then pushed on. “It all began one picturesque summer day on Jim Murphy’s Kentucky farm about four long years ago. Unlike every other privileged fourteen-year-old, I had not been sent off to Europe to broaden my horizons or even to Hilton Head to work on my tan and my golf swing. No. I’d been forced to spend my school holiday mucking horse stalls and taking care of all sorts of weird-looking, bad-smelling things.”

“Like cows and chickens and pigs?” Sam asked coyly, already knowing the answer.

“No. Much worse.” Caleb put a perfected pinch of disgust in his voice. “A goofy-looking six-year-old and his drooling, cooing, baby brother.”

Sam giggled. “Better known as Dean and Samuel Winchester,” he supplied the memorized line before Caleb could.

“You guessed it,” Reaves replied. “ The Winchesters were trouble with a capital T. They were like gum on my shoe, I couldn’t shake them.”

“And to torture you even more Pastor Jim made you take them to the park out in public where people could see you…even girls.”

“He did,” Caleb said, grimly. “He said it didn’t matter if they were weird-looking and smelled like soured milk and old Spaghettios. It was my job.”

“Every Tuesday… no matter what,” Sam said around a huge yawn.

“Yeah. And the freaking brats loved it.”

“Yeah, we loved it.” The five-year-old bobbed his head. “Except one Tuesday Dean didn’t want to go.”

Caleb snorted. “Not only did he not want to go, but he refused to come out of his bedroom. Even after the mighty John Winchester gave him a direct order to do so.”

“And Daddy got mad!”

“Mad was not the word for it, Sammy. Your dad huffed and puffed and threatened to blow the door down.”

“Like the big bad wolf.” Sam said it with a hint of his usual excitement, the word wolf coming out ‘woof’.

“Exactly. He was ready to pound something. Something being Dean Winchester’s backside.”

“But Pastor Jim told him to use his words not his hands and he made him ask Dean what was wrong.”

“Yeah and that’s when the weird thing happened. Dean started crying like a baby.”

Sam lifted his head from Caleb’s chest, his large dark eyes meeting the psychic’s. “This is the part where Dean punches you really hard and calls you another bad name that I can’t say.”

Caleb swallowed thickly. “Lucky for me, he’s not around, huh?”

Sam nodded grimly. “Yeah.” He rested against the eighteen-year-old again but his thumb went straight to his mouth, a bad habit he had quit years ago.

“Anyway…” Caleb ran his hand through the boy’s wavy hair. “Dean starts crying and the tears are rolling and snot’s flying and the drooling, cooing baby starts screaming at the top of his lungs and he’s leaking salt water too...”

“And nobody knows what to do because Dean NEVER cries.” Sam removed his thumb from his mouth long enough to interject.

“Right,” Caleb continued. “That’s when Dean starts saying something about his shirt not being right. Between the sobs and the hiccups he keeps saying he can’t go out until his shirt is right.”

Sam yawned again. “It was a blue shirt.”

“Blue as the sky,” Caleb confirmed. “But Dean wanted to wear a red shirt and John couldn’t find his red shirt. In fact, Dean Winchester didn’t own a red shirt.”

Sam rose up again. “Dean doesn’t even like the color red.” He frowned. “His favorite color is black.”

“I know.” Caleb nodded. “Which Jim pointed out to him, only to have Dean cry harder.”

Sam’s mouth twitched, a dimple playing hide-n-seek at the corner of his up-turned mouth. “Dean usually tries to punch you again now.”

“But fails miserably because he has the reflexes of a girl.”

“That’s why you call him Deana and tell him to untwist his panties and let you tell the rest of the fucking story.”

Caleb glanced up when Griffin covered a startled laugh with a cough. So they had an audience.

“Watch the language, Sammy,” Reaves warned half-heartedly.

“You say it.” Sam grumbled but settled back against the hunter for the rest of the story.

“Like I was saying, Jim told Dean he didn’t even like the color red to which Dean said, ‘But Caleb’s wearing red’.”

“And everyone turned and looked at you and you said…” Sam started the next line.

“It’s a crime to wear red?” Caleb finished in his best smart-assed impersonation of himself at age fourteen.

“Then Dean said…”

“I want to wear red too.”

Sam continued. “You remembered that on all the days of going to the park Dean always wore the same color shirt as you.”

“It’s true,” Caleb replied. “Imitation is the greatest form of flattery.”

“Dean wanted to be just like you.”

Reaves jostled the little boy. “Hey? Could you really blame him?”

Sam laughed. “So then what did you do?”

“I couldn’t let the kid keep blubbering.” Caleb sighed, running his hand back over Sam’s hair. “I did the only thing a real hero would do. I went and put on a blue shirt too.”

“You saved the day.” Sam exhaled heavily. “The end.”

“The end,” Caleb parroted.

There was silence for a moment and Reaves hoped Sam had drifted off, but then the kid was wiggling against him again and once more the big trusting eyes were peering up at him. “You both have matching shirts on today.”

Caleb’s brow wrinkled. “We do?” He hadn’t really noticed, but Sam didn’t miss much, even in the midst of a kidnapping.

“They both have tigers on them.”

Reaves looked down at the Auburn shirt he was wearing beneath his flannel. It had come with his early acceptance into the college. He’d be going to Alabama in the Fall. He recalled then that Dean was wearing a shirt from last-year’s baseball team. Their mascot had been the Tigers also. “Yeah. I guess they do.”

Sam sniffed, burying closer to Reaves and Caleb let his head fall back against the headboard feeling utterly defeated. “Don’t cry Sammy. Please,” he whispered.

Then Griffin’s voice penetrated the quiet. “Hey, Sam? Do you know what you get when you cross a tiger and a snowman?”

Sam lifted his head and rubbed at his eyes. “What?”

Caleb shook his head. Sam could not resist a joke. What five-year-old boy could?

“Frost bite,” Griffin replied.

Caleb groaned, but Sam giggled.

“What do tigers sing at Christmas?” Griffin asked the boy.

“I don’t know,” Sam replied. “What do they sing?”

“Jungle Bells.”

Sam laughed again and it sounded so good that Caleb resisted groaning at the lame joke.

Griffin had rolled over on his bed now, facing them in the darkness. “What do you call a tiger digging in the sand?”

This time Sam answered. “Sandy Claws.”

It was Porter’s turn to laugh. “That’s right.”

“Okay, that one was just bad, Sammy.” Caleb said. “How did you know?”

“I heard it in school.”

“The things they teach our youth these days,” Griffin lamented.

“I like tigers,” Sam announced. “I’ve seen them at the zoo.”

“They are quite stunning.” Griffin agreed. “Powerful, cunning, agile. Many great leaders have revered them. Like King Solomon who had their likeness carved into his throne because even though they were unstoppable hunters they only killed when absolutely necessary.”

“Did you know all the stripes on their faces are different?” Sam held up a hand. “Like people’s finger prints.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Sam knows lots of things like that.” Caleb said affectionately, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Because he’s a geek.”

Sam smacked his hand away. “I’m not a geek..”

“Really?” Caleb challenged. “What’s the biggest mammal?”

“That depends.” Sam’s brow furrowed. “On land or in the water?”

“See.” Reaves bopped him on the forehead. “Totally a nerd reply.”

“It’s not nerdy. I’m just smart.”

Griffin grinned. “It’s important to be smart, young Sam. Especially if you want to grow up and be a hunter like your Daddy.”

“I want to be dinosaur scientist or a cherry-picker driver.”

“I see.”

Sam shrugged. “But Dean wants to be a hunter like Daddy. He wants a ring like Caleb got last month when we nearly got eaten by a Black Dog because stupid Josh’s toy was broken.”

“Black Dogs are bad news.”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded emphatically. “They’re not your mammy’s pet poodle.”

Griffin laughed. “No. They’re not.”

Sam looked up at Caleb. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Yeah.” Reaves nodded and the little boy slid off the bed, dinosaur in tow.

“Your mammy’s pet poodle?” Griffin inquired with a raised brow.

Caleb sighed. “Mackland says Bobby Singer’s influence is insidious.”

“As is yours, apparently.”

“Sometimes I forget he’s like a parrot.”

“He’s very intelligent…and quite verbal.”

“He likes to talk.”

“Dean’s quieter.”

“Sometimes.” Caleb looked towards the door and then back to the clock. It was nerely midnight. “But sometimes he says more than he should.”

“He has a habit of letting his mouth run ahead of his brain?”

“Something like that.”

“Bobby’s fault?”

“No.” Caleb rubbed at his tired eyes. “That’s probably all me.”

“Yes. I noticed you had a flair for verbal jousting-sort of like a kid who doesn’t know poking a tiger with a stick is a bad idea.”

“Mac says it’s a defense mechanism.”

“In my day we called it being a smart ass.”

“He’s my Dad, what can I say.”

“Yes, parents want to protect their children, even from themselves.”

“But you can’t always protect the people you love.”

“Hopefully, they won’t be stupid enough to harm the boy.”

Reaves favored Porter with a look of doubt. Hadn’t they already proved that an invalid statement?

“Of course if you do know anything, it might be wise to share it.”

Reaves snorted. “Don’t you think I would have already told them? Nothing would be worth watching…” He took a breath, crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know anything about the silver and the only journals I’ve seen are kept at Jim’s in a vault.”

“I’ve seen those too. There’s nothing unique about them.” Griffin sat up, rested his elbows on his knees. “Are you sure you’ve never seen anything else at the farm or witnessed James do something special? What about when you got your ring? Sam mentioned that was last month?”

Caleb furrowed his brow. “John gave me my ring. And the only thing secret about the farm is Jim’s cellar in the barn where he stashes his homebrew and some wine my grandfather sends him from Europe on occasion.”

Griffin continued to stare at him as if he wasn’t quite sure he was telling him the truth. “They may kill Dean.”

“What?” Caleb swung his legs off the bed, fear speeding his heart to a thundering rate. “Why would you say that?”

“I heard them talking last night. They’re serious about this. If they don’t get what they want…”

“We don’t have what they want!”

Griffin’s face grew more solemn. “I’m sorry.”

Caleb wanted to say more, to demand Griffin to take it back as childish and useless as that might be. But Sam opened the bathroom door and stepped out. The boy moved back to the bed and climbed up beside Reaves.

“How long ‘til Dean comes back?”

Reaves looked at Griffin and the man laid back on the bed without another word. Caleb licked his lips and forced a shaky grin. “Soon, Sammy. Quicker if you go to sleep.”

“But I’m not tired.”

“Right.” Caleb sighed. “Then how about another story? You could tell me one this time.” Anything to keep his mind off the what- if’s.

“I could tell you my list for Santa Claus.”

Reaves nodded. “Is it a long one?”

“Of course.” Sam said scooting back on the bed. “I’ve been really good this year.”

“Then let’s hear it, Runt. I could use a good laugh.”

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Onto Chapter 6

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