Disclaimer: I wish.

As always, thank you to all of you who have been lovely enough to review, favorite, follow, and READ! I hope your all enjoying the story!

On a totally unrelated side note (because I feel like bragging ha ha): two weekends ago Comic Con was held in my state, and I was lucky enough to get to meet Mark Sheppard, Jim Beaver, and Alaina Huffman, was well as sit in on a panel with them and Rick Worthy and Steven Williams. It was a little disconcerting to meet them - I was more than a little nervous- but I'm happy to say that they are literally the nicest people I've ever met. Jim Beaver is literally EXACTLY like Bobby, right down to his gruff tone and gentle mannerisms, and Alaina is, of course, beautiful and thank fully not a bitch like she is on the show. Mark was sweet and funny and just as snarky and witty as he is on television. During the panel, he was loud and fun and quite literally the life of the party. I think I'm hardcore crushing on him now ha ha. If you guys have never had the chance to get out to a convention and meet, I suggest you do! They were some of the most appreciative people I've ever met and you could tell that they were having just as good of a time interacting with their fans as we were with them! Ok, long author's note done! Enjoy the chapter!

Chapter Four: A Cinderella Story

They worked late into the night, the three of them huddled around the table, the wind screaming against the house and the snow battering the windowpanes. They took no notice of it. Dean manned the computer, Rufus took over the books of lore, and Bobby kept the beer flowing, and in what seemed like no time at all, they had a plan, some sort of rubric they could go off of, a way to develop a pattern.

"We're nowhere near close to finding this thing, boy," Bobby warned Dean. It was three a.m. and they were all drooping, all folding under the demands of a long day. "But we got something we can use. Between the three of us, we should be able to catch this damn thing, even with you and Sam locked up here. Don't get your hopes up yet."

"I'm not," Dean assured him, but it was hard to keep that edge out of his voice. Bobby cocked an eyebrow at him; he ignored it, tipped back his head, drained the rest of his beer. "I might head up, guys," he confessed. The room was slurring gently about him; whether it was from the alcohol or exhaustion, he wasn't sure.

Bobby studied him a moment, then nodded. "Good idea. It's late. We can pick this back up in the morning." He stood, started collecting beer cans and bottles, shot glasses sticky with the cloying smell of liquor. "You okay on my couch, Rufus?" He asked, and Rufus chuckled.

"Just like old times, aye, Bobby?" He asked, and Bobby's face turned somberly downwards.

"Not quite," he murmured. Dean helped him throw away the garbage, stacked their books on a shelf where Sam couldn't reach them, and stumbled up the stairs to the bedroom, where he closed the door gently behind him and adjusted the thermostat before kicking off his boots and jeans and crawling into bed. Sam was fast asleep, stretched out across the pillows with his hair strewn into his eyes and one corner of his blanket hooked between his teeth. Dean pulled it out, stuffed Sam's arms back under the blanket, and turned off the light.

Sam woke him up just a few hours later. The sun was just cracking over the edge of the frost tipped window pane and Sam was jumping back and forth, back and forth over his legs, his afghan tied over his head like a hood.

"Are you up, Dean?" He asked when Dean stirred and groaned. Dean blinked at him, scowled.

"Stop it. It's not even seven in the morning, Sam."

"Can we go see my car?" Sam asked hurridley. He stopped jumping but still stood on the end of the bed, holding tight to the foot board with two hands. He scowled at Dean. "You said we could when I was better."

"Don't start that again, okay?" Dean warned. He sat up, rubbed at his face with his hands. He was so tired. "Come here. Let me take your temperature."

Sam leaped across the bed, landed on his knees beside Dean, bounced. He scrambled into a sitting position. "Then we can see my car?" He asked again, and Dean ignored the question. The thermometer was next to the clock on the nightstand, where it had been for two days. He picked it up, shook it, popped it into Sam's mouth.

"Don't talk," he told his brother. Sam nodded his head, his hair flopping into his eyes. He sniffled, stuck his fingers through the slats in the headboard. When Dean pulled the thermometer out, he was immediately back into motion, slithering backwards off of the bed, skipping across the room.

"Now let's go outside," he said happily, and Dean stood, hauled him away from the door and back onto the bed.

"After," he said. He was already dreading the promise – it was cold outside- but he knew that keeping Sam cooped up in the house was just asking for another scene like last night, so he went on: "Let me shower, okay? And you need to get dressed. And we need to eat breakfast."

Sam flopped over backwards onto the bed, rolled himself into the quilt so only his head stuck out. "Can I have Lucky Charms?" he implored, and Dean sighed, pulled a pair of clean jeans from the basket of laundry that he somehow never seemed to get around to finishing.

"Yes," he said, and Sam crowed. He added: "Stay here, okay? Don't leave the room, all right? Wait for me to come get you."

"Okie dokie, Dean." Sam was wriggling in his self-imprisoned cocoon. Dean left the room, closing the door behind him. In the bathroom he showered and shaved, running the water as hot as he could and staying in as long as he dared with Sam loose in the other room. He hung his towel on the rack next to the shower and went back into the bedroom, where Sam was jumping on the bed, the mattress creaking. The pillows and blankets were on the floor; as soon as Dean opened the door, he dropped over the edge of the bed, started picking them up off the floor.

"It was a accident, Dean," he said happily. Dean sighed and helped him. "I didn't mean to," Sam went on. "They just fell. When it's summer out can we get a trampoline?"

"No," Dean said grimly. Come summer, Sam would be back to his normal, oversized annoying self, and this whole thing would be a nightmare faded into the patchwork of the back of Dean's mind. "Get dressed, Sam."

Sam took his time getting dressed, studying each of his four t-shirts before settling on one, insisting on buttoning his pants himself and putting on his own socks. "I'm not a baby, Dean," he said crossly when Dean tried to hurry things along. "I could do it myself." Even so, Dean ended up tying his sneakers, zippering his sweatshirt, and fixing his hood for him.

"Ready?" Dean asked, and Sam nodded, grinned, skipped ahead of him down the stairs and into the kitchen.

The kitchen was empty, left exactly as they had left it the night before: coffee mugs and shot glasses in the sink, computer on the counter, papers and books strewn about the table. The doors to the living room were slid shut, presumably for Rufus' privacy. Sam made a beeline for them and stuck his fingers between the cracks, grunting as he tried to pull it open.

"Why's Bobby got these closed?" He asked, and Dean swept him backwards, dropped him into a chair.

"Leave it be," he ordered. He went to the cabinet, found a clean bowl, Sam's box of Lucky Charms. There was less than a half-gallon of milk left in the fridge. "You want orange juice, Sam?"

"Can I have coffee?" Sam asked, and Dean shook his head, snorted.

"Yeah, right." He crossed to the table, thumped the bowl down in front of Sam, poured the cereal and milk into it. "Here. Eat up."

Sam picked up his spoon, plunged it into his bowl. "Where's Bobby?" He asked. Dean turned back to the counter, moved through the motions of filling the coffee maker, measuring out the grinds, turning it on-

Behind him, the door to the living room slid open and he turned in time to see Rufus enter. "You boys are up early," he said wryly, and Sam scowled at him.

"Why're you still here?" He demanded. Dean glared at him.

"Knock it off. He's helping me and Bobby."

"I can help." Sam's spoon clattered against the table. He looked at Rufus out of the corner of his eye, his lips puckered downwards in a frown. "I can help. He can go home."

"Eat your breakfast," Dean said with exasperation. Sam rolled his eyes, stuffed the spoon into his mouth. Milk dribbled down his chin.

Rufus took a mug from the cabinet, passed it to Dean. Dean took it with a nod. The coffee was almost done, the heady aroma filling the kitchen, warm against Dean's face. Behind him, at the table, Sam laid his spoon next to his bowl and began to pick at his cereal with his fingers. Dean bit back a shout. "Sam. Get your fingers out of your food."

"I gotta find t'stars, Dean." Sam dipped his fingers back into his bowl, his face screwed up in concentration. "I got t'save them for last."

"I don't care," Dean said harshly. "That's gross. You don't use your fingers to eat, you use your spoon. You know that."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "I'm not gross," he said petulantly. "You're gross."

Rufus coughed into his hand, covering his mouth to hide his smile. Dean ignored him. He snatched the carafe from the coffee machine and briefly considered drinking straight from it. He poured himself a cup and chugged it, black and bitter, grimacing a little at the taste. When he turned around again, Sam had his spoon in his hand but there was a row of soggy little marshmallow stars around his bowl. Dean sighed. "Sammy-"

"Why're you always so grumpy?" Sam asked sadly. He stirred his milk slowly with his spoon. "Why d'you always yell t'me?"

Why did he? Dean wasn't sure how he was supposed to answer that, how he was supposed to address the hurt in Sam's eyes. He was acutely aware of Rufus' presence, of how closely he was watching the two of them. He felt more than a little uncomfortable with the entire situation.

"Sammy," he said finally, "Just eat your breakfast, okay? And I'll take you to see your car."

The last thing he wanted to do was step out into that frozen wasteland that was Bobby's backyard, but he had a feeling that keeping Sam cooped up all day was a recipe for disaster. Sam was hard to handle when he was on his best behavior; dealing with Sam on his worst loomed in the back of Dean's mind like a nightmare straight from the pit of Hell itself.

xxxx

They went outside, where Sam insisted on clearing off the hood of his car with a broom. He wiped some snow off it while Dean watched, then ate some snow, then sat in it and cried because he was wet and cold. Dean ended up carrying him back inside and forcing him into a warm shower to drive away the cold. By the time he had hung Sam's wet clothes out, got Sam re-dressed, and finally got them both back downstairs, Bobby was up and sitting at the table with Rufus, notes and papers and books strewn about in front of them.

"Can you spare a few minutes?" Bobby asked, and Dean carted Sam into the living room, plopped him down on the couch, flicked on the television. He browsed until he found the girl with the pointy triangle hair and turned to Sam.

"Can you deal with this?" he asked, and Sam bounced on the couch cushion, sniffled at Dean.

"I'm not a baby, Dean," he said. Dean sighed.

"Don't change the channel."

"What if Dora gets over?"

Dean put the remote on top of the television, turned to leave the room. "Then come get me."

He left Sam bouncing softly on the couch, his eyes glued to the television, and came back into the kitchen. He took a seat next to Bobby, rubbed his hands wearily over his jaw. There was a pressure building behind his eyes, threatening to choke off his vision. He was vaguely aware of Bobby's probing gaze. "Is there anymore coffee?" he asked gruffly, and Bobby got up without a word, poured him a cup.

"Rufus thinks he can track the trickster," Bobby told him. Dean sipped the coffee, relished the bit of it on his tongue.

"With a spell?" he asked, and Rufus shook his head, tapped the laptop – Sam's laptop, Dean thought with a lurch- sitting on the edge of the table.

"It won't be easy, because the trail's about a year and a half old, but this trickster, he's got an MO, right? Feeding people their just desserts. All you gotta do is start with Broward County and feel your way out – look for the weird, you know? It'll take awhile, but we find me a lead and I can run it from there."

Dean put his coffee aside, slid the laptop across the table, thumbed it open. "Check police reports," he told Bobby. "We can move county by county till we find something." We've got to find something, he thought. In the living room, Sam bounced on the couch.

xxxx

It took them two and a half more days, but finally, they found something.

" 'High School Administrator Alleged of Misconduct Towards Students Finds Himself the Victim of Sexual Assault,'" Bobby read. He cocked an eyebrow at Dean, wearily watching the coffee machine hiss and stream out its fifth pot that day. "That sound like our guy?"

Dean shrugged. "Where's it from?" he asked. Above his head, Sam's feet pounded the floorboards. It was two in the afternoon and he was supposed to be napping. "Any suspects? What's the date on the article, Bobby?"

"March 18," Bobby answered. "The article's from the front page of the Sunset Gazette. Local paper published out of Ochlockonee, Florida."

"What the hell kind of name is that?" Dean asked. The coffee was done brewing; he tipped the carafe over, sloshed some of it into his cup. A door opened and closed upstairs. "Why the hell can't he just stay in bed?"

"Ochlockonee's a small town nearby Lake Jackson," Bobby went on. " 'Bout ten hours drive from Broward County. That's where the Mystery Spot was, right?"

"Yeah," Dean said distantly. His mind churned vehemently. The pounding on the floor upstairs was starting to drill a hole through his head. "What's it say about suspects?"

"There were no fingerprints or traces of DNA left at the scene of the crime." Bobby clicked on something on the computer, his eyes scrolling up and down the screen. "There had been several reports of harassment filed the previous week by students. Vice Principal Gregorf was suspended while the charges were being investigated. His son found him in their yard the morning of the 19th, tied ass naked to a series of stakes in the yard. There were signs of physical aggression around his-"

"I get it," Dean cut in, frowning. Upstairs, something thumped; he ground his teeth together and set his cup heavily on the counter. "See if you can dig up anything else on that guy," he told Bobby, and took the stairs two at a time.

In the bedroom, Sam had piled the pillows in a heap on the floor and was in the process of leaping off of the bed into them. Dean caught him mid-air and, ignoring the startled, wide eyed look on Sam's face, dropped him back onto the bed. "You're supposed to be napping, Sam," He ground out. Sam scuttled backwards, kicking the mattress with the heels of his feet. His socks weren't matching.

"I'm not tired," he told Dean. "I want to play trampoline."

"Tough." Dean picked up the pillows off of the floor, shook them off, and tossed them back at the head of the bed. "It's naptime. I need like one hour a day where you're not driving me crazy, man."

A look passed across Sam's face; Dean regretted the words as soon as he said them. "I don't make you crazy, Dean," he said sadly. Dean closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, counted down from ten to one. His head was ringing.

"Sam." He opened his eyes, sought out his brother's gaze. "Look, man, you've got to give me a break once in awhile, okay? I need some time alone sometimes, okay?"

Sam shrunk away from his gaze, buried his face in his blue blanket. "I give you time," he said tearily. "I give you the shower time, Dean."

Dean thought blandly that if he wasn't so goddamned tired , he would have laughed. He settled for chuckling weakly, for leaning down to place the pillows in an even line across the top of the bed, to pull Sam back underneath the blankets he had tucked him under an hour ago.

"One hour, Sam," he said, and Sam squirmed away from him, buried his head under his pillow. "Sleep. Okay?"

Sam mumbled something into the mattress that Dean couldn't make out, so he decided to just let it go. He left the room, closing the door firmly behind him, and ventured back downstairs, where Rufus was just stepping in the front door, carrying with him swirling eddies of snow and a paper bag, spotted with wet. In the kitchen, Bobby was fixing himself a cup of coffee.

"I don't know that this is our guy, Dean," he said abruptly, and Dean dropped into the chair, dragged the laptop closer. Bobby continued: "He's a fun guy, this Trickster, right? He likes to have fun with his victims. Remember, at the college, the slow dancing alien, the crocodile in the sewer-"

"What the hell are you talking about, slow dancing aliens?" Rufus interrupted incredibly from the door way. "Crocodile in the sewers?"

Bobby ignored him. "This seems- I don't know, too heavy handed for him. He likes to have his fun with people. Somehow I don't see him taking too much pleasure in staking sexual predators to their lawns and beating the shit out of them."

Dean clicked on another article, then another, skimmed the lines of blurry words. "No one was ever caught, Bobby," he said. "Gregorf could never ID anyone. Said his attacker wore a mask, kept to the shadows, and moved with a superhuman speed. That's got to be our guy."

"I don't know," Bobby said with a grimace. "I don't know, Dean. Something's not sitting right, here."

"Super human speed-"

"You know as well as I do that people see all sorts of things when they're frightened." Bobby put his cup of coffee down heavily on the counter. "Dean, the man was being investigated for molesting underage girls. There was bound to be a lot of people pissed at him, maybe even pissed enough to do something like this."

Dean almost let it slip past his lips, his plea of desperation. Please, just let this be a lead, Bobby. Let this be something. But he didn't. He sat with his eyes glued on the screen and felt the world simmer, slow around him.

"What do you want to do?" He said at last, and Rufus stuck his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans.

"What happened to ol' Gregorf, anyways?" He asked, and Dean maneuvered the mouse over another article.

"Convicted all of the charges. Got four years in the state pen down in Jacksonville."

Rufus sighed, angled his head towards Bobby. "It ain't much," he said, "But it's something. I can make Florida in four days, Jacksonville in five. Ain't gonna take much time at all."

Bobby's lips flattened. He looked at Dean. "What do you want to do, son?" He asked, and Dean pressed the palms of his hands against his thighs, rubbed the sweat from his fingers with the denim of his jeans.

"I want to save Sam," he said roughly, and Bobby nodded, his eyes hard. He turned to the fridge.

"I'll make you some sandwiches for the ride," he said to Rufus, but it was quiet. Dean didn't care.

xxxx

Sam was more than happy to wake up from his nap to find Rufus gone.

"Now I can have my couch back," He said happily. He sat in the armchair and watched as Bobby gathered the blankets and pillows that Rufus had been using from one end of the couch. Bobby grunted at him.

"It ain't your couch," he said roughly. Sam blinked at him.

"It's part mine," he said. He stuck a finger in his mouth. "Me'n Dean part live here."

Dean sighed and called from the kitchen. "Sam, leave Bobby alone." He heard Sam huff in exasperation, thump as he slid out of the chair. A minute later and Sam was at his elbow, tugging on his jeans. "What, Sam?"

"When can we go to our own home?" Sam asked innocently, and Dean froze. In the doorway to the living room, Bobby watched him over an armful of striped linen. Dean cleared his throat.

"Sam, we stay here, okay?"

"But where's our home, Dean?" Sam insisted. "Where's our own home?"

Good question, Dean thought angrily. He shook his leg loose of Sam's hold, stepped wide around his brother, grabbed the blankets from Bobby's arms before the older hunter could protest. "I'll start a load," he said shortly, and turned down the basement steps.

He took his time with the laundry, shaking out the sheets, fluffing the pillows, carefully pouring out the detergent until the granules lined up with the markings on the cup perfectly. Even after he was done, he took his time, re-arranging some of the tools on Bobby's work bench, double checking the locks on the bulkhead door, even peeking inside of the panic room. He needed a break, he thought, some kind of lull between Sam's ever constant demands and Sam's continuous flow of questions. He needed a break, or a vacation, or at the very least, some more whiskey…

Finally, he went back upstairs. Sam was nowhere to be seen; Bobby was scraping at a grease stain on the top of the stove with a spatula. He didn't look up as Dean re-entered the kitchen. "Where's Sam?" He asked, and Bobby grunted.

"Upstairs. Said he had to get something from your room." A bang shook the floor above their head. Bobby pulled a face, turned his back to Dean. His shoulders were oddly stiff, his movements measured. Dean knew Bobby like the back of his hand; he knew that stance now. He sighed.

"Bobby-"

"I don't think it's our guy, Dean," Bobby said abruptly. He scraped at the stove top, harder, angrier. "I know you want to think so, son, but we're just grasping at straws with this one. We don't have the time to be sending Rufus off on wild goose chases."

Dean clenched his teeth together. "Bobby, it's the first fucking lead we've had, okay? It needs to be checked out. We need to find something –"

"You don't always get what you need, boy," Bobby interrupted roughly. "You know that more than anyone."

He did. Dean swallowed against the lump in his throat, raked his hand through his hair. He was shaking, though he didn't know why, and suddenly weak. He wanted to sit down; he struggled to find words that could appease Bobby and satiate himself. "Bobby- it's all we've found."

"It's your call," Bobby said flatly. "It's your brother. You're the one manning this hunt. But we could have used Rufus here, doing some more research-"

"All we've done is research!" Dean spat out. "All we've done is sit on our asses and read those fucking books and look at those fucking websites and it's gotten us shit, Bobby, shit. In four days it'll be a fucking month and he's still- he's still-"

He's still gone.

He couldn't say the words. They stayed in his throat, hard and crumbling, jagged, sharp. In four days it would be one month since he woke up that dim morning in a motel room five states over with four year old Sam standing at his bedside, asking for a glass of milk, and they had squat.

Bobby was looking at him with that look Dean sometimes hated and sometimes craved, that somber, sort of pitying glow in his eyes. Dean hated it today. He looked away, out the window, where the snow was scampering across the tops of cars, misty and dancing in the wind.

"We need him out there," Dean said finally. "We need to move on this. Before it's too late."

"What do you mean, before it's too late?" Bobby asked, and Dean didn't answer. Upstairs, the bed was bouncing against the floor.

They were quiet for a minute, together. Then Bobby said, softly, "We can spare a few days for Rufus. If it checks out, that'll be one step. If it doesn't, we'll start over. We'll keep at it here." He cracked a smile, but it was weak and lacking. "You want dinner?"

Bobby thought everything could be cured with a bowl of chili and a handle of whiskey. Dean didn't feel much like eating, but he nodded anyways. Bobby watched him a moment longer, then reached over, clapped Dean's shoulder.

"I'm thinking waffles," he said, and Dean blinked. "You go find that kid something else to do besides jump all over my furniture. He breaks any of my beds and I'll break him. You tell him that."

Dean left the kitchen and went upstairs, where Sam was jumping on the bed with his hands clasped tight to the footboard and the pillows scattered across the floor. He grinned at Dean. "I'm just playin' trampoline, Dean," he said. Dean massaged the sides of his temples with his fingertips.

"Sam, man, you're making a mess."

Sam sank to a wobbly stop. He was sweating and red faced, his hair dribbling into his eyes and his chest moving raggedly. He used his hands to wipe the offending strands of hair back. "I could pick it up," he offered sincerely. He slithered off of the bed and bent to grab a pillow. Dean kneeled down to help him.

When they were done, Sam climbed back on the bed and Dean said, "Sammy- no more jumping on the beds, okay? Or the couch. You're going to break something."

Sam turned wide eyes on him. "Like my neck?" He whispered in a small voice, and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Like the bed, Sam. You're going to break the bed."

Sam frowned. "I'll jump small," he promised, and Dean settled Sam with what he hoped was a commanding expression.

"No more jumping," he said. "Bobby's orders. Capiche?"

"What's that?" Sam asked. He hooked a finger in his mouth, cocked his head. "Dean, when can we go to our own home?"

"This is our home," he said with conviction. He stood, held out a hand to Sam, who was frowning. "Come on. You want to help Bobby with dinner?" He asked, and Sam grudgingly slid his hand into his, shimmied forward, over the edge of the bed.

"Can we have Fluff?" He asked, and Dean bit back a groan. He didn't even know what Fluff was.

"We're having waffles," he told Sam, and Sam wheedled:

"Waffles with Fluff?"

Dean sighed.

xxxx

Bobby's waffle iron, Dean thought, probably hadn't been used since they were kids. It smoked a little when Bobby plugged it in, and smelled slightly like electrical burning when it heated up, but it made damn good chocolate chip waffles.

The chocolate chips were Sam's idea. Dean wasn't even sure why Bobby had them in his house, but when he left Sam in the kitchen with Bobby to use the bathroom and came back, Sam was sitting on the counter next to the iron, his socked heels drumming a beat into the cabinet door below him, his mouth smeared with dark, gooey chocolate, his cupped hands full of it. In the mixing bowl, Dean saw, was about two cups of chocolate chips. He groaned a little and Sam held out his over-brimming hands.

"Wan' some choc'lit, Dean?" He asked mushily, and Dean shook his head, eyed Bobby wryly.

"Chocolate chip waffles, man?" he asked, and Bobby shrugged nonchalantly.

"It's all you ever wanted for breakfast," he said, and Dean remembered suddenly: sitting on that same counter with Sam at his side, a pile of melting chocolate sticky in his hands, sweating in his mouth, the iron steaming beside him, the sun glowing that early morning golden through the window pane. The memory startled him, then soothed him. He reached around Bobby and snagged a pinch of chocolate from the rapidly shrinking pile in Sam's hands.

After dinner, Sam helped Bobby with the dishes while Dean sat on the couch and idley flipped through the television stations, scanning the national headlines for news. A few stories caught his eye – earthquake in Tulsa, a flood in Rio de Janiero, a school shooting in Western Massachusetts- and he had just settled on CNN for the night when Sam popped up at his elbow.

"You want'a watch Dora, Dean?" He still had chocolate speckled on his face. Dean reached over and rubbed at the flecks with his thumb before he realized what he was doing. Sam stood, long sufferingly, and let Dean wipe away the mess. "You want'a watch Dora, Dean? You could learn some Spanish."

"I already know some Spanish," Dean told him. Sam frowned.

"You want'a watch some anyways, Dean?"

"Dora's not on right now," Dean said. He hesitated, then reached for the remote, clicked the television off. "Besides- you watch the TV all day, Sam."

Sam shrugged one shoulder, twisted his fingers into the front of his bangs. "I'm just tryin' t'learn some Spanish, Dean," he said softly, and Dean rolled his eyes.

"You're eyes are going to rot out," he said, then watched Sam probe at his own eyelids, an alarmed expression spreading over his face. He chuckled and reached out, pulled Sammy's hands down. "I'm kidding, man. It's a joke."

Sam scowled. "It's not funny, Dean." He sighed and edged closer to Dean, put one small hand on his knee. "I just want'a watch TV, Dean."

There was a stack of paper waiting in the printer in Bobby's study, a half dozen newspaper articles surrounding the incarcerated school administrator in Jacksonville. Dean sighed. "Sammy- how about you read a book or something? You like to read."

Sam fixed Dean with a patiently unbelieving look. "I can't read yet, Dean. You didn't teach me."

Wrong Sam, Dean thought irritably to himself. He pushed up off the couch, nudged Sammy away with his knee. "Well, you can look at the pictures then. Come on." He stepped around his brother, towards the study, vaguely aware that Sam was following him sulkily. In the study, he stopped to pull the articles from the printer before moving to one of the shelves that lined the wall. Bobby had to have something suitable in here for kids-

"But Dean, the pictures don't talk to me," Sam said from behind him. Dean rolled his eyes, ran his fingers along the spines of the leather bound volumes. Titles leapt out at him: Symbolism in Norse Mythology, Biblical Plagues Today, Dream Scapes: Coming of Age in Southwestern Native American Culture, The Complete Collection of Grimm's Fairytales-

He snagged the last one, pulling it off the shelf and coughing on the dust that followed in its wake. The book was old and heavy, bound in maroon leather with gilded script on the front. He remembered seeing it once, was vaguely aware of how old it was. He didn't think Bobby would care- and fairytales were for kids, right?

He offered the book to Sam, who took with open disdain on his face. He sniffed. "Dean, it smells."

"You'll get used to it. Come on." Dean took the articles off of the desk where he'd laid them and shepherded Sam out of the study, into the living room and towards the couch. He settled back onto it, then took the book and waited patiently while Sam scrambled up next to him.

"After this I can watch some TV, Dean," Sam said authoritatively, and Dean cocked an eye brow at him.

"After this, its bed," he said, and Sam scowled at the book he balanced on his legs.

"That's a stupid rule," he muttered, but Dean didn't say anything. He waited till Sam had flipped open the book and was hungrily scouring the pages for pictures before turning to the articles at hand. He started on the first paragraph-

"Dean, what's this girl doin'?"

Dean blinked over at Sam, who was pressing a wet finger to a detailed, colorful rendition of a girl kneeling in a fireplace. Dean glanced at the title on the preceding page. "She's cleaning the fire place. That's- um, that's Cinderella."

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "That's a stupid name," he said. Dean snorted.

"You're telling me." He turned back to his article-

"How come we don't clean Bobby's fireplace like this?" Sam frowned thoughtfully at the picture. "It looks fun."

Dean had cleaned Bobby's fireplace a time or two, usually after a summoning or a ritual or a spell. "Believe me, it's not."

Sam sighed and turned the page. He pointed to the next picture- two girls dressed in stupidly garish dresses and a severe older woman towered over the young girl. Cinderella, Dean reminded himself. Sam squinted at him. "They don't clean the fireplace?"

"No. They make Cinderella do it."

"How come?"

"They just- they just do, Sam." He turned back to his article, but was startled by the press of Sam's hand on his leg. He looked down, found those dangerous drooping puppy dog eyes bleeding into him. He sighed. "What, Sam?"

"Can you read it to me, Dean?" Sam asked softly. "Like you used to?"

Dean jolted, sat upright. "You remember?" He asked Sam loudly, and Sam shrank back a little, a scowl fixed on his face.

"You always read t'me, Dean," he said thickly. "Cause I'm too little."

Dean grasped the end of the sinking line that was Sam's opening, clung to it for dear life. "Sam," he said cautiously, his voice low, "Sammy – don't you think it's weird that I'm, that I'm bigger?"

There was a pregnant pause. Dean held his breath; Sam looked at him like he was crazy. "You always were bigger than me, Dean," he said. He kicked his heels against the couch cushion. "I'm the little brother, remember?"

Dean's heart sank. "Yeah, Sammy," he said tonelessly. "I remember." How could he forget?

The book thumped his leg. "Just one story, Dean? Please?"

There was research to be done. He should call Rufus, check in. There was a hundred things that he should be doing-

He sighed and picked up the book. "One story, Sam," he said, and Sam grinned wildly, wiggled over and buried his head under Dean's arm.

"Okay, go," he ordered, and Dean flipped back to the first page, wrinkling his nose a little at the dust, and read:

"Once upon a time…"

For a few minutes, he felt vaguely stupid. It had been years since he had read to Sammy, since he had needed to. He'd taught Sam to read when he was five and the kid had just taken off with it, had run away into this world of make believe and heroes and characters beyond the scope of reality. It had been the one thing he had to offer his brother then, the only stability in their ever changing world, the center in their chaotic childhood. The stories never changed from state to state- they didn't move when they did, didn't morph into something that could be snatched away at a moment's notice. Dean had had so little to offer Sammy then; he gave him what he could and watched his brother blossom under it.

It took him a long moment to realize that he had stopped reading, to realize that he was sitting there on the couch with a book of fairy tales in his hands and his baby brother pressed into his lap and something wet and warm on his face. He shuddered under the memory-

"Dean?" Sam's voice was small, was soft. "Dean, you don't have to read to me anymore if you want."

It was so like Sam, Dean thought, to offer, to look out for everyone before himself. How had he forgotten that? He took a steadying breath, raked a hand through Sam's mop-top curls, pressed him against his chest. Sammy was alive, Sammy was safe- they were alive and together and that, that's what mattered, wasn't it?

"I'm okay, Sammy," he said gruffly, and continued to read. He read until Cinderella was done, until the hands on the clock crept past seven, then eight and nearly nine, through Little Red Riding Hood and Hansel and Gretel and Snow White. He read until his throat burned and Sam was a silent slip against his chest, sleeping with his fingers wormed through the hem of Dean's shirt and his mouth curving in a small smile. Then Dean closed the book and laid it next to him and held his brother and just sat.

It was after nine when Bobby came down from upstairs and regarded Dean with an expression he couldn't quite decipher. "Rufus called," he said. "Got held up with the snow leaving the state, but he's in Nebraska now. Says he should be able to make Iowa by morning."

Dean didn't say anything. He smoothed Sam's hair out of his eyes, watched his brother's eyelashes flutter. Bobby nodded at him. "You read those articles ?" He asked, and Dean cracked a grin at him, the first real grin he'd managed in weeks.

"Cinderella," he said, and Bobby chortled. "And Little Red Riding Hood, and Hansel and Gretel, and Snow White."

Bobby shook his head wryly. "Bet you haven't had to read to him in years," he said, and Dean shook his head. "Before you know it, he'll be reading to himself again." He added, softer, "There's nothing wrong with enjoying it a little, Dean."

A thousand retorts flared up inside of him- and died just as quickly on the end of his tongue. His mouth felt thick and clammy; he nodded once, stood, cradled Sammy to his chest. Sam turned over, muttered, wound his arms around Dean's neck. Dean thought his heart was going to splinter.

"I'm going to put him to bed," he told Bobby. "You want to put on some coffee?"

"Decaf or regular?" Bobby asked, and Dean shot back:

"Decaf's not coffee, Bobby. You know that."

Bobby chuckled again and the sound was good. Dean went up the stairs to the bedroom, where he laid Sammy on the bed and pulled his shoes and jeans off of him, unzipped his hoodie and bundled him underneath the blankets on his side of the bed. Sam's eyes fluttered open; he disentangled one arm, reached for Dean. Dean leaned into the touch. "Dean?"

"Go to sleep, Sammy."

He waited until Sam's eyes had fallen shut, until he was breathing softly and evenly, to turn off the light. He knew Bobby was downstairs waiting, but he couldn't move. He sat there for a long time and listened to the sky weeping outside and watched his brother sleep through aching, blurry eyes.

xxxx

Rufus called the next day from Iowa, and the day after that from Missouri. Dean hunted around a little, found a few more things to look into, a couple suspicious accidents in Atlanta, another in a small town in Alabama. It snowed again, two days after Rufus left, and Dean took Sam outside to shovel a path to the garage, to clear off Bobby's truck and hitch up the plow. Sam wasn't much help – he slipped on some ice and bumped his head, he lost his gloves in a snow drift, he locked them out of the garage- but Dean took him anyways. He wasn't such a bad kid, Dean thought, and besides- it was his job to look after Sammy, wasn't it? That didn't change just because so much else had.

They got the plow on and Bobby took half a day to plow his drive way and most of his yard. He had some cars coming in, he told Dean later, some old customers of his that needed some help negating the damage that the harsh winter had done to their vehicles. "I could always use an extra set of hands," Bobby said sideways to him, and Sam leapt up from his spot on the floor under the table, beaming.

"I can help, Uncle Bobby," he shouted eagerly, and Bobby chuckled softly, palmed the top of Sam's messy brown hair.

"Sure, kid," he said.

Dean waited until Bobby had gone back outside to put Sam down to nap on the living room couch. He tucked the blankets around Sam, put the remote out of Sam's reach and told his brother firmly: "Sleep, Sam. One hour."

"One hour," Sam echoed. He wiggled down further on the couch, pulled the blanket up to his nose. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Who's stuff is that in our closet?"

Dean froze in the doorway. "What stuff?"

"On the floor. In the bag." Sam blinked at him. "Are those your clothes? Can I wear the shirt with the dog, Dean?"

Dean's heart slammed against his ribcage. He ordered Sam, "That's none of your business, you hear me? Leave it alone."

Sam scowled. "It's just clothes and stuff, Dean."

Just clothes and stuff. Just all Dean had left of Sam, for now. He shook his head. "Let them alone, Sam."

Sam sighed, long and drawn out, but he rolled over and buried his face in the back of the couch. Dean set about loading the dishwasher, but kept an ear out for Sam. When he was sure he was asleep, he took the stairs two at a time to the bedroom, where he wrestled Sam's duffel out of the mess of the floor of the closet and jammed it onto the shelf above his head, his heart in his throat. He wasn't sure why, but it felt wrong to have Sammy poking at this, asking questions, wondering. Sam couldn't know; he wouldn't understand. More than that, Dean didn't want Sammy to know. He didn't want to face this with his brother, acknowledge that Sam's past and Sammy's future might be two completely separate items. It was two days shy of one month and Dean was beginning to be afraid that maybe- maybe – there was no way out of this for any of them.