Author's Note: Heads up. Sam angst, practically no banter. One of those chapters that has to happen in order for us all to move on… but don't worry your pretty heads, the action and wise-cracking are not over by a long shot, so please stay tuned. Thanks to those who are reading and reviewing - I love to hear what you love, and I appreciate hearing what bothers you; thanks to Wild Wolf for the punctuation primer; thanks to Ancestry dot com for their most excellent US Public Records Index (1984-present). I borrowed a line from their official description (and it's in quotes). Oh and - anyone want to guess what the S.F.S.F. is?

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Three

Sam spent another half hour hacking for S.R. Bennett, and then decided to do some more research on the sasquatch problem since Dean was obviously asleep. He hadn't come up with much on this Bennett person; surprisingly he couldn't find a record of the number on any of customer lists he'd hijacked from various cellular companies. He also hadn't found much in the way of public records in Massachusetts – only two hits.

The first was a S. Ramsey Bennett of Greylock, listed 117 Baxter Street with a local phone number – most recently in the 2006 local directory. His other find came from the database Dean had suggested. In March 2005, Sasha R. Bennett (born 1981) was listed with her husband Evan T. Bennett (1975), daughter Ava R. (2001) and son Myles E. (2004), but nothing more. The database didn't source the information, just said it came from records "accessible to the general public by contacting the appropriate agency" and left you to guess where they'd dug it up in the first place.

Sam dutifully noted and saved the information, wishing they didn't have to worry so much about a phone call that might just be a wrong number. After all, the caller hadn't left a message, so there wasn't really a point, he supposed. What a life – it was hard not to be paranoid when the whole underworld was pretty much after you. Some days understanding just how much evil existed was downright depressing. Like Dean always said – if you know what's out there, noises from the closet or under the bed were seemed more sinister. As did hang-up calls from people you have no clue who are.

So he turned his attention to sasquatches for another hour and a half (formulating a vague plan for the morrow), got ready for bed and turned off the television manually so as not to disturb the remote in his big brother's hand. Sam had no desire for a punch in the gut tonight. As he drifted off, he smiled at the rhythmic tenor lullaby he'd listened to it almost every night of his life – it hadn't kept him awake since he was about six years old. He'd smack you silly if you suggested such a thing, but one of Dean's most dependable attributes was the quality and volume of his snore.

Morning brought a flurry of activity which precluded further discussion of the mysterious mid-sasquatch-hunt phone call. The sheriff knocked crisply on their door at eight a.m. sharp and informed them that there was going to be a town meeting at nine, to which they were invited despite their outsider status because they'd found the boys on the mountain and brought them home.

They were out the door in fifteen minutes, back to Carmen's Café for breakfast and to listen in to the buzz among the locals. They stayed until Carmen herself put the closed sign on the door and herded her customers two blocks down Main Street to the square across from City Hall.

Sam leaned over and in a tone he generally considered to indicate privacy, asked Dean why they weren't meeting inside. Both Winchesters jumped as an elderly woman who looked like Mrs. Claus – a red t-shirt, rosy cheeks, spectacles and mounds of white hair piled on her head - stuck her nose between them and smiled cheerfully.

"Well boys, it's like this. The AC is on the fritz in City Hall and with the temperatures what they have been," she stopped and rolled her eyes, fanning herself with both hands. "We'd cook like a chicken in a crock pot in there! Especially with all the hot air I expect we'll hear," she gave them a mischievous smile.

Stepping back, she looked them over like she was trying to decide whether to make a purchase, causing Dean to grin and Sam to blush ferociously, and then spoke again. "You two aren't from around here," it was a statement not a question, and her open face shuttered some as she waited for an explanation.

"Uh… no, Ma'am…we're not," Dean answered the unspoken query with a practiced politeness he reserved for women over thirty that he'd never think about dating – just a touch of charm, not over the line into serious flirtation. He paused to gauge her reaction, and glanced at Sam, whose eyes didn't leave the groove he was digging into the grass with his toe.

"What's your business here?" her tone was even and couldn't be considered friendly.

"We're... uh, researchers," he announced, trying to look especially intelligent. "We were hoping to help shed some light on what's been happening here – with all the… the problems on the mountain," he shifted his weight just enough to step hard on Sam's foot. "Isn't that right?" he said as he looked at his brother.

Sam hated this. No matter how often he did it he didn't think he'd ever get used to lying straight to people's faces. Dean could sell a sno-cone machine to an Eskimo and he was excellent at understanding how hard to push a person's buttons and still get a positive response. But Sam couldn't push buttons, he didn't have Dean's natural magnetism. All he could do was open himself up and offer what he had, hoping they'd see the honesty behind the essential ruse and respond to that.

It wasn't that he felt Dean was an inherently devious individual. In truth, his brother was one of the most guileless human beings he'd ever known (setting aside the necessities of their profession). Dean epitomized charisma, and he had a way of looking into the soul of another and reading it that made Sam wonder (often) which of them had the greater psychic gift. And yet Dean didn't take advantage of that ability. He used it to gain the upper hand when the Hunt or the life they lived because of it required him to, he used it to try and soothe and save anyone he could – Sam, Dad or perfect strangers.

As much as he had always longed for a simple life of mundane normalcy, some part of Sam had always suspected it wasn't realistic. He'd fought for it with all the strength he could muster, but there was no question now – with Jess gone, there was no question. And he wondered if this was why it had become so hard to even watch Dean do this anymore. Illusion just confused and humiliated him these days. The idea that people could go along just thinking there was such a thing as safety, such a thing as being okay… but then, a moment like this came. Dean would give him the signal to jump into the conversation and Sam would feel like he was going to drown, the panic digging in like monster's claws. Suddenly, every time Dean had ever rescued him flashed through his mind, as they say it will while you die and so somehow he sucked it up and played along and made it work. He took Dean's courage and held on tight, and said the right thing. Hating every moment, still, he could not help but watch his brother's back.

"Yes, we're researchers with the S.F.S.F. – we'd really like to assist in the investigation here," Sam gave a warm, trustworthy smile (his specialty) and continued in a confidential tone, "We've got a lot of experience with things like this."

"Oh really?" said the woman, her eyes wide and demeanor soft once again. "That's wonderful! Such a terrible shame, all this mess – all those people killed!" she grimaced and pressed a hand her chest to accentuate her horror.

"Yes. We completely agree with you, Mrs. –" here Dean paused quizzically and she didn't hesitate.

"Chelton, Mona Chelton" she said earnestly, grabbing Dean's hand and pumping it several times.

"Well, Mona – it looks like this meeting is about it start," he managed to extract his hand and gestured in the direction of the podium which had been set up at one end of the green space in the little town square. "But if you think of anything that might help us out, we're staying at the inn a few blocks down, alright?

"Of course!" She gushed, clearly star struck by the handsome bucks of the S.F.S.F. – "Whatever I can do to help you young men, I'd be so glad to do!" she paused and then asked, "Now who should I ask for at the Like-A-Log?"

Dean and Sam looked at one another and then Dean's phone rang. He took it out and glanced at the caller ID, giving Sam a serious Agent Mulder look for effect. Then he turned to Mona.

"I'm sorry, this is official business. I have to take this – but my colleague will give you our contact information," he had already begun to back away and Sam shot him a nasty look before the jolly woman in front of him turned her gaze back.

On the way to the café less than an hour ago, Sam had given Dean a brief run-down on his new sasquatch theories, as well as the inconclusive findings on the unknown S.R. Bennett. Not a lot to go on in either case, but at least Dean felt a little more comfortable answering this call.

"Hello?" he answered with a low, emotionless tone. There was silence for several seconds and then a woman began to speak.

"I… I'm… trying to reach Dean Winchester," she hesitated, and her voice steady but strained. "Missouri told me to contact you," she stopped, waiting to see what response that garnered.

"Missouri?" Dean questioned, wanting more than a first name, more than just the suggestion of a mutual acquaintance.

"Yes, in Kansas… Missouri Moseley. She said you could help me… and that what I know might be of some help to you as well."

"Did she give you this number?" he asked bluntly, unconsciously reaching, trying to pick up something with his internal dowsing rod. The woman didn't seem caught off guard, but in her own way she was guarded as well. This was a good thing in his mind. Those too free with their own stories could rarely be trusted.

"Yes. I spoke with her three days ago at her home."

"And you tried to call yesterday."

"Yes. I'm sorry I didn't leave a message –" her voice faltered a little and Dean heard a slight tremor in it. "I called and then I…" she gave a short, sheepish laugh. "Chickened out." He could hear the smile in her voice, and he couldn't help grinning a little himself.

"Alright – I can appreciate that. What has you so worried?" he asked, warming some.

"Well, Missouri said you might bite," she said, sounding only half joking. "And I guess I've been at this alone for what seems like a long time," Her voice was instantly sober. "It's hard to know who to trust… and frankly, if you're not willing to help me, I think I'm about out of options," she paused and Dean heard an almost inaudible sigh from the other end of the phone. "For me, being out of options is a pretty terrifying thought."

Dean didn't reply right away, thinking about what she'd said, the murmur of the crowd and the warm lazy breeze seeming to slow down time. When he spoke, it was with his mind made up – as long as she checked out with Missouri and Sammy didn't have any freaky psycho-boy feelings about the whole thing.

"Are you Ramsey or Sasha?"

"Both," she replied. Again, Dean could hear the smile in her voice.

"Meaning…"

"Ramsey's my maiden name. I sometimes use it when I don't want people to know I'm a –" she stopped abruptly and for a moment Dean wondered if one of them had lost a signal.

"You still there?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. "Sorry about that. I list myself as S. Ramsey Bennett when I don't want to advertise that I'm a single woman, living alone," her voice sounded hollow and Dean could hear the well-disguised grief only because he knew what to listen for.

"Okay – Sasha it is then," he didn't skip a beat, he could pry later. "Let me call Missouri and see what she has to say. If you know what we do, you know we have to be careful. Can I reach you at this number in the next 24 hours?"

"Yes," was the subdued reply.

"Then you'll hear from me," said Dean, and he closed the phone and looked across the milling mass to find his brother.