It has been entirely too long since I've posted anything. As usual, there is a lot of random stuff sitting around waiting to be edited and fluffed up to look all nice and pretty, and I'm sure eventually I'll get to posting all that. This one's been sitting around waiting for edits for far too long, so I finally got around to it. Cheers to Lilybolt for the endless encouragement! It'll be a multi-chapter to be posted every Thursday (unless I forget, which is bound to happen eventually).

Long absence aside, let's just get to the story, eh?

Set in season 6 between episode 6x12 Like a Virgin and 6x13 Unforgiven.

The Devil's Tramping Ground

There are rules, you know. Things to keep in mind if you're going to survive this world. Especially once you actually know about the things that walk within it, those sharp shadows that morph to solids the moment the sun goes down. Some don't even wait that long.

They're just good at hiding in plain sight.

The Winchesters learned because they had to, and perhaps that makes them safer than most, but it's never seemed that way to Dean. Instead it seems like all that knowledge has somehow tethered them to some unique, magnetic force. Those things crawling along in the dark must all be made of metal, he's decided, for how fast and how often and how furiously they come.

"Dean?"

"Yeah."

"You hear what I said?" Sam's speaking soft, the way he does when he's done something wrong. Even though he hasn't this time, not really. It wasn't him. Dean's told him that a hundred times. Hasn't quite stuck yet. Dean can tell by his little brother's voice and by the way he's sitting at the little table in their motel room in Bear Creek, North Carolina, running a hand absently along the worn pages of Dad's journal . But at least it's Sam. It's really Sam now.

Dean clears his throat, shifting his shoulders against the headboard of his bed and adjusting the laptop that sits on his legs. He's been staring at it for hours, though he's not sure how much research he's actually gotten done. And he knows for a fact he'd been spaced out for at least the last minute or so. Because he didn't hear a word Sam had apparently just uttered.

"Sorry, Sammy. What'd you say?"

Sam doesn't sigh in frustration the way he normally would. "I said, I think we need one more day of research. What if it's not a wendigo?"

"Signs are all there." Dean knows he sounds bored, which is good because that's a better way to come across than what's actually going on inside his head right now. He isn't even sure he knows exactly what that is at the moment. All he knows is that Sam is back, soul (mostly) intact, and Dean's never been more grateful for anything in his entire life.

But.

There's this thing. This doubt...this pit in his gut. That it can't all last for long. That sooner or later (sooner sooner sooner), that wall inside his brother's head will crack apart and everything he's just gotten back will shatter along with it. This time for good. So he's not bored. He's scared. Sam does sigh this time, just a small exhale that's barely audible, which is good, because that means he's bought the whole boredom schtick.

"Dean. Let's do this right. Let's be sure. I mean, I know I was...gone for a while, but this is still the way we do things, right? We always make sure we know what we're up against. No surprises. That's how we stay alive."

Dean knows Sam's being logical. He also knows Sam is looking at him with those big, pleading eyes he's seen a million times before, the expression that was absent from the robot walking inside his brother's skin these past few months. He wants more than anything to look up and see that face, but he doesn't. Instead, he pushes a hand through his hair and drops his chin to his chest.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Sam is surprised. He hasn't forgotten how bull-headed his big brother can be most of the time. All of the time. "Just like that?"

Dean shrugs. "You think we need more time. Fine." Pushing the laptop aside, Dean swings his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for the cooler he knows is sitting at the foot of it. He snags a bottle of water from it and snaps the cap off, taking a long swig before continuing. Sam gives him a look like confusion at his choice in beverage, but it changes to one of annoyance when Dean keeps talking. "Someone else dies though, it's on us. Five disappearances in the woods in five days. Seems like a pretty obvious pattern to me."

Now Sam's sigh is more of a growl. "Oh come on, man. That's not…"

"Not what, Sam?" Dean interrupts, raising his eyes to meet Sam's. He was right about the look he was getting. "Not fair? Last I checked, monsters don't do fair. They do damage. And this one's about to do more tonight unless we get to it first. Simple as that."

Ten minutes later, the sun is setting, the weapons bag is packed, and the Impala is roaring down the road.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo0000000000000000OOOOOO000000000oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"You uh...you got a plan?" Dean can tell that's not the question Sam wanted to ask. The original was probably more along the lines of 'you okay?' or maybe 'you wanna tell me what you're thinking about right now?' But Sam's always been better at reining that kind of thing in, probably because he knows he"d never get a straight answer. Dean feels guilty about that sometimes, catches his lip in his teeth as he drives and makes Sammy revert back to the safer questions without even having to say a word. After all, there are rules, you know.

A list of things they don't talk about, things that slide along the edges of their heads and grip like talons against the tissue of their minds and never, never get spoken aloud. It's how they stay sane. How they wake up in the morning and do more than just blink.

They don't talk about the feel of a hellhound's teeth as they sink into skin.

They don't talk about the fiery throes of an endless and very literal Hell, remembered or not.

They don't talk about months spent alone in a stranger's room, seeking solace where there is none.

They don't talk about that vital, missing piece that goes along with the body.

Instead, they talk about the creatures they can actually see, the ones that bleed as well as they do. The ones that can be killed. Dean plays along because these are the rules and they've been playing this game for far too long for him to lob in a curveball now. So Sam asks if he's got a plan, and Dean answers the way he should.

"Find wendigo, kill wendigo, be back in time for the end of that Jackie Chan movie marathon." If Sam notices the way Dean's fingers wrap just a little too tightly around the steering wheel, he doesn't mention it. Dean knows he notices.

"It just seems weird," Sam pushes. "Usually with wendigos, the bodies are found. Ripped all to hell, but they get found. These people just...disappeared. No trace."

"It's been less than a week since this all really started up, Sam," Dean counters. "Most of the victims could still be alive if this thing wants to feed slow. And besides, most people don't know the things we know. They're not looking in the right places."

Sam wrinkles his nose and shrugs against the passenger seat. "I guess."

Even as he says it, Sam feels like by this point, they should know better than to simply guess.

See ya next week!