Disclaimer: See Chapter One

A/N: Again, thanks for all the reviews, totally appreciated, making my day!

Part Four

"Aw, shit. Ah, Christ. Aw, shit-fucking Christ." Omaha was practically jogging the length of the living room. "Did you guys see that? She just… leapt into Amanda's body! Why would someone do that? Just sacrifice themselves like that?'

Dean had a personal theory on that, too. People usually sacrificed themselves for one reason and one reason only: to stop the hurting. Unfortunately, the sacrifices often times took on a life of their own, creating new pain and hurts that were unimaginable at the time of the selfish act. Unimaginable pain to those around you. Even if it wasn't discussed but only seen and felt.

God, he hurt.

"Is she gonna kill us? Where'd she go?"

Sam grabbed Omaha's arm and brought him to a halt. "She's going to get Brady. If she wants me, they'll come back and try to take me over again."

"You can't fuckin' let her."

Sam shook his head. "They won't. They won't get me."

A quick snag at his watch and Omaha quickly calculated in his head. "2:41. We have four hours left 'til the sun. We just have to wait it out 'til then." He flashed a hopeful smile in Sam's direction. And felt momentarily relief when Sam's mouth quirked up in response.

Omaha broke away from the taller man's grasp and walked over to the odd shaped windows of the living room. His gaze intensified as he looked out of the glass as his left arm slightly raised followed by his right until he was waving fanatically.

Sam's eyebrows lifted. "Dude, what are you doing?"

Omaha flashed him a quick grin. "It's old lady Stinson."

Sam walked over and looked out the window. Across the street sitting in her lazy boy was the very small image of an old woman. Her house was lit up as she sat, watching TV.

"Mrs. Stinson!" Omaha yelled out.

"Jesus, Omaha," Dean piped up from the banister. "She can't hear you."

He waved his arms again.

Sam pointed. "Her lights are on. She can't see you, either."

Omaha shrugged. "Flashlight?"

Sam sighed and directed the young man over a few spaces to the salt circle previously laid out for Emily and instructed him under no circumstances was he to move. Omaha seemed to be good at following directions. He should be safe in the corner, except for what his eyes may see.

Sam handed the dark haired kid a flashlight and let him try the Morse code that he claimed he had learned in Boy Scouts. "Mrs. Stinson was the school nurse." He commented to his old buddy.

Sam glanced back at her miniature form. Her hair looked white from where he stood and she appeared to be shriveling and ancient. Even if he could see her, doubtful she'd be familiar to him. Sam watched as Omaha set his stance, flashlight in his right hand, left hand over the right as he started his short and long beams.

The younger hunter shook his head and met Dean by the staircase. "We got to get him out of here," Sam was saying, trying to figure out a different way out of the house. "Maybe there's a hole somewhere that we can have him crawl out of."

Dean lifted his eyes to him. "We cased both floors. You see any holes?"

"No. But, there's the basement."

He hadn't forgotten. "Yeah, I think that's where they're hiding out."

"Well, let's go down there and get 'em."

The sawed-off crossed over Sam's center and pointed to the corner. "We can't leave him alone with a flashlight, a flask of holy water and salt." Dean hesitated. "And binoculars." His eyes glared over at the large plastic goggles that Omaha had placed near his feet.

"Okay, then, I'll go."

"You're not going. If anyone goes, I go."

"Two against one. They'll kill you - or worse - before you hit the bottom step."

They both knew what the worse was, but Dean looked over at his brother incredulously. "What do you think they're gonna do to you, Sam?"

"I, uh… I don't think they can get me. Couldn't get in me…"

"Yeah, I know because of the tats."

Sam shook his head, his eyes wandering the room, ignoring his brother's hazels drilling into him. "I think I stopped Brady, you know, with my mind."

Dean's mug scrunched up and he scowled towards the younger man. "God, Sam! Not everything that happens is because of you!" He noticed the flick of Omaha's head in their direction and lowered his voice. "You didn't do anything to stop them. You didn't use mind control. We have the tattoos. They protected us. End of story."

"Fine."

"Fine!"

"I just…" Sam took in a deep breath, he lifted his face, locking on the older hunter. Dean always wanted to protect, never wanted to listen. Certainly didn't want to listen to anything that started with 'Sam using his mind to stop a spirit from invading him'. Dean had originally decided upon the tattoos to keep them safe and now Dean was satisfied. He had successfully done his job. Sam glowered back. "You don't even get me, do you?"

"I get you." Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's shirt bringing his kid brother closer. "This is not your goddamn fault. Stop worrying about it. You're gonna give me an ulcer."

Then there were times when Dean knew Sam better than Sam was willing to give him credit for. The hot anger he felt just seconds before melted at the older hunter's words. Sam broke out into a dimply smile. "You? I'm going to give you an ulcer?"

Dean rubbed his hand across his middle. "Yeah, you're making my stomach hurt. Now stop it will, ya?" His voice was gruff and saccharine, licorice sweet. Just like Sam remembered from their childhood. Just like yesterday.

Sam let it roll off his shoulders. He knew it was more than the ink on his chest that had stopped the spirit but he understood his brother's hesitancy. Sometimes people only see what they want. What they need. It's hard to have faith and believe in things intangible.

Sam took a step back, taking control of his own personal space once again. He gave a slight nod. "Dude, you're probably just hungry."

Dean was already nodding back. "Yeah, this sucks. I didn't even bring any jerky with me." Well, that was right up there with trapped in a haunted house, people getting possessed and the possibility of death.

There was a tug on Dean's sleeve and he looked to the side to see Omaha standing beside the brothers, his dark eyes rounded, focused on the dining area.

"Did you get the old bat's attention?" Dean teased.

Omaha shook his head, his eyes cast away and Dean suddenly noticed the curly head kid's close proximity to him. "Man, salt lines!" Dean slapped the back of his head.

Omaha ignored the pat and pointed with his left hand. His mouth gaped open, trying to make words, but only short, sloppy sounds filtered through.

Dean didn't bother looking to see what was there. He already knew and he aptly spun around, bringing the shotgun with him, readying himself to plow the cartridge into Emily's body. She walked staunchly into the living room, smacking a hand up, not giving a second thought to Dean. His body ripped from the floor and flipped over Omaha, smashing into the wall on the opposite side of the room. Stars and possibly stripes cast over his view. His hands were in pain, something was causing them to achingly kink. He glanced his eyes down and saw that she had let him keep his gun this time. She also left him with knarled fingers wrapped around the trigger cramping in arthritic intensity.

One step was all Sam had on her when her other hand came up in a stern, stopping motion. Invisible forces brushed the younger Winchester to the other wall, roughly scorching his cheek against the plaster. She rubbed his body up and down just for fun until she could see the streaks of blood gleaming in the moonlight, his skin tearing apart. His glock she took, jarring it from his hands and it carefully sailed over the last man standing's head and into Emily's hands.

She pointed the barrel at Omaha. "On your knees."

For all the Supernatural reasons why the young man should be afraid, it was a very much human gun that did the trick.

"Fuck, fuck," Omaha started to cry. He folded his hands behind his head and lowered himself to the floor. He glanced up to Emily and begged. "Please, Emily… Mandy, please. Don't fucking kill me."

She smiled at her curly haired classmate and cupped his chin. "You've grown up to have such a potty mouth. Your mother should have taught you better."

"I… I'm sorry. I won't swear, I swear I won't swear. Please, please, please, don't kill me, Mandy. Please."

Dean and Sam both bucked against their walls, straining their heads, their hands, stretching their limbs until they thought they'd pop out of sockets. The pleas from the waiter were ravaging, the thought of having to watch his death and not vice versa was too much for the hunters.

"Amanda," Sam tried, helpless to her commands, "take me." One blackened soul traded for one with promise. Take the innocent out of the equation.

She didn't look up, just kept the gun pointed on Omaha. "Cool it. You'll get your chance to bat. Don't cause your brother to get an ulcer."

Dean's eyes slid to Sam's. They were already looking back to him.

Tears were streaming down Omaha's cheeks as he bent forward, still begging for his life. He was being smart. Calling her by her name. He talked about himself, letting her see he was indeed a person. "Emily, please. You know my Mom. She… she would miss me. What would she do? Huh? Emily, don't kill…"

"It's Amanda, Miami, and I'm not going to kill you," she calmly explained to the kneeling man. There was a rustling behind her of what sounded like of a large mouse scampering on the floor. Scratching and clawing becoming more obvious as Amanda's eyes slicked with darkness. Six eyes stared behind her as Brady emerged from the dining room, not ghostly and faded like he had been before, but more solidified, his skin transparent, his eyes taking in color. Hues of brown swirling, his hair changing from light to dark. The Winchesters gawked across the room and astonishingly witnessed as Omaha seemed to be the one fading before their vision. He sucked in a breath, fighting to keep life inside of him, but the closer Brady got to him, the faster he lost. The spirit stopped at nothing, almost breaking out in a sprint as he closed in and engulfed his prey.

Omaha's body twitched oddly, violently as Brady made himself at home, finding fingers and toes again. Bending his host's knees, taking first steps, breathing in a lungful of air, running hands through hair, licking his lips. It was all too good. He had forgotten how it felt to be human. Or at least to be surrounded by human again. He hugged his arms around himself, like wearing a warm winter coat. Forget fur. Human skin was much richer.

He looked to Amanda, who had lowered the gun and was gazing at him passionately. Amorous. "Brady?"

"Love, I'm here." A long arm reached out to her and he placed a once warm palm on her chilled cheek. She leaned into it, her eyes closing. "Is this going to satisfy you?"

Amanda's eyes opened and she tilted her head, examining and scrutinizing the body Brady held. She looked over his shoulder and eyed Sam Winchester pinned to the wall, still fighting to free himself. She sauntered over, watching as his breaths increased, his cheeks puffing out in exhalation. She reached her cold hands out to hold his warm one. She placed his palm along the side of her face and rubbed. Frosty breaths hit his own cheek as she caressed the younger man's neck and smelled.

She turned back to her lover. "I know the consequences, but I still want this one."

And from the dark, through Dean's muffled shouts, Sam could hear his answer to her. "I wanted him, too. I'm sorry I failed back then, Love. But I'll take him. Now."

WWW

Omaha Cantrell lost his dad two years prior to the Winchester's current stroll back into his café. Throat cancer. Smoked one too many. But he left behind a sizeable inheritance, which was split, between his wife and two sons. Omaha took his share and purchased the foreclosed town eatery and swore he wouldn't change one thing about it. The day he took over possession he simply walked in, turned on a light, flipped the closed sign over to open and started cooking. For the first three days he served grilled cheese sandwiches for a dollar to hungry customers until he was able to hire a cook to help him out.

Six months later his older brother, Lincoln, came home to visit from Colorado. He'd used half his inheritance paying off his school loans and the other half went to his retirement. On his way out of town, Lincoln stopped by the restaurant for lunch.

"Omaha," he observed, "this place is a heck of a sight. Why didn't you put some gosh darn new carpet down or take that stupid, old, rotten wagon wheel off the wall?" Lincoln rested his hand on the bolted piece of wood.

Omaha pointed at him from across the room. "Fourth spike, near the center."

Lincoln shook his head and sighed, looking to the old spindle, following it with his fingertips. "Lincoln Cantrell. Villisca's #1 Fucking Reason to Live Here." The older man gawked back at the words and then swiveled his neck around. "Why did you… When did you write this?"

A shrug. "Maybe when I was nine. Or last week, I don't remember."

It was getting late and Lincoln was going to miss his plane if he didn't hit the road. He moved across the worn carpeting slowly, part of him wanting to stay, wanting to linger and see what he was missing out on. He looked up. "Why'd you buy this dump, Omaha?"

The curly haired kid leaned back on his stool and smiled at his sibling, admiring him just as much now as he had growing up with him. "Cuz when I walked in, I knew I was fuckin' home."

WWW

Omaha's body walked over to Sam, his legs slushy and his steps uneven as he achieved destination. The dark eyes were cold, with glints of silver staring back, calculating and deadly. Gone was the pie-loving, foul-mouthed singer who hoped to take down a couple of ghosts that night.

"Sam, Sam, Sam." The voice was uneven and bottomless, stealing away the identity-tag high vocals of its owner. "I could turn you in, you know. But if you're the meat Mandy wants, I'm willing to risk it."

Sam's eyes narrowed at him. "Turn me in?"

"Ask your Daddy." Then in ominous merriment, he continued. "Oh, wait. I forgot. You boys are orphans now." He laughed, reminding the hunter of a mad scientist as frost started departing from bluish lips. "You were my guy when you came here with Mandy ten years ago. You know that?" He turned his head devilishly, observing the boy's fears, seeing past flesh and reading internally. "Right? I tried to take you over, but you tired me out. You gotta a lot of strength inside of you. You're a challenge. And I like challenges."

"Omaha, don't let it fool you." Sam's eyes burned. He tried to will Omaha to surface, give him a sign that he was there. Let himself be seen. Be heard. Sam tried. Let him know he wasn't alone and he could fight.

The deadness peering through the orbs, however, did not give any indication that he was getting through. No walls were breaking down from psychic mental contact. No miracles occurred. Just the everyday sinister Supernatural kind that was the Winchester way of living.

Knots started to ripple under Omaha's skin as the spirit of Brady writhed underneath. A small whimper rumbled out of this mouth and Sam's heart dropped. He was going to lose another one. Another person was going to die because he couldn't do anything to save him. He was the cause. It all started with him.

"Omaha!" Sam shouted out but invisible forces smacked his head back into the wall dizzying his brain and nauseating his stomach. He tried to breathe, tried to warn with words, but they wouldn't come.

"Let him go, you sunuvabitch!" Sam could hear his brother's trademark cursing through thickening air.

The thrusting stopped from Brady, his eyes rolled like slots in a casino spinning through Omaha's sockets. The creature seemed winded and let out a gasping breath. He walked sluggishly to Amanda, still trying out his new sea legs and towered over her, shadowing her tiny silhouette.

It was clear, though, he was not the King of this castle.

"I cannot leave without taking his life." His voice was not filled with remorse or even surprise, it was seeking. Looking for reassurance, support. Making sure the decision was final before he excavated.

Emily raised one shoulder nonchalant, her mouth pulling down in a freakish frown. "S'okay. I never expected any of them to get out alive anyway."

They exchanged affectionate smiles, devoted to their cause. Then Brady began the execution.

The brothers would have much rather exorcised a demon. A large cloud of black smoke exiting an open mouth, a twenty-five percent chance the host would survive. But this was cruel and unusual punishment. Barbaric on some levels.

It was literally like Brady had came home and decided to take off his clothes after a long day at work. Omaha's arms stretched high above his head and then Brady ripped himself from his limbs with inanimate popping sounds. Omaha's fingers slumped followed by his elbow. The ghost's squiggly form moved inside, contorting and removing himself from the waiter's chest and back, suction cups bursting, resonating in the small room. Muscles fell upon one another in a sludgy pile of skin as the top of Omaha's head sunk inward, morphing into itself. Brady's spirit emerged through the dark haired kid's stomach, smoke sizzling from his cold fingernails slicing through connective tissue, linear tendons and smooth muscles. Cutting a beautiful incision from the inside out just large enough to push his head through, followed quickly by his body. It was just as the boys had imagined a C-section would have been like. But this newborn was a grotesque ghastly spirit. And it appeared to be gaining strength and grisly characteristics as it emerged. A sob ruffled the air as it was gorily and bloodily born.

Dean was working overtime, silently assaulting his body. Willing it to move, just his hands enough to get a shot off. He tried to turn and twist, wiggle and churn. The covert forces were too strong, though, and they ferociously bound him to the wall to watch and observe and mourn.

Brady's monstrous apparition was more skeletal, its body seemed to have tissues attached to cartilage dangling from early bones. He bore carnivorous teeth that fit jaggedly in his mouth, almost iridescent to a sharks smile as he grinned to Amanda. Each minute becoming more human in a side-show-freak kind of way.

Amanda wasted no time. "Take him! Now!" She demanded.

Brady abruptly turned towards the younger hunter and hovered over him, dark eyes engaging from bony cavities. He inhaled and started sucking. His wrought iron hands fanned, his fingers spread apart as he betrothed himself to Sam. He surged forward, his chest inflating towards the young man as he cooed his energy out. Grappling for an answer back, he took a step forward, rubbing up against the tall body.

"Come on, young Winchester," he stroked at Sam's forehead. "I'm ready this time. I told your Daddy not to let you come back. I'd snatch you."

The words were made to scare Sam and as he stared back at the oddity, he tried to hide the emotion, but it startled him.

"Didn't tell you, huh? Yeah, your Daddy knew what you were way back then. You never noticed the way he treated you different from your brother? Dean he trusted. You… were like the plague to his family."

Sam's eyes scanned across the open area to Dean. The older man was still struggling against the captors, ignoring the words. He used his body to fight, tiring the spirits of their holds, drain them of their power so he and Sam could use theirs.

"Thing is," the voice forced him to look back, "lots of… things… want a piece of you. You got lots to answer for." The apparition's hand stopped stroking the hunter and its fingernail traced an ice-cold burn down his temple, down his cheek to his chest. Crimson followed the path, just like the other side from earlier in the night brought on from Amanda.

Sam winced in pain, the muscles of his neck bulging as the cut passed by his jugular.

He could hear his brother's screams as he turned his face from Brady's hold. He tried to move away, attempted to shove a part, but was only allowed a few inches, his body still wrapped in unseen holds. He tried to close his eyes and wasn't surprised when he felt the resistance. He pushed hard, imagining them shutting, hedging out the dim light. He pictured his lids down, closed firm and secure, hiding the windows to his soul. He blocked out his brother's shouts, ignored Amanda's commands and inwardly concentrated.

Sam was in total darkness. He squeezed his eyes tight as he realized he wasn't only feeling cold frigid hands cupping his chin. He was also feeling his own lashes lightly tickling the upper parts of his cheeks.

"Oh, my God," he whispered to himself.

Fingertips crawled along his jawbone, pulling his face back and a voice cracked through the frigid fog, snuggling up to his ear. "You can't fight me."

Sam swallowed. The words hit like frozen stalactites, burning his lobes.

"Yes, I can." His own voice surprised even him. It was unwavering, easy to talk. The words were warm on his lips, which were turning up into a smile as he realized something very important. He was not afraid. He opened his eyes effortlessly and his neck pivoted to Brady.

There was no discussion from the spirit. Dark eyes sparkled with a flash of silver behind them. The protest of the young man without pleading for his life, without question of his imminent takeover was unfamiliar to the apparition. Sam shook his head as his right arm circled around his body.

"Not now. Not ever." It wasn't just a slogan. It was a mission statement. Gordon wasn't going to kill him. Old Yeller wasn't going to have him. He wasn't about to bow down for some fugly spirit to invade his body to play house with another.

The blast echoed throughout the house, vibrating the staircase and crumbling damaged plaster onto the brothers' heads. Dean slid down the wall and brought the shotgun up again, firing into Brady's estranged body the second time. He clicked back. One more round straight into his temple.

The odd form bent over. He had sucked in the first two bullets one to the stomach, the other to the upper chest. The third pelting his head, slamming it back forcefully, his neck bending from the pressure. The flask of holy water was next as Dean poured it over Brady's limp body. Sam started chanting feverishly in the background as his own 6'4" frame slid down the wall. Misty smoke filled the living area, clouding their sight, cool and breezy against their steamy skin. Sam kept chanting, abolishing the spirit, releasing his anger, accepting his next World.

"Bind it, Sam!"

The words couldn't come fast enough as Sam rushed them out. Amanda shrieked back, hiding in plain sight among the cold vapors. She was doing everything she could do to fight for the appalling fantastical form of her lover. She accepted the war of words with her own chants challenging Sam's, pitching Good against Evil.

Brady's figure agonizingly tossed and turned, rocking and rolling along the filthy floor. He puffed and panted, squirming under the tart and acidic forces that now succumbed him. Until he lay still, his body deteriating quickly before wondrous and sorrowful eyes.

When the spirit stopped writhing it no longer resembled a man. He was an it. It looked like a small boulder against the somber light as it, too, began to shrink. Dust whipped off the hump that was once its back and whisked through the room until all that remained was a mound of ash.

The mist and clouds lifted and the brothers were able to focus and see again. Amanda was long gone from the room, still inhabiting Emily's body. Miserable grief-stricken cries tumbled down and afflicted the small living area. Cackles of horrific laughter followed. They were insane sounds, crazed creations only manifested from deep pain. Even people could understand her suffering.

She was alone.

Sam made it to Omaha's body one second before Dean. Four hands laid upon what was left, turning the sludge over. Sam checked for a heartbeat, placing two fingers over the soft neck. They already knew, but they still checked. Saving was always the goal and the young man was hopeful, even when his brother was not. Miracles were still possible and Sam Winchester was still waiting to witness one.

But not tonight.

Dean took back the flashlight and reached into the curly haired kid's jacket and retrieved the extra flask of holy water and the silver blade. They lifted his body together and moved him delicately back into the salt ring. At least this time he wouldn't be stepping out of it again. Sam draped Omaha's floppy hands over his chest and crossed them gingerly.

Dean felt his head buzz then. Something inside started to splinter and rive. Always trying to forget, trying to hold on to reality better than he was. But that dark haired kid laying like that in the badly lit room with cold leaking from every corner brought on memories Dean would rather leave back in South Dakota. He pushed the lump in his throat down in one dry swallow and his eyes lifted across the dead kid's body to see his very much alive little brother.

Sam was pulling Omaha's jacket around his center. With much of his insides melted to mush the jacket was now about two sizes too big. Sam leaned his weight back onto the heels of his feet and bounced once, his own gaze meeting Dean's. Hollow and distant hazel's greeted the young man.

"What?"

Dean blinked and shook sense back into his head. "Nothing, I just…" He couldn't hide it.

Sam's brows furrowed over the bridge of his nose. He waited. Sometimes Dean needed a few seconds. "What?" he sugared his voice, tried to bait without being obvious, coax without pressuring.

Dean cleared his throat. Lack of sleep and emotion were catching up to the older man. Sam could see what he fought to conceal shining back to him. Omaha's body still and limp, gone from this Earth reminded him… It was the reason why he made the deal in the first place. It was Sam.

"I was…"

Laughter reverberated off the walls of the small house. Cascading down the staircase and through the hallways. Goose-pimpling warm flesh and diverting attention.

Dean reloaded the shotgun. Two cartridges left. Combined with the weapons they still had and the words they always carried they could still coax Amanda out. Still save Emily. And in turn convince her that her own life was still worth saving. Even with the hurt and the truth. If they could convince her maybe then they could convince themselves.

Sam stood in the center of the room trying to make sense of where the snickering was coming from. It rang loud and then louder and was often followed by a sob. She yelled threats and promises – "You'll pay" and "Never again". She howled both their names equally and together. She didn't play favorites. They'd both killed her love. Dynamic Duo that they were. She'd be sure to take them both out. But one had watch the other die. That was what would make it all so worth it for her.

They were already through the dining room and into the dumpster that was once a kitchen. Black and brown hiking boots crushed down on broken wood and laminate. Their flashlights played off shadows and objects transforming them into things that weren't real. The beams from the older hunter's light flashed brilliantly on the glass of the bizarre windows and Sam saw his reflection mirror in the background. It was only for a moment and his brother moved on, taking the shine with him, but Sam's image remained. There had been eyes at one time staring at him by those windows. Pale eyes with light hair and it had chased him and his partner up the stairs.

Sam stopped and turned around.

"Dean." He heard his brother's boots shuffle in the debris. "It's not… not the basement. She's upstairs."

Dean didn't ask his brother how he knew and Sam speculated that it was because he didn't want to know. Sam didn't offer up any explanations; he just kept moving. Dean followed closely behind, apprehensive as his kid brother lead the way up the creepy, steep steps. Sam took them sideways, his glock tight to his chest as the older hunter moved easily up the case with him. Neither spoke as they hit the hallway. Sam knew which way to turn and Dean would follow. Sam took the hard left his brother had taken earlier in the night, swiftly rotating his body into the parent's barren bedroom. Dean was at his back, both keeping their aim high as they circled the room. When she appeared, Dean would take the first shot. And the second. They both knew that going in.

But she didn't show.

Dean stopped spinning and he slowed, turning to face Sam, eyebrows raised, lips pursed. The younger brother had been wrong. Didn't read his natural instinct correct. Gotten signals crossed with memories and mucked it all up with emotions along the way.

Sam's broad shoulders shrugged up and down. He relaxed the gun slightly in his hand.

"Next."

The word sliced into the small bedroom sending shivers down the hunters' spines. Breaths hitched into frosty icicles, the cold wrapped around their bodies, the metal under fingertips felt like ice sculptures.

The air suddenly shifted and throbbed. Sam's bangs blew haphazardly off his forehead as a cool wind breezed by slamming the old oak door shut.

"Forever."

A/N: Thanks for reading and thanks for the reviews! Three more chapters and we'll be all wrapped up!