Born of Ill Intent.

Please read warnings from chapter one.

Note for those who are reading but not reviewing:

After lamenting that the review numbers were dropping, I received a PM this morning from a friend, advising me that I would get more reviews if I only posted one chapter every few days, or even only one a week.

That seems a bit unfair to me, and especially unfair on those readers that DO leave a review for each chapter.

Is that person saying that you people need to have a carrot dangled in front of you in order to procure more encouragement?

That you're all ungrateful donkeys and I'm being far too generous with you all by posting so frequently?

That I have to withhold the story just to give you all a big kick up the backside 'cos you're all spoilt children?

I sure hope not! After all, I don't ask for much, just a nice "thanks for sharing" or "well done" ain't gonna kill ya, right?

Now start reviewing or I might just seriously consider it! Let's see those review numbers go up…

Do as ya told, bitches! ;-)

Chapter Four.

Dean waited for the signal from William – a loud clearing of the throat (Very original, thought Dean. But I guess it's better than an owl hoot). - then swept aside the sheet covering his hiding place and rolled out from the shelf underneath Sam's gurney.

Sam was still sleeping the sleep of the heavily drugged and Dean was relieved to see that he was breathing steadily. Good. Poor kid hadn't been affected or jostled too much during their escape.

When he looked around, he realised they were in the staff parking lot and heading for a patient transport vehicle. An ambulance of sorts for escorting patients home in comfort and safety.

"Hey Sammy," he whispered, gently, and grasped a limp hand, running the pads of his fingers over Sam's bruised knuckles. "We're home free. Gonna be ok, now."

Bobby threw open the rear door of the ambulance. "Not yet. We still have to make it across the state line. Soon as the alarm's raised they'll be looking for ya."

"Don't worry," said William with grim determination. "I've bought you enough time so long as you just get going. Here," he passed over a paper bag that rattled slightly. "Sam's meds. If you need anything else give me a call soon as you're settled. And don't worry about the rest of the staff." He grinned and tapped his nose. "They owed me a few favours."

There was just one thing left to worry about.

"What about my car?" Dean asked, eyeing the ambulance with mistrust. The Impala was their home. Sam was safe in the Impala. An ambulance just couldn't take care of Sam like Dean's baby.

Bobby barely refrained from rolling his eyes. "Already being towed by Rufus – courtesy of Mr Johnny Walker," he added, rather sardonically. "I got her all wrapped up and hidden away inside a tarp. No one can use her to find you boys."

Dean nodded. That was good enough for him. Now he could fully concentrate on getting Sam well again, something Dean wasn't altogether confident he could achieve.

"It'll take time," William said, suddenly, his voice quiet. "You don't just get over something like that. It's never that simple." He slipped something inside Dean's jacket breast pocket and gave it a quick pat. "That's my number. I meant what I said. When things get tough, and they will, make sure you call me."

Dean stared at Sam's unmoving form.

When things get tough, the guy had said.

When...

And they will...

Bobby had slid behind the wheel, and waited with poorly concealed impatience while Dean, with William's help, loaded his brother in the back.

The doc spent a few minutes going over Sam's meds, antibiotics, wound treatment, and showed Dean how to change the oxygen tank, then they were all saying their goodbyes.

Dean settled in the back, his right hand firmly curled around Sam's uninjured one, the left idly stroking the kid's hair. Sam was still deep under and wouldn't be waking up for quite some time, so Dean felt safe from ridicule. Bobby didn't mention it, just started the engine and pulled away smoothly, a comfortable silence filling the time it took to leave the hospital grounds and make it over the state line.

Bobby insisted on driving; refused to let Dean behind the wheel. Given his exhausted state, both physically and mentally, that was probably for the best.

They only stopped for coffee, food and toilet breaks; even then they didn't stay for long and never spoke to anyone beyond what was deemed polite or strictly necessary. Bobby seemed driven to get as far away from the hospital as possible and never once looked back.

Dean might have raised an eyebrow at the older hunter's behaviour, but he was too busy keeping a close eye on Sam and administering his meds every so often.

It wasn't until a few days later that Dean realised they weren't heading back to Singer Salvage, as he'd first assumed. So preoccupied with keeping watch over his brother, he hadn't noticed the change in course. But as the sun slid across the sky, birds soaring in the high blue, he felt the ambulance begin to climb. The landscape gradually changed from scrub and grassland to thickly growing clumps of coniferous trees. Soon, the trees came together to form a vast forest, its thick canopy heavily laden with snow.

"Yo, Bobby," he called softly from his vigil by Sam's bed. "Where we headed?"

Bobby eyed him in the rear view mirror.

"Someplace where no one can just mosey on in and scare the living shit out of us," he said. "Sam needs peace and solitude with people he can trust. Ain't gonna get that at the yard, kid."

Dean thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. Sounded like a good plan to him.

A few hours later, he woke up to the jostling and jolting of the ambulance blundering over bumpy ground. Yawning and stretching, he sat up straight and peered out into the darkening world.

On the left, nestled in among a thick patch of pines, almost hidden from view, was a low slung wooden cabin, backed on to the foothills of a nearby mountain. It was only one story high, with a long sloping roof and two chimney stacks. But that wasn't the only thing that caught Dean's attention.

"Dude!" he exclaimed in delight, squashing his nose up against the window. "Is that a hot tub?"

The corner of Bobby's mouth curled in amusement. "Sure is. And there's a steam room and sauna round the back."

"Awesome," Dean breathed, already itching to sink into hot, soothing, bubbling water and cleanse away all his aches and pains. Then he glanced at Sam, feeling guilty as hell. It would be a while before the poor kid was in any state to enjoy the luxuries laid out here. Dean was determined to wait until then, if necessary.

"How'd you know about this place anyways?" asked Dean, as the ambulance eased to a halt outside the front entrance of the cabin. Like Bobby's house at the yard, it was raised up a little and had a veranda running all the way around, but with two sets of steps, one at each end of the building. A comfortable looking porch swing, large enough to accommodate around four people, stood next to the main entrance, and Dean figured Sam would be using that a lot once he was up and about.

"It's a kind of hunter's retreat. Belongs to a friend of your Daddy's. I believe you've met him, in fact," Bobby replied, grabbing a duffle bag from behind his seat. "You wait here with your brother."

Before Dean could protest, Bobby leapt from the vehicle and jogged over to the left hand steps. As the older hunter's foot clomped down on the veranda, the front door swung open and a familiar grinning face emerged.

"Oho, Singer, me old friend!" he called out in a heavy Irish accent, strode over and pulled a very surprised Bobby into what looked to be an almost painful bear hug.

"Y... you h... haven't changed a b... bit, Jenkins," Bobby choked out, arms pinned to his sides, hands flailing desperately. "More's the pity!"

Dean blinked. "Patch?"

As though he could hear him, even through the thick glass of the ambulance window, Patch Jenkins turned that big, friendly smile on Dean, vaulted over the railings with the grace of a gazelle, and landed on both feet beside the rear double doors.

Dean barely had time to take a breath before Patch had the doors open and was climbing up inside.

The burly Irishman, who reminded Dean so much of their father, swung his gaze to Sam, lying still and unconscious on the gurney. He studied the youngest Winchester for a moment, and then returned his attention to Dean, taking in his tired, stressed features and the dark circles under the eyes.

"Dean, my boy," Patch intoned softly, smile now tinged with worry and genuine kindness. "I hear young Sam has been through the wars again, and you both nearly bought it this time."

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah," he mumbled, feeling suddenly and ridiculously shy for some weird reason. He cleared his throat and kept on clinging to his little brother's hand, as though even under sedation Sam was offering support. "Yeah, it was pretty bad. Sam... he..." he shook his head and ground his teeth together.

Patch reached over and clamped a hand down heavily on Dean's shoulder.

"I know," he told him, quietly. "Bobby told me everything over the phone. But we'll talk about it later, after some good food and a warming single malt."

Dean gazed up at him, disconcerted by the warm brown eyes and dark features. It both saddened and encouraged him.

Patch Jenkins, owner of the Cranberry Hotel situated along the Pacific Coast Highway, just outside Los Angeles, had once provided the brothers with a place of peace and sanctuary while Sammy was recovering from a serious illness.

It had all been Dean's fault. Following a ghostly interaction that had seriously screwed with his head, Sam had shot Dean in the chest with rock salt, and then gone on to shoot him in cold blood with Dean's own gun. Fortunately it wasn't loaded, but Sam hadn't known that at the time.

The brothers' lives had fallen into discord after that, with Dean refusing to talk or forgive Sam for what he'd tried to do. He even refused to share a motel room with the kid. It led to a near tragedy one unexpectedly freezing cold night near Venice Beach, when Dean had unknowingly taken the last available room, leaving his little brother to damn near freeze to death in the Impala. Heavy rain had turned into a snow blizzard, virtually unheard of in LA. It nearly buried the car and it had taken a kettle of hot water to unfreeze the door locks before Dean could get to Sam in time.

Later on in hospital, after Sammy regained consciousness, Dean had further added to his crimes when their discussion turned into an argument, and he'd said some pretty terrible, if not shocking, things. Already still sick from hypothermia, and a subsequent bout of pneumonia, Sam's stress levels reached an all time high and pushed him over the edge into a heart attack.

Having nearly lost his kid brother several times in one week, Dean swore that Sam would get the proper rest he needed to recover from his big brother's selfish stupidity. He'd put in a call to Pastor Jim Murphy who made the arrangements for the boys to spend two weeks at the Cranberry Hotel.

It had been a relaxing time, with Sam recovering nicely, no hunting, no research and no phone calls. In fact, Dean had never spent so much time doing absolutely nothing without getting bored. There was TV, of course, but mostly the boys sat in the library-bar talking to Patch and eating his delicious food.

It was the most peaceful time the boys had ever spent together in their lives, and it didn't once occur to them to ask why they hadn't seen any other guests for the entire two weeks.

But they'd both left the place with the feeling that they were forgetting something. Something to do with their father, Sam had been sure. There was the sense that John Winchester had been there at some point, though Patch had laughed long and loud at the notion. Eventually, the brothers had managed to convince themselves that it was only because Patch bore a small resemblance to their dad, and left the subject well alone after that.

Neither of them had discussed it since, and had never once raised the matter with their father, right up to the day he died, something Sam and Dean had recently come to regret yet could never explain why.

But seeing Patch now, Dean found the resemblance to his father so strong it was hovering on the border between comforting and downright disturbing. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, too much grief, worry and fatigue…

"Let's get the boy inside," said Patch, gently, eyeing him with concern. "Ready?"

Swallowing hard, Dean let go of Sam's hand and nodded.

Ten minutes later, Sam was safely ensconced in a proper bed, wrapped in warm sheets and soft blankets. Dean finished tucking in the bed covers by Sam's feet, and glanced around.

The place was almost a mirror image of the Cranberry Hotel, but without the upper stories. Dark oak furnishings, heavy red drapes, a solid bar surrounded by fine wines and whisky, leather sofas placed either side of a large stone fireplace. There was a fire blazing away that let out a comforting light and warmth, and a grandfather clock quietly ticked away the seconds, minutes, and hours, making the place feel homely and peaceful.

Sam's bed was situated with the head board against the wall, opposite and a few meters away from the fire. When the kid woke up he'd be able to gaze into the flames and enjoy the heat.

Unlike the hotel, the whole cabin was open plan and seemed far taller on the inside than the outside would have you believe, with its high, sloping ceiling stretching away upwards. But it wasn't until Dean's narrowed gaze travelled upwards that he was truly able to grasp the height anomaly. The roof was startlingly far away.

Either I'm more tired than I thought, or this is some weird as shit magic, he thought, privately.

Just like the hotel, the cabin resembled a library, with leather bound books and journals crammed on floor to ceiling, dark oak shelves that lined the walls. A tall ladder on wheels resided at the far end, stretching away upwards, its top entrenched in shadows and barely visible to the naked eye.

At the other end of the cabin were four curtained off areas, with more thick, red drapes, acting as room dividers. Dean could just catch a glimpse inside one where the curtains hadn't been quite drawn properly, and noticed a double bed made up and ready for use.

On further examination, he also spotted similar curtains on either side of Sam's bed, pushed back against the wall at this time, but were obviously to provide the poor kid with at least some privacy when he needed it.

On the far side of the cabin, opposite the main entrance and adjacent to the fireplace, lay a small room. The door was wide open, revealing a basin, toilet and bathtub, with a shower attachment screwed to the wall at one end.

It was probably the only walled off section of the entire cabin, which Dean was most relieved about. There were some things that needed more privacy than a mere curtain could provide a man with.

Dean returned to his appraisal of the main cabin.

Right at the back, and partitioned off from the rest of the cabin by a surrounding breakfast bar, was a decent sized functional kitchen area, decked out in black granite worktops and oak cabinets, and a window over the farmhouse style sink revealing a view of the foothills beyond the cabin. Almost hidden by a black roller blind was a small exterior door with a brass handle that matched all the handles on the kitchen cabinets.

A large, old fashioned stove dominated this particular section, and a black iron pot sat on top, bubbling away to itself. Dean felt his stomach growl with hunger when the scent of cooking lamb and mint wafted up his nose.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had any food, but it must have been a while ago because his gut was plenty pissed at him about it.

He glanced at Sam again and leaned over to smooth a hand through the kid's hair.

"I'll be right back, ok? Just getting something to eat," he smiled when Sam, still out for the count, rolled his head slightly towards him. "Don't worry. I won't even be leaving the room, so no going anywhere without me, ya hear?"

"Here, homemade lambs stew. My Ma's recipe," Patch appeared beside Dean, literally from out of nowhere. He was holding out a steaming earthenware bowl, a matching plate with some delicious smelling freshly baked bread, and a large spoon. "You must be hungry."

Dean accepted the offering, gratefully, and thanked the guy before delving straight in.

"My God," he whispered after the first bite. "This is amazing!"

Patch grinned. "Plenty more where that comes from, so help yourself."

He headed on over to the kitchen and ladled out a bowl for his own consumption.

"Bobby can get his own when he's finished chopping wood," he explained, and moved across the room on silent feet to relax in front of the fireplace. Keeping watch over the brothers, perhaps, but also maintaining a respectful distance.

Dean nodded, mouth full of the meaty stew, and looked around as he chewed and swallowed. "This is quite some place you got here."

Patch grinned. "Yep, home sweet home. Always carry it with me," then he tilted his head to one side and regarded Dean for a moment. "Much like yourself, eh?"

Dean laughed, softly. "I guess so. Though, maybe 'home' carries us."

Patch nodded thoughtfully. "Hmm. Maybe."

A comfortable silence fell while both men ate their stew and Sam slept on.

"So, you own a chain or something?" asked Dean after he'd scraped his bowl clean, and felt tempted to lick up what was left.

Patch probably wouldn't have minded if he had, but Dean refrained. His momma had raised him with some manners, after all, and as his host had already pointed out, there was plenty more simmering away in the kitchen.

"Not exactly," said Patch, a tad mysteriously. He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Don't you recognise it?"

Dean paused on his way to the kitchen for a refill, and frowned in confusion. "Well, it's real similar to the Cranberry on the inside..."

"Ah yes," Patch responded. "And just like humans, outward appearances can always be deceptive, but you can't really change what's on the inside."

"What are you saying?" said Dean, eyes narrowing a little. Patch had been nothing short of a mystery to the brothers since the day they first met him. Maybe Dean would finally get some answers. Intrigued, instead of refilling his bowl, he left it on the breakfast bar and sat back by Sam's bed. "That this place is human?" He smirked at the thought.

But Patch was deadly serious when he replied:

"No. Not human, exactly. But she is alive, in the same way as Mother Nature is a living, breathing creature."

"I don't understand," said Dean, his head beginning to ache. "What's it got to do with the Cranberry Hotel in LA?"

"Simple," said Patch, eyes gleaming with friendly mischief. "This IS the Cranberry, my young friend. It's just no longer in LA."

Dean stared at him, thoroughly bewildered. "Huh?"

Patch chuckled loudly. "Just what I said. This is the Cranberry."

TBC.

What is Patch talking about eh? What's with his house?

And what has he got up his sleeve?

And how's he going to help Sam?

Haha!

Want to find out before Halloween?

You know what to do…

Cheers darlings!

Oh, and for the smug bastard, thick as shit, GUEST reviewer of Ice Cold in LA who started lecturing me on the usual climate in LA - with extreme smugness, I might add - YES, I HAVE been there before, several times over the years. I was merely messing about with a FICTIONAL STORY, where the weather had taken a surprising turn!

You do know what a fictional story is, yes?

Or are you just another smug wanker who loves to pick holes? Well, don't bother 'cos I deleted your stupid review.

Did I happen to mention how smug this person was? Well, just in case...

You smug tosser!

But to the rest of my loyal readers: love ya!

Love and hugs,

ST xxx