Chapter Two

"For where ever you go, I will go; Wherever you lodge, I will lodge;" Ruth v.1 l.16

Upon returning to their room, it was easy to see Dean had pulled together the stray threads of his hidden self and bound them once more behind his all encompassing confidence. He whistled something by Motorhead while he began to get ready to hit the local bar. Sam merely watched the all too familiar dance of 'Don't ask, don't tell'. Dean had re-grouped – and there was never room for discussion at this point, instead the younger brother decided to follow through his plan to spend some time with the good Pastor. Jim's keen eyes were bound to lend something to further his notes on the possible hunt that had led them to Boxborough.

Sam knew it was useless to bring up Dean's nightmare again – if half asleep, guard down Dean hadn't been inclined to share, no way super chirpy, wide awake, Midnight Cowboy Dean was going to spill the beans. Still, Sam had to do the check … it was his way… as much as total denial of the softer human emotions was Dean's. They made a fine pair; Dr Ruth and the T-1000, each overcompensating for the other!

"You know Dean; maybe we should leave the pursuit of funds till tomorrow… we should look into these deaths in more detail before venturing out into the area."

His brother smiled sweetly at him as he buttoned up his most respectable blue shirt.

"Great tactical thinking there Sammy – except for two things. Firstly, you hustle pool about as well as you pick up women… starvation could be a real possibility! Secondly, we both know who Jim's favorite Rhodes Scholar is. This is playing to both our strengths; besides only locals have been singled out… we tourists are safe."

Sam was not so easily won. "Yeah but Dean…"

Nor would his brother so easily loose. "Quit worrying Francis, I'll be fine. Look, if anyone gets too pissed at loosing… I'll watch out for flying doilies!!"

(Knew there would be Doilies!!) "Whatever dude, just take it easy – I'd feel bad for Jim if he had to stand between us and a pitchfork wielding mob, trying to run us out of town, in his first month here!"

Dean still felt a little guilty at blowing up earlier at Sam. The shower he had taken, had dispelled most of the hebeegeebees the strange dream had given him; but there was no way he'd leave Sam churning out some future stomach ulcer, worrying about him. He headed for safer ground.

"Jim was kind of cryptic this afternoon huh?"

Sam smiled, unraveling the frown lines. "Yeah, intentionally so I feel, where do you think that came from?"

Dean shrugged. "You know what the real question is here though… right?" Seriousness crept into his voice.

"No – what?"

"Who knew Jim was such a big Yoda freak?!" Dean smirked waggling both his eyebrows as he exited the room.

Sam blew out a fond laugh as he called "Be Careful" and added in a much lower tone "you insufferable Jerk".

"Always" was the debatable, yelled response "Watch out for paper cuts Bitch".

///////////////////////////////////////////////////SN/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Settling the file on his lap, Jim Murphy nestled deeper into his chair by the fire. He watched the young man before him tap out a fevered rhythm on his laptop, almost as much as he read.

"Your file work has greatly improved Sam, you were always through, but this is impressive."

Murphy leafed through the profiles on each individual death, over the past two years, that fit the pattern Sam had put together.

"How did you arrive at these Sam – I know Boxborough is a small town and the time scale is tight for four deaths, but …"

Sam noted Jim's fixated stare on the pictures of the victims; a stare that avoided Sam entirely. That uneasy feeling began to rise again. Jim had taught their father, a good deal about researching a Hunt; that he would miss any pattern so obvious, was like suggesting Stephen Hawking didn't understand the Count on Sesame Street! Sam had just finished telling Jim how the last two victims's appeared to have known each other. Steven Mitchell, the latest to fall, had posted a grief stricken blogg, following the funeral of his friend, and victim number three, Ralph Taylor. Steve had warned of the dangers of not looking out for your buddies. The guy seemed to believe that his obviously disturbed friend had only drowned himself in his own bathtub after no one would listen to his tales of seeing a shadowy figure stalking him and leaving wet foot prints all over his house.

"Uh" Sam began awkwardly, not wanting to offend the Pastor. "You see their all locals, suspicious circumstances surrounding their deaths, there definitely seems to be a link to the local school… Blanchard Memorial… I just need to dig a little more on Ian McKinley, the first victim… and then there is the involvement of water in each case…"

Sam left it hanging, if he tried to join those dots, he might as well grab the crayon out of Jim's hand, and Dean hadn't raised him that way.

"Hmm" Jim murmured responding to the matter of fact tone the boy was trying so hard to hide, the merest hint of an embarrassed flush tinged his cheeks, "I must be loosing my touch."

He finally glanced up and caught the look he had been dreading, on Sam's face. Doubt and maybe a hint of suspicion.

"As I said Sam, you and Dean are driving this one, but I am happy to help in any way I can, I am on quite good terms with the sheriff and one or two others who are laymen on the Church Council."

"That'd be great Jim, definitely cuts down on the role play – you know how Dean loves that!"

The clergyman rose with a rueful smile and headed towards the kettle in the kitchen.

"Between you and me Sam, that piece of resistance comes from the time your brother was eight and had to dress as a girl to give your Father access to a hunt site."

Sam's face was a picture. Shock waged open war with the obscenely large grin threatening to overrun his whole face.

"No way", was all he managed.

Jim seemed to have noticed his reaction too late; evidently it had been far too long.

"Now Samuel…" he began in a cautioning tone, "that information, is not ammo!"

"Oh come on Pastor Jim" Sam exploded incredulously.

"How do you expect me to contend with the guy who dealt with me in diapers and knows far too much for my own good?! Do you think that he'd hold back for one second if he…."

"Your brother sacrificed a lot for you Sam, I know you know that – he always puts you first, no matter what cost to himself…. I…." Jim trailed off, realizing he had been gripping the counter; and Sam's keen hunters eye, had seen him.

Jim cursed the second time he had underestimated Sam Winchester, or perhaps he was just an old coot playing at a game he had been in too long, and now, the stakes had caught up with him. Unfortunately, Jim concluded, he would not be taking this loss alone. He was sorry to have to lie to Sam like this, he was afraid he would have to call John and argue the odds with a man who had stuck to his guns more firmly than his faith, but most of all, he feared for Dean. When he had first heard that the boys were coming to Massachusetts, he had suspected a hunt, he had phoned their Father to ask him what the hell he thought he was playing at. When he found he and John's answer machine were becoming firm friends, he had left one last message. One that would ensure a reply the next time he called, unless his friend was incapacitated or worse.

"John… Dean's coming back to Boxborough."

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////SN////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Rachael eyed his handsome profile from her corner of the bar. It was a slow night, even by Boxborough standards; out of the tourist season, it was to be expected. He made it interesting. His features were finely cut and sun kissed, the planes of his high cheek bones were covered with the merest hint of stubble – effortlessly attractive, that's what he was. Green eyes, that were warm, deep and penetrating by degrees, and full blown supple lips – both seemed permanently on the verge of laughter. Though he was built like an angel, his hot gaze and masculine timbre, made her positive he could play the devil convincingly. Most of her was certain that she had never seen anything so damned hot before… but then there was this small niggling part of her whispering that, his glorious green eyes were familiar and she had been rewarded with his wolfish smile before.

"Hey Dean" she tried again, stepping closer to that heady scent of motor oil, soap and him, her smile brightened. "Are you sure we've never crossed paths before Hun?"

His smile went straight through her in a way that made her think she should be alone.

"Now why would I cross paths with an Angel like you, and keep moving Rach?"

Of course it was a line – she had heard them all, but from his beestung lips, it was made anew. She had stopped concentrating on what he was saying and her imagination had started putting words in his mouth… for starters. The corner of her mind, the part that kept telling her to pull the rest of it out of the gutter and concentrate; persisted in suggesting that this handsome stranger, was in fact just handsome. Did she know him? She could tell that he did not remember, or didn't want to let on and either way a second chance was better than no chance with him.

"You've been pretty lucky on the table tonight. Pool your favorite game?" she asked coquettishly.

Dean smiled knowingly at her. "I dabble" he answered elusively.

He had no time for the game Rachael seemed to be suggesting right now. Darling Sammy had made it clear that an early start was on the cards. However there was no point burning such attractive bridges so early in the game. So Dean played coy for the rest of the night and Rachael played along, enjoying the chase.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////SN////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Looking at himself in the Gentsroom mirror, Dean was willing to concede he was buzzed, merry even… it was probably time to go. As he turned on the cold tap and washed his face, he felt an odd prickling sensation across the back of his exposed neck. He looked up quickly. The lights were steady and the open window kept the cool temperature constant. Adjusting the piece under his jacket for good measured he lowered his head again. The brush against his hand was so faint he almost believed it was his imagination. Except the vice like grip that claimed both his hands, seconds later, hinted otherwise. In lightening speed it pulled him down till his head bounced once off the metal fittings. For a few moments his senses contended with the natural feeling of pain radiating in waves and a steady trickle of blood from his head, and the unnatural sensation of the wet, clammy, clawing, frigid hold that he could make out by disturbing touch alone. He never saw what it was, and as he released consciousness and spilled heavily to the floor, the freezing tap water continued to flow over his face and body. The wetness began to pool and overrun his motionless form, it leaked down to the bathroom floor and flowed towards the door keeping perfect pace with the set of small wet footprints running alongside it.

Flash...

Dean thinks it's a dream. It could be a dream. But the freezing cold sensation that has gripped his body and is the cause of the shivering, feels undeniably real. Without warning, a sense of weightlessness steals over him. Now he is dreaming; he is being weighed down by two weights on either arm, but he is not tied to either of them, except by the death grip he his fighting to maintain. His lungs are on fire with the exertion and he knows he is about half a stone heavier with all the water he has taken in. A feeling of desolation grows in him, utter darkness steals into his soul – the despair is like nothing he can ever recall facing in his life. Every tendon and muscle in his legs, but especially in his shoulders and arms, screams to be released; if this is it, then for pity's sake no more savage struggling. He tried… he lost. But a roar builds from the very pit of his stomach, from the churning, fearful, outraged depths of his hopelessness. A cry painful to voice, and judging from the wailing responses he receives – painful to hear. He raises his head as he screams with all the venom in his heart. He makes the choice that he curses God for placing on him.

FLASH…

Like strobe lighting his mind changes scene on him, but his heart holds on to the terror and the anger. This time he is on dry land, though the cold is also a constant. He shivers in the cramped cupboard he has taken shelter in. His Father will be pissed; curfews are non-negotiable in the Winchester rule book. He knows Sammy is safe with Pastor Jim and for a rare moment in his young life, he acts his age… wishing that either Jim or his Father would be out looking for him. That his Dad might realize that ten at night is too late for a ten year old to be out, that something is terribly wrong … that he is trapped, and he just wants to go home. He clamps his teeth as they threaten to chatter more loudly. He can not be found, as bad as that would be for him … it would be worse for her. And after all she is what holds him here – his word is what holds him here, it should not be this way… not for either of them.

Dean watches from the crack in the wardrobe, its ill-fitting door giving him an insight into life that his young mind could have done without. His breath catches as he watches her cower, shrink and transform into a ball as he approaches. He is built like a linebacker and Ruth has this insanely calm look in her eyes – like the ball resigned to being punted. Dean looses contact with her, she is dwarfed by the shadowy looming wall – he needs to know she is ok, he made his promise, he swore, he said he'd stay out of sight but stay … he has to see her, he can't… he can't breathe…

His vision is cloudy from the rivulets of sweat that roll down his face and join the steady stream of tears coursing down his cheeks. He doesn't even think to wipe them away. Then the hammer falls. Dean is sure he flinches as much from digging his nails into his own arms, as from watching them … wanting – needing to share her pain. He promised… he promised… his promise is all she has to cling to. His ears buzz and he has the heady sensation that he is about to pass out, only he is not the one taking the beating here – yet he hopes that at some point soon he will get to turn those tables.

Time stutters and starts – one moment frozen by a yell, the next three minutes wiped out by a whimper. He has seen the impossible, been face to face and tooth to skin with all kinds of nightmares, he had just never imagined a horror to rival this one. It hid so neatly behind its New England architecture and perfectly manicured lawn- this monsterous man…her father. His own father, consumed like a thing possessed, and absent as he was prone to be on occasion, bore all the training of the military and yet, physically used all the force of a fruit fly, when it came to his kids. Dean could make no sense of it.

His sight blurred repeatedly. The burning desire to look away churned in his stomach, until he felt the need to rid his system of every scrap of food he had every eaten or thought about eating – how he held on, how he kept his promise, he did not know. All he knew was that Ruth was his friend and she needed him. Her soft voice and too pale face wrought that promise to stay from his very heart and he cursed it as it passed his lips, because he knew, as all children instinctively do – that he couldn't tell anyone. So here he was bidding his time, while the animal that masqueraded as her father, beat a false confession out of her.

He clenches his teeth harder and he resolves to forgo the Sunday sermon Jim had been planning earlier that day. Sadly, it would hurt the Pastor's feelings, and Dean didn't even want to think about the creative punishment his Dad would conjure… but he just could not listen to Jim's devotion, not after hearing Ruthie's pleading cries. He had nothing he wanted to say to God… actions spoke louder than words, and Dean had seen enough.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////SN///////////////////////////////////////////////////////

He came to with a cry of terror. The cold was gone, there was only the warmth of the room and someone holding him as his disoriented mind struggled to piece together where he was and what was happening to him.

"Whoa, take it easy, I have got you Dean"

It was Sam's voice, he was sure of it as he was that he was back at the church. He fought to give strength to his voice.

"How…"

"A barmaid named Rachael found you passed out and called the last number on your phone. Jim talked her into waiting on us rather than the ambulance… though that is a pretty bad cut you have and Jim checked it over; he is still debating over the hospital visit."

"You told him about the shape shifter right?" Dean managed haltingly.

Sam steered his brother back down towards the bed.

"Yeah, he was a little freaked that you are currently listed as dead. Now do you think you're up to telling me what the hell happened to you… cement doilies?"

Sam watched his brother's drawn face ease up a little and he knew that he had opted for the right track, though it took everything he had not to let on exactly how freaked both he and Jim had been upon finding Dean.

Dean sighed "Don't know what to tell you man. I hit my head and went to the land of nod, only…. I could have sworn there was something there… our kind of something, but…"

"I might be inclined to agree with you Dean," Sam turned his phone towards his brother.

Dean's face regained some of its former tightness as he viewed the picture on Sam's mobile. "You gotta be kidding me… even the tourists aren't safe anymore?"

Sam shook his head eyeing the wet footprints. "Do you remember seeing anything – shadowy shapes?"

"The only thing I saw was stars Sammy and…." Dean glanced at Sam knowing that at this point the track Sam was going down required more information. "… I felt a presence and when I went down I thought I was in water… I was drowning."

Dean's voice quivered and Sam knew the likelihood was that his big brother was giving him the sanitized version of things, he'd tackle that later. Right now Sam's path was clear, they needed information; on the first victim and how he fitted into the equation, they needed to know if any of the others saw figures or watery prints before they died, a list of drown victims would be a must … but most of all Sam had to figure out where Dean figured into this and why.

"Hey Sam." Dean's voice had a reluctant quality to it "I was wondering if you are getting a strong sense of deja-vu here… because I can't shake the feeling, it's driving me nuts, and that barmaid, Rachael was convinced she knew me… what if…."

"What if we aren't tourists? What if we have lived here before? Don't you usually have one of those Rainman memories for those kinds of details?"

"Hunts, yes …. Girls numbers, definitely… but architecture and such I leave up to you Geek Boy." Dean smiled faintly.

"I guess there's only one other way to find out." Sam said shortly.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////SN///////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Jim moved on well trained silent feet the rest of the way down the corridor towards his room. He had moved away to give the boys some privacy as Dean began to come around, however the course the conversation was taking, and the speed with which those boys moved made it necessary for him to back off and think through his next move. One thing was for sure … the time had come to make that call.