Sorry for taking so long to update! The first few chapters came out quickly, but I hit a wall and JUST got past it this afternoon, so here's the next chapter. :)

I haven't replied to comments yet, so expect to get those either tonight or tomorrow morning. I love each and every one of you, my dear readers.

Chapter Two.

A string of curses breaks through Sam's vision, several surprising combinations he's never heard; his brother's a wordsmith with the kind of words you can't use in an expository essay. Sam shoots up in bed and scans his surroundings, afraid that during his dream, they'd shifted and become those of the players on the stage of his seriously altered mental perception. In the darkness, he can make out Dean with all the same angles and curves he's had for years stumbling around near the bathroom.

Leaning over, Sam clicks on the lamp.

"Right," Dean grumbles, "have that geek mind even when you just woke up. I get it."

A bit amused, Sam shrugs off Dean's half-asleep thought and rubs his face. Odd dreams are one thing, but the subject aware of the dream's existence? Of his unwilling part as audience member? Does that mean he has somehow tapped into the present, or is seeing the future? The past? Sam groans into his hands, frustrated, and flops back down onto his pillow.

"Dude," Dean remarks, now somewhere in the vicinity of his own queen bed, "Bad dream or something?"

"Just realized you might not be the only crazy one in this family."

"Oh," breathes Dean, then, "Hey, I'm not crazy."

Sam rolls his eyes. His brother could be so oblivious sometimes.

"So, bad dream?" he asks, finally.

Sam nods. "Bad dream."

"Sucks. Want to tell me about it or should I check the closet to make sure there aren't any monsters in there?" Dean smirks.

"You're so funny," Sam deadpans, gripping the edge of the bed's extra pillow.

"You're the one who used to ask," says Dean. The pillow lobbed at him from across the room is easily dodged, leaving both laughing at the silly innocence of childhood. Sam wonders if those in his dream once acted like this, but if his window into the man's thoughts were any indication -- well, he wouldn't be doing anything like that with the other person in the room.

The thoughts sober him enough for Dean to take notice. "Seriously, we got to worry about this one?"

"Yeah," Sam says. He twists and sits up to face Dean; both lean over the edges of their beds, feet above ground like they are floating in the ocean -- when these nights come, the distance is clear despite mutual hope that Sam's dreams won't come between them.

"So spill already. I could be asleep," Dean points out. It's not much, but there's that undercurrent of weary support Sam's gotten all his life, even when he decided to cross the country and attend college.

Past sacrifices for him not forgotten, Sam relents despite wanting the images out of his head. "They knew."

"What?"

"That we're here to stop them? That I could hear what they were saying?"

But it's less a question of fact than a question needing lies.

They come as a scoff. "Didn't think it worked that way," Dean says. "You really think they knew you were seeing 'em? What if someone was there outside your vision." He at least holds the wince out of his voice, more sleepless nights giving him ample time to practice.

"That's the thing," Sam says. "The guy, he has the same kind of dreams. Like that connected us somehow. I could," -- and here he makes a face -- "hear his thoughts."

"And that's never happened before?"

"I'd remember if it did, trust me. Someone else's head is not a nice place to be."

Dean smiles. "Nice to know I don't have to worry about that talent invading my thoughts."

"Like I'd want to."

Dean tips the side of his head. "Don't know; there's some good shit up here."

"He said men were coming to kill them, and he was worried it was going to happen. That we knew about them like no one else has noticed them and their ah, differences." He recounts the dream to Dean, flashback and all, taking solace in knowing he's not the only one with some of Erick's more risqué memories running through his head. If Dean's faces are any indication, he's a little squicked out, and the pillow thrown at him comes back to Sam near the end.

"Damn lycans are weird-ass creatures. Can you imagine a dude actually being so ... like a damn pussy?"

"Oddities aside," Sam manages, "how do we investigate when they know we're coming?"

"Same as before. Except now, we don't have to be sneaky. If the bastards know we're here, why not give 'em a show?"

--

Crime scene photos litter the desk, glossy black and white snapshots of bones -- no blood, those telltale pools of dark grey he's used to seeing splattered around a body -- no body, just a neat stack of perfectly clean bones so white they could be mistaken for fakes stolen from a high school's biology classroom. Feet angle off near the edges of the photos, hardened men baffled by a crime they can't explain, leaking details to the press usually kept quiet to lure out a theory concise enough to stop the nightmares. What could have possibly happened to these people? Who or what is capable of doing such a horrible thing?

Sam doesn't have such reservations -- unlike the police and a stunned public, he knows exactly what is out there, killing at random and leaving small mounds of remains.

Lycanthropes.

Of all the creatures chronicled both in literature, memoir, and their father's journal, only one had the ability to melt human flesh but not the bone. Their saliva, excreted while feasting on whatever they caught, broke down complex enzymes to help them better digest their food. It also helped separate what could be eaten -- flesh, muscle, fat -- from what couldn't.

The table's small, carved by countless visitors with knives and ball-point pens alike, initials, simple shapes, long slashes; it tells it's story every time Sam's hand rests upon it, elbow, as he reads articles and police reports on his laptop. It's mind-numbing work; interesting, but repetitive. Dean flicks his Zippo open and closed against the fabric of his jeans. Click, clank. Over and over again, his eyes wandering over the pictures in search of clues.

Click, clack. Sam rubs his eyes and pinches his nose, headache lurking behind closed eyes, the unfortunate side effect of seeing what most couldn't. Shouldn't. Sharp pain doesn't mark it – dull, thudding pain, the kind that taps him dry of energy without any exertion. Click, click, clack. The words on the screen blur, not from fatigue, but frustration.

"Dean," he says in a sharp bark. Doesn't look up or move, but flicks his eyes to peer over the screen at his brother.

Click. "What?" Doesn't look up either, sifts through the pictures with his left hand. Clack.

"Will you," – click – "stop that?" he says.

"Stop what?" But his tone's light, amused, and a smile's on his face; Sam can see the edges of his bowed head. He flicks the lighter a few times, awaiting Sam's answer –

The chair legs are swept out from under him before he's noticed Sam's not sitting across from him anymore, but now stands above him. Dean lands hard on his back, winces, and growls – it's the only warning Sam gets before Dean rolls off the chair and sweeps at his brother's feet, taking the lanky giant down. Before he can get away, Sam grabs an ankle and pulls; Dean catches himself with his hands before his face slams into the floor, reaches over, and tries to get a hold on one of Sam's arms.

"Out of practice?" Sam asks with a grin, scooting away from Dean.

Dean rolls, gets a hand on Sam's shoulder, and pins him to the ground. "You wish," he huffs, smiling inches from Sam's face. A knee comes up, but he's expecting that – it's what Sam used to get the upper hand that night in Palo Alto when Dean found it way too easy to sneak into his brother's apartment.

Sam changes his tactic. Reaches with one of his hands and tickles Dean's ankle.

Dean scuttles off Sam, pockets his Zippo, and is seated in his righted chair so fast, it leaves Sam clutching his stomach from laughing so hard.

"It's not funny," Dean grumbles, back to the pictures and their neat piles. "And not my fault my nerves are all, you know."

Still laughing, Sam squeezes out a tear. Ever since he first discovered his big brother was ticklish almost everywhere at the age of three, it's been his best weapon against brotherly scuffles.

Years of hunting with guns and knives and machetes, of seeing ghosts and bodies and mutilated corpses, and the Winchester boys can eat greasy burgers over the photos without a second thought. Ketchup drips onto one of the photos, adding a splash of much-needed color; Dean wrinkles his nose, grabs it, and tries his best to wipe it off and licks his finger.

Sam, baffled a bit, shakes his head. "Man," he says.

"Huh?" Dean asks, innocent, what did I do wrong? "So, we've got six dead and some newspapers competing for who can use the biggest letters on the front page."

One of the papers, using large block letters to announce the newest victim in the string of deaths, no photos needed – journalists may have a different style but are no less able to draw graphic and succinct images with words – sits under their mess. Even with his experience, Sam finds himself simultaneously enthralled and disgusted by the crimes. The degree these lycans are going to only has him wondering why now? Six deaths over four months; where had they come from and why had they decided to come here, where their crimes would certainly become national news?

"A distraction," Sam finishes his thought out loud. What better way to keep attention away from what they're really doing then by making themselves known, loud and clear? Wasn't that what him and Dean were doing? "That's got to be the reason why they're being so obvious."

"About their MO, yeah," Dean agrees. "Look here," – he pulls a picture from the pile while taking a bite of his burger – "They all are put out the same, right? Notice anything here?"

Leaning in, Sam takes a closer look at the photo. It's another devoid of color, good and evil hidden in shades of grey where the faces of officers appear near the edges. And like the others, the bones are piled in the center of someone's living room, buried in their home instead of the ground. Killed, but not buried. He's about to chalk it up to another one of Dean's little practical jokes when his finger brushes the glossy print over a perfect –

Wait a second.

"There's a notch in the bone," he says, looking up.

"Think that's from some messed up doctor's visit?"

"Why would lycans need to incapacitate their victim?" Sam asks.

A gulp of pop, then, "They wouldn't. Bigger thing: why this one and none of the others?"

--

Angela Ashbury was last seen by her coworkers at a north side bookstore not too far from the thrift shop where they'd picked up their "costumes" last time the Winchesters saw Chicago. It wasn't unusual for Angela to disappear for a few days here and there; apparently, things with her boyfriend were getting serious, and she'd often spend days at his place without notice. The clerk on duty, a tall girl with bubblegum pink hair and more holes in her ears than space for earrings, answers their questions with a thick Boston accent and a mouthful of gum.

"Yeah, I saw her the day before she disappeared," she said, "but I already told the police all this shit. Can't you just, I don't know, talk to the pigs?"

Sam takes her side-step in stride. "Was there anyone hanging around the store? Anyone with a particular interest in Angela?"

"Angie?" she laughs. "Naw. Angie didn't bring her personal life in here. Didn't even let us meet her boyfriend when he came up and surprised her on her birthday. Ushered him outside and took her fifteen. Bitch took thirty and didn't hear squat from the boss. I go over by a minute and he's feeding me my head on a platter."

"You know how long she was seeing this guy?" Dean asks.

"Long? She didn't really talk about him, you know? Just said she liked to hang out there cause it was close to a few bars she liked. Girl couldn't walk straight after one drink; we took her out one time and she was a total lightweight. Why would someone like that have favorite bars?" She leans in close and snaps her gum. "I think it was an excuse. Bet he was some rich, controlling guy who didn't like her being out of his sight."

"Yeah," Dean fake-laughs. "So, no one around and she disappeared all the time. Great. Thanks."

"Asshole. You're the one with the questions. Let the cops figure this one out. Nosey fucks." She turns away from them and picks her nails while examining a poster on the wall. Conversation over. Dean scoffs and takes a step forward to give her a piece of his mind; Sam shakes his head and herds him out of the store.

He grumbles -- since when were people so damn rude? A definite downside to working in larger towns and cities: the preclusion for people to just not give a shit when someone's killed. At least in smaller communities, people care if one of their own is found dead. Such a blasé attitude towards victims is something Dean's never been able to understand -- call him big hearted when it came to saving people, but is valuing the life of a stranger, a human being, something of the past?

Walking down the street in stride with Sam's shortened steps, he can't help but remember one of his numerous ex-girlfriends, who, during a fight, threw a vase at his head and asked why he could be so chivalrous with others, but completely ignore her for days on end. Yeah, that relationship ended, another casualty of his never-ending sarcasm. Who was it who said sarcasm was the recourse of a weak mind, cause he shielded himself with it so often, he had to be weak at heart.

Just so long as Sam never catches on, he'll be okay. Imagine that, the kid discovering the guy he's looked up to all his life is really an angry, damaged low-life who only pretends to have it all together.

Thank God Sam prefers to stay in and read or something when Dean wanders off to get a drink.

"I've got a bad feeling about this guy Angela was seeing," he says, needing escape from ever-darkening thoughts. "You think she was scared of him, or ashamed?"

"Huh?" Sam frowns.

"Didn't let her coworkers see him, never talked about him. C'mon. Either she was scared he'd smack her around or didn't want people to know what kind of an asshole she was dating," he explains, running a hand through his hair -- nervous tick. He'd had plenty of experience with the latter of his two theories; ever since high school, he'd been the shaming boyfriend who never got to meet the parents or friends. Just good for a lay and maybe a night on the wild side. Did wonders for his self-esteem.

But he doesn't say any of that. Lets his eyes wander down the street and up the sides of old brick buildings struggling to remain important in the shadows of newer, better versions. It's a bit cold, a constant wind following even when they turn the corner and head a different direction, but not too bad. He's been in worse places.

"She wouldn't spend all that time with him if he was abusive," Sam thinks aloud. "Plus, no one mentioned any bruises or anything -- why do you think it has to do with the boyfriend?"

Dean shrugs. "Dunno."

"You okay?"

It's only supposed to work one way -- something bugs Sam, Dean extracts it from him, gives him some sage-like advice, and that's it. No need to go diving into the depths of his own mind -- there's a bottomless ocean swirling there and Sam doesn't want to get his feet wet -- won't. Dean protects him from that, gives a wry smile, and wonders why cities always get him analyzing his own inadequacies.

"Always."

--

Twilight.

Soon, it will be time to sleep. To fall into that oh so susceptible state where dreams invade and steal control, when visions – source unknown – can slither in and slowly take over. It's a double-edged sword; visions help save people, help prevent a monster from continuing it's rampage, but they also come too late sometimes and give images of a person's death so graphic, they never are forgotten.

The last rays of sunlight disappear beneath the horizon and the city goes into it's second wind; streetlamps switch on, white lights decorate the trees, and the streets are bathed in hazy yellow light that leaks down to the sidewalks of the south loop.

Here, everything's yellow – old, sick, faded. It's an area just outside the gleaming towers of the downtown district, forgotten and abandoned as people moved north during the 1960's. Now, college students inhabit it like bees in a hive, always seen in the bars and shops with vintage shirts and ripped up jeans, and new condo developments are taking parcels of land and trying to build up an attractive area.

The wind is the same as anywhere else, though, perhaps stronger this close to the lake.

Light coats in celebration of a warm winter are proven woefully inadequate, but neither is the type to complain. Hands dug deep into pockets, coat zipped to the neck, Sam tries not to think about midnight, when, after a beer and some bad late-night TV, he usually pretends to fall asleep so Dean will actually go to bed. And then he does fall asleep -- he doesn't want to think about what might happen.

Two of the victims were college kids, roommates staying in an apartment down on Printer's Row found as piles in front of a second-hand couch. With classes in session, the two streets making up the last remains of Chicago's old printing district are crawling with smoking twenty-somethings, most of them with the same dopey haircuts as Sam; as they near the group, he realizes him and Dean could probably blend in with these people, no problem.

Dean slows a bit, an uncommon deference to Sam usually marking a situation he doesn't know how to deal with. Considering how personable Dean is and despite his various flaws, Sam's never figured out why Dean let Sam take the lead when dealing with college students. No one takes special notice of them, reaffirming the blending-in theory, so Sam stops in front of a few, and, hoping for that oft-spoken about psychic link between siblings, elbows Dean in the side.

He coughs, surprised, and glances up at Sam, who motions as subtly as he can to the smokers, cause there's no way he can make this look believable.

"Hey, uh, can I bum one from someone?" he asks. A few guys look up, but it's a nearby girl who holds out a cigarette and a lighter. Dean takes the smoke but flicks open his own lighter and lights it with practiced ease. He might be playing a part, but as he takes a long inhale, Sam suspects this isn't the first time his brother's smoked.

"You two new?" one of the guys asks.

"Yeah," Sam answers while Dean practices making smoke rings. "Transfers for the spring semester. Almost didn't come, though."

"Cause of Jimmy and Rick?" the girl says.

Dean takes another puff, then flicks ash off onto the sidewalk and lets the cigarette dangle between his fingers at his side. "That their names? The two guys who got killed?"

"Yeah. Hacked up by some psycho motherfuckers," one says.

"They were good guys. Always let someone crash at their place, drink their beer."

"Their beer," one laments.

"Jimmy was a wicked guitar player. Was going to start a band and everything – had flyers up all over campus."

"Asking for some players?" Dean asks. "Get any hits?"

"Just some guy down Roosevelt, bass player, I think. They were supposed to have their first rehearsal the night they – "

"Don't you say it!" the girl exclaims, throwing her cigarette out into the street. "They'd be alive if you hadn't made me go to that stupid fucking concert!" She storms off, voice wavering and eyes tearing up, and slams the door to the nearby form with enough force, a half-asleep kid jolts awake and throws a few swears her way.

"What's with her?" asks Dean. The cigarette's half gone; past convincing into enjoyment.

"She was the singer; didn't show up to rehearsal."

"Blames herself."

"Yup, yup," the two remaining guys say in unison. They're almost finished and so is Dean; he flicks the butt to the ground and mashes it under a steel toe.

"Thanks, guys," Sam says with a nod of the head. They nod back and push off the windowsill they'd been sitting on and walk inside, probably off to console their friend. Once out of earshot, Dean whacks Sam on the back of the head.

"What the hell?" Sam demands, rubbing his head.

"Those things are gross," Dean explains.

"Oh, c'mon, you totally enjoyed it," Sam half-whines. "What happened to that tough guy in high school?"

"Dad punched my face in," Dean says. "Good way to kick a habit."

Sam smirks. "Right."

"Think Jimmy wrote down the name of that guy, kept it in his place?" Dean says, changing the subject from his brief tenure as a smoker and the less-than-ideal way of quitting. At the end of the block, they stop and look at each other in the yellow light.

"We've got three victims, two of which knew guys that no one else knew. That can't be a coincidence," Sam works out. "Jimmy was desperate for a bass player, and Angela for a boyfriend – maybe that's how they're choosing them."

"There's got to be a lot of desperate people in this city, Sammy," Dean replies. "Easy picking. Up for a little breaking and entering?"

--

When he sees them, alive and real and now, it's through the front window of Jimmy and Rick's second floor apartment around the corner from the dorm building.

Sam had been turning, rounding the couch to see if anything relevant was behind it, when he caught something in the corner of his eye. They're standing on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, tall and dressed in long black jackets, eyes an eerie gold that catches that sickly yellow of old streetlights and gives them a glow. The appearance of their quarry so close, so knowing, right across the street, has him transfixed.

He falls forward into Nicolas's eyes, headfirst into that enticing gold, the center black and sticky like quicksand that won't let him go. He's stuck, frozen, unable to move, head swirling – dizzy, now, shrieking a warning he doesn't know – why? Just gold and sticky black.

Now I see you, Nicolas's voice booms in his head. A foreign invader, a trespass into the heart of him, the very soul, and it leaves him strung out and missing and raw. I have you. Possessive and strong – he understands Erick's submission – Nicolas is powerful and driving. If he could feel his knees, they'd buckle, and he'd fight to keep them from collapsing.

A jolt, hand on his shoulder, and he falls backwards onto his ass.

Shots wake him up. Bam, bam, in rapid succession, roaring and in his ear but there's nothing in his hands. They're shaking; he usually is pretty steady handed. Glass is shattering, showering over his head, and he ducks, puts his hands up to shield himself.

Something growls, those long, yelping growls that grows louder – movement. As his foggy mind wakes up, Sam blinks and sees, looks up to see Dean standing at the window, gun held in a steady, two-handed grip, shooting out the window at something –

The lycans from his vision.

"Dean!" he shouts. Twice more before Dean takes a break and crouches down under the window, taking cover, but the lycans won't be carrying any guns.

"You okay?" Dean asks, a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"What the hell happened?"

"Fucker tried to get you," Dean growls. "Those the guys from your dream?"

Sam nods. Get him? "One of them. Nicolas."

"You sure you're – "

That growl's on them – a dark leopard leaps through the shattered window, white teeth gleaming in the low light. It bounces off the back of the couch to the floor, lands where the piles of bones were found days earlier. Dean's up, using the couch as cover, shooting at the leopard. Sirens are blaring, they're on their way. No time. Sam grabs the back of Dean's coat and yanks him back down.

"Cops!" he says. Dean looks at him darkly, shakes his head, and moves to take another shot but Sam's still got his hand fisted in his brother's jacket and pulls him back, towards the door – they have to get out of there or there won't be anyone out there to stop these monsters and more will die.

A yelp and growl and shit, there's another one coming through the window. The first blocks the other end of the couch and they're stuck. Sam stands, back hitting Dean's, guns out, ready to shoot. Take them out here and now except they aren't packing silver bullets – too expensive and rare for daily use – and will only wound the lycans, not kill them. Dean fires, Sam does, and the two howl and leap.

The sirens are close. Too close. Lights flash outside, red and white and blue, bouncing off the plain white walls of the apartment. They all know they can't get caught but are stuck in a stand off.

Dean's always been a martyr, ready to die for a cause, and as the lycans leap, Dean shouts and shoots – again and again, hoping riddling the beasts with holes will stop 'em. A thwack and bounce – Dean's across the room. The lycans leap out the window; cops shout in surprise as the animals bound down the street and into the shadows.

No time. Sam scrambles, then gets his footing and crosses the room. Cops are coming up the stairs, now, feet heavy on old wooden stairs, and Dean's just coming around from being thrown across the room.