oOoOoOo

Dean's scream shot lightning down Sam's spine.

The heart-stopping crash that sounded as his brother shouted for help left Sam's blood running cold. Dean could handle most anything. This house, although a crime scene, had seemed innocuous just moments earlier. Even to Sam, the place seemed a little frilly and fussy; it certainly didn't seem dangerous, but his brother had just screamed for him then gone suspiciously silent.

Sam tore down the hall and nearly ripped the pocket doors to the kitchen off their railings. He skittered past the blood stained floor were Ana's body was found a week earlier. He paid the rust colored marks on the floor and the wall no attention as he hurtled across the space and made for the basement stairs.

The first thing he noted was the darkness in front of him.

"Dean?" he shouted into the dark well leading below ground.

Sam flipped the switch on the wall several times. Nothing happened. A veil of blackness remained cloaking the scene. He took a hesitant step forward as he heard a low groan and the sound of shuffling far below. Sam hurried down the steps, toppling over his brother's folded legs as he reached the bottom. Sam hit the floor with a loud yelp of surprise and pain.

"Great," Dean grunted through clenched teeth. "First, I get pushed by the kids on the stairs, and then I get body slammed by Sasquatch. Told you this place was bad news."

His breaths came in sharp, painful gasps as he tried to untangle himself from his younger brother's sprawling body. The searing pain in Dean's side made each breath a stab of agony. Struggling to a seated position was also proving difficult as his left arm buckled under him as he tried lever his back into the wall for support. A bolt of white, hot pain shot from the base of his hand into his elbow, thrusting a sudden hiss through this teeth.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, rubbing his own knees from the blunt force of hitting the ground when he tripped over Dean.

"Peachy," Dean groaned struggling slowly to his knees.

"What happened?" Sam asked, squinting into the gloom of the dark cellar. "Did you fall?"

"Stupid question," Dean snarled as he leaned his shoulder on the wall and used it to help him stand. "Of course I fell. Question is, why did I fall?"

"Okay," Sam shook his head, helping Dean stand by gripping his elbow. "How did you fall?"

Dean jerked his chin toward the EMF meter that lay halfway across the room. The bar of lights across the top still blinked and flared red. Sam retrieved it and waved it in a circle around him.

"Spirit activity," Sam noted. Dean nodded. "Did you feel the cold or hear anything or see anything?"

"Didn't notice the cold," Dean shook his head as he grabbed his ribs with one hand and tried concentrating on making a fist with the other; his fingers wouldn't budge. "Of course, it's a friggin' unheated basement so cold is kind of part of the package. No, just all of a sudden, the EMF went off like the 4th of July. I looked down at it, and then I heard laughing. Like little kids."

"Kids?" Sam asked. "You sure?"

"It was that or a couple of hyenas," Dean snarled, massaging his ribs lightly. "Felt one of them grab my foot and the other gave me a shove. Friggin' little bastards! I am so going to roast your bones!"

"Okay, okay," Sam said in a soothing tone. "Calm down. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just some bruises," Dean replied from his still stooped position. "I'll be fine. Come on, let's take a look around down here and then hit the art room upstairs."

The basement was large and, compared to the rest of the house, appeared to be the only area that did not benefit from a remodel. The floor was large flagstones laid into the dirt. A few centuries of mildew and mold, probably a handful of rats too, gave it the expected abandoned aroma. Sam dipped into Dean's bag, most of the contents had remained inside when he tumbled, and found a second flashlight. He located Dean's dropped flashlight several seconds later, although the batteries in that one appeared to be dead.

"Sapped?" Dean asked, taking the light and shaking it and wincing with the action. "New friggin' batteries, too. Dude, we should buy stock in Energizer, you know that?"

Sam turned his light on his brother's pain contorted face, making him squint and shy away from the beam. Sam chuckled dryly and shook his head.

"Yeah, I'll update our portfolio tonight," he replied flatly as he moved to a far corner where he saw a junction box.

A few second later, after inspecting the fuses, he flipped the one popped breaker. Resetting it quickly bathed the cellar in light. It was a sparsely used space. There was some construction debris in one corner, mostly painting supplies. The rest of the space was mostly bare with just a few dozen mildew covered storage boxes and some patio furniture stacked in near the bulkhead exit leading to the outside. The flagstone floor was not complete, they noted in their inspection. Some of the 2x2 flat stones were pried up in the vicinity of an old coal bin and chute. Some of the earthen floor was disturbed in that spot and fresh, small round stones were covering the top.

"Drainage," Dean nodded. "Looks like she was having the floor excavated. Damp enough down here. Must get flooded in the early spring or anytime there's a heavy rain."

Sam nodded, accepting the assessment. His brother might not a Latin scholar or overly interested in architecture or art, but anything that involved mechanics or engineering concepts was something Dean could diagnose and understand with the easy of recalling a lyric from a Led Zeppelin song.

"Okay, well, it's a basement," Sam shrugged. "The meter is going off, but I don't see anything… I mean, what am I missing here?"

Dean turned slowly and looked suspiciously at the walls just behind Sam. There were several large and unmatched cement and brick patches in the wall

"Yeah, I'm sure nothing bad ever happened in here," Dean rolled his eyes. "Looks like a friggin' mausoleum. You see anything in the file about burials on the property?"

Sam shook his head, his knowledge of historical architecture proving valuable—and not just for an opportunity for Dean to call him a girl.

"Ovens," Sam revealed, turned to run his fingers over the rough seams of the bricked up spaces. "Might have been a fireplace for heating or some brick ovens at one time."

"The kitchen is upstairs, Sam," Dean pointed out.

"Yeah, now, but when they were first built, old houses like this sometimes put the kitchens in the basement," Sam explained. "Only servants went in them so they didn't get prime space in a house like homes today."

"So much for the organic, open-floor plan selling this place," Dean scoffed drawing a questioning look from his brother. "What? Hey, I don't only watch porn during the day."

Sam shook his head and studied the patches again. The masonry was leprous and the stone itself was decaying. The EMF did not trill any louder near the spot so he tried the next and the next. The reading remained relatively stable, but let them know for certain something was down there with them, Sam advised.

"Unless it's that," Dean said looking toward the ceiling.

Sam looked up to see what appeared to be fabric covered cables running into grimy canisters slightly larger than a spool of thread.

"What the hell?" Sam remarked.

"Knob and tube wiring," Dean sighed and shook his head defeatedly. "Ancient stuff. Unshielded, too, so it's probably throwing current if there's any juice in the wires still…"

"Then this is useless," Sam scoffed and thrust the still blinking meter into his pocket. "You're sure you were pushed?"

"No, I dove down the stairs for kicks, Sam," Dean scowled. "Yes, I was pushed. They were kids, well, spirits. Two, I think. Little brats. You know, I friggin' hate kid hauntings."

Dean hung his head and turned toward the stairs. Sam stepped close behind him, watching him navigate the stairs with great care. He was moving slower than expected for having just a few 'bruises.' Rather than comment on the apparent down-playing of the injury at the moment, Sam fixed his mind on the new details for this puzzle.

He shared his brother's distaste for hauntings in which the spirits of children were the culprits. First off, dead kids were just a downer. No hunter liked dealing with them. Burning the tiny bones of a child, who obviously died too soon, was bad enough. Dealing with the brats while you put them to rest was always an adventure in the worst babysitting one could imagine. They were rarely murderous—not purposefully anyway—but they were an unmitigated nuisance. The trouble with a child spirit was they simply never matured to the point of learning right from wrong in life. In death without a parent to corral and teach them properly, they were mischievous and creative. Generally, they were only looking to play, but their loneliness ramped up their antics. This often meant a lot of pushing and pinching and tripping. It was like having an active puppy at your heels and underfoot while you tried to work. They could get violent when their tantrums hit—usually from being ignored or supremely bored. They weren't usually strong enough to throw a full grown man across a room, but pushing people down stairs was telltale child spirit behavior.

Of course, that did not explain why Ana Crawford was sliced and diced; although Dean's earlier comment about her blood being used for finger painting seem a lot more reasonable. Still, child spirits did not usually shred and flay the people they wanted to play with, not normal child spirits anyway. There was always the chance the child in question was an evil little bitch in life and that death had done nothing to improve the behavior. The inn haunting the Winchester brothers investigated in Connecticut several years earlier was a prime example of that.

Sam and Dean reached the main floor and headed to the dark wood staircase leading to the upper story. Dean sighed deeply as he viewed the expanse of sweeping stairs that curled upward.

"Why can't this place have one of those chair things that carries you up the stairs?" Dean wondered. "Like that old bitty had in the movie Gremlins."

"Getting lazy in your old age?" Sam smirked. "Thirty-four isn't normally senior citizen territory, Dean."

"It is for a hunter," he remarked.

"How do you figure that?" Sam scoffed. "Bobby was 61 when he died."

"Yeah, and he started hunting when he was 32," Dean said as he took each step while biting back a groan of pain and began to relate his philosophy on age. "Life of a hunter begins when he begins a life of hunting. I've got 30 years in—makes me nearly Bobby's age as far as hunting goes."

"So that makes us nearly the same age," Sam noted. "I'm not having any trouble here, old man."

"I have a decade on you," Dean insisted as he turned a smug stare on his brother. "You'll be 30 in calendar years in a few weeks, but your hunting age is like 22. You lived with hunters, but you had no idea about it until you were nearly 12. I started at age four."

Sam blinked, surprised at the reaction. Dean never mentioned anything about his childhood-particularly the earliest parts of it-unless he was forced. Considering his mention of it earlier, Sam wondered if this might be one of those rare opportunities to ply his brother for some more details (the kind Dean kept to himself usually), but the pain in each of his older brother's breaths convinced the younger Winchester to hold off.

"Fine, you're a senior citizen, Dean," Sam relented. "I'll apply for your hunter's AARP card tonight. You know, if you keep huffing like that to walk up the stairs..."

"I'm fine, Sam," he groaned, dragging his hand on the banister for support as he trudged upward toward the bedroom located in the spiral turret.

"I'm just saying, if you want me to look around to see if Ana has an oxygen tank to help you out I can, grandpa," Sam mocked although his expression held much more concern.

"I could still kick your ass," Dean vowed as they reached the second floor.

Before the crime, it was a cream colored room with rounded walls and an detailed, stark white plaster ceiling with intricate scrolls. There was an immense four-poster bed with a flowery bedcover and a mountain of pillows at the head. The welcoming atmosphere was marred by the blood graffiti staining the large sweep of the wall facing the doorway.

Dean stood still gaping at the violent designs. He shivered as he crossed the threshold, instinctively reaching into his pocket to feel the mojo back still safely tucked there. The strange, uncertain feeling he felt since arriving in this town rolled through him again. He looked quickly at his brother who appeared unphased by it so Dean shook off the sensation and focused on the wall. The drawings were not arterial cast off from an attack. They also were not the random scrawls of a child. They were definitely symbols. The shapes and lines were geometric and precise, even if they were done in a frantic and mad fashion. The brothers surveyed the room then looked at each other and instantly said the same thing:

"Voodoo," they each said and simultaneously hung their heads.

The drawings threw a kink in the budding theory of child spirits run amok. This looked like serious spell work. The fact that the symbols were drawn in blood underscored that possibility.

"Might not be a spirit after all," Sam said after a long pause.

"Ya think?" Dean said. "Okay, so what's our worst case scenario here? Human psycho using black magic to get around the security? Yeah, that would be awesome."

Dean sighed heavy and groaned at the possibility. The supernaturally evil things in the world he could deal with; he didn't have sympathy for them or understand them, but there was a professional respect for what they were and what he could do to deal with them. Humans who chose to do this kind of crap, those, he thought, those were a special kind of monster that didn't deserve to live. Except, it wasn't his place to put them down. He'd run across more than a few of those types in his life as a hunter; he never walked away from those cases feeling like he scored a win.

"Wouldn't that be kind of a weird coincidence though?" Sam asked. "Possible children's spirits in the basement but a regular person does a voodoo ritual up here after killing Ana? A little far fetched with the two things not being related at all, don't you think?"

"Maybe," Dean said. "Or… Maybe we've got both, and they are related. Or it's not a child spirit at all, and it's just this, a voodoo ritual gone wrong."

"I don't know," Sam said doubtfully. "You think you were wrong about hearing kids? Seriously, when's the last time you misjudged a spirit?"

Sam regarded his brother with a flat expression. He considered Dean a genius and while that wasn't just about hunting, Sam could not deny that hunting was what his brother knew best. Dean had lived nearly all of his life-all that he admitted to remembering anyway-in the world of hunting. Their father did not spare or protect Dean from the knowledge of the darkness around them. How could he? Dean was exposed to the murder of their mother; he heard his father's ramblings about what happened in the nursery. While it was (in Sam's contention) a form of child abuse, it was also what made his brother so very good at what he did: save people and hunt things. If Dean's first instinct said there were child spirits in the basement, Sam wasn't going to ditch that theory until there was hard evidence to do so. Dean continued to look at the murderous mural in front of them. He said nothing for several long moments. From his expression, Sam could read that Dean didn't think he was wrong about hearing children. The shove and the trip were classic phenomena. Dean knew what he heard and what he felt when he fell.

"I don't know," Dean replied cautiously as he shook his head as he gazed at the blood sigils with countless memories of seeing the various shapes and symbols in his past. "It's kind of weird, though. Voodoo? Here in white bread land? These people are Puritans. They didn't grow up in the Delta. This is some heavy scribbling, Sammy."

Dean tried to shrug but instead winced in pain at the motion. Sam caught the catch in his breath and stared at him. Dean moved away, trying to avoid the scrutiny. He turned toward the high, four-poster bed and the three drawer nightstand beside it. He reached forward to open the top drawer then suddenly gasped in pain and gripped his side even tighter.

Sam quickly snatched his arm and forced him to a seated position on the bed. He locked eyes with his brother and demanded an answer.

"Okay, fess up," Sam said. "How bad is it? And what is it? Just a rib or is it something more?"

Dean waved off Sam's attention and continued to sift through the drawer. He found a small handwritten journal. He held it up to Sam. The dates stretched back five years, roughly the time since the renovation began. A quick skim of the pages indicated it was about the progress of the work.

"Renovation can wake up things that were sleeping," Dean said with a groan as he pulled himself to a standing position again.

"Dean," Sam began. "I need to check you out."

"Perv," Dean scoffed and made to walk away.

Sam caught his shoulder and gripped it tightly. Dean frozen, unable to shake the restraint free without howling in pain. Sam judged his brother's condition based on his lack of resistance.

"Two choices: I look or an ER doctor does," Sam said. "Don't fight with me on this."

"Fine," Dean relented as he waggled the diary in his hand. "We head back to Carl's and do some reading. It's your favorite part of a case, Professor: the research."

"You're getting checked out first," Sam insisted.

"I said okay," Dean grumbled. "A little triage and then research." Sam glared at him. "And… painkillers. Alright? If it'll make you happy, I'll work the journal from Carl's place, and you hit the library and the town hall."

Sam nodded. He suspected he would get stuck with the library research in the end. He always did. Dean submitting so quickly to laying low at Carl's raised more concern for the younger Winchester. Either Dean was hurt worse than Sam already feared or Dean was up to something. Neither option left Sam feeling good about this hunt any longer. However, he figured it would be easiest to figure out what was going if he played along for the moment.

"Okay," Sam nodded. "I'll look for childhood deaths and other evidence history of the property. You chill out and see what Ana was up to."

oOoOoOo

The Winchesters arrived back at Carl's—following a grumbling stand-off for the keys and right to drive in the driveway at Ana Crawford's house, which Sam won after overpowering his brother (another disconcerting sign of his injuries). Once back at Carl's home, Dean refused to let his brother check his ribs, claiming they no longer hurt, and he wanted to get working on the diary. Sam glared at his brother for several minutes before storming out in exasperation. He did not, however, go to the library. Instead, he stopped at a diner in town and picked up lunch. He might be mad, but if there was one thing he hoped that he and Dean had learned over the years, it was to take care of each other when they were in a vulnerable spot. Not doing so had proved nearly disastrous more often than not in the past. So, 30 minutes later, he returned with a heart-attack in a sack for Dean (bacon cheeseburger and fries) and a chef's salad for himself. He wasn't precisely hungry—eating wasn't something that Sam was overly interested in lately-but keeping up appearances was necessary when one of them was playing hurt.

He wasn't sure what he would return to at Carl's. Dean might be gone; he might be self-medicating; he might be unconscious on the floor from internal bleeding. The last one worried him most. So, as he entered the dwelling, he was surprised to find his brother precisely where he left him: on the couch reading.

"I brought food," Sam announced as he dropped the bag on the kitchen table.

It was as close to an apology and peace treaty as the Winchester's normally got with the little spats that flared during hunts. Dean looked up, pain clearly etched into his face, and carefully peeled himself off the couch. Sam watched him with hawkish eyes, studying his movements, and convinced himself that Dean was nursing at least one but more likely two broken ribs. The fact that he was not coughing blood was encouraging. It meant neither of the broken bones had penetrated a lung.

Sam had seen too much blood over the years, and much of it had been his brother's. He wasn't sure which sight was most haunting to him: Dean pinned to the wall while Yellow Eyes (wearing their father's body) carved him up and tore apart his psyche in John's voice; his brother's limp body bleeding in the back of the Impala after they were nearly crushed by an oncoming semi piloted by a demon; or Dean torn to shreds by a hellhound on the floor of a well-appointed home in New Hope, Indiana. Oddly, his disappearance to Purgatory, had been easier to watch. There was a terror-filled moment for Sam when he realized he had no idea what happened or where Dean was. But, as his mind went into grieving and survival mode, he convinced himself Dean was just gone that time; he felt his stomach twist again as he recalled soothing himself with the knowledge that at least there was no body to dispose of.

Looking at his brother again, the one who vexed him to near insanity sometimes, and whose support and companionship he needed more than words could describe, he again felt those conflicting emotions: care for Dean or beat the crap out of him.

"Are you going to let me check your ribs or not?" Sam asked as Dean lowered himself cautiously into a chair.

"I'm fine," Dean replied (predictably). "Stop worrying. You gonna do some work on this case after you eat your rabbit food, or am I the only one on the job this afternoon?"

Sam scowled and dug into his salad, refusing to rise to the bait. Dean was trying to piss him off in an effort to remove any attention from his injuries. Sam might have the shorter fuse of the two brothers and Dean might be better at lighting that fuse than any other force in the universe, but Sam was also wise. He knew his brother's tactics. The more Dean tried to distance Sam from him in the little ways, the worse pain he was in.

"Yeah, of course," Sam said, looking up with an innocent face. "Just figured we'd get lunch and then we start the research. Hey, pass me the pepper."

He asked the question casually. He could easily reach across Dean's meal and grab the shaker in front of Dean, but wanted to do a range of motion check on his brother. Yes, it was sneaky, but his older brother was being deceptive, too. Fire with fire was a Winchester staple in the family fight game.

However, the result was not what Sam expected. The shaker was in front of his brother's left arm, yet Dean opted for the more painful way of retrieving it by twisting and grabbing it with his right, then turning back to Sam to hand it off.

"What's with your left arm?" Sam asked, dropping his plastic fork into the salad container.

"Still attached," Dean smiled.

"Why aren't your elbows on the table?" Sam asked, folding his arms as he struck an accusing pose.

"Because that's bad manners, Sammy," Dean chided, shoving a few French fries in his mouth. "Didn't I raise you better than that?"

Sam glared at him. Dean was always putting his elbows on the table, and yes, he did raise Sam not to do the same thing. The fact that he was hiding his left was a point of concern.

"Really?" Dean shook his head. "The bitch-face? Already? This has to be a record. Not even 24 hours on a case and all ready I'm…"

"Arm. Table. Now," Sam ordered.

His voice was menacing as he rose to his full height and loomed over his brother. Dean leaned back slightly, mocking him with the recoiling motion. Sam reached forward, intent on grabbing the arm if needed. Dean, sensing the futility of his resistance, reluctantly lifted his wrist and lay it flat on the table.

"You might be Borg," he grumbled. "Might explain a lot of other things about you, too."

Sam shook his head, ignoring the Star Trek reference. Sarcasm was one of Dean's preferred defense mechanisms. Throwing in scifi references was typical and expected. It always amazed Sam how often his brother dubbed him the geek in the family, but Dean was the one who liked cult favorites like Star Trek and fantasy role-playing games. Sam reluctantly joined in with him for Charlie's 'Moondor' escapade, but he knew Dean was drafting strategy and battle plans for their expected participation in the mid-season gathering in several months time. Sam would have had some choice digs at his brother for that, but he always refrained. It was little pleasures like that which brought Dean real moments of joy and showed that some part of him still believed in tomorrows.

Sam moved to the other side of his brother and crouched down closer to the table to examine his arm. With careful and tender movements, Sam slid the sleeve of Dean's over shirt back from his brother's wrist. He folded the cuff back and looked at the puffy and swollen joint. He noted the heat from the wrist and the growing discoloration. He turned less than sympathetic eyes to his brother, who met the expression with a grin that was guilty and trying to be unconcerned by the pain obviously radiating from the joint. Sam hung his head and took a deep breath as he reminded himself that hitting Dean would only add to the injuries.

"Dean," Sam reminded him in a tense but forcefully calm tone, "the rule is broken bone equals hospital."

"No," Dean corrected confidently. "Broken and displaced bone equals hospital. Cracked bone equals aspirin and an excuse not to carry your bag for a week. Nothing displaced here."

"You don't know that," Sam argued.

He lightly pressed Dean's wrist, feeling for a pulse to see how much pressure the swelling was placing on the veins in the area. It was there, throbbing just below the surface, but the grimace on his brother's face told the story of the pain Sam's touch caused.

"Nothing poking through the skin, dude," Dean shook his head. "Trust me, Sam. I know when I have a bad break. This isn't one of those. This is… annoying. Swelling will go down in a day or two. I'll have full range again in a week, tops."

Sam ground his teeth, knowing he was encountering the Great Wall of Winchester with his attempts to get his brother proper medical care. While they did not usually go to hospitals, there were a few things that necessitated professional medical intervention. Lacerations that required more than a dozen stitches, high fevers persisting more than two days or other evidence of infection and (regardless of Dean's current re-interpretation of the rules) broken bones (for anything other than a finger or toe).

"Dean," he began again in a concerned and reasonable tone, "you've got a few cracked ribs and certainly a broken wrist. This is not something we haggle about or negotiate over."

"Neither of those is fatal," Dean remarked.

"Fatty embolism," Sam countered succinctly. "So your point is…."

"What did you just call me?" Dean asked.

"Cut the stupid act, Dean," Sam snapped. "You know precisely what that is. Can lead to heart attack, stroke, death."

"So can my lunch," the elder Winchester scoffed exasperatedly. "Long bones, Sam. Fatty embolism's come with broken long bones. That's like a broken leg, not a little bone in the wrist."

"Ribs, Dean," Sam said forcefully.

"No thanks, I already got a burger," Dean grinned, smiling through the pain screaming from his eyes from his brother's continual probing of the wrist injury. Sam scowled. "What?"

Sam carded his hand through his hair and clenched his jaws to keep from snapping. The muscles in his cheek jumped angrily. Suddenly, a dark and superior smile pulled the corners of his mouth back. He again drew himself to his full height and spoke down to Dean in a tone that let him know his older brother that he was being childish and would receive appropriate treatment for that.

"Fine, you're… grounded," Sam insisted.

"Grounded?" Dean repeated and stood with his uninjured arm wrapped tightly against his ribs. "What do you mean grounded?"

"You're not going back to that house with me is what I mean so: grounded," Sam stated.

"Yeah, right," Dean scoffed. "You can't ground me. First off, I'm not a friggin' child. Next, I'm older than you. I can ground you. Not the other way around, Sammy."

"Well, tough," Sam said. "New rules. Whoever isn't injured can ground whoever is."

"You can't just make up rules," Dean said shaking his head. "Rules are like… laws."

"Yeah, the people who are in charge just makes those up, Dean," Sam said arrogantly.

"Okay, but you're not in-charge," Dean argued.

In typical older brother fashion, he stepped into Sam's personal space. Despite Sam's superior height, he felt the intimidation from his injured brother. Sam took a step back but kept his arms folded, mostly in an effort not to throw a sleeper hold on Dean. Knocking Dean out and dragging him to the ER was not off the list of options, but Sam considered it a last resort. He knew Dean would resist that strong-armed tactic. Although Dean was injured, he often fought even harder when hurt. Also, Sam knew he himself wasn't operating at full capacity. Tangling with Dean in hurt animal mode surely wouldn't improve things.

"Right now I am," Sam said, standing his ground. "So, new rule or law is that…"

"No," Dean interrupted. "Rules come from somewhere higher than you."

"I am taller," the younger brother verbally jabbed, drawing a murderous scowl on Dean's face.

"No, that rule I just said, about you not grounding me, that's Dad's rule," Dean snarled. "I could ground you. Never was the other way around. Only Dad could ground me."

"What about Bobby?" Sam countered easily, parrying the argument. "Bobby could ground you; he did it a few times. Bobby wasn't Dad. Ergo, not only Dad could ground you. So much for your rule."

Dean glared back. Sam knew it was at the 'ergo' more than anything else. Dean's narrowed gaze grew fiery and his shoulders bunched in a defensive posture. Sam remained still and glared back.

"Do you see Bobby here?" Dean asked. Sam shook his head. "Well, I know Dad isn't here either. So, they're the only ones who…"

"Let it go, Dean," Sam shouted with finality. "Decision is made. You are laying low for now. I mean it!"

His brother backed off slightly, taking a step back. Dean cocked his head to the side. Sam could see the thoughts whirling behind his mossy green eyes. This was Dean in his non-linear, creative mode (arguably his most dangerous on the intellectual side of things). Sam waited to see what would come out of his mouth next and was not disappointed.

"So if I hit you and injure you, I get to ground you?" Dean asked.

Sam stammered for a moment and shook his vigorously. He scoffed at the insanity of the implied threat and the questionable logic behind it. Dean, inventing wildly, was so difficult to predict. It was what made him both a formidable opponent to evil creatures and a danger to himself on any hunt.

"No purposefully injuring someone just to have the power to…," Sam began then shook his head and growled in frustration. "Argh! You do this all the… You've got me feeling and arguing like a 10-year-old! Dean, you are hurt. You need to heal. You're no good to us if you can't do the job properly. Now, I am going to the library, and you are going to stay here to rest and ice your injuries."

"Fine," Dean barked.

"Well… good," Sam nodded, vigorously, not certain he won the argument.

He was extremely suspicious of Dean's sudden retreat but could think of no reason to question it. Sam, at least, had the keys to the Mercedes. He locked eyes with his brother. Dean's expression betrayed nothing. He was certainly angry at this turn of events. He might be plotting something, but Sam could not discern what that might be.

With suspicions high but concrete excuses to stay and babysit his brother low, Sam finished his salad and palmed the keys. He departed for the library and left his brother silently picking at his fries. What Sam discovered after he dug into the history of Ana Crawford's house kept him riveted to historical accounts filed deep in the library's dusty archives and muddied the waters further for what they might be facing.

But even the dark past that hid behind the fancy face of the ornate Victorian home was nothing compared to what he found when he finally returned to the police chief's house late that afternoon.

oOoOoOo