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 7/11

“The lion who breaks the enemy’s ranks is a minor hero compared to the lion who overcomes himself.” –Meylana Rumi

It was lightly snowing as they reached Yancey County, North Carolina. The small town of Melbourne rose out of the shadow of the mountains like a Christmas village in a snow globe. Lights twinkled from the windows of the small diner where Harland Sawyer was to meet them and a life-size plastic Santa loomed by the doorway, appearing more fierce than jolly in the gloomy predawn.

“Charming place.” Mackland observed as he pointed to the non-traditional painted scenes of elves carrying guns and stalking Santa’s reindeer.

Bobby laughed. “This is hunting country, Mac. We’re lucky every truck in the parking lot didn’t have a Rudolph or Bambi strapped to the front of it.”

“I suppose they’ll hunt anything. Hence the name?” Ames frowned, gestured to the sign with a beady-eyed rodent. “The Possum’s Trot? Why not just call it the Road Kill Café?”

John ignored the conversation and pulled the door open. He was immune to Mackland’s grumbling diatribe about the locales they chose to frequent in their line of work. If it was up to the doctor, The Four Seasons would be bombarded by their brethren. “Caleb would like it.”

His words had Mackland’s gray eyes on him. “I blame that on you. Same goes for his taste in Salvation Army attire.”

John grinned despite the faint ache in his chest and entered the restaurant behind his fellow hunters. He had to hand it to Mackland. If the name wasn’t enough of a turn off the burly back-woods clientele would have made the normal tourist consider searching for the nearest golden arches of McDonalds. Sam would have definitely been voting that way.

“I’m starving,” Bobby announced, unfazed by the glares and disdainful looks being tossed in their direction. “I hope they have something on the menu besides their mascot.”

Mackland continued to look slightly horrified, but followed after the mechanic who headed for one of the back booths. John removed his jacket and gestured to the waitress behind the counter before joining them.

“If this is the kind of place Harland chose for dining on a frequent basis I can understand why Esme terminated her relationship with him.”

John watched Mackland use his napkin to rub at the permanent stains on the Formica table top. Bobby had claimed the middle of the opposite bench so John slid in beside The Scholar. “Yeah. That’s probably a legitimate reason for divorce in your circle, Mac. Right up there with wearing off-brand fashion labels.”

Ames shook his head, but didn’t comment. Instead he pulled a menu from behind the Mrs. Santa Claus salt shaker and peered at it with all the intensity John had seen him use when reading a medical chart.

Bobby leaned across the table, one eyebrow arched. “So, you and Esme have discussed the intimate details of her splitting with old Dick, huh?” He drummed his fingers. “Bastard cheated on her left and right I bet.”

Mackland frowned at Singer. “I’m not discussing my relationship with Esme with you, Bobby.”

The mechanic wasn’t deterred. “So you admit there is a ‘relationship’.”

Seeing Bobby make invisible quotes in the air as he slowly said the word relationship was amusing as was Mackland’s nervous fidgeting, but John wasn’t willing to endure another round of bickering from Singer and Ames. He understood that Bobby was trying to distract the doctor, and keep him from worrying about Caleb. But, John's melancholy from sleep deprivation and his own worry made him frayed. “Boys…”

“I admit no such thing,” Mackland snapped. “I barely know the woman.”

“Right.” Bobby’s grin widened wolfishly. “But you’d like to know her. In the ‘Biblical’ sense.”

“Not all of us have the primal urge to bed every attractive member of the opposite sex, Bobby.”

“Yeah. They’re called…”

“Boys.” John growled, interrupting the growing confrontation. “You two are worse than Dean and Sam. Give it a rest.”

The mention of the missing boys had Singer slumping in his seat contritely and Mackland going back to his menu. “I wonder if they really do serve possum here.”

John snorted at the Sam-like quality Mac’s voice held. For once Ames would probably jump at the chance for a visit to McDonalds. “I bet it’s their daily special.”

“Actually, Sugar, that would be Larry’s Big Boy Breakfast,” said a gravely voice from beside them.

All three men glanced up at the burly blonde waitress. She sat a pot of coffee on their table along with three mugs. The name tag prominently displayed on her ample chest proclaimed she was Alice and the flirtatious smile she offered as she leaned over them to carefully slide each man his coffee hinted at the kind of tip she was hoping for. “It’s sure to give strapping boys like yourselves enough energy to run and play in the woods.”

Bobby’s eyes lit up and John figured it was the combination of stale cigarette smoke, Aqua Net hairspray, and cheap perfume going to his head. Singer was a sucker for a truck stop venue. “Does it come with eggs and bacon, Darlin’?”

“Sure does,” Alice purred. “Grits, biscuits and gravy, and a short stack come along for the ride.”

“Not to mention the sodium, saturated fats and refined sugars,” Mackland mumbled under his breath. He shot Bobby a look. “Remember your cholesterol?”

Singer ignored him and gave Alice a wink. “I’ll take the special.”

Mackland frowned. “I’ll just have toast, wheat if you have it”

“He’s from New York,” Bobby offered in explanation when Alice looked slightly stricken.

“Oh.” Her smile returned. “We get plenty of those nature-enthusiasts up here this time of year.” She scribbled something on her notepad. “I’ll pull out the whole-grain healthy stuff and sprinkle some wheat germ in the butter before I grill it up, especially for you, sugar.” Alice looked at John. “You from New York too, hon?”

“No. Kansas.”

“Then I’ll bring you two Big Boys and a Tree Hugger Delight.”

“Delight.” Bobby snickered as the waitress walked away. “She has you pegged, Mac.”

The doctor looked past the window to the large building across the parking lot. It was a motel quaintly titled the Fox’s Den. “You think Jim’s having any luck?”

The pastor had taken on the mission of securing them some rooms for a home base. “I don’t think there are enough trucks and bikes in the parking lot to fill up the place, Mac.” John drank his coffee, shifting his gaze to the dark mass in the distance. It was barely light enough to make out the shape of the building. “Maybe Harland beat us here.”

“Considering you disregarded every speed limit and committed several other traffic violations I find that highly unlikely.” Ames favored John with a smirk. “And you wonder why I was upset when you took it upon yourself to teach my son to drive.”

“I turned a six hour drive into a four hour and forty-five minute trip,” John replied. “That’s a useful skill in our line of work. We agreed time was the enemy.”

“If he would have waited on you to decide, Junior would still be hoofing it.”

“I think I’m better equipped to determine the appropriate times for Caleb to experience life’s rites of passage than you, Bobby. Caution and patience are valuable virtues.”

“Says the man who has yet to get to know Esme in a ‘Biblical’ sense.” Singer snorted. “Thank God the boy has my talent with the ladies. Good thing I took it upon myself to help him along in that area. If it was left up to you, he’d still be spinning his wheels and driving in circles around the opposite sex.”

John put a restraining arm out to keep Mackland in his seat. The physician’s highly valued patience was waning and Winchester knew Bobby was going a little too far to distract the doctor. “He’s only pulling your chain, Mac.”

Ames relaxed against the booth once more. “I’ll remind you of that when he takes your sons to the local cathouse for an unscheduled, unapproved fieldtrip.”

“It was not a cathouse,” Bobby refuted. “It was a very nice dining and drinking establishment.”

Mackland shot the mechanic and incredulous look. “Like the one we’re currently in?”

Bobby grinned. “Sure, but with a little less ambiance and a better stocked bar.”

The clanging of the bells on the door kept Mackland from replying and saved John from continuing to play referee. Jim and Harland entered the restaurant to another round of disdainful stares and muffled conversation. John wasn’t surprised to see Silas Fox bringing up the rear. The man often trailed Sawyer’s coattails. Despite his choice in friends, Silas was a good hunter, and excellent tracker. John wasn’t about to look any gift horse in the mouth.

“You made good time,” John said. Jim took the seat by Bobby, Harland and Silas pulled chairs from a nearby table to join them.

Harland flashed his perfected salesman grin and clasped Winchester's shoulder. “The Knight summons and we foot soldiers answer the call.”

John held his own forced smile in place. “Taking orders well is the first step to someday being able to give them.”

Jim cleared his throat, dusting snow from his silver hair. “The Triad appreciates loyalty, Harland. I appreciate you and Silas coming so quickly.”

“I’m sorry to hear about the boys.” Silas looked from John to Mackland. “It’s hard to believe someone would be willing to take them for a bunch of journals no one is sure exists.”

John met Jim’s gaze. The pastor had asked the silver not be mentioned. It was unlike Murphy to be purposively secretive, yet somehow John was just beginning to realize the man had more twists and turns than the mountainous terrain around them. “Sometimes things aren’t as they seem.”

“You think these men are after something else?” Harland asked, plastic smile still in place.

“It really doesn’t matter what they want,” John stated. “I just want them found and dealt with.”

“The area around Griffin’s cabin isn’t the easiest to maneuver even in good weather.” Silas gestured towards the window. “The snow will only get worse on Mt. Mitchell.”

“We’re not even sure that’s where they are,” Mackland pointed out. “Our theory is based mostly on conjecture and some information Dean was able to reveal.”

“What about you, Mackland? Can’t you look into a crystal ball or something and narrow down a location?” Harland asked with an attempt at a good-humored chuckle. “Isn’t that what you do for the Feds?”

“I’m not a witch,” Ames replied. “Or a mystic. I use the science of psychometrics to locate persons.”

“Of course.” Harland’s grin widened. “I get those new age things confused. That’s more my wife’s forte.”

“I agree that Dick’s easily confused.” Bobby scratched his beard and glanced to Mackland. “How about you?”

Jim cleared his throat and shot Singer a warning glance before turning to Harland and Silas. “Mackland has been unable to access his abilities in this matter. We will have to use more traditional ways.”

“I can rent us some ATVs,” Silas offered. “We could do a sweep of the area without getting too close to the cabin.”

“We can also talk to some of the locals.” John shifted his gaze to include the men around them. He looked at Harland. Despite his dislike of the man, he had talents that could come in use. “That will be a good job for you, Sawyer. See if they’ve noticed anyone new in the area. Any unusual activity.”

Harland nodded, looking extremely pleased. “I’ll use the science of charm and charisma to loosen their tongues.” He glanced to Mackland. “They don’t give PhDs in it, but it’s never left me high and dry in any area of my life.”

“Don’t feel bad, Slick.” Bobby smirked at the other hunter. “I usually put some letters at the end of your name just for the hell of it. S.O.B. isn’t quite the same as Mackland’s M.D. but who the hell cares?”

“Still quite the character, aren’t you Bobby?” Harland’s smile never slipped from his handsome face, but his blue eyes narrowed. “How’s the junkyard business by the way?”

“I think Bobby should go with John and Silas.” Jim continued on with the details of their plan. “Mackland and I will continue our research and we’ll all meet back at the motel in two hours.” The Guardian leveled his gaze on John. “I want you to stay in radio contact and I do not want you to act on any level without speaking with me.”

“That sounded like an order, Jim.” John raised a brow.

“Perhaps because that’s exactly what it was, Corporal.”

Harland rubbed his chin. "What was all that about being able to take orders?"

John snorted. More fucking twists and turns. “Yes, sir.”

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It was hot. Too hot. Dean tried to roll over, convinced he must have fallen asleep by the pond at Pastor Jim’s farm. But somewhere in the foggy recesses of his mind he realized that didn’t make sense. Dean remembered snow. The cold freezing touch of it on his skin, the distinct taste of it in his mouth. His family had been staying in Virginia.

He and Sam had built a fort of the white powdery stuff, spending a few mindless, fun hours tunneling and lobbing snowballs at one another. Then Dean had made hot chocolate and soup. That was before the men came.

Reality forced its way past his weakened defenses like their attackers, barging in with blinding agony. Dean was jerked to consciousness by the fiery pain erupting in his chest. The coughing was unavoidable; Dean gagged as he tried to hold it at bay.

“Deuce?” The familiar voice was followed by a steadying hand on Dean’s chest, then a blessedly cool touch to his forehead. “You awake?”

Dean blinked, trying to force his eyes to cooperate. Everything seemed fuzzy and out of focus but with a little effort, Caleb’s worried face came into view. “Damien…” the ten-year-old rasped.

Relief colored Caleb’s face and he slid his fingers through Dean’s damp hair. “I’m here, kiddo. You okay?”

Dean tried to turn his head. “Sammy?”

“He’s asleep,” Caleb said with a glance to the other bed. “After a lot of arguing and some totally empty threats.”

Things were coming back to Dean. He remembered the cabin…the kidnapping. “He… alright?”

“He’s fine.” Caleb’s determined gaze held his. “Worried about you. That makes two of us by the way. How you doing?”

Dean didn’t answer the question. His thoughts were still scrambled and fragmented. He frowned and his face hurt. “Dad?”

Asking for his father must have been worse than telling the truth. The look of confidence on Caleb’s face faltered. Anyone who didn’t know him as well as Dean might not have noticed. “He’ll be here, Dean. Soon. I feel it.”

Dean felt his eyes close, but quickly opened them as a wave of panic washed over him. More memories of their current situation found him. He remembered stupid Sid storming into the kitchen, death blazing in his livid eyes. It had been after Dean’s liberation from the cellar and even though Dean was pretty out of it, he recalled Sid attacking Caleb. There was shouting. Both Sid and Mathews disagreeing on how to handle the situation. Dean remembered Griffin’s voice, too.

He and Sam were pulled out from the fray, away from Caleb. Sammy was crying. Dean thought he might have given in to a few tears himself, but blamed the stupid cold clouding his head.

Sid and Mike were unhappy Reaves had gotten the drop on them. Dean studied his friend. “You…okay?”

“I’m good.” Caleb grinned again.

Dean didn’t buy it. There were new bruises on the older boy’s face, a nasty cut over his eye. And Caleb was sitting funny, slumped over slightly, protecting his ribs. The ten-year-old wanted to call Caleb on it, but managed only a whimper as the attempted words felt like sandpaper rubbing over his raw throat.

“Shh…no more talking,” Caleb soothed.

Again the eighteen-year-old’s fingers sifted through his hair and Dean shut his eyes. He wanted to say more, to make sure Caleb hadn’t been hurt…but the pull of sleep was tempting. He soon found himself being lulled by Caleb’s touch and his voice. His friend was saying something about a blue shirt and tigers. The words didn’t matter; it was the tone and the presence. It reminded Dean of when he was a little boy, because even though Dean was only ten, he’d stopped being a little kid a long time ago.

Dean was unsure when it happened…when his father stopped taking care of him. John Winchester tried after the fire. At least he made an effort, but the dad Dean had known disappeared in the flames right along with his mother, taking the four-year-old part of their son with them. John still provided Dean with all the basic necessities, but it seemed to Dean as if he had forgotten the other stuff…the really important stuff.

But Dean didn’t forget. He made sure Sam had it all.

Somewhere along the line Dean stopped wanting it for himself, convinced he didn’t need it. But no matter how hard he tried, how brave and strong he was, sometimes that four-year-old ghost resurfaced. Somehow, Caleb seemed to understand that.

Suddenly Dean felt as if all the heat generated by his dream had fled the room upon his waking. It seemed as if he were lying once more in the snow looking up at the crude packed ceiling of his and Sam’s fort. Dean shivered, his teeth chattered. “I’m…cold,” he whispered, unable to speak louder and take in the required amount of air for speaking.

The words were barely out of his mouth when he felt himself being lifted, strong arms circling him. “It’s okay.” Caleb’s warm breath brushed against his ear. “I’ve got you.”

A part of Dean knew it was selfish to give in. A rough commanding voice in his head agreed. It ordered Dean to fight to stay awake, to suck it up and check on Sammy, to wait out a rescue with Caleb. But the bigger part of him that four-year-old who refused to remain buried merely wanted to cry, to let everyone know just how miserable he was. He wanted his mom…his dad.

Dean buried his head against Caleb’s chest, wrapped his fingers in the familiar flannel and allowed sleep to reclaim him. Maybe he would wake up next time to find it was all a bad dream.

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Caleb felt the moment Dean gave up the fight. He held the kid for awhile longer, wishing he could do something more useful…something that would actually help Dean. The last time he felt so powerless had been when he was lost in the woods with Joshua and the boys, and Dean injured by the black dog. History seemed to be repeating itself too often with the common theme of Dean falling victim to the current foe and Reaves failing to do his job of preventing it from happening. None of it should be happening.

Dean coughed again and Reaves winced at the rattling sound. Each breath sounded as if the kid had swallowed a whistle and the heat from his skin penetrated both their layers of clothing, sparking a fire in Caleb that left him in a cold sweat. He was tired of waiting to be rescued.

Caleb stood, carefully lifting Dean. His ribs screamed in protest and every muscle in his body ached from the beating he had taken from Griffin’s goons. He moved to the other bed where Sam was curled around the stuffed dinosaur he’d found. Reaves situated Dean beside his brother and Sam awoke, blinking blearily up at him. “Dean?”

“He’s asleep, Sammy.”

“Is he still sick?”

Caleb sighed. “Yeah. “

“What are you going to do?”

Reaves glanced at the door to their prison. What was he going to do? “I’m going to get the doctor.” He returned his gaze to Sam. “Remember that Mercury mojo you used last month?”

Sam nodded. “I kept Dean warm.”

Caleb smiled. “Did a damn fine job too for the smallest planet in your class.”

The little boy abandoned the toy and snuggled close to his brother. “I’ll take care of Dean.”

“I know you will.” He licked his lips. “I’ll be back, okay?”

“But…” Sam started.

Caleb cut him off with a touch. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m leaving you in charge. You protect your brother. Got it?”

The kid nodded. “We have to keep him safe.”

Caleb swallowed thickly. “Yeah. That’s our job, Sammy.”

Reaves pulled the blankets up over both boys and moved to the door separating him from their captors. He placed his hands on the rough wood and focused all his thoughts on Griffin. The doctor, no matter how talented in the psychic arena, seemed incapable of blocking him completely if he wasn’t in the same room.

Caleb hoped to be able to reach him on some level. If not, he could always beat on the damn door like any normal person. But he didn’t want to scare the boys further and there was something satisfying about being able to breach the other man’s barrier-to gain access where others couldn’t.

Griffin struck him as a man who liked to be king of the mountain. He probably saw his abilities as a sign he was better than mere mortals whereas Reaves thought of his own as just the opposite. Caleb might have been unable to topple him, but he could be a nuisance.

It didn’t take long. The lock turned and Caleb stepped back as the door was pulled open. Mathews was there, a gun held firmly in his hand. “Griffin isn’t pleased.”

“That’s too bad,” Caleb replied. “Especially if it’s your job to keep the good doctor all happy as a clam.”

Mathews clenched his jaw. “Do you have a death wish, kid?”

“No. The opposite in fact. I want to talk to Porter.”

“He’s busy.”

“Then I’ll keep trying back until he’s free.” Caleb tapped a finger to his head. “The psychic hotline is not always the most reliable, but I’m persistent.”

“And arrogant.”

“Says the man who stole the children of the Triad and went along with the plan to call out The Guardian.”

“Are you willing to tell us what you know?”

Caleb frowned. He could read the man despite the fact Mathews had trained himself to ward off such invasion. John had the same type of defenses only stronger and Reaves had plenty of practice maneuvering around Winchester’s blockade when necessary. “You know I don’t know what you were hoping for. You know Griffin’s plan has gone to hell. This is going to end badly, especially for you. Where will that leave your sons when it’s all over?”

“I might not be a psychic, Reaves, but I damn well know how to use this gun. You really want to test my patience? Get the hell out of my head.”

“No.” Caleb growled. “I want Griffin to let us go…at least let the boys go.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Then I want him to help Dean. He’s sick.” Caleb glanced over his shoulder. “Really sick and if anything happens to him…”

Mathews followed Reaves’s line of sight, looking past the teen into the darkened room. “It was never our intention for them to be hurt.”

Caleb glared at him. “Best laid plans and such.”

Mathews shook his head and then gestured with the gun. “Come with me.”

Reaves did as he said, one last look at the boys. He followed Mathews to the rear of the cabin. They passed several doors, which Caleb assumed were bedrooms before walking through a breezeway.

Caleb had to admit the change in atmosphere was breathtaking. If not for the situation he would have taken a moment to be awed by the design. The roughly hewn porch was encased in glass walls, allowing the occupant a surreal feeling of hanging over a ledge, high amongst the tree tops around them.

Large over-stuffed chairs, a bear-skin rug and table filled the room as did a roaring fireplace along the brick back wall. It was there Caleb found Griffin, standing with his back to the flames, looking out towards the snowy branches that seemed to glow in the predawn light.

“You’re testing my patience, Caleb.”

“You’ve long since crossed my threshold.”

Porter turned to face the younger psychic, a look of irritation and half-amusement lighting his face. “You have an audacity and talent I can appreciate, but that won’t keep saving you.”

“That’s really a moot point, isn’t it?” Caleb shifted his gaze to Mathews, who was standing off to the side, still holding his gun on Reaves. “I mean I’m guessing you were planning on killing me from the beginning seeing as how you revealed yourself to me.”

“That’s not true,” Mathews spoke up. “No one is going to die.”

Caleb laughed. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Don’t pay him any mind, Jarrett. He thinks he’s quite smarter than he is.”

Reaves was far from stupid, unlike Mathews who seemed not to understand completely what Griffin had in mind. “Seems to me you went to a lot of trouble to make me believe you were being held hostage too, and I don’t buy the whole idea of it being just so we could bond. In fact, you’re such a damn good psychic; you could have merely taken whatever information you wanted from me or the boys.”

“But where would the fun in that be?”

“I think you never planned on letting me leave this mountain…maybe you weren’t even going to let the boys live.”

Griffin shrugged. “If Murphy is no longer The Guardian, then they are no threat to me.”

“But I am?”

“As long as you continue to breathe, you are a threat to The Brotherhood. Sam’s destiny is still unclear. He could be useful, as Jim himself has theorized, but you...”

Caleb tensed at the mention of the youngest Winchester. He pushed thoughts of Sam’s latent abilities to the farthest reaches of his mind in case Griffin attempted to force past his barriers to retrieve them. “Why would you lump me and Sam together? There’s nothing wrong with Sam.”

It was Porters turn to laugh, tossing Caleb’s words back at him. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Caleb clenched his jaw. “Then just do it and get it over with. Get rid of me. But let the boys go. Dean is sick. He needs a doctor.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“One who understands the Hippocratic oath.”

“Like your father?” Griffin walked closer to Reaves. “I hear he’s on his way. Along with the rest of The Triad. Of course this is dangerous territory…bears and such. Anything could happen to them.”

Caleb took a step forward, but Mathews caught his sleeve. “Nothing is going to happen to The Triad. Or to you.” Jarrett shot a look in Griffin’s direction. “That was never our plan.”

Reaves turned on the man, jerking himself free. “But usurping The Guardian was? Why? For power? For the silver or those stupid journals you were asking about? You call yourselves hunters? People are being hurt and worse while you pull off your little coup.”

“How dare you preach to us about the code of The Brotherhood.”

Caleb realized he’d touched a nerve. Porter’s face twisted, losing some of its smug arrogance. “Someone needs to.”

“Not you!” Griffin snapped. “Not anyone of your kind.”

“My kind?” The eighteen-year-old shot him a look of incredulity. “You’re a bigot? That’s almost laughable. Not to mention you’re a psychic! Just like me. And The Brotherhood has honored those with abilities for generations, choosing the best for the position of Scholar. You yourself said the gift was bestowed by Merlin.”

“Not yours!” Griffin roared. “You are everything we fight against. I tried to tell James that. He should have let Elkins kill you all those nights ago as the rest of us suggested.”

“Griffin!” Jarrett stepped between the two. “Stop it.”

“Why? You think he doesn’t know the truth? You don’t think he realizes that our inner circle supported Elkin’s theory for good reason-like the bloody trail of murder and destruction that leads right to his family?” Griffin made sure he was looking at Reaves. “You think he doesn’t realize that James lost crucial support by choosing to bring him into the fold and by doing so weakened the very foundation of The Brotherhood?” He faced Jarrett again. “He knows, but is too selfish to lay down his sword and admit it…especially to himself.”

“My abilities came from my grandmother.” Mackland had promised it was a valid theory and part of Reaves still clung to that. “I’m not a….”

“A demon?” Griffin cut Caleb off with a snort. “Your grandmother read tea leaves, told fortunes to silly old women and dabbled in Hoodoo. Your gifts have nothing to do with her and everything to do with your grandfather. They are too close to what our demon counterparts are capable of and if young Sam…”

“Shut up!”

Griffin’s knowing smile slipped into place. “Everything and everyone your family came into contact with died or was destroyed. You witnessed it for yourself.”

Reaves shook his head feeling the familiar tingling within his mind as synapses were touched upon. The sensation was feather-light but insidious, like a spider crawling up his arm. Griffin was doing just as Caleb had accused him -pulling things from Reaves’s thoughts as the images sprung unbidden to Caleb’s consciousness. “Stop it.”

“You watched your father stab your mother to death. He was going to kill you too. Perhaps the human part of him saved you all those years ago, but who’s to say those you care about will be so lucky when the turning moment for you comes. Because it will come. And who is to say you will spare those closest by committing an act such as suicide as your father did?” Griffin tilted his head sideways. “Will Sam be that lucky?” He paused for theatrical effect. “Will Deuce?”

Caleb lunged for the man, completely sold on the idea of killing him with his bare hands, but found himself on his knees instead. A blinding explosion at the back of his head had him reeling and seeing stars as he fought to stay conscious.

“That wasn’t necessary, Jarrett. I’m quite capable of handling him.”

Griffin’s amused voice faded in and out as Reaves realized Mathews had pistol whipped him with the gun.

“Enough of these games, Griffin! They aren’t necessary either.”

“I’m only trying to make him understand the reasoning behind this, Jarrett. To have him accept his part in Jim’s downfall as The Guardian. Not to mention the part the Winchester’s play.”

Caleb lifted his head to stare defiantly at Porter. The man sounded almost like an earnest professor trying to explain a difficult concept to a challenged student. “You’re afraid of us.” It was all beginning to make a sick kind of sense to Caleb. The story about Merlin, the questions about the silver. “You want to get rid of Jim so you can be rid of all of us. John, Mackland...”

Porter looked down at him. “Jim’s time is over as is your father’s and Winchester’s. Yours, too.”

“I don’t care what happens to me.” Caleb shoved against the floor, managing to make it to his knees. “But Sam and Dean are innocent kids; they have nothing to do with this damn it.”

“Don’t they?”

“Porter?” Sid appeared in the entranceway. “You told me to come get you if anyone called on the radio.” He paused, waiting for Griffin to acknowledge his presence. “It’s your man Louis. Something’s going down.”

“Get him out of my sight.” Griffin said to Mathews, stepping around Reaves. He started after Mike.

“What about Dean?” Caleb swallowed his pride and tried again. “He needs help…maybe even a hospital.”

Porter stopped, a sad and regretful expression gracing his face. It appeared almost genuine. He left the room.

“Get up.” Jarrett grabbed the teen’s arm and hauled him roughly to his feet. Caleb swayed and Mathews steadied him with an exasperated sigh. “I told you not to test my patience.”

Caleb frowned at the scolding. "Dean's going to die. Are you going to be able to live with that? Your partner is going to kill me, and you bet I will haunt your ass." Reaves pushed away the helping hand. "You keep thinking about that."

Mathews gave the teen a rough shove towards the door. “I promise you I’ll think of nothing else.”

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Soft words floated through Dean’s mind urging him to wake up. It was his brother’s voice.

“Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God's love commits me here. Ever this day be at my side,
to light and guard, to rule and guide. AMEN.”

“Sammy?” Dean raised his head despite the fact it felt as heavy as a bowling ball. He saw the mass of his brother’s hair from over the side of the mattress. Sam was kneeled beside the bed. “What…are you doing?”

The five-year-old looked up, his earnest face registering an innocent awe. “I’m praying.”

Dean took a shallow breath and swallowed the sudden lump of emotion, making it more difficult to breathe. Sam’s hands were clasped together, tucked beneath his chin. “What for?”

Sam blinked. “For you.” A smile broke through. “And it worked. You’re awake. Do you feel better?”

Dean nodded, unable to disappoint his brother. “Yeah.” His mouth twitched. “It’s a miracle.”

Sam crawled back onto the bed. “Pastor Jim says all we have to do is ask and have faith.” Sam’s hand found its way to Dean’s, entwining their fingers. The touch was cold against Dean’s hot skin, but warming in a completely different way. “I was worried after that whole puppy thing.”

Dean wanted to laugh, but didn’t have the energy. Before his birthday last year Sam had prayed every night for weeks for a dog. God’s will was no match for John Winchester’s stubbornness. He looked around the room instead. “Where’s…Caleb?”

Sam’s grip tightened. He lay down by his brother. “With the bad men.”

Dean closed his eyes as a chill found its way through the momentary comfort. Sam moved closer to him as if he sensed Dean’s fear. “We could pray for him.”

The words were so soft, reverent; Dean almost didn’t hear them even with Sam’s face close to his. He turned and their eyes met.

Dean wanted to pray for lots of things. To not be sick anymore. For their father to suddenly burst in and make everything better. But Dean had prayed for things before. And unlike his brother, he couldn’t be quite so understanding about not getting what he wanted desperately…what he needed.

“Do you want to? I can teach you.”

God wouldn’t bring Dean’s mother back or make his father happy again so he seriously doubted God would care what Dean wanted now. He wondered if there really was a God. But Sam was looking at him in only the way Sam could. No matter how hard it was for him to believe in the things Pastor Jim preached about Dean had complete faith in his brother. “You do it, Sammy.”

Sam held his gaze for a moment and then nodded as if he understood completely. “I’ll pray hard enough for both of us.”

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