Author Note: Another looong one-shot brought to you courtesy of the Prompt Machine, Nova42. You will find the prompts that produced this story at the end.

This takes place in season 4, after "Sex and Violence."

Out of the Woods

"What the hell are we doing out here again?"

Sam sighs patiently, the special sigh that has Dean's name all over it. Dean created this sigh. Dean OWNS this sigh, to such an extent he should probably be paying property taxes and charging Sam some kind of fee for its frequent use. He knows exactly what sighing this particular sigh does to his brother's mood but given recent events, he doesn't have the capacity to self-correct before he lets it fly. Besides, there's some amount of satisfaction to be felt in watching Dean's eyes narrow.

"Rufus was driving through when his EMF detector went bananas, but he couldn't stop because he had something mad and toothy hog-tied in the back of the truck." Sam pauses, looks over at his brother to clarify, "His words. Anyway, he called Bobby to see if anyone was in the area. We were."

Dean is seemingly perpetually broody and snappish these days, and needs very soon to take the edge off with a keg's worth of caffeine or an opportunity to make something nasty bleed. Or maybe he just needs to get laid. He shoots Sam an irritated sideways glance. "We were two states away."

An unsolicited thought sprints across Sam's mind, to quickly to catch and properly squelch. All self-recrimination and redundancy aside, a wondering if maybe his brother wouldn't settle for making SAM bleed.

He forces the thought to the furthest, darkest corner of his always-busy mind and acknowledges the truth in Dean's complaint with the slightest raise of his eyebrows. "Well, I don't think Bobby appreciated that crack you made about his pot roast last time we were there."

"Hey, every man's got his strengths."

"You should maybe think about making tact one of yours."

"Pass." Sam can near-about HEAR Dean's molars grinding from the other side of the car. "You really think this is about the rock roast? I chipped a tooth, Sam." Dean takes a hand off of the steering wheel to lift his upper lip, displaying a "chip" in his right canine that Sam is convinced is a figment of his brother's imagination. "He's punishing us for that?"

Sam glares. "Yeah. Us. So if anyone should be pissed we're stuck doing this, I'm pretty sure it's me."

"We're in the friggin' middle of nowhere, Sam."

"You say that a lot. You know that?"

"I'm just sayin', it's a long way to go for some third-hand EMF." Dean absently scratches at his right shoulder, at what's tucked underneath jacket and flannel and tee. At the square of bandage taped there over a healing stab wound.

And Sam has to think, maybe Bobby wasn't so much upset over the joke about his cooking as he was the fact he had to do that to one of them. No, not just to one of them…to Dean. He's always been Bobby's favorite, and in retrospect, Sam's a bit surprised the man didn't take the time to line up a shot on him instead.

This thought requires a little more force, but Sam pushes it away all the same, and notes Dean's motion with a frown and some amount of concern, but doesn't bring attention to it. He rotates a little on the seat and points his body at his brother. "And I'm not arguing that. But were you gonna tell Bobby 'no'?"

Dean gives him a pinched, oddly self-aware expression that clearly says, no, it wasn't likely he was going to tell the man anything other than 'when and where?' And he probably never will.

Since Dean's been back, there've been pockets of openness about his brother that Sam doesn't quite know what to do with, rare moments of honesty and vulnerability that look as out of place on the man as leather pants would. But at the end of the day he's the same old Dean, and the same old Dean isn't quite strong enough to know what to do with himself if he isn't following orders.

Sam shakes his head, wishing he could stop these thoughts from forming and festering in his mind, because they feel like some sort of mental invasion. Coming in unbidden waves, they don't feel like they could possibly be his. It's been days since the incident with the siren, and he shouldn't be having such blatantly negative musings about his brother. He clears his throat and pulls his cell phone from his jacket pocket and, without any real intent behind it, starts thumbing across contacts and icons, because it's gotta be better than staring awkwardly at each other like this. Apparently even this utterly innocent motion is enough to rouse Dean's ever-present suspicions.

"Anything you need to – " Dean catches himself and huffs out his own sigh, one that's more from annoyance with himself than it is with Sam. He adjusts his hands around the steering wheel without finishing the thought.

But Sam's curious now – curious always – and he wantsDean to finish it. "What?"

"Nothin'," Dean answers, clipped. But because it doesn't ever seem like he's even strong enough to put up a decent fight against himself, he eventually grates out, "Just didn't know if there was anything going on there that you wanted to share with the class."

He means Ruby, and swaps need with want, like semantics is the problem. Sam doesn't answer.

"What the hell was Rufus doing out here, anyway?" Dean snaps, changing the subject. "This is literally the middle of nowhere." He glares at Sam, daring him to say something.

Sam exhales again and shoves the phone back away into his pocket, hoping they rumble closer to the middle of somewhere soon. Dean's fuse is exceptionally short as of late, and he's growing noticeably pissier by the moment. He stabs at the tape deck and pops out the Zeppelin he's only let run two songs, snaps his fingers at Sam and barks for the Metallica. And that's a bad sign, because if the Zep has gotten on Dean's nerves, then it's all downhill from here.

Thankfully, Sam spots the rusty road sign ahead, pointing them in the direction of Durbin. "Left up here."

"Where? Oh, at the sign that says to turn left for Durbin?" Dean shakes his head and hits the turn signal. His hand rises once more to pick at the spot on his shoulder. "Dad should have let you navigate more."

Sam sighs the sigh again, but feels his upper lip twitch into an almost-smile. "Jerk."

Parked next to a narrow, rust-pocked black metal mailbox rising from a spray of tall, dried grass, the Chevy sits sleek and massive and impressive, ticking as she cools. Her right-side tires and digging snug and cozy into the looser gravel of the berm, left-side a little steadier atop cracked pavement. The air outside is out of season, surprisingly tepid and not unpleasant, but the combination of closed windows, prolonged stillness, and sun-warmed leather is growing increasingly uncomfortable for the two grown men in the middle of a staring contest. One that is perhaps situationally suitable, but more appropriate for children one-third their ages.

Sam cracks first, and hates himself for every bit of it. "Dean."

"What?" With a too-forced, put-upon innocence Dean hasn't actually had since he was four years old.

"Come on."

"Look at that road, Sam. I'm not sacrificing the rims because you're afraid of a little hike." Dean throws a stiff hand in the direction of the uneven dirt drive beyond Sam's window. "Besides, the house can't be too far back if Rufus got EMF from here. Which reminds me…" Dean winces as he reaches over the bench with his right hand and digs blindly through unzipped, overstuffed bags for his own EMF detector. He pulls it into his lap and flips a switch, shaking his head. "Nada. Let's go."

Sam drags his hands down his face, palms coming together at his chin as though in prayer. "Can you, please, stop being so pathological about this car and drive us up to whatever house is back there, like a normal person?"

"S'matter, Sammy?" The name doesn't drop easily from Dean's lips, doesn't sound brotherly and affectionate like it used to. It sounds almost like a challenge. Dean yanks the keys from the ignition and throws open his door with a grin that seems plastered on with a cheap adhesive. Like it just won't stick. "I thought you liked a little fresh air."

Sam does like a little fresh air inserted into a life that always seems as stuffy and insufferable as this car does right now. Despite himself, he huffs and sighs the entire time they're grabbing the guns and spare salt cartridges from the trunk compartment. He knows he's only encouraging a brother who's not known to need much in the way of such encouragement, and Dean is already doing a damn fine job pulling the same kind of passive aggression he's always giving Sam shit about.

It's not nearly as long a walk as it ends up feeling, shaded with the normal fraternal levels of mutual aggravation with a bit of leftover spite and self-righteousness thrown in for good measure. That siren threw a wrench the size of Hell into the fragile and unstable dynamic they've been struggling for months to reestablish since Dean came back. They've spoken, sure, but haven't had a REAL conversation in days. Even with the heavy not-so-silent silence surrounding them, this entire outing perhaps wouldn't feel quite so unbearable if Dean wasn't dragging his feet like he is.

"Still nothin'," he says glumly, eyes pointed down at the EMF detector that's made its way back into his hand, sweeping it left and right as they trudge on. Sam swears he sees his brother smile as he takes another dramatic baby step forward.

"We'll do a quick sweep, and if we don't find anything, then we'll tell Rufus he's buying the next round, okay?" Sam raises his eyebrows. "Key word being 'quick.'"

"Yeah, you're damn right about that." A rustle from the tree line draws Dean's gaze, and he finally picks up the pace a little. "Oh, we're so gonna get Hills Have Eyes'ed out here, man."

"What?"

"Yeah." Dean shoots a wide-eyed glance around the dense forest on either side of the long dirt drive. He awkwardly tucks the rigged-up Walkman into a deep jacket pocket and tightens the grip around the stock of the sawed-off. "Or Wrong Turned." His hand twitches with adrenaline and anticipation. With the possibility of a threat and the promise of violence to follow. Hell, maybe shooting some spook full of rock salt with put the son of a bitch in a somewhat good mood, get him off Sam's back for five minutes.

Sam comes to a sudden stop, the pump-action shotgun thumping against his calf as his shoe kicks up a puff of dust from the road. "Dean, just – first, you have to stop using movie titles as verbs."

"What? Why?"

"Because it makes me want to strangle you." He shouldn't have said that at all, and it comes out a hell of a lot harsher than he'd intended. Sam starts walking again, at a pace quick enough to escape the flash of hurt that crosses Dean's features. With the gun barrel, he gestures back the way they came. "Second, you're the one who made us leave the car back there," he says, softening his tone in stages. "And third? You have a gun."

Dean's head jerks in a tight, exasperated nod as he hefts his own rock-salt loaded shotgun in a manner that rocks him back a step. "Damn right, I have a gun. And no inbred backwoods cannibal is gonna lay one finger on this sweet ass while I do."

Sam's lip curls into a smile as he turns back to address his brother. "Hey, did you have a gun on you that time you got sidelined by – "

"Shut your face, Sam."

The exchange isn't as light or quippy as usual, but more like they're having to force themselves to talk to each other. They pace off another hundred or so feet in silence and come to the crest of a small hill. The cabin in question finally comes into view.

The cut and stacked logs that comprise the structure are faded and streaked with age and sun, giving the house a bluish-gray color, and the boards are littered with twisted knots and yawning holes big enough for any one of several wild animals to squeeze through. The creak of the front door swinging off of its hinges is audible from where they stand, and a breeze blows the tattered curtains that hang over open holes where windows once were. A sizeable swath of cloud moves to cover the sun, and a strange wash of midday darkness falls over the scene. A chill more appropriate for the late-winter season cuts through them.

Sam fights a shiver as he swallows. "Yeah, forget the EMF. We're totally about to get Deliverenced."

"Uh huh," Dean agrees.

Dean's gun is lifted and at-the-ready in his hands before they set boot sole to rickety porch. Sam had notched more than enough solo takedowns in the months Dean was dead and buried, and he's pretty sure they both know he's the better hunter now, but he's also been following his big brother's lead since before he could stand up without falling down. And as always, when they're in the moment, he finds himself reverting almost too easily to his default little-brother-Sammy setting and hanging back.

Sam raises his own weapon and nods to his brother as Dean moves the crooked front door aside with the dusty toe of his boot. The panel of wood planks gives another long, ominous creak as it opens, a gust of wind overtaking Dean's attempt at subtlety as the warped door slams back against the wall.

"Well, that's not creepy at all," Dean says needlessly, turning to give Sam a look before entering the house barrel-first.

Sam makes a face and resists the urge to give his hesitant brother a mostly gentle nudge over the threshold. Once inside, he gives the chilly, empty interior of the cabin a quick once-over, spotting evidence that this has been more a home for wildlife than for people for some time now, in the form of an array of animal droppings and a large nest of some sort in one corner. Nothing obviously spectral jumps out at him, and his shoulders drop just a touch.

Then the EMF squawks in Dean's hand, line of lights across the top blazing to life as Sam is forced back into a tenser stance as he changes his diagnosis of the situation.

"Okay," Dean says. He jiggles his shotgun to the right without looking up at Sam. "Check that way."

Splitting up in a probably haunted abandoned cabin in the middle of God's armpit seems like the shortest distance to something feisty and/or evil getting a chewy mouthful of well-meaning Winchester, but they meet up without incident at the other end of the circular floorplan, in a dark galley kitchen with gaps in the counter where appliances once were. There's not much natural light to be found in the back of the cabin, even with the abundance of holes in the walls.

"Feel any cold spots?" Sam asks, brisk and business-like.

Dean blinks at him, jerking his head in the direction of the rag-framed space in the wall over the sink, offering nothing more in the way of wind resistance than a jagged, grimy tease of the glass pane it once held. "It's winter, and there're no windows, Sam."

"Yeah." Sam drops the line of his gun to the dusty wood flooring beneath their feet. "So, bust?"

Unsatisfied, Dean shrugs and frowns at the detector he still has in hand. "Sure seemed to pick something up before." As if on cue, the lights across the top blink and buzz as the device lets loose another accompanying shriek. "And…now."

Dean moves farther into the kitchen, eliciting a louder whine and an additional light. He takes deliberate footsteps up to the counter and moves the EMF detector back and forth with a puzzled look, never loosening his grip on his gun. "This can't be right. It's the…is it the sink?"

Sam steps up next to him and moves the tattered curtains aside with the back of his hand, peering outside. He scoffs. "Yeah, or the transformer outside."

"Dammit, Rufus." Dean sighs, tucking the ex-Walkman away into his jacket pocket. "That panicky bastard is buying the next two rounds. We wasted half a damn day on this."

"So, no ghost."

"Doesn't look like."

"Are you the bad men?"

They spin in tandem at the unmistakable sound of a child's terrified voice, and Sam is quick to put a firm hand on the barrel of Dean's gun and he shoves the weapon away, pointing it safely at the floorboards. "Uh, no, we're good guys." He's immediately appalled by the sight of this small blonde girl in the middle of ruin and shoots a glance around the cabin. "Are there bad men around here?"

Based on her features she's maybe eight, but small even for that, and has gone shy with the attention of the enormous strangers holding shotguns. Sam holds out his weapon for Dean to takes and shows the little girl his empty hands. "I'm Sam. This is my brother, Dean. What's your name?"

She doesn't answer and won't meet his eyes, shifting back and forth where she stands in filthy bare feet and clothing in tatters to match the décor of the decrepit cabin.

Sam stoops to the girl's level and smiles. "Who's that on your shirt?"

The tiny girl fidgets, pulling at the hem of her torn purple t-shirt as she looks down to study the glittery design there. "S'My Little Pony Twilight Sparkle," she says in a quiet rush of adorably smooshed words.

Dean makes an exaggerated gagging noise behind him and Sam tries to smile convincingly, like he knows what the hell any of those words mean. "Okay. What's your name?" he tries again.

"Missy."

"Nope."

Before Sam can react or say a single calming word, Dean's stomping quickly back through the small cabin in search of the front door, floorboards creaking under the weight of each heavy, hastily taken step. He offers the girl, Missy, another tight grin and straightens to give chase, catching up to Dean just as he's kicking open the crooked door, just shy of hard enough to rip it completely free of its hinges.

Dean shrugs his brother off and clomps down the rotted, uneven steps, a shotgun gripped in each hand. "Uh uh. Ghosts, sure. Vampires, bring it. But I'm not doing this shit again, Sam. Rufus can get his ass back out here and check this place out for himself." He snaps his fingers. "Let's go."

Sam would think that, with the experience of Hell fresh in his mind to the point of daily nightmares and some degree of progressive irreversible liver damage, the long-past experience with the Benders wouldn't even register on his brother's radar. He stays on the porch. "Dean, come on. We can't just leave her here, man. You're being ridiculous. There's no ghost here, just a scared little girl."

"Exactly, Sam!" Dean exclaims, throwing his arms wide. He looks not a little like a crazy person. "What the hell is that little girl doing out here all alone in the middle of – "

"Nowhere?"

"Yes," Dean grits.

Sam raises his eyebrows pointedly. "I don't know. I didn't get a chance to ask her, because I had to come out here and get you."

Dean rolls his eyes and drops his arms. He moves a hand up to his face before remembering he's double-fisting shotguns, settles for dragging a sleeve awkwardly across his sweaty forehead. "Yeah, okay."

"Okay." Sam nods. "And, I mean, what are the odds of being attacked by a little girl named Missy twice?"

Dean makes a face, then drops his gaze to the red dirt and dead grass under his boots. He kicks childishly at the ground and mumbles something Sam doesn't quite catch.

"What?"

"You didn't set it up right," Dean repeats.

"Wha – oh." Sam sighs and says each word slowly, without feeling. He's done this a few times, just not recently. "Dean, the odds of being attacked twice by a little girl named Missy are three thousand, seven hundred and twenty to one."

"Never tell me the odds," Dean snaps. Then he grins and wags his eyebrows.

Sam shakes his head and holds open the door for his idiot brother. "Yeah. Let's go, Han."

The EMF detector screams from Dean's pocket as they cross the threshold, and the far wall rushes to meet them.

Or maybe it's the other way around.

Sam comes to with Dean glaring at him.

"Okay," he concedes groggily, around a few slow blinks and before he even unsticks the side of his face from the grimy concrete floor. "So the little girl is a ghost."

"Thank you, Detective Winchester," Dean snaps, "for that brilliant deduction." He's is on his ass a few feet away from Sam, legs splayed at his side like a ragdoll's limp limbs and seemingly hugging a wide wooden post spanning floor to ceiling. His eyes are wildly roaming the cellar they're being held in, taking stock of their current, admittedly not great situation and presumably putting together some kind of exit strategy.

Sam moves to do the same, to awkwardly lever himself up onto an elbow and get a more vertical view of their predicament, finds his progress hindered by the fact his hands are similarly bound around a second post, fingers red and quickly going numb. It's enough to discover his jacket is gone, and Sam suppresses a shiver as he methodically shimmies his hands up the post and works his way upright; the earlier pleasantness of the day is definitely gone, and their subterranean hold is uncomfortably chilly. And if they don't have jackets, it's a pretty safe bet they don't have their guns, either.

One problem at time. Sam tests his bindings and doesn't find much give in the thick, coarse rope, certainly not enough to squeeze a hand free. He winces around a sudden roll of pain through his knocked head. He was out longer but isn't sure exactly how much longer, and knows that doesn't always mean something. And now that he's thinking about it, he's not convinced Dean didn't simply will himself back to consciousness just for the opportunity to be glaring these daggers when Sam woke up.

Having established the presence of his own share of cranial pain, he shifts his gaze back to his brother. The side of Dean's face that he can see is streaked liberally with dried blood, a path cut from a patch of matted hair over his ear, and he's squinting around what has to be a beast of a headache. Sam frowns and does as much of a self-evaluation as he can, leans awkwardly against his outstretched arm and feels out a whopper of a bump on the back of his head. He hisses from the contact but, upon further inspection, doesn't seem to leave any blood behind on his shirtsleeve. "You good?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fantastic. Why wouldn't I be?"

Sam sighs and wriggles his fingers again, looking for a way out of this room before he's smothered by his brother's sarcasm, a more immediate threat than any ghost there may be. "Okay, I get it."

But if there's anyone who doesn't know when to say when, it's his dumbass brother. Dean shrugs inelegantly, hands wrapped snuggly around his post. "I mean, it's not like I said anything about not wanting to do this, or having a bad feeling about it, or anything like that."

"I said I get it, Dean."

"And?"

Sam can't suppress his groan, but he gives Dean what he wants. "And you were right."

"I'm sorry, I was what?"

This is everything he loves and hates about his brother, all rolled into one. Sam's lip twitches, but he honestly doesn't know whether the instinct is to grin or grimace. "You're really gonna make me say it again?"

"Oh, I'm gonna make you say it a lot," Dean says, eyes wide. "And when we get out of here, we're gonna get it tattooed on that giant forehead of yours so you never forget it." He shifts uncomfortably against the dirty floor, maneuvering his legs around to stretch towards Sam. "I friggin' TOLD you we were gonna get Wrong Turned, man!"

It's like diffusing a very childish bomb. "No one's getting Wrong Turned, Dean. I think you're being a little dramatic."

"Am I, Sam? Because last time I checked, we were tied up in some cannibal ghost's torture dungeon." Dean swallows roughly on the heels on his words, and tears his eyes quickly away, puts them on a safe, empty spot across the cellar.

Sam is beginning to recognize the rare bit of panic that's gaining traction on the edge of his brother's bitching. If not for what had happened in Rock Ridge with that damn Frank O'Brien case, he may not have noticed it at all. But over the past couple of months, he's gotten used to identifying fear in Dean's expression or voice. And that's not something he'd ever WANTED to get used to. "Better us than someone else," he counters, as calmly as possible.

Dean shakes his head. "No. Not better us than someone else. Because if we're already stuck down here, who's gonna come and save our sorry asses?"

"Bobby?" Sam offers.

Dean stares at him, then throws his head back and shouts, "BOBBY!" He waits a moment and drops his head back down, pursing his lips at Sam. "I don't think he heard me."

Suddenly, the static-y thump of Dean's downloaded "Smoke on the Water" ringtone floats down between the slats in the floorboards over their heads.

"Huh." Dean twists, eyes pointed upward once more. "Or maybe he did."

The ringtone comes to an abrupt stop, and after a brief dalliance with silence the air is filled with the more standard trill of Sam's smartphone. He frowns, but knows he shouldn't be surprised. Not really. "You're the one who was bitching about dinner, and he still calls you first?"

Dean shrugs again, wincing as he pulls with renewed vigor at his bound hands. "Guess manners only get you so far, huh, Tact Boy?"

"How about we get as far as we can from this basement before the ghosts come back, huh?"

"Yeah, that's probably a good plan."

Sam nods, his cheek scraping the post. "So we set on it being the girl?" He's careful not to say the girl's name, because Dean already has that air about him, like he's little more than a ticking time bomb of looming hysteria.

"Only sign of life, or you know, unlife, we've seen." Focusing on the threat does its job and takes that uncharacteristic waver of fear out of Dean's voice. "And there's the EMF."

"Well, if she is the ghost, I doubt she's working alone."

"What, like a whole clan of people-eating ghosts?"

Sam sighs. "Why are you still jumping straight to people-eating anything?"

"Look where we are, Sam!"

Sam lets his forehead come to rest against the post with a thunk. Not this again. "We're not gonna get eaten by ghosts. I'm pretty sure that's not a thing."

Dean raises his eyebrows and jerks his chin to a space in the cellar beyond Sam's eye line, and he twists and cranes his neck as best he can to see exactly what it is that has his brother so freaked out.

A long, narrow table spans nearly the length of the wall, a workspace gone to ruin but complete with a table saw and assortment of rusted and – there it is – blood-crusted tools, including a concerning number of blades in all shapes and sizes. The setup does, in fact, look a bit like a cannibal ghost's torture dungeon. And that so much explains the falter, the fear, in Dean's voice.

Sam swallows. "We're probably not gonna get eaten by ghosts," he amends, forcing some degree of composure and confidence behind his words, because he has a duty here to anchor Dean.

All things considered, Dean actually is remaining remarkably calm about their predicament. Then Sam squints, and realizes just how pale his brother's face is behind the blood. "Dean. You good?"

"I said yeah, Sam. I'm fine."

"Okay. I'm just asking, because…"

"Because what? You think I'm gonna snap or something?" For lack of a better option, Dean throws his eyes wildly around the space. "This is a fucking playground compared to Hell, Sam." He clenches his jaw, sends a few harsh, audible breaths through his flaring nostrils. "And, anyway, I thought you wanted me to stop whining about it."

"That wasn't – " Sam bites his lower lip, resists the urge to scream. He's just not lucky enough for THAT to not come back up. Everything always comes back up. Rinse and repeat. They fuck up, then fall into some sort of mutually agreed upon state of denial until the memories of some confrontation can be used as verbal weaponry. But Sam isn't exactly innocent in that regard, has sure slung his own share of barbs, so he continues with feeling, "that wasn't me talking, Dean."

"Sure as hell sounded like you."

He's got the hair trigger of John Winchester, and it's never taken more than a single stride for Sam to cross over from a state of Calm to one of Angry. Even when Dean isn't attempting anything more than deflecting attention away from his own fear and issues, from the fact he'd let another tiny bit of vulnerability slip. If his brother wants to go there, they'll fucking go there. Sam clenches his jaw. "Well, what about YOU, Dean? What about what YOU said? Or, shit, what you would have done if Bobby didn't show up when he did?"

"Oh, my God, Sam," Dean groans with a heavy amount of exasperation. "I'm sorry I tried to kill you with a fucking axe. You really needed me to say it? You feel all better now?"

Sam fidgets, sending an icy lance down his arms and into his numb fingers. "No," he says, figuring he might as well tell the truth.

"No," Dean repeats, nodding. He goes back to studying the post his arms are wrapped around, looking up the ceiling. "No, he says. That's awesome."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry, too."

"Yeah, I know you are."

"Then why – " Sam swallows the rest his inquiry, exercises that bit of restraint he was lacking earlier in the day, because he knows full-well it won't do any good to back his brother into a corner when he's already in such a physically vulnerable state. He can't begin to understand and can't honestly say he'd handle the situation any differently than Dean is. More than anything else, he really can't answer the question as to why everything about Dean's words and actions or inactions is grating his nerves the way it is. That's his problem, and he doesn't need to make it Dean's when the guy's already dealing with an overflowing plate of issues. "You know what?" he says. "We were dicks and we're sorry. Let's leave it at that."

A puzzled look crosses Dean's features, like he's wary of stepping into some sort of conversational pitfall. "Yeah?"

Sam nods, and he's pretty sure he means it. "Yeah."

It takes a moment, but Dean nods his agreement, a sense of relief dropping the tension from his shoulders. He wriggles his fingers and grimaces.

"Okay," Sam says, redirecting his full attention from busted and bruised egos to the issue of their ghostly captors. He remembers the girl's words. Are you the bad men? "So do you think we're dealing with victims or perpetrators?"

"What?" Dean shakes his head like he's got water in his ears. "Don't lawyer-speak at me, Sam. English. And small words. I've already got a headache."

Sam sighs. "You think the ghosts are the people who killed here or the people who WERE killed here."

"Killed and eaten."

And we're back. But there's at least one ghost in the room, in the form of the kind smile he hasn't seen on his brother's face in months, so Sam returns it as he warns, "Dean."

"I dunno. We should totally ask when they come back. Or, you know, we could get the hell out of here before that happens."

"Any thoughts as to how?"

"Knife in my boot." Dean shoots his right leg out straight, the bottom on his boot thumping against Sam's thigh.

Sam gapes at his brother, numb fingers flexing. "And you waited until NOW to tell me that why?"

Dean fidgets guiltily. "Hey, I'm dealin' with a head injury here."

"You're fine."

The toe of Dean's boot digs into Sam's leg. "Just get the damn knife, Sam."

He has to shimmy his way back down the post to get his hands in a position to work the knife free.

"Don't slice my foot off or anything. Not lookin' to get Sawed."

"Oh, my God, Dean." Sam yanks the small knife safely free, spins it expertly in his hands and goes to work on ropes around his wrists. When the bindings snap free his arms swing back, and he takes just a moment after he stands to flex and stretch his long limbs, waiting out the icy flood of pins and needles as he regains full feeling in parts that had gone numb.

"You see anything?" he asks, crouching across from his brother.

"No." Dean strains his neck to peer through the gaps in the boards over their heads as Sam saws at his bindings. "What, they having a fuckin' tea party up there or something?"

The rope gives way and Dean wipes away the blood from his face and makes a show of stretching and cracking his own spine, rubbing once more at his sore shoulder. Sam moves across the cellar to study the gory spread on the long worktable. "Dean, the blood on these knives is old."

"How old?"

"Like, really old. Ten, fifteen years? Definitely old enough to blow your people-eating ghost theory out of the water. I don't think they wanted to hurt us, just scare us. Or show us something, like that death omen in Baltimore."

Dean cocks his head, stooping to slide his knife back into its place at his boot. "Vengeful spirits that know where to draw the line?"

Sam shrugs. "We're not hurt."

Dean points to the gash at his temple. "Speak for yourself, Ghost Whisperer. So what are you thinking?"

The temperature in the already chilly cellar drops even further, and Sam takes a quick step back as several figures appear between him and the table. He recognizes little Missy and her wide, imploring eyes. The unfamiliar spirits seem to vary in age, and none of them are making any sort of threatening move. He frowns, calls cautiously over his shoulder, "Dean."

"Okay," Dean says from behind him. "That's creepy."

It's easy enough to figure out once they have all of the gruesome pieces.

The bloody and rusted toolery in the cellar had been tethering the spirits of the victims to the property where they were killed. Seven of them in all, and most likely back in the early nineties, based on what Sam was able to make out of their attire. It may have once been the home of a murdering, cannibalistic family a la the Bender clan from Minnesota, but the dilapidated state of the home would suggest they're at least long gone, if not long dead and gone, leaving behind a raccoon-invested hovel and the spirits of those they had killed.

In a way, they were both right. And in a way, that irks Sam. Regardless, the old wooden cabin goes up in flames without much prodding, and the spirits are freed from the place.

Dean's cell phone is at his ear before they make it back to the car or even into their jackets. "Bobby? Yeah, we're fine. You hear from Rufus again since he called…" He comes to an abrupt stop in the middle of the drive, cocks his head as he listens. "Oh, is he? Oh, yeah. We're definitely on our way."

Sam's not sure he's ever seen his brother disconnect a call quite so aggressively. They're still close enough for him to feel the flames at his back, and he raises the cold hand not holding his shotgun to rub the rising heat from the back of his neck. "He call Bobby back or something?"

Dean surges forward with long strides, shaking his head jerkily. "Nope. Son of a bitch showed up at Bobby's earlier today. Apparently he's been waiting for us."

Dean's got his feathers ruffled and a fairly leaden foot on the pedal. They consume record amounts of sugar and caffeine, and make record time driving straight through to Sioux Falls. The trip is still provides more than enough time for suspicions to grow and fester, and for the coffee and energy drinks come back to bite them in the ass. Sam more than once has to threaten to pee on the floor mat in order to get Dean to pull over, and by the time they arrive at Bobby's to find Rufus' truck at an angle in the lot, Dean is convinced they've been played in some way. He's in the house before Sam registers that the Impala has stopped, and he hurries to catch up.

When the front door smacks shut, Bobby rises stiffly from the table to greet them but Rufus doesn't even turn around. Dean stomps past Bobby without exchanging a word, the impact of his boots on the hardwood rattling every dust-covered item on every shelf in the hall and study, a thumping, clattering cacophony that announces exactly how pissed he is. Sam isn't as sure as his brother that Rufus had any sort of ulterior motive in having Bobby throw them the job, but then again, Dean's never been one to stop and listen to reason or logic.

"Thanks for the tip," he spits, coming to a sudden, fuming stop at the far end of the table with Sam and Bobby on his heels. His gaze hits the center of Rufus' chest like a laser beam. "We almost got ghost-ganked out there." He might be playing up the danger factor a bit, but the past several hours in the car has allowed the bruise on the side of his head to bloom and spread quite impressively. Dean points to the mark like this is a courtroom instead of a kitchen. Gentlemen and Rufus, Exhibit A.

Rufus stares into the bottom of his glass like it's a thousand yards away, swirling the bit of good whiskey left there. "Yeah, sorry about that." His shoulders hitch with a harsh intake of breath. Sam appreciates the way he curbs a full laugh, because Dean might've started swinging otherwise. "But, you know…sometimes you have to know when to force it and when to just let it happen."

Dean blinks, and Sam still thinks for a moment that he's going to have to hold his brother back from the older hunter.

Rufus' chuckles throatily now, rocking his chair back onto two legs. "I mostly apply it to farting, but I guess it works for life, too."

Dean gapes incredulously, can't seem to decide on any one emotion. "Are you drunk?"

Rufus lifts his glass to his lips. "Maybe. You jealous?"

"Sam, I can't even…" Dean turns away, dragging a hand down his face.

Sam takes the ball, attempts to bring some sort of yet-to-be-demonstrated air of maturity to the conversation. "How does that even remotely apply to what happened?"

Bobby, for his part, continues to stand wide-eyed and mute in the space connecting the study and kitchen.

"You two, workin' together." Rufus sets his glass aside with a weighty thunk and makes two fists. He knocks them together, symbolizing opposing forces. "I decided to force it."

"You set us up?"

"A little bit. It was just a coupla ghosts, don't know what you're cryin' about."

Dean whirls on Bobby. "You knew about this?"

His brother's known to throw a punch or two when he's as mad as he's starting to look now, so Sam completely understands the backward step Bobby takes. He's been on the other side of this look, recently. "It's an old urban legend, just some run 'a the mill haunted cabin I told him about a few years ago. I swear, I tried to call ya the second this dumb ass told me what he was up to."

"Which was?" Dean prods.

"Couples' therapy," Rufus says around a sloppy snicker.

Dean's gone back quickly to gaping soundlessly, so it's Sam that finally, eloquently inquires, "Excuse me?"

Rufus nods, eyes glued to the lonely amber ring of not-enough-liquor in his glass. "Bobby told me you two needed some couples' therapy."

Bobby lifts a shoulder, but doesn't QUITE look innocent in all of this. "That's not exactly what I said…"

"No, no, I remember. You said that these two damn bullheaded idjits would implode the damn world before talking it out."

"Wh – you were bitchin' about us to Rufus?" Dean hooks a thumb toward the seated hunter.

"Hey!" Rufus suddenly slaps a heavy palm on the table, lays down the raised legs of his chair with a thwack that demands the attention of everyone in the room. "Newflash, fellas. This isn't your world, it's everyone's." He settles back, the kitchen chair creaking under his weight, eyes roaming every flat surface for a refill, something from Bobby's cheap stock. Suddenly, it seems to be something of a communal look. He reaches an arm back to snag a half-empty unlabeled bottle from the counter. "And there are still some things in this world that I like." He studies the bottle in his hand. "For the record, Bobby? This rotgut ain't one of them."

"Does the job," Bobby says, equally defensive and sheepish.

"And so did they," Rufus says as he pops the cork from the bottle. "Feels good, don't it?"

Dean blinks, brings a hand up to gesture once more to the torn skin over his ear. "I just about got my head caved in, you son of a bitch."

"Well, boo hoo."

This time Sam does reach an arm out to hold Dean back from the other man, drags him bodily back and points him in the direction of the front porch.

Sam announces his presence with a loud throat-clearing, and to his credit, Dean doesn't startle. For maybe the first time in weeks. And that in itself is some cause for celebration.

Dean's head swivels as easy as a lazy susan, and he raises his eyebrows in a weary greeting. "Hey."

"Hey. Beer?" Sam holds out his offering as he steps up next to his brother at the porch railing.

"Yeah, thanks." Dean straightens from his lean against the beam and accepts the drink, hooking his ring around the bottle cap and popping it into his palm. He flicks the cap out of sight and takes a long pull from the bottle, stuffing his other hand into his pocket.

Sam mirrors his motions and exhales, watching the warm mist of his breath dissipate in the air. "So."

"Hmm."

"Couples therapy?"

Dean chuffs an unamused laugh, and seems disproportionately interested in the label of his bottle. "Yeah, well, everyone's entitled to his own bassackwards opinion, I guess."

Sam squints out into the dark yard. "He's not wrong, you know. We've been…we haven't exactly been working as a team."

Dean sighs and sets his beer aside on the railing, wrapping his hands once more around the wood. "Yeah, I know. Jackass."

"Jerk," Sam replies automatically.

"I was talking about Rufus."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Dean cocks his head and raises the bottle to his lips. "Bitch."

Prompts were: Sam and Dean, an "abandoned cabin in the middle of God's country," a purple My Little Pony Twilight Sparkle t-shirt, the third character dialogue "Sometimes you have to know when to force it and when to just let it happen. I mostly apply it to farting, but I guess it works for life, as well," and a possessed kitchen sink.

One of these days, I'm not gonna enjoy these little bouts of silliness anymore, NCakes. (That's a lie.)