Author's Note: This story is set post AHBL. It's a story within a story, and this is the first time I've tried a story like this, so bear with me if the transitions are a little abrupt. Please leave me feedback and let me know how I'm doing.

Disclaimer: Sam and Dean aren't mine, more's the pity. Kripke et al still own them, I'm just borrowing them for a while.

The Rider

The young widower huddled under what was left of his heavy oak desk, his three year old daughter clinging to his side hiccupping as she tried to muffle her sobs. Her tears soaked into his shirt as she buried her face in his side. He had one arm around her, and the other cradled his six month old son against his chest. Outside the illusion of safety provided by the nook in the sturdy desk his house was being torn apart. His house seemed to be tearing itself apart.

Books and knick-knacks swirled in a cyclone in his living-room, sweeping up more debris and growing in fury as it went. It sucked up the dog's squeaky toy, and the framed photo of his late wife, and his daughter's coloring book and crayons. He could hear the sounds of more destruction coming from other parts of the house, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the whirling mass of stuff that danced across the room.

He could also hear the voices of the two young men who had come by the day before posing as arson investigators. They claimed to be there to find the source of the fire that had taken his wife from him. He'd let them into the burnt wing of the old house, pulling aside the sheet of plastic that separated it from the untouched portion where he and his children still lived as they tried to piece their life back together around the void.

They had burst through the door again only minutes earlier, just after his collection of kitchen knives had flung themselves across the kitchen and impaled themselves in the wall inches from his head. He was pretty sure that they weren't actually arson investigators. Arson investigators didn't usually carry shotguns.

The taller of the two, the one who'd introduced himself as Sam, came into view on the far side of the room from the swirling vortex of the family's memories and décor. He carefully made his way to the corner of the house and used the butt of his shotgun to smash a hole in the drywall, ducking and rolling away at the last minute as the inexplicable tornado launched its cargo of pictures and toys at him. As soon as the hail of debris ended, the young man rolled back out from under the coffee table and shoved a red wrapped bundle into the hole he'd made in the wall. He immediately covered his head and ducked as a shockwave tore through the house.

The man under the desk thought for a moment that he'd gone deaf. Then he heard the soft sound of his daughter's sobs. A few seconds later he heard the other, older man yell, "You ok, Sammy?"

"Yeah, I'm good! You?" This was followed by a loud crash from the dining room.

"Oops. Sorry about the china cabinet. Yeah, I'm good."

The dark haired younger man picked his way across the littered carpet and crouched down to peer under the desk at the traumatized family. "It should be safe to come out now."

Sam moved back to give the man and his children some space. Dean sauntered in from the other room with his shotgun on his shoulder and a cocky grin spread across his face. "God I love this job. Another evil bastard bites the dust." He looked around at the devastation and whistled.

"Yeah, well, at least we got it before it hurt anyone else." Sam said as he helped the homeowner to his feet. "Mr. Harper, are you and your children alright?"

"Tom, please. And yeah, I think we're ok. Was that… that thing, was it what killed my wife?" Tom was shaky, but he was holding it together pretty well for a man who'd just been introduced to his first poltergeist.

"Honestly, we're not sure." Sam looked at Dean, whose cocky grin had vanished, replaced with a scowl.

"That bastard is dead." Dean said, reassuring himself as much as his brother, "This had to be some sort of copycat."

"What was this?" Tom asked, gesturing around his destroyed house with his free hand before his scared daughter re-claimed it.

"A poltergeist. It's a malevo…" Sam started to explain, but Tom interrupted.

"Yeah, I know what a poltergeist is supposed to be. I had no idea they were real, though. This is just a bit much to process." The man looked a little pale, and his daughter was clinging to his side, tears running down her face. The baby had slept through the whole thing. Tom looked down at his daughter. "I want… I mean, I have a lot of questions… I need to get my kids out of here, though. Until I can clean the place up." He looked from Dean to Sam and back again. "Can you wait while I take Lucy and Scott to my sister's place? Or tell me how I can reach you later? I need to know… my wife… she…" He took a deep breath.

Sam thought about his and Dean's life, his father's quest for revenge after their own mother had been killed. He felt pity for Tom Harper. He really didn't want to have to tell him about what was out there in the dark. But he also didn't want Lucy and Scott to have to go through what he and Dean had. If they could give Tom some answers, maybe they could give him some closure, too. Maybe he wouldn't drag his children on a quest to find those answers as John Winchester had. "We're staying at the Dew Drop Inn, room 17. Get yourself settled and your kids taken care of, and come see us. We'll be there until tomorrow morning."

"Dude!" Dean was looking at Sam like he'd grown an extra head. This was not the way it was supposed to work. You came, you killed the nasty thing, and you got the hell out of Dodge. You didn't get involved in the fallout, and you didn't give hunting 101 lessons to civilians. Of course, he didn't always follow the rules himself. But still…

Sam gave him his patented soulful puppy-dog eye stare and Dean caved. "Yeah, we'll tell you what we can."

Tom thanked them and shook their hands, and Sam followed Dean out to the Impala.

Dean smacked Sam on the back of the head after they put their shotguns in the trunk of the classic Chevy. "Dude, what were you thinking? You gave him our room number."

"I was thinking that I don't want those kids growing up in crappy motel rooms while their dad crisscrosses the country looking for answers. Answers that we can give him." Sam folded his long legs into the passenger side of the Impala and shut the door, cutting off any reply from Dean. Dean rounded the car and climbed in behind the wheel. He wasn't happy with it, but he had to admit that his kid brother had a point. He turned the key with a shake of his head. If their father were alive he'd be ripping them a new one for giving out their room number. They didn't know anything about Tom Harper except that his wife had died in a fire in his son's nursery on his son's six month birthday. Exactly the way Mary Winchester had died.

The Yellow-Eyed Demon was dead. Dean had put a bullet in the bastard's heart himself. All hell had broken loose, and they were trying to round up the escapees, but when Sam had stumbled across the article about the nursery fire they'd dropped everything to come check it out.

Dean cranked up the stereo to drown out the thoughts running circles in his head, the doubts that he didn't want to acknowledge. It was Guns and Roses, not his favorite, but it would do…

I wake up in the morning
And I raise my weary head
I got an old coat for a pillow
And the earth was last night's bed
I don't know where I'm going
Only God knows where I've been
I'm a devil on the run
A six gun lover
A candle in the wind…

Dean had his weapons and cleaning kit spread out across the queen size bed. He was running the bore brush through the barrel of his .45 when a knock sounded at the door. Sam was in the bathroom, and Dean's favorite weapon was dismantled. Great. Dean put down the stripped barrel of the pistol and picked up a shotgun he hadn't started on yet. He slipped a rock-salt round into the chamber and stalked quietly to the door to look through the peephole. With so many demons and spirits running loose, and the FBI on their trail, they couldn't be too careful.

Sam came out of the bathroom, crouching low to stay out of sight from the windows. He had heard the knock, too. He made his way to the bed and picked up a large silver bladed knife, crouching low and nodding to Dean that he was ready.

Dean peaked through the peep hole. It was Tom Harper. He looked back at his brother and rolled his eyes. He just lost twenty dollars to Sam because he'd been sure the guy would talk himself out of showing up. Dean stood and Sam moved closer to the door just in case. Holding the shotgun out of sight behind the door, Dean made sure the chain was in place and opened the door a crack, "Christo."

When there was no reaction from Tom other than a puzzled, "Huh?" Dean relaxed and closed the door enough to slip the chain off.

"Come on in." He opened the door wider, standing to the side just enough for Tom to slip in, but blocking the view of the weapons on the bed from any casual passerby who might glance into the room.

Tom was still wearing the same clothes he'd had on earlier, but now they were spotted with dust and there was a tangle of cobwebs on his collar. He held a leather wrapped bundle to his chest. His face was drawn, and he still looked a little shocked by the events of the day. He drew up short when he saw the arsenal on the bed.

Sam dropped his knife back onto the bed, "It's OK, Mr. Harper, just the tools of the trade." Sam put a comforting hand on the man's shoulder and led him to a seat at the little table in the corner of the room. Sam pulled the other chair around and sat, and Dean took a place on the corner of the clear bed, between Mr. Harper and the weapons.

"Please, call me Tom." He placed the bundle he'd brought onto the table, and as he set it down the leather wrap slipped back revealing what appeared to be a very old book.

"Ok, Tom," Dean spread his hands as if to say the ball's in your court.

"I, uh…" Tom looked down with a slight laugh and cautious smile at his own nervousness. "I have so many questions I don't know where to start." He looked back and forth between the brothers, "You're hunters, aren't you?"

Sam looked at Tom Harper in surprise. That was not the first question he'd expected. "Yeah. We're hunters. How did you…?"

"I never would have dreamed that it was all real if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes." His hand moved across the leather cover of the old book as he glanced down at it. "I always thought he just had a very vivid imagination. Most of the family thought he was mad as a hatter."

"Who?" Dean asked, his eyes narrowed as he looked at the old book.

"My five times great grandfather. He wrote about all of this stuff: poltergeists, ghosts, demons, vampires, werewolves. His journal is filled with things out of nightmares, and the ways to kill them. I spent most of the evening digging through the attic trying to find this." He put his hand on the journal again. "I read it once when I was a kid, most everyone in my family has read it at least once. It's kind of a family tradition. None of us believed it was real, of course." He looked again at the brothers, "So, yeah, I know what hunters are, and what you do. You do what my ancestor did. You save people. The question that I have is this: was it the poltergeist that killed my wife, or was it something different?"

Sam and Dean looked at each other. This was the tough question, and they'd expected to have time to work up to it. "This is going to be hard, but we need you to tell us about the night your wife died." Sam said, gently.

Tom took a deep breath and looked down at his hands clasped in his lap. "Emily heard Scott crying, and she went to check on him. I stayed in bed. If I'd only gotten up instead of her… She would still be alive now." He paused, his breath hitching. Sam squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, and they gave him a minute to collect himself.

"She screamed. I ran into the bedroom to see what was wrong, but I didn't see her. Scott was there in his crib, and I started to walk toward him when I stepped in something wet. I flipped on the light and looked down. There was blood on the carpet. I bent down to look at it and more dripped. I looked up, and Emily was on the ceiling, her stomach was slashed open and she had this look on her face," tears spilled from Tom's eyes as he spoke, but he continued. His voice was flat and emotionless as if he was trying to distance himself from the horror he'd seen, "It looked as if she had seen something horrible. I stood up and reached for her, and then she burst into flames. I froze. I was sure it had to be some terrible nightmare. If Scott hadn't started crying I probably would have just stood there and burned up with her." He looked at the old journal again, "His wife died the same way." He put his hand on the cover of the old book an opened it to the first page, then shut it again, "Is my family cursed?"

Sam leaned back in his chair, dismay clear on his face. He looked over to his brother. Dean stood and turned to pace. He didn't want Sam to see the fear in his eyes. "It can't be him Sam. That bastard is dead." He turned back, "I shot him myself. I saw him die. This has to be something else."

Tom was watching them, confused. "Who?" He echoed Dean's earlier question.

"The demon that killed our mother." Sam explained, a range of emotions playing across his expressive features. "She died the same way your wife did. In my nursery. When I was six months old." He caught Tom's eyes and held them.

Tom's jaw went slack in surprise and puzzlement. "A demon?" His voice was small and tinny, and his skin went pale. Sam moved toward him a little, sure the man was about to faint. Tom put his face down into his hands, propping his elbows on his knees. He rubbed at his forehead and shuddered, looking back up at Sam and Dean from his hunched position. "I'd hoped… I wanted this to all be a dream - some kind of delusion." Tom's calloused, workman's fingers traced the binding of the old journal with wonder. "This is all very… confusing. I… I need some time to process this." He pushed the journal across the table to Sam, "Can you stay in town another day or two. I know I'm going to have more questions, and I want this journal back. I've got to get back to my kids."

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Dean was faster, "Yeah. We can stick around a day or two." Sam gave his brother a puzzled look, but Dean waved him off.

Tom Harper stood shakily and shook Sam's hand, then Dean's. Without a word he walked to the door, but as he opened it he paused. "You said you shot the demon?" He looked at Dean, who nodded. "I guess that means you found Colt's special revolver then? I'd like to see it, sometime. If you still have it."

"Dude, how did you…?" Dean started to say, but Tom cut him off.

"It's all in the journal," and he was gone, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Dean stared, speechless at the closed door for a beat before spinning to face his brother, "Sam you don't think that's…" he motioned to the journal.

"Only one way to find out." Sam pulled the journal closer to him and flipped it open. He used his foot to hook the chair that Tom had been sitting in and pulled it around closer for his brother, so they could both look at the old book. Dean secured the deadbolt and chain on the door and joined his brother at the table as Sam started to read aloud.

"The first entry is dated October 26, 1807. My dearest Elizabeth, I hope one day to be able to tell you all about your mother, and what has happened to her. But I know that the world is a hard and dangerous place, and my journey looks to be more dangerous than most. I will record all that I can so that if I don't make it back to you, you will at least know why. I want you to know beyond all else that I love you with all of my heart, and I would give anything to be there for you, to be a father to you, but I am a soldier, and I am crushed by grief, and I know I could not raise you with the love and care that you deserve. Your aunt and uncle are good people. They will give you the care that I am too shattered to provide for you.

Your mother's name was Rebecca Paine. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I loved her from the moment I first laid eyes on her. I was barely seventeen years old, and she was only a year older than I, but she seemed as out of reach to me as the stars in the sky. I had been in the U.S. Army for two years, and I was a dusty, know nothing private at his first frontier posting here in Tennessee. She was the mercantile owner's daughter – far above me in wealth and station, even by the modest standards of a small fort town. But her father, Ebenezer Paine, had been a soldier once himself. He had fought against the British when he was my age, and he remembered. So when he saw that we were in love he gave his blessing and we were married in May of 1806. You were born 11 months later, on April 12, 1807. We were a happy family. I had only one more year of my commitment to the army before I could muster out. We had plans to move into one of the new territories that were just opening to the west. There was free land to be had, all we would have to do was settle it and farm it. Your grandfather was even willing to give us enough capitol to start a small store of our own.

Two weeks ago those dreams were shattered, and they drifted away as ashes on the wind…"

Sam looked up from the journal, "Wow, he really writes well. Very moving."

"Enough with the critique, Oprah, what does it say about Colt's gun and the demon?"

With a roll of his eyes, Sam returned to reading the journal. "Well meaning people will try to tell you that your mother's death was an accident, but do not believe them. They will try to tell you that grief has driven me mad, but I am sane, and I know what I saw that night. Your mother was murdered, and I will not rest until I have discovered what unnatural thing caused it. She was against the ceiling, and her stomach was sliced open. The flames came not from a tipped lantern, but from her body, reaching out to engulf our home, and reaching out for me as I lay in shock as though they were directed by some malevolent intelligence. Had you not begun to cry I may have lain there and allowed myself to be immolated along with her, accompanying her to Heaven or Hell, and been content with it. But I could not abandon my responsibility to you. You saved my life in that moment.

I tried to tell people what had happened, even as they gathered a bucket brigade to fight the fire, but the pitying looks I got in return were enough to still my tongue. It was a week later, after the funeral, before I could even begin to speak again of what I had seen. I went first to Father Callahan, and that God guided me to him was a blessing. He assured me that I was not insane, and that there are things in this world, infernal forces, that most men refuse to see. He advised me not to pursue this course, but when he saw that I would not be swayed from revenging your mother's death, he directed me to a man who could help me. So, leaving you in the capable and loving care of your mother's sister, I set off to find him."

The young rider paused atop the rise in the light of the setting sun. His bay mare danced a bit as he looked down at the isolated cabin in the valley. His face was stubbled with three days of beard, and his eyes were under-shadowed by dark rings. Grief and weariness made him look far older than his eighteen years.

His long coat was travel-stained and worn. He had lost his hat, and his sandy hair was windblown and unkempt. His legs were stiff from days in the saddle, and his stomach growled to protest its emptiness. A thin stream of gray smoke spiraled from the chimney of the cabin, and even this far away he could smell roasting meat. He had been riding for five days across the rolling hills of Tennessee and into the Missouri territory, and he was weary to the bone. With a click of his tongue, and a gentle nudge of his heels, he set the mare to a gentle trot down the hill.

He approached the cabin slowly, giving the occupant plenty of time to see him coming and to see that he was no threat. Father Callahan had warned him that Roland Léglise was a paranoid man, and was as likely to shoot him on sight as he was to help him. The wind stirred up little whirling devils in the dry dust of the cabin's yard.

The young man dismounted at the edge of the yard and led his horse the last few yards. The cabin door opened a crack, and he froze as the barrel of a musket appeared in the opening.

"That is far enough. Raise your hands so that I can see them." The voice was harsh and deep. There was the barest trace of a French accent, and the tone brooked no arguments. The young man did as he was ordered. "Good. You see the iron post to your left? Touch it, then show me your hand."

Puzzled, but not about to argue with the gun trained on him, he did as he was told. He lay his hand on the post for a long moment, and then pulled it back and held it palm outward so the man in the cabin could see.

"Good. You may tether your horse to the post."

"My name is Jacob Granger. Father Michael Callahan of St. Mary's near Fort Marr, Tennessee told me how to find you. He says you might be able to help me." Jacob spoke as he tethered the horse, trying to hide the nervous waver in his voice.

"Did he? I shall have to have words with him about sending strays to my door if I ever see him again." The door swung wider and a tall, wiry man with a shock of wild black hair stepped onto the porch. His musket never wavered from Jacob's chest. His face was tanned and deeply lined. His nose was hooked like an eagle's beak, and a jagged scar ran down the left side of his face, missing his left eye by only a hair's breadth. Touches of grey at his temples, deep lines at his mouth and eyes, and a hard, knowing look in his eyes gave Roland Léglise the air of a man who had seen much in his life, little of it good.

His face was impassive as he looked Jacob up and down, taking his measure. After a long moment he spoke again with a weary, slightly annoyed tone, "So, are you going to tell me what it is you need help with, or are you going to make me guess. I'm no good at guessing games."

Jacob opened his mouth to speak, but his carefully prepared speech deserted him and all he could think about was the dark eye of the musket trained on his chest. He could feel the burn of anger starting to creep its way toward his mouth. His temper had gotten him in plenty of trouble in his life, and his fear almost always turned to anger. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Father Callahan had warned him about Léglise and his paranoia, and he would be more likely to get the help he needed if he could keep a civil tongue. "I was told that you know about things, that you know how to kill evil things. My wife is dead, and nothing natural did it." He met Léglise's eyes and held them, "I want to learn about these creatures, and I want to learn how to kill them."

Léglise lowered the musket, but he held Jacob's hazel gaze for a long moment. Finally he nodded and turned back to the house. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. I suppose there is enough for two. You can tell me more as we eat." The tall man disappeared back into his cabin, leaving the door open behind him.

Jacob stared after him, puzzled by the grizzled old hunter's abrupt manner. Taking his words for an invitation, even though he hadn't been directly invited in, he crossed the yard and followed the old man into the cabin.

"Mind your step, boy. Don't disturb the line." Léglise's clipped tones came from the gloom of the cabin as Jacob reached the threshold. Pulling up short, Jacob glanced down to see a line of coarse salt across the doorway. He stepped carefully over it and looked around the interior of the cabin. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the harsh light outside. He blinked a few times until the deep shadows resolved into the muted brown shapes of simple, rough wooden furniture and shelves stacked with books and jars of herbs and strange objects. The room was lit with only a few candles and the orange embers of a fire in a large stone fireplace. A rabbit was spitted on an iron rod over the fire, and another pot bubbled on the coals near it. Léglise turned the rabbit on the spit and the juices running from it sizzled on the hot coals. The smell was heavenly, and Jacob's stomach rumbled again, loud enough to pull a chuckle from the dour Frenchman. "Come, sit."

Jacob pulled a little stool over to the small table and sat down, still watching the other man carefully. Without another word, his host scooped up a bowl of the rich stew from the pot and sliced off a hunk of the roast rabbit. He set the food in front of Jacob and got more for himself. Sitting on another low stool across the table, Léglise watched as Jacob tore into the food with a mumbled thank-you.

"Salt keeps out many evil things. Others cannot enter without an invitation, and there are certain herbs that are poison to diabolic creatures. You entered my home, and you are eating some of those herbs, and you can touch iron without being burned. So, I know you are human. I do not know if I can help you, but I suppose it will cost me nothing to at least listen to your tale."

Jacob swallowed his mouthful and paused a moment. He went over the events of the past few weeks in his mind, flinching away from the memories of the night his wife died. He would have to recount them, despite the pain. That was the whole reason he was here. He put down his fork, and as Léglise dug into his own food Jacob began telling him his story.