The forest was quiet, the way it is after snow has settled on the tree limbs, muffling nature’s voice. Reaves came to with a start, the sudden absence of any sound, deafening and frightening.
He lifted his head, furious with himself that he had spaced out, or worse, fallen asleep. “Shit,” he groaned as his sluggish body fought even the slightest of movement. “Wake up, Dean!” Caleb reached out and shook the younger man, panic providing him with enough adrenaline to manage. “Open your eyes, damn it.” It was still dark and cold, but the slight glow from his watch reassured him he hadn’t been out too long. “Dean!”

The younger man did as he was told, but it wasn’t easy and the psychic caught the backwash of the pain it caused. Caleb swallowed back the bitter taste of failure. “Hey, man, you still with me?”

“I’m awake,” Dean muttered. He was so fucking cold, and sleep was teasing him with a warm oasis, but another loud command from Reaves told him that wasn’t an option.

“Sure you are,” the psychic sighed. “Open your eyes and I might believe you.”

Dean had thought his eyes were open. He concentrated harder and managed to blink, finding Reaves staring at him when he did finally find the focus. “That’s scary,” he breathed.

“What?” Caleb frowned, stepping right into the insult.

Dean rolled his eyes at his friends untypical response. “You, Dude.” He shook his head slightly. “That concussion makes it too easy. It‘s like playing with Sammy.” The lines of pain around the psychic’s eyes were hard to miss. He was hurting, just like Dean.

“Yeah, well blood loss hasn’t improved your disposition either.” Caleb looked him over. “How you doing?”

Dean was too tired to point out how stupid that question was. “I’m cold.”

“I know.” Reaves struggled to reach the tattered army blanket that had slipped off the kid, pulling it out of the floor, tucking it around his friend as best he could. They were lucky Jim kept one in the old truck, and Caleb had ordered Dean to take it. “Try not to think about it.”

“Oh, that’ll work.”

Caleb let his hand slide up to Dean‘s neck, checking his pulse, which earned him a frown from the younger man. “Seriously, Dude, think about Mercury.” Hottest planet in the solar system. Reaves still remembered Sam telling him that during another time when they had found themselves in a life-threatening situation.

“Mercury?”

Caleb sighed. Apparently Dean didn’t remember. Of course he was the one in danger of dying then. Just like now. “Humor me, okay.”

Dean closed his eyes again. “Then talk to me.”

A sudden image of a mute six-year-old Dean came to Caleb and he felt dizzy. “That's never been my strong suit, Deuce.” Something else they had in common.

The twenty-year-old lifted one eyelid to look at him, and it seemed to zap him of energy. “I don't see a pool table or any cards. You want me to stay awake…talk.” Dean knew they were both on shaky ground, neither of them could afford to go to sleep.

The psychic rubbed at his head, pain blossoming again from within his skull. Another shard of light pierced his vision and he bit his lip. Apparently the concussion had decided to play around with his abilities. “About what?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know…bridges.”

Reaves forced a short laugh. “I thought you didn’t like bridges, Deuce.”

“I don’t. But it’s one of your things…right?”

Caleb frowned, continuing to rub at his forehead. At least, he didn’t‘ seem to be bleeding anymore. If only he could say the same about Dean. “One of my things?”

“Yeah, you have bridges, Sam has books. Sammy can talk for hours about books and theories.”

Dean was staring wide-eyed at him now. He almost preferred the alternative, because as closed off as the kid could be sometimes, everything he was feeling could be found right there in the bright green and amber pools. Reaves licked his lips, pushed past both their pain. “There is this bridge… in Venice I bet you’d like.”

“Why’s that? Is it held up by statues of naked ladies?”

“For one, it’s not very high.” Caleb grinned. “And it’s haunted.”

Dean arched a brow. “Haunted by what?”

“The tormented souls of long-dead prisoners would be my first guess.”

Dean frowned and Caleb continued. “It’s called the Bridge of Sighs, or Ponte dei Sospiri. It’s near Doges Palace, built between a prison and old interrogation chambers. It’s an enclosed bridge… has these windows with stone bars. They said it offered the last glimpse of the city to thousands of doomed men.”

“Sounds charming.”

“It is.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Caleb could be as much of a geek as Sammy. “What else? What bridge does it for you, freak?”

“Well, one of the coolest bridges is the Tower Bridge in London.” Cullen Ames, his grandfather, had given him a six week trip to Europe after he graduated high school. At first he had been pissed when Mac had made him go, but now the experiences there were fond memories. He‘d even made some hunting contacts there.

“Like the one you built a scale of when you were at Auburn?”

Caleb frowned, surprised his friend remembered. Dean had been only ten when Reaves went to college in Alabama. “Yeah.”

“You like the one in San Francisco?”

“The Golden Gate?”

Dean nodded, and Reaves continued. “Most architects will tell you it’s the most beautiful bridge ever built. But I like steel arcs. There‘s this one in West Virginia. New River Gorge. She’s amazing.”

Dean laughed lightly, and Caleb looked affronted. “Longest in the country, man. Would be the longest in the world if not for the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway.”

“Sorry…” The twenty-year-old grinned. “Didn’t mean to insult her.”

“This from the guy who wanted to send his car’s picture in to Playboy.”

“Hottest body I’ve seen.”

Caleb rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the blurring of realties it brought. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “As I was saying, the largest steel arch is Sydney Harbor and I plan on seeing her one day.”

Dean blinked, fighting off another tug from the silent siren unconsciousness. “What’s the highest?”

“Millau Viaduct in France.”

“Good, I’m not planning on leaving the country anytime soon.”

“The New Gorge is pretty damn high, too. We’ll go there sometime.”

Dean’s smile faded. He was pretty sure they might not be going anywhere ever again.

He saw Reaves wince, pain race across his face. “Don’t go there, Deuce. We‘re making it out of this fucking mess.”

The younger hunter didn’t even bother to reprimand him for snooping. Damn it was so cold. “So…what got you jonesing for bridges, Dude?”

Caleb wished like hell there was something he could do. Dean was sounding worse by the minute. He cleared his throat as the kid continued to look at him. “I read this poem by Whitman once…”

“To get in a girl’s pants, right?”

Reaves sighed. “Not everything is about women, Deuce.”

“Since when?” The kid did his best to feign a horrified look. “I’m seeing a whole new side of you, Damien, and I gotta say…I don‘t like it.”

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Go on, Shakespeare.”

“Anyway, Whitman said something like..‘The Earth be spanned, lands be welded together.” Caleb swallowed thickly. “I took it to mean that bridges were the way separated things could be reconnected-made whole again. They were a power that man could exert over his environment. Kind of like giving Mother Nature the finger.”

Dean frowned, easily picking up on the irony in what his friend was saying. Reaves was always trying to piece together the two worlds he supposedly came from. Then there was the whole psychic realm versus the physical world. And the hunting world versus the life most mortals accepted. Winchester could understand. Caleb was constantly torn between realities. “Is that why you did the whole Frank Llyod Wright thing?”

Caleb looked at him for a long moment. “I’ll bridge these hills with graceful arches.”

“Huh?” It was Dean’s turn to look confused. “You okay?”

Reaves frowned. “It’s a quote by Wright. When you mentioned him…hell, Deuce, you’re a fucking puzzle sometimes.”

“I know who Wright is. I read a book about architecture at school once.” Actually, he’d driven the nice librarian crazy until she’d found him information on the subject. After all, fifth graders weren’t usually looking for such things. But not all fifth graders were about to lose someone to a strange place called Auburn University either. Dean cleared his throat. “So…you telling me a bunch of fancy words turned you onto bridging hills.”

“No.” Reaves looked past him, through the shattered window into the darkness. “My dad liked to build things. He worked on houses, boats and stuff I think. But I remember he use to buy me models of all kinds of things…planes, sky scrapers…”

“Bridges,” Dean guessed, and the psychic nodded. As a kid Caleb had tons of them.

“Yeah. That poem by Whitman…it always reminded me of him.” Reaves cleared his throat and his voice lowered. “And my mom, she was always drawing things, painting. I guess I picked up some things from her.”

“So a poem, some model cars, and a box of crayons did it for you?”

Caleb grinned. “That and I realized that chicks really dig artists.”

Dean laughed, but winced as his body shook. Reaves looked away. “What about you, kid? He hoped that whole choking on emotion thing didn’t sound like it did in his over-sensitized head. “What‘s your thing?”

The twenty-year-old took a ragged breath. “My thing?”

Caleb faced him again, forcing his game face back in place. “Yeah, you seem to think you have me and Sammy pegged. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I am grown up, man.”

Reaves shot him that ‘yeah right’ cocky grin of his. “What about school then? You ever want to go?”

“That’s Sammy’s thing.”

“LSU wasn’t Sammy.”

Surprise registered on Dean’s sweat-covered face. “How…”

“Sam told me about the scouts.”

Winchester sighed. “Sammy has a big mouth and that was a long time ago.”

“You could have asked Johnny. If it was the money, man, me or Mac could have…”

“Right.” Dean cut him off. “But baseball doesn’t exactly go along with the lifestyle, man. And in case you haven‘t noticed, I like hunting.”

“You could have taken a time out.”

Dean bit his bottom lip, remembering the feel of a glove on his hand, the heat of the sun on his back as he watched the batter‘s cage. “From the job…maybe.”

But not from Sam. “Right.” Reaves rubbed at his head again. Life loved to fuck with Dean. There was nothing he could do to fix the past. He couldn‘t even help in the present.

“But you were good, Deuce.” Had he ever told him that? Caleb had made it a point to catch at least one or two games a season when Dean was in school. The kid was looking at him again, and he had to do something to erase some of the misery. “And it’s too damn bad because chicks really dig athletes, too. You might have stood a chance against my charm, artistic brooding aura, and unnatural good looks if you were bringing in six figures with the Sox.”

Dean raised a brow then, a hint of his familiar smirk returning. “I thought not everything was about women?“

“Who the hell you been talking too? Sammy? ‘cause he hasn‘t got a clue.”

Dean held his gaze, his grin melting away like the snow falling on the dashboard. “He’s smarter than you think, Caleb.” The twenty-year-old sighed. “Too smart for his own good.”

Or for mine. One day very soon, Sam Winchester’s bright ideas were going to ruin his brother’s life. That was if he still had a life after this night.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNS

It might not have been the brightest idea Sam Winchester had ever had but desperate times called for desperate improvising. “At least the snow has slacked off,” he said, looking at his panting partner.

Scout was buckled safely in the passenger’s seat of Caleb’s Jeep, her breath fogging on the window as she watched the crystallized trees passing by. “The roads are pretty slick.” The kid downshifted into second, feeling the back wheels slide ever so slightly. He held his breath and eased off the gas pedal. Reaves was probably going to kick his ass for hotwiring his car, but it was the only vehicle at the farm. Not counting Jim‘s tractor or one of the horses. Neither was an option, so Sam had done what he had to. He only hoped the psychic would be too grateful to pound him.

“It’s not like I couldn’t take him,” Sam told Scout and she looked his way, tilting her head slightly. “What? I could. I’m nearly as tall as him now. And I’m younger.”

Sam knew he wasn’t fooling anybody, especially himself. Reaves was deadly, and the only person he’d seen best him in hand to hand was John Winchester a few years before. Although, Dean could hold his own against the other hunter. Sam was no slouch himself, having learned from all three of the older men, but he knew his greatest strength didn’t lie in the physical arena.

Mac was always telling him his mind was a gift, better than any combat skill any leather neck marine could be taught during his first week of basic training.

Sam couldn’t help but to grin to himself as he remembered his father’s reaction to the statement Mac had let slip loud enough for the big, bad hunters to overhear as they sparred in the barn one evening. “Mac says I have to learn to trust my instincts, Scout.” The teen looked back out at the snowy road, flipping on the fog lights as the darkness seemed to grow in intensity as the snow fall lightened further. “Maybe we’ll blame him if this doesn’t work out.” Or on second thought, maybe Sam would just let the blame fall where it should…right into his father’s lap.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNS

“Goddamnit!” John Winchester cursed as hot coffee splashed in his lap, seeping through his jeans and scalding the skin beneath. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you drive, Bobby.”

“You think you can do it better, John. I’ll pull over.” The demon hunter tugged on the Impala’s steering wheel, sending them into a slight fishtail across the deserted highway. He grinned over at Winchester and was pleased to see a slight look of fear reflected back. “ Because I ain’t putting up with no side-seat navigations. I don’t need a co-pilot. You’ve been hanging around with Mackland too long.”

“Just keep your fucking eyes on the road,” John muttered, forcing himself to relax. He’d be damned if he let Singer freak him out. The mechanic could handle a car like Ames could a scalpel. “And slow the hell down. It’s snowing if you haven’t noticed.”

“Is that what’s got your shorts in a wad? The weather?” Bobby shook his head. “And here I thought it was that demonic bitch tossing you around like a rag doll.” Singer flashed another grin over at the other man. “Never took you as the type to be scared of a little ice and snow.”

Winchester growled, trying for another drink of the coffee he’d picked up at the last filling station. “I’m not worried about the weather, Bobby. And that bitch wasn’t laughing after I sent her back to the bowels of hell, now was she?”

Singer grunted. “Busted you up pretty good before she went though, huh?”

“Just drive.” John turned fiery eyes to the mechanic. “I want to get back to Jim’s if you don’t mind.”

“You never did tell me what you were yelling about when Sam called you. Boys still fighting over the fate of that damn bird. My money is on us having a fucking boloney sandwich for dinner, because I don’t think Caleb or Dean will have the heart to do it, they just like pissing off Slim.”

John looked out the window, hoping to hell that was the biggest thing they had to worry about when they got home. “Caleb and Dean weren’t there. Sam was just being Sam.”

Bobby shot the other hunter a quick glance. “Meaning he’s not falling into line behind his brother and your protégé‘.”

Winchester frowned. “Now who’s been hanging around Mackland too long?”

Bobby lifted his hands from the wheel in mock surrender, which earned him another heated glare. “Hey, even a blind chicken gets a few pieces of feed every now and then.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that Mackland’s mind-shrinking occasionally has a way of hitting the nail on the head.”

John raised a brow. “Like when he says you prefer the company of dogs and cars because you’re emotionally impotent?”

“No.” Singer forced a grin, despite the sting. “Like when he says that your first instinct is to piss everybody off, especially if you know you’re in the wrong and you don‘t want to hear what they’re saying.”

“I hear what Sam is saying, Bobby. Although it isn’t any of yours or Mackland’s damn business.”

“Now that ain’t exactly true, considering I spent quite a few nights cleaning up my share of vomit and wiping snotty noses, and Mac, the bastard that he is, loves those boys like his own.”

Winchester sighed, rubbed a hand over his beard. “I’m his father,” he ground out. How many times did he have tell one of his friends that.

“Who you trying to convince?” Singer raised a brow. “Because I’m sold, man. I ain’t ever met anyone as stubborn and pigheaded as Slim, except for you. If he ain’t yours then God has one hell of a sense of humor.”

John gave him an incredulous look and Bobby laughed. “What? You think Dean’s more like you? Caleb, maybe? Hell, those two would cut off their right pinky fingers to please your hard ass, but that’s a whole different story. I don’t have to be a damned shrink to know the difference.”

“Sam doesn’t listen worth a goddamn.” John pointed out as if he didn’t realize he was helping his friend build his case.

“Good point.” Bobby nodded. “In my favor.”

“But he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut and just let it go.”

“Exactly.”

Winchester growled again, unable to keep the frustration from reddening his face. “He doesn’t realize I’m trying to help him.”

“Said the kettle to the pot.” John didn’t understand just how many people wanted to do the same thing for him.

“Goddamn you, Bobby.”

“Already happened a hell of a long time before you and your rug rats showed up at my door.” When John sighed, Singer shot him a somewhat sympathetic look. “The boy’s growing up, John. Ain’t nothing you can do to stop that. Besides the alternative is a whole hell of a lot worse.”

John swallowed thickly, thinking of what Sam had said. Dean and Caleb should have been back. They were nothing if not predictable. “Yeah.” The hunter rubbed a hand over his face. “I just don’t want to lose him. Any of them.”

Bobby looked back out to the snow. “That ain’t going to happen. I have a feeling God’s having too much fun watching you screw up at the whole parenting thing. I know I‘m sure as hell enjoying it.”

John laughed, tiredly. “And here Mac thought you were had the emotional range of a fence post, Bobby.”

Singer grunted. “Impotent, my ass. I’m the Hugh Heffner of feelings.”

Onto Part 5
Browse Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Home
Uploaded by Indus