You're all FAR too smart for me! lol – I've already wondered how some of you were managing to "read ahead," and it becomes more and more apparent to me just how sharp, how observant our fandom is, you in particular. As we know, the Devil is in the details! Cookies and kudos to you all.

There's a little somethin'-somethin' for Harrigan in this chapter, and Maz? Your 'thing' was already here way before you saw Chapter Six, but now it belongs to you. I hope you'll still approve of how it's handled. Z, Erin go bragh Your peeps are my peeps, too.

Enjoy (I hope)! Thanks very much for reading!

Rush

Chapter Seven

Grace watched quietly from the loveseat as Dean prowled the empty museum, EMF meter in his hand and darkness in his eyes.

The detector was silent, needle not so much as quivering.

"Damn it!" he said, voice tight with angry frustration. "Grace, I know there are things in this town—I know it! I've seen 'em, heard 'em, felt 'em—smelled 'em, even—but I can't get a bead on any of 'em! Why is that?"

From the blank look on her face, the curator had nothing to offer, and Dean raised his arms from his sides with a wide shrug, shaking his head.

"I don't get it," he muttered to the air around him. "I just don't effin' get it."

Grace stood, crossing to him almost gingerly and putting a tentative hand on his sleeve.

"Junjei? I'm guessing that you're not really with the Weather Service, are you?"

It was obvious from her tone that she already knew the answer, but the attempt at humor surprised him a little, under the circumstances. Dean blinked, huffing a laugh before snapping off the EMF meter and stuffing it back into his pocket.

"You think maybe global warming has something to do with why spooks aren't actin' the way they should?" he joked back, then shrugged again, feeling lame. "I just know some things about some things, is all, but this? This doesn't make sense."

His ringtone blared suddenly, the sound definitely out of place inside the quiet museum of century-old artifacts, and Dean quickly fished the cell from the depths of his jacket, glancing briefly at the display.

Not Sammy, and he was going to have to recharge soon...

"Steve! What's up?"

"Sam went off with the state mine inspector," Steve Hartson's voice came through querulously.

"Yeah, he's takin' care of business. Nothing happened today, right?" Dean watched his words; although Grace had courteously moved away, back to the little counter area where she did her work, there was no way she couldn't hear every word of the conversation.

"No, nothing really," Steve answered, "but Sam said I shouldn't go back down until I get clearance from the two of you."

"Well, Sam knows what he's talkin' about, so you just stay up top, 'less one of us is with you. He's already taken steps to, uh, secure that first location."

Tucking the phone in closer, Dean hobbled to the rear of the museum and began rifling through the stack of papers he'd abandoned on the roll-top desk.

"Listen," he said, quickly scanning the item he'd been looking for, "there was an explosion way back, just a couple of years after the mine opened, and three miners got snuffed. Newspaper says the bodies were just left down in the auxiliary shaft."

"No, no, that's not true," Steve told him matter-of-factly. "You're talking about those three Chinese muckers, right? Guys who shoveled ore into the carts?"

"Uh, says here 'celestials.'"

"Yeah, Chinese. Hey, they knew those guys were dead, and there was no way to get them out, besides, but nobody forgot about them. I remember my grandfather telling how they found what was left of them in the 1920s, sometime, when the shaft got reopened."

"You sure?"

"Hell yes, I'm sure. They're buried out in the new cemetery, now. Bones are all mixed up because they couldn't tell who was who, and nobody knew their names, anyway, but there's even a little marker. Something about 'our deepest respects,' I think."

Dean chewed on his lip for a second, then nodded against the phone.

"Yeah, all right. Hey, Steve? Tell me somethin'—just how far down is the Forty-Eight?"

At the other end, Steve paused for just a moment, then said slowly, "How far down? The tunnel to reach it is forty-eight hundred feet long, Dean. That's why it's called that."

"Oh. So, just about a mile, then. Huh."

"Why?"

"Nothin'. Just curious, is all. And except for this sonofabitch that attacked you and my brother, there's nothin' else down there, right?"

"No, not that I know of."

"Nothin' buried?"

"Just minerals. You know, granite and quartz and gold."

"Yeah, okay then." Dean raised a hand to the back of his neck, ruffling the hair at his nape thoughtfully. "All right, then. You just stay outta there until we tell you it's okay, okay?"

There was no doubt that the mine-owner was relieved by the direction. "I can do that," he said gratefully, and the call was over.

Dean put the cell away and sank tiredly into the roll-away chair, wincing as he massaged the area around his throbbing knee.

"Dean? Is everything all right?" Grace asked, her eyes worried as she came hesitantly toward him.

It was hard to dredge up the energy to respond, and Dean was pretty sure she wouldn't buy his fake smile this time, anyway.

"Just wish I had some answers," he told her quietly. "All I've got is more questions."

-:- -:- -:-

After ice cream, Sam and Erica had climbed into the state-owned Yukon, heading out for Old Stagecoach Road and the string of small mines on Erica's inspection list.

"They're all abandoned," she called now to Sam over the rush of air through the open windows. "Still, we have to check them out every year, make sure everything's the way it should be."

"What do you look for?" Sam shouted back.

"Any signs that someone's working the dig," she replied, rolling her window up halfway so they didn't have to speak so loudly. "Safety issues. Current conditions and configurations. Re-vegetation. Basic stuff like that. There are a couple that are pretty close to Rattlesnake, so we can at least take care of those two before I head back to Sacramento." She smiled at him across the wide front seat. "I'm glad you're coming along, Sam."

-:- -:- -:-

The Collier Mine was little more than a coyote hole, a shallow excavation dug into the side of a small rise a quarter-mile or so off the road.

They had already chatted desultorily for hours, but now Sam steered the conversation toward business. His business.

"Hey, Erica, back to the North Cedar for a second—Steve said there were a couple dozen miners who died there over the years, but I thought hard-rock mines didn't have cave-ins. What do you suppose happened to them?"

She barely gave it a moment's thought, busy making notes about the Collier shaft. "You're right that hard-rock cave-ins are rare below a hundred and fifty feet, but they do happen. Tons of rock moving out of there 24/7, there's always the possibility of collapse, somewhere, or someone getting crushed. A pocket of gas explodes, or a charge goes off early; you could lose a number of people that way. Longer-term deaths from silicosis, maybe, but those probably aren't the ones Steve's told you about."

"No, I was thinking more along the lines of sudden death."

She handed him one end of a tape-measure, then stepped backward, reeling out the tape as she went.

"Wow, you really are in the security business, aren't you?" she called. "I've been kind of wondering about the bruises, and that cut on your lip."

Truth was, he'd forgotten all about them until she reminded him, and Sam found himself suddenly a little more self-conscious than he'd been in a while.

"Uh…no, these I got from…um. They're just…." He heaved a quick sigh, shrugging. "Yeah, okay, you caught me. I got beat up on a job. Three guys, dark alley, brass knuckles; I got these, they'll get seven to ten down at Folsom. I could tell you more, but then—you know."

"Yeah, then you'd have to kill me," Erica laughed, finishing the joke for him. "Fine, don't tell me. Anyway, sudden deaths in a mine? You're probably talking about normal things like heart attacks or aneurysms, plus the other stuff I mentioned. Other kinds of accidents? Pick-axe or hammer hits the wrong thing, or a guy gets his foot crushed by an ore-skip, dies of blood-loss or shock before they can get him out. Of course, there's always murder. Steve doesn't have records?"

"No, I don't think so. But, wait—murder?"

"Thirty feet," she commented, then made her way back to him, penciling the measurement into her logbook quickly. "Oh, you bet. Especially in the early days, when you'd get different kinds of crews down in a mine at the same time. Lots of racial tension, sometimes; like, between the Irish and the Chinese. Or, if somebody got caught high-grading—stealing ore—and didn't want to get ratted out? Kill the witness before he could turn you in, right? Sawyer's Jackass Mine's next…it's within walking distance, if you're game."

"Sure. You know, all this oversight by the state—would your office have records about the deaths at the North Cedar?"

"I don't know, but I can check."

They climbed a steep rise away from the Collier entrance, past manzanita and toyon bushes and scattered granite boulders, out from the shade of the pines into bright sunlight. The dead pine-straw underfoot reflected the heat, and Sam quickly doffed his long-sleeve shirt, tying the arms around his waist.

"Be careful—poison oak," Erica warned, pointing, and he grinned a little. On a really bad day back when he'd been an annoying 15-year-old, Dean had steered him right into a patch of the stuff. Intentionally. Poison oak wasn't particularly high on the Winchesters' list of dangerous things, but the aftermath? Not pretty.

Sawyer's Jackass Mine wasn't much more than a hole in the ground with a few pollen-dusted boards across it and a small cairn of rocks to one side. It was out in the open, the sun blazing directly down on it, and Sam and Erica were both sweating when they reached it.

"We have to…watch out for…mines like these," she panted, running a hand across her forehead to wipe it dry. "If they're not covered…people fall right in. Just happened…to a guy not…ten miles from here. He was lucky…someone found him."

Sam watched her pull out her logbook again and make a few notations—something about a six-month recheck of the boards covering the vertical shaft. A bead of perspiration trickled down the slope of her nose, and she batted at it in irritation, then turned the page and made more notes.

"You really like your job, don't you?" he asked, smiling. "I can tell."

The look she gave him was vaguely puzzled.

"Of course. Don't you like yours?"

He started to laugh sardonically, but something made him stop. It was a complex question, and one he didn't ask himself. Not anymore, not after he'd lost so much to the life he led—Jess, his dad, his future. Dean, almost, more times than Sam cared to think about. Never knew his mother, and was terrified that one day he would turn into the very kind of thing that had killed her. How could he possibly like a job like that?

But he and his brother did help people; he believed that for certain. Even in his darkest hours—and there were plenty of them—Sam had faith that what they were doing was for the greater good, whatever their personal motives, whatever their personal losses.

Plus, there was Dean. Always and interminably, there was major pain-in-the-ass Dean, whom Sam admired and loved more than life itself, and who amply returned the sentiment. Even if it was sometimes with a rabbit-punch to the jaw.

There'd been a number of sea-changes in the year and a half they had been back together, shocks and revelations that neither one of them fully understood, and there was no telling what the road might bring them next. Where it would take them. Still, they were together, and that went a long way toward making up for all the bad.

So how he could not like their job?

"Yeah," Sam said, nodding at last, a half-smile still tugging at his mouth. "Yeah, my job is…just great. Wouldn't trade it for the world."

Erica stowed the logbook in her bag and wiped her hands on the seat of her khakis, her eye caught by something at the mine entrance.

"You know," she said, moving toward it, "I'm still not really even sure what it is you—"

"Erica!"

There was no coiling, no tell-tale rattle as the snake struck without warning, lashing out with dripping fangs from behind the cairn of rocks.

In one second, Sam had flung Erica aside and drawn the gun from the small of his back, firing once, twice, three times until the diamondback was a headless, blasted mass of still-writhing flesh.

Sam huffed a deep breath, then turned to where Erica lay sprawled in the dry weeds.

"Hey!" He hurried to her side, helped her stand. "You okay?"

She laughed shakily. "Yeah—and that's a part of the job I don't like! Thank you!"

"Did it get you? Let me see."

Erica had a firm grip on his arms, and he could feel her trembling. "My boot," she said. "It's okay; he didn't get through. God, that was scary!"

She leaned against him as the adrenaline flushed from their bodies, and Sam put his arms loosely around her, holding her lightly to steady her.

Tentatively, Erica embraced him in return, her arms around his waist, tightening, and for a long moment they just stood there, Sam suddenly conscious that he still had the gun in his hand, more conscious of the way her body fit against his.

He shifted uncomfortably, finding other things to focus on—the bright blue flash of a Steller's jay in the trees across the meadow, the snarl of a chainsaw away to the west, the hint of gunpowder hanging in the still, hot air—but ultimately there was only Erica.

He knew she could feel his reaction, but for now he really didn't care. He inhaled deeply and pulled her to him, bending down to her, liking the way she felt in his arms, liking her smell, liking her taste. They kissed tenderly for a long moment, until finally Erica broke away, smiling, pink-cheeked and awkward.

"It's about forty minutes to my place," she said hesitantly. "There's beef stew in the crock-pot. Would you like to come?"

Sam decided he would.

-:- -:- -:-

Grace had taken Dean home for dinner, but they'd skipped ahead to dessert first.

Oh, she felt good, sliding under his hands. The silk of her clothing, of her hair, of her skin….

Part of him was thinking about the brace, and that was a good thing, because it gave Dean something to focus on besides just how much he wanted to fuck her. He couldn't leave the brace locked straight, that was for damn sure, but how the hell was he going to manage—

Grace broke free for just a moment, running her hand down the side of his face, planting the other against his chest, her eyes just a little dazed.

"Dean, wait," she murmured against his lips, breathing hard. "Please. Can we slow down just a little?"

Dean wasn't sure she meant it, since she was the one who'd gotten things started. She was trembling, and he was willing to bet good money she was wet and ready for him. But a break would give him a little longer to work out the logistics. He disentangled one hand from her hair, drew the other one out from under her blouse and down her body, then surreptitiously loosened the bindings at his knee.

"Sure thing, sweetheart," he replied gallantly. "I don't want to rush you."

-:- -:- -:-

They were on the couch, Erica straddling his hips, their mouths feeding hungrily on one another. Erica arched away, breaking their kiss just long enough to draw her shirt off over her head, one hand behind her to unhook her bra and wriggle out of it, the other already scrabbling at Sam's t-shirt.

Sam gulped air, his heart pounding, blood rushing into all sorts of interesting places as he shucked off his shirt and pulled her to him, his hands in her hair, fingers biting into her arms, her breasts. He wanted her, wanted to take her hard and fast, lose himself inside her without thinking.

It felt right, to be here with her, to have her in his arms, to make love to her until they were both spent and gasping like beached dolphins. It was right, he thought—and thought again, suddenly pushing her away, turning his face to the ceiling, his breath shuddering out of him.

"Sam? Is something wrong? Your arm--"

He tried to laugh at how ridiculous it was, to be right here on the brink with this smart, pretty girl he liked, and yet…

Sam sucked in another breath, pulling it deep into his lungs, shaking his head and trying to understand exactly what it was he was feeling.

"No, Erica—no. Nothing's wrong. It's just—I was just thinking…"

And there it was.

There would come a time soon when he could let it all go, all the hopes and dreams he'd had with Jess, but right now he simply wasn't ready. Not just yet.

"I'm sorry," Sam said honestly, feeling the rush of blood into his cheeks this time. "I really am sorry. But this is moving a little fast."

-:- -:- -:-

"Well, now, Leland, lad!" The voice boomed from nowhere and everywhere, and for a moment, Steve Hartson could see his breath before him, even though he'd just turned out the light in the mine office, ready to call it a night. Then something was beside him, something glowing blue and menacing, its hands ice cold on his throat as the voice came again in whispered threat. "Hurryin' away when I've just got here. Tell me, boyo—what's the rush?"

Steve began to scream.

-:- -:- -:-

When his cell phone rang nearly an hour later, Sam was almost at the Rattlesnake turnoff, the Impala taking the long rise into the foothills easily over a highway silvered with moonlight.

"Put it back in your pants and get up here, now," his brother's voice came through gruffly. "Meet me at the mine."

"Why? What's going on?"

"Somethin' went after Steve, and the mine office burned down."

Sam blinked in surprise. "I'll be there in ten," he said. "Is Steve okay?"

"Scared and shook up is all," Dean replied. "There's fire trucks all over the place, but they're startin' to clear ou—hey. You were already on your way? Dude, it's barely time for supper. What happened with the inspector?"

Sam thumped a thumb against the steering wheel with a smile. "That's none of your business," he said, knowing the non-answer would never satisfy his brother.

In fact, he'd actually left things with Erica just fine; and he felt more fine than he had in a long while. There were just some things that Dean didn't need to know.

"Dude." Sam could hear the reproach in Dean's voice. "If you were ever gonna get lucky…."

"I am lucky," he interrupted without rancor, wondering briefly if there were any way Dean could ever understand. "I'll see you in a few."

-:- -:- -:-

There was a single pumper-truck remaining in the mine's yard, several volunteer fire-fighters still poking among the embers and sodden ashes of what was left of the office building, others busy stowing the hose and other gear.

Sam found his brother standing with Steve and a girl near the North Cedar headframe. The mine-owner was enveloped in an old woolen blanket, one hand wrapped tightly around a half-finished Styrofoam cup of what Sam assumed was coffee, or maybe whiskey.

The Chinese girl—the Chinese girl!—had changed out of the pink-and-black silk outfit he'd first seen her in, and was now wearing jeans, a tee, and a button-down shirt that was way too big on her.

Sam looked closer. It was hard to tell in the dark, with the light bar from the fire-truck still splashing red across the mine buildings and surrounding trees, but he thought the shirt was Dean's.

"Hey," he said as he joined them, checking in with his brother by a quick meeting of eyes. All right, then. Both Winchesters strong and standing. "Steve, you okay?"

Steve looked stunned, his mouth working once or twice soundlessly, and the girl put a comforting arm around him.

"He's fine," she said encouragingly. "Aren't you, Steve?"

Sam glanced again at his brother, who nodded slightly.

"He's doin' just great," Dean said. "Hey, Grace, this is my brother, Sam. Sam, this is Grace Chin."

"Hey," Sam greeted her with a dip of his head. "Grace, from the museum? The Markhams mentioned you. Said you know all there is to know about Rattlesnake's past."

"Hi, Sam," she replied warmly. "I wish we'd been able to meet under happier circumstances."

"Yeah, well, we can all have tea and crumpets together tomorrow and really get to know one another," Dean said brusquely, "but for now, Grace needs to get home, and Sammy and I need to talk to Steve."

Grace nodded, hugging Steve close for just a moment, then patting him gently on the shoulder. "Take care, Steve. If you need anything, please don't hesitate to call me."

To Sam's astonishment, when she moved to Dean's side, she threaded her arm in his.

"See me to my car, Junjei?" she asked quietly.

Dean cleared his throat, shooting Sam a glance before accompanying her to a light-colored Toyota RAV 4 several yards away and opening the door for her.

"You go straight home," Dean told her, his voice low. Sam heard anyhow, and quirked an eyebrow as they shared a quick kiss. Then Dean shut Grace inside the car, stepping back as she started the engine and drove carefully past the fire-truck and out of the mine yard.

Sam blinked.

Oh.

"What are you lookin' at?" Dean growled, blustering just a little as he rejoined them, and Sam grinned.

Then frowned, because there was no way Dean could have—well, not in a brace, anyway, unless he—

Sam rolled his eyes. "Fuck, Dean. You didn't!"

"No, Sam," his brother barked back, not an ounce of denial in the response. "You didn't. Probably the best chance you've had in God knows how long, and you couldn't bring it home—"

"Guys?" Steve interjected quietly. "Something tried to kill me tonight. Could somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?"

-:- -:- -:-

They brought the mine-owner back to the hotel, sat him down in the parlor and jimmied open the Markhams' liquor cabinet. Then they gave him a stiff shot of island Scotch to warm him up and stave off shock.

There wasn't much Steve could tell them, given what little he remembered: a large miasma of blue cloud, a man's threatening voice, icy hands on his throat. Then, somehow, a broken lamp sparking across the rug, and tendrils of hungry flame eating at papers and wood everywhere.

"It was the same spirit—big guy, miner's clothes, right? You've got to remember something else, Steve," Sam prodded. "Something special about what he was wearing. Something he did, something he said."

Dean was kneading his leg gingerly, trying to ease the ache out of it without much success. "You said you heard his voice. What did it sound like? Sammy, this guy last night say anything besides 'Hartson Mine' when he attacked you?"

Sam was about to say no when Steve suddenly sat upright, looking at them wide-eyed.

"Accent!" he blurted. "He had an English accent!"

The brothers exchanged glances, Sam nodding now.

"That would make sense," he said. "After the first years, most of the miners here were from Cornwall. Could be one of them who's haunting the North Cedar."

Steve bobbed his head vigorously. "I'm sure it was Cornish, because he even said something kind of English-sounding."

Dean snorted. "What, like 'God save the Queen'? 'Manchester United'? What?"

"No, no—something like…" The mine-owner paused, frowning in concentration, and Sam shot Dean another look.

"Dean, we've figured all along it was one of the miners who died at the North Cedar who's causing the trouble," Sam said quietly. "Without a name, or some more information, we've still got nothing to go on. Did you find anything at the museum today? Besides Grace, I mean."

Dean twitched an eyebrow. "Yeah, I found out that museums can be dangerous places, Sam, depending on who's in 'em," he replied snidely, and Sam reared back just a little.

"What are you talking ab—"

Steve had a tight grip on his glass of whiskey, his face screwed with effort as he dredged up the memory. "'Leland,'" he muttered in an odd tone, apparently an attempt to recreate the accent he'd heard. Both brothers leaned forward with interest. "'Leland Hartson, you owe me, and isn't that half grand?'"

He looked up in triumph. "Yeah! 'Isn't that half grand'! That's an English expression, right?"

Sam was disappointed at the revelation, getting nothing from it, but he saw Dean's expression grow suddenly thoughtful, his lips pursing, brows drawing close.

"Dean?"

His brother flashed a sudden, amiable grin. "Steve, you can't do accents for shit. Think a second—it was Irish, not English, wasn't it?"

Steve blinked, reflecting, then nodded slowly. "Yeah—yeah, Dean, I think you're right. It was Irish. How'd you know that?"

The hunter's grin turned smug as he flicked his eyes at his little brother. "'Cause last night this same sonofabitch told you the North Cedar was rightfully his mine, and tonight he let you know he thinks your great-granddaddy should've paid him more than five hundred dollars for it."

Sam's agile mind quickly put the pieces together. "Five hundred dollars is half a grand," he said, and Dean shot him with his finger.

"Yahtzee," he said.

"William Clancy," Steve breathed, staring briefly into his whiskey glass, then from Dean to Sam and back again with bleary eyes. "It's Bull Clancy, right?"

"First time," Dean affirmed, his grin fading when he caught sight of Sam's face and the deepening frown on it.

"But why?" the younger man said. "Dean, we saw Clancy's monument out at the Founders Cemetery. Guy didn't die until 1883, and he sure as hell wasn't penniless—headstone said he made a fortune off the Inishmurray mine. Why would he be after Steve down inside the North Cedar?"

"Sam, do you memorize things just to piss me off?" Dean asked with a growl. "I don't know, all right? Maybe he's just a cranky old bastard."

"It just doesn't add up."

Steve took another hit off his glass of whiskey while Dean watched every one of the wheels in his little brother's head whir into life, turning briskly while the line between his eyebrows got even deeper.

Finally, Sam heaved a sigh, vexed.

"I don't know, man. So what if Clancy wasn't happy with what he got paid for the mine? That doesn't explain why he's so angry with Steve, or why he's haunting the Forty-Eight. He didn't die there, nobody murdered him, and where's he been all this time, anyway? There's got to be something more we don't know."

"You think? C'mon, Sammy—what does it matter?"

"It matters because I want to know, Dean. If Clancy had such a beef with the Hartson family, shouldn't he have haunted Leland? I mean, shouldn't Steve's whole family have had grief from this guy? Seriously, Steve—you've never heard stories about the ghost of Bull Clancy, right? Right. See? It doesn't make sense."

Steve put his glass down on the coffee table with a clunk and cleared his throat.

"Well…" he began, and the Winchesters exchanged a meaningful glance before giving Steve their full attention.

"Yes?" Dean prompted, just a hint of ice in his voice.

Steve looked everywhere but at them. "You know how I said I don't go down into the Forty-Eight any more?"

"You did," Sam said, getting it immediately. "You did go down there, until something happened to scare you away. What was it?"

Steve made a little face, trying to figure out where to begin. "It took me a while to come back to Rattlesnake after my dad died. I mean, what was I going to do with an abandoned gold mine, right? But then I started thinking about tourism—about family-friendly adventure travel, you know—and how perfect the whole friggin' Mother Lode is for that. I could make the mine a destination, and Rattlesnake could come back to life."

Swiping a hand across his mouth, Dean shot Sam another glare. "Any time this century, Steve," he growled. "Could you just cut to the chase?"

"What happened in the Forty-Eight?" Sam prodded more gently, although he was uncertain Steve was paying attention to anything more than his own story.

"I knew the lower drifts had been reclaimed by ground water, but everything above the Forty-Eight was dry, and that was perfect. Both adventure-wise and historically, I mean--the Forty-Eight's where Leland found the biggest, richest lode in practically the entire state, and once you've seen one drift, you've seen them all. So I didn't need to worry about people going any deeper than that."

Dean fidgeted in his chair, opening his mouth to speak but subsiding impatiently when Sam cut him off without a word. Let Steve get it out at his own pace, his brother's admonishing glance said clearly, and although Dean rolled his eyes in response, he settled back with a huff, fingers toying absently with the Velcro strap across his thigh.

"So once I decided, I went down in," the mine-owner continued slowly, his voice growing bleaker with every word. "First time I'd been down there since high school, I think. I had a big flashlight and a bottle of wine with me, and when I got down to the Forty-Eight, I toasted old Leland. You know, I said I was going to follow in his footsteps; make the mine pay off again just like he had done."

"What exactly did you say, Steve?"

Sam's tone was empathetic and encouraging, and this time, Steve looked up at them, hollow-eyed and plainly understanding now the terrible error he had made.

"I gave a toast to the pioneer spirit that had given rise to the North Cedar and to the Hartson family fortunes," he told them with dismay. "I said, 'May that spirit continue with me as I bring the North Cedar back to what she once was, the gem of the Mother Lode.' Then I suddenly started to feel something happening, like something—I don't know, like something awful was being born down in the drift. It seemed crazy, you know? But I got really scared, and I just—I got out of there as fast as I could. I mean, I hadn't been talking about that kind of spirit...."

Dean chuckled dryly. "Yeah, well. Ghosts aren't big on semantics."

"It's all right," Sam said to the downcast mine-owner. "Now that we know who it is that's been haunting you, we can take care of it. Come on—it's safer for you if you're with us."

The Winchesters stood suddenly, Sam shrugging back into the jacket he had discarded earlier while Dean leaned down to tighten the locking mechanism on his knee-brace. Even befuddled with whiskey, Steve could clearly see that they were preparing for action.

"Salt?" the older brother said, his voice brusque and business-like.

"Trunk," the younger replied. "Lighter fluid?"

"New can with the shovel. Matches?"

"Right pocket. Let's roll."

"Where are we going?" Steve asked, mystified by the brothers' rapid give-and-take.

"Founders Cemetery," Sam responded easily, but the answer didn't help the bewildered man.

"What are we going to do out there?"

"You're gonna sit in the car and not see or say anything," Dean told him, grabbing up the bottle of Scotch to return it to the liquor cabinet before pointing a reproving finger. "And, Steve—in the future? Dude, you've gotta be more careful about who you pick to be your drinking buddies."

-:- -:- -:-

The ache in his knee wasn't so bad, now, but Sam had still pressed Dean to take more painkillers; had still driven the Impala all the way down the narrow lane with Dean in the back keeping anxious lookout for encroaching branches; had still refused to allow his older brother to do any of the digging after they left Steve in the car and strolled almost casually into the Founders Cemetery, to disinter William "Bull" Clancy and send him on to the great hereafter. Or wherever.

Sam kept up a spirited monologue the whole time he dug, any remaining pain in his injured arm or the knot on his head apparently forgotten as he flung dirt from the gravesite, talking virtually nonstop. Relegated to guard-duty, Dean planted his ass on a cool granite headstone beside Clancy's tomb, casting a dark shadow in the bright moonlight and listening with growing consternation as his brother chattered on about winzes and stopes and placer and troy. Snakes, too, for some reason, and coyote holes and drifts—before long, Dean began to regret not taking the drugs.

He hadn't seen Sam this hopped up on something in a long time. Certainly not since their dad had died.

But Sammy'd been like this when he was a kid, Dean remembered idly, watching the pile of dirt grow higher beside the deepening hole; he'd get some bug up his ass about dinosaurs or the rainforest or something, and then he'd stuff his brain so full of information that there wasn't anywhere else for it to go but to spill out of his mouth. Once, when he was seven, Sam had gone on about Australia for two solid weeks, until Dean nearly couldn't take it any more. Convicts and aborigines and marsupials; that song about Matilda—it was like the kid just couldn't shut up. Their dad had finally put an end to that particular episode with his usual diplomacy: a growled curse, and his index finger stabbing the air sharply. "Sam, not one more word," he'd ordered, and that had been it for Australia.

Dean grinned at the memory, because Sammy hadn't stopped for long. The next week, his topic of obsession had been how condor chicks imprint on hand puppets, and the week after that it was Katrina Thompkins, the best dodge-ball player in second grade.

Leave it to Geek-Boy to get excited over a big hole in the ground. Not like it was the Grand Canyon or anything, for cripe's sake….

"…nearly five and a half…million ounces before the Hartsons… closed it. So the North Cedar had, like…the third richest lode in the state, according to Erica. She's…got an amazing grasp of the details," Sam said with the next five shovelfuls, and Dean suddenly recognized the real thread running through his brother's lecture.

Erica.

Maybe he'd been wrong about Sammy scoring earlier, and maybe he hadn't. Dean shifted against the headstone, smiling thoughtfully, letting the spate of Sam's words wash over him like a warm tide as he listened to the gentle, rushing murmur of his little brother falling in love.

-:- -:- -:-

The salt-and-burn had gone off without a hitch, and after getting Steve safely back to his own place, the Winchesters had returned to The Baron Hotel and turned in.

Despite the exercise in the cemetery, or maybe because of it, Sam remained stubbornly awake, unable to drift off, thoughts tumbling in his head, flitting past without leaving a lasting impression, just a vague feeling of excitement and dread. They were an odd combination, and finally he gave up on sleep entirely, rising from his bed and quietly taking care of business in the bathroom, then dressing in the dark.

Dean slept slack-jawed and undisturbed not five feet away, perhaps the aftermath of Elko, still, plus the painkillers Sam had finally forced on him once they had returned from salting and burning William Clancy. It had taken the older Winchester all of five minutes to crash, and Sam knew from experience that Dean was likely to be out for hours.

He scribbled a hasty note, which he propped on the night-stand where his brother could easily find it when he awoke. Double-checked the salt-lines and the EMF meter, just to be sure, then eased silently out of the room and the hotel.

The sky was just beginning to pearl with sunrise when Sam slid into the Impala and started her up, heading out of Rattlesnake, down the hill over roads dusted yellow with pollen, and out of the Mother Lode.

He ran into commuter traffic several times during the drive, but he still hit Palo Alto in early mid-morning. Two-thirds of the way through the spring term, their hands full of books and coffee cups, students made their way to labs and lectures past trees bursting with green and kiosks fluttering with colorful handbills announcing the upcoming annual arts and crafts fair.

Sam found a place to park, then began the long amble across campus. It hadn't changed—he hadn't been gone that long, after all—but Stanford existed now in a world entirely separate from his own. There were still people here he knew, yet not a one of whom knew the real him. The bereaved son. The hunter. The man with demon-spawned visions who seemed fated to become something even more different than any of them could possibly imagine, unless he could change his destiny.

Despite his thoughts, his feet found their way unerringly to the library where he and Jess had spent so many hours together, flirting, studying, wooing one another. The building was unlocked, and Sam hesitated only a second before crossing the threshold, shutting away the darkness to concentrate on the task at hand.

He didn't recognize the student worker at the check-out desk, so he moved directly to the stairwell, climbing two steps at a time to the third floor, then back through the stacks to the study carrels at the east wall. Found their spot. Tried to picture just for a moment the Sam and Jessica who had existed in that space, in a time now irretrievably lost. Ran one hand through empty air the way he'd once run his hand through her hair, drawing her close to steal a kiss.

For an instant there was an odd feeling in his chest, tightening and then letting go, but then he let go, a long sigh escaping him. There were no ghosts here, he was certain, nothing to keep him any longer, and Sam turned to leave.

He spent another two hours revisiting their old haunts, not rushing, giving himself time to let the memories come and be recognized. Be dealt with. His cell had buzzed a couple of times, but Sam hadn't answered, letting each of Dean's calls go to voicemail.

It was funny, he reflected, how Dean had been such a pivotal part of him going to Stanford, and then no part of Stanford at all. Not the lecture halls, nor the coffee carts, nor the intramural soccer field, the rathskellar; certainly not Jessica—with one glaring exception and the odd phone conversation or drive-by, Dean hadn't been any part of Sam's college life, until the very, very end. So Sam felt no guilt about not answering his brother's calls, choosing instead to quietly retrace the steps he'd once made here, a spirit echoing the events of a past life that no longer existed.

He drifted along the pathways and corridors, past knots of chattering collegians, solitary students hurrying to class or coffee, couples enjoying a bright spring day in the tender throes of young love. He had wondered distantly if he might see someone he knew, but the people he passed were all strangers to him, and it seemed as though they didn't see him at all. Maybe they didn't, Sam thought, because he was no longer a part of the picture; he no longer belonged. Maybe he never really had.

He saved the hardest for last, and because he knew it would be hardest, and knew it would be last, he went back to the Impala first. Once his final task was accomplished, he could drive away quickly, and never look back.

The route he drove by rote took him past what had once been their restaurant. Buonfonte's was a little Italian place with nothing much in the way of ambience other than the requisite red-checked tablecloths and Chianti-bottle candlesticks, but the chef made an awesome scampi, and Jess had once vowed only to die if she could take some of it with her.

Sam had taken her there on their first official date, and afterward the young couple had celebrated all their milestones at Buonfonte's: birthdays, the end of finals, moving in together, Sam's LSAT scores.

It was where he had planned to propose to her, of course, when the time came.

Except that now it was gone.

Sam slowed the car, coming to a stop in mid-street and hunching over the steering wheel to peer in disbelief out the side window at the sports bar now occupying the restaurant's old space. Neon signs advertising a variety of beers lit the windows; an electric orange poster board announced happy hour daily from four to six, with well-drink prices slashed.

Maybe he should have expected it, but somehow—his lip curled with a bitter smile. Somehow he'd thought they'd always have Buonfonte's.

There was a honk behind him, and he startled, then shifted gears and continued up the street, taking a left at the stoplight and driving three more blocks down a residential street until he came to the building where he and Jess…

Where he and Jess…

Where Jess…

Sam allowed himself to leave the thought unfinished. Instead, he pulled in next to the fire hydrant (and a tip of the hat to that irony, he decided mirthlessly) and got out, surveying the street, the repair job done on their old apartment after that awful night.

His cell buzzed again, but he ignored it, opening the car door with a squeal and climbing out. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the sidewalk and went up the steps onto the porch, fingers brushing past the row of mailboxes, stumbling momentarily on the one that had been theirs. He didn't look to see the new name.

Up the stairs, then, fourth riser in the second flight still creaking like always, and down the hall. It was quiet behind some doors as he passed, but as he neared their old place, he could hear rap music coming from inside, heavy bass pounding. Even at late morning, he could smell the unmistakable aroma of pot wafting from the front room. A number of stickers papered the door, advertising radio stations and skateboarding, and someone had carved "Fuck You Jason" into the upper panel.

And that was the end of it.

Eyes on the door for what he knew would be the last time, Sam paused, then nodded shortly to himself before he turned and walked away. There was no need to look back, ever again.

-:- -:- -:-

He was back on the highway when his phone buzzed, and this time he picked up.

"Where the hell's my car?" Dean growled angrily, and Sam felt a smile tug at his mouth.

"It's with me."

"Where the hell are you?"

Despite his tone, Sam could hear the concern and relief in his brother's voice; knew what Dean was really asking: Sammy, are you okay?

Or perhaps, Is it really you? It hadn't been all that long ago that Dean had woken to find Sam gone, taken by a demon who had used him viciously. Most of that fallout was over, but how long would it be before either one of them truly forgot?

Sam took a long breath. "I'm on my way back, Dean; I'll see you in a couple of hours. There was something I needed to do."

If Dean had been no part of Sam's Stanford life, he was certainly the most important part of Sam's life now. They'd hit plenty of rough patches since his brother had come for him that Halloween night, and God only knew what lay ahead of them, but of one thing Sam was certain: he and Dean were in it together for the long haul.

There was a brief silence on the other end, and Sam believed he could actually hear Dean thinking, sorting through all the possibilities of what Sam might have needed to do without telling his older brother first.

Smile broadening, Sam moved the Impala into the fast lane and picked up speed. "Dean, I'm on my way home. I'm gonna swing by the mine and pick up our pay from Steve, and I'll see you soon."

He ended the call, then brought up the fresh contact on the display screen and thumbed the button, settling himself more comfortably into the driver's seat while he waited.

"Hey, Erica—it's Sam," he said when she answered. "Listen, once you're done up in Rattlesnake this afternoon, would you like to go to dinner?"

-:- -:- -:-

TBC. Thanks for reading! Comments are welcomed.