For once, Sam was glad to move.

Beach View, NJ, was primarily a holiday town – 'Fun for all the family since 1914', as the boardwalk billboards had it. July, the height of the tourist season, and the piers and amusement parks and arcades seethed with crowds in the daytime. After hours, teenagers hung out and hooked up, drinking beer from cans and losing their small change in the slot machines. For a few days it had been mildly amusing – Dad was keeping them in the dark on this hunt, and school was out, which left him and Dean pretty much to their own devices. Dean had landed a couple of shifts at one of the crappier local bars and fixed Sam up with a fake ID – you had to be 18 to enter, and once you got in they served you regardless, and at fifteen Sam was tall enough to just about pull it off. Dean spent his time chatting up girls from the county college and embarrassing their boyfriends by taking their money at the pool table. Surprisingly, he wasn't bugging Dad to let him in on whatever business had brought them to Beach View, not so far as Sam could see. Sam was going through a phase where everything Dean did irritated him, including and especially the way he just assumed responsibility for keeping Sam clothed and fed, as though Sam couldn't have gotten a job if he wanted to. Fuckin' martyr complex.

His low-level irritation with everything was fuelled by heat and poor sleep. He'd been having those dreams – they didn't make any sense, but they left him uneasy and feeling like there was a shadow at his back. He didn't want to sleep, but being awake was becoming increasingly tiring. By the end of the first week, both the bar and the surrounding area had gotten more than old. Sam was on the couch, flicking back and forth between the Late Show and an infomercial for a set of stainless steel cooking pots that stacked inside each other like Russian dolls when Dad got home and ordered,

"Go to bed – we're leaving in the morning," and Sam breathed out in relief. Then Dad did a visible double take and asked, "Where's your brother?"

"Work," said Sam, turning the TV off.

"What kind of work?" Dad dumped hi s backpack on the kitchen counter and started to unpack it. Sam caught the glint of a blade in the sickly synthetic lighting.

"At a bar," Sam elaborated, making no move to get up from the couch.

"He make a habit of leaving you alone at night?" Dad didn't turn around, and his tone was mild, the kind of mild that meant something was pissing him off and was about to get vented on somebody. Sam considered saying, 'No, sometimes I go to the bar,' but thought better of it – for once he wasn't in the mood for a full-on shouting match.

"No," he said. "It's just we ran out of money this week. It's only a couple of shifts."

Dad might almost have looked chagrined - Sam was attempting to read from the set of his
back. "Alright." He opened the fridge, got a beer, and sat down at the only table to start on cleaning the weapons.

Stalling, Sam asked, "How was the hunt?"

"Unproductive," Dad grunted.

Sam looked questioningly at the blood he was cleaning off of his weapons.

"I was looking for information," Dad said shortly. "I didn't get it."

Silence hung between them. A weird feeling crept up Sam's spine, but he dismissed it. His father was secretive, obsessive, single-minded in his pursuit of the demon, but there were lines he would not cross. Sam never really believed otherwise.

"Anything else happen while I was away?" Dad asked.

"No," Sam said pointedly, managing to load the reply with his general opinion of Beach View.

"Alright then," said Dad archly. He turned around and studied Sam for a moment. "Now go to bed."

"I can't sleep."

"Why not?" Something flickered across Dad's face then.

"The fan's too loud, and it's too hot without the fan."

Dad rolled his eyes. "You'll manage somehow."

Sam felt a sudden surge of anger towards his father, fierce and out of proportion to the conversation. God. Why was he the only one who realized the sheer fucked-upedness of their situation? He kicked the couch on his way out, not bothering to make it look like an accident. And he hadn't been lying. He couldn't sleep. Fan on, fan off, fan on again. Don't pre-empt the dream. The moon was too bright. Tiny biting insects found their way through the crack in the window, particularly drawn to the thin skin at the back of knees. Sam kicked the covers off, and realized he'd forgotten to ask where they were going.

The door opened in the hall.

"Dad!" said Dean's voice.

"We're heading to Jim's in the morning," his father said.

Sam sat up straight in bed. Who was Jim?

"You're close then?" his brother sounded shocked.

"Not to finding it," their father sighed.

Sam frowned. What else was there to be close to?

"Dad…"

"Yes?"

"Look I'm not – you know what's best, okay? It's just – it's fine. He's fine. Everything's
fine. Why do we have to…?"

His father sighed. "Believe me, I hope you're right. I'm just trying to be forearmed, Dean. I hope to God nothing ever comes of it."

Sam sighed heavily. More mysteries. When would his family start telling him anything? Dad, he could put up with. It had always been that way. But it stung a little that his brother saw fit to treat him like a child.

"Who's Jim?" Sam asked casually when Dean came into the bedroom, dumping his own backpack on the other bed.

"Your prom date," said Dean, but there was a slight hesitation. "Why were you listening in, woman?"

"Only way I ever find anything out around here."

"Put the goddam fan on, it's baking in here. I'm going to shower."

Sam sighed theatrically again and stood on his bed to pull the cord on the fan. Fifteen minutes later, when they were both lying the dark not asleep, aware of the other awake and holding a battle of wills to see who would say something first, Dean said,

"He's a friend of Dad's, obviously. A hunter. And like –a pastor."

"Like a pastor, or is pastor?" This was new.

"Is a pastor. Lives in one of those houses attached to a church. You've been there when you were little, you wouldn't remember."

"How old was I?"

"Four or five? I dunno. We used to go there a lot after…"

"Why did we stop? Did he and Dad have an argument?" Sam propped himself up on one elbow. His brother was looking at the ceiling. It was a tactical error – as soon as Dean saw that Sam was looking at him, he immediately turned away.

"How should I know? I was like, nine. Go to sleep."

Silence.

"I got that girl muesli crap you wanted at the 7/11," said Dean as a peace offering.

"You didn't have to do that."

"You'd only bitch about it in the morning if I didn't. Now seriously, shut up. We have to be up at five."

Sam stopped talking.

He fell asleep, and dreamed again - of yellow eyes, the thing at the back of his memory that spoke to him occasionally and made him wake, abruptly, goosebumps on his skin and cold fear of who knew what in the pit of his stomach. The residual thrill of something else. Excitement.

Dean was sound asleep. The moon was full and streaming through the window. Sam threw the covers off and stumbled to the bathroom to get a drink of water. On his way back to bed, the peculiar prickle of being watched crept its way up his spine. He turned abruptly, in the direction of his father's doorway, but there was only darkness.

TBC