Part 7


Sinks Canyon, south fork, 2006

Blake plopped the box of gram crackers on the chipped redwood picnic table with just a touch too much force. "Easy, Hercules," commented Donna, picking them up again to make room for other things, settling them on the bench instead. "No one wants broken crackers for their s'mores," she ribbed brusquely, and though he realized he was supposed to laugh at the patronizing tone in her voice, he found he couldn't—her hard wit grating on him just a little too strongly.

He ignored her—watched her shrug from the corner of his eye, sleek hair shadowing her face as she turned away from him. He rubbed a hand over his own hair as he glanced around the clearing to see what else he might help with. Most of the stuff had already been brought over, and most of the group was crowded around the picnic table he was leaning on.

Everyone except Sam.

But Sam was easy to locate. Blake looked to where Sam lingered out from the heart of the group—tracking Sam's gaze toward his brother who was weaving suspiciously around the rim of the campground, hanging at the river's edge and then the trailhead to the south before sauntering back to Sam, whose eyes hadn't left him the entire time.

Blake considered himself a student of human behavior. He'd studied psychology amply before diverting back into law and was still thinking he might pursue the duel master's degree so he could cover both interests and talents.

His experience was currently hinting that something was defiantly up with Sam and his brother. So far the relationship he'd observed seemed unhealthy at best. Sam—who could be described as occasionally taciturn but generally gregarious—had barely peeled himself from his brother's side since they'd joined them. Blake was beginning to think maybe Kim was right—maybe Dean was controlling. Sam seemed uneasy—slightly distracted—anytime he was outside Dean's presence.

Blake decided it was the uneasiness—the nervousness—that was bothering him. Sam had never been the sort to be truly nervous—sometimes introspective and reserved—but not nervous. He carried an innate confidence Blake saw in very few. Jessica had carried a confidence like Sam's. And her vigor and social ability had balanced Sam's initial reticence. They'd made a good match.

Blake once admitted to Jess he'd been dubious about the relationship when it started. She'd laughed—teased him about his protective streak—and eventually he'd realized she was right. The only reason he'd doubted Sam was because he'd known Jessica first—knew her better—and it was therefore in his nature to question Sam's intentions. It was his role in the group. People expected it of him.

The protectiveness was also probably a result of how he'd met Jessica in the first place.

He'd been a volunteer for Campus Help—a group of students and staff who made themselves available to aid the student body with unique or sensitive problems beyond the scope of the campus police. Jess had come in as a new student wanting to know if someone could meet her at the library to walk her back to her dorm in the evenings because some jerk had been shadowing her, scaring her and generally giving her a hard time.

Blake had taken the assignment.

Eventually, he'd confronted the guy. And, sure enough, when things finally came to a head the jerk backed down. Blake knew guys like that were 80 percent bravado—20 percent capable. All they really needed was someone in front of them—someone who wouldn't back down—to finally go away.

Sam's brother Dean reminded him of that guy—the type that just chuffed against Blake's nerves.

Blake watched distrustfully as Dean approached Sam—watched as they huddled close for a minute. He observed the obvious stiffness in Sam's body language—the irritation in Dean's. Blake was pretty good at reading people. It was obvious to him Dean wasn't too keen on allowing Sam to interact with the rest of them—the way he kept drawing him out and away from the group.

"Hey, Sam!" Kim's voice at his shoulder startled him from his observations but he saw Sam look over his shoulder to acknowledge her call. "Come help us with the hotdogs," she finished. Blake glanced at her, then looked back to see Sam had actually listened and was approaching the picnic table with an obdurate expression, his brother right next to him.

Blake took initiative—determined to remind Sam there were more people in his life than his brother—plucking an un-open package of cheddarwurst off the table and tossing it. Sam's reflexes were as good as ever and he plucked it out of the air with ease, ripping it open as he stepped to the table across from him.

"Nice throw," Sam smiled. Blake was relieved to see some of the glower in his expression dissipate. Jess would have hated the expressions Sam was wearing these days.

"Pure natural ability," Blake joked.

"Uh huh," chided Sara, leaning in with a revolted expression as she watched Sam push one of the links onto the wire stick Charlie slid over to him. "Where was your 'pure natural ability' when Dean was kicking your butt at pool this afternoon?"

Blake frowned as Sara giggled. Frowned further when she smiled at Sam's brother and he winked back at her.

"And by the way—that's disgusting," she added, pointing to the hotdog on a stick Sam was holding.

Blake briefly expected the conversation to turn to hotdogs rather than pool, until Garrett spoke, "Yeah—where were those natural abilities this afternoon? You lost me twenty bucks."

Blake opened his mouth to say something but Charlie beat him. "I don't know—that part worked out for me."

Blake changed his mind about what he was going to say. "You bet against me?" he asked Charlie. He made the protest sound sarcastic because he knew that's what his friends expected. In truth he was annoyed.

Charlie smiled. "Hey," he justified, slapping a hand between Sam's high shoulder blades. "I spent like two years watching Mr. Skilled-and-Coordinated here shoot people down in every intramural basketball game we played—figured his kind of aim had to be genetic. You can't blame me."

Once again Blake didn't get a chance to respond. "Well I blame you," Garrett told him. "Seriously—I've never seen you get beat before—and it's not like Charlie needed to win twenty bucks from me." If Garrett was trying to be funny, Blake decided he didn't really appreciate it. Garrett was one of those guys who just sort of stumblingly discovered he had brains, made it into Stanford, but was a little lazy in the effort department—which apparently made him lazy of tongue because he'd otherwise think about what he said before he let some of the comments he made come doling out of his mouth.

"Everyone loses sometimes."

Blake almost groaned aloud. Kim could be a good defender but—he wished she'd found some other phrase to use. The one she'd chosen was too cliché. It made him sound like a poor loser, like he needed to be patronized, or worse.

His skills didn't need defending. He was above such pettiness, and he didn't need Kim or anyone else standing up for him. "And sometimes, people just get lucky," he said pointedly, countering Kim's comment. His eyes darted in Dean's direction.

The group around the table laughed. Even Sam's brother looked amused.

When Blake's eyes locked with Dean's, Dean simply lifted an eyebrow—smug, unyielding.

No, he decided, he definitely didn't like Sam's brother. The guy needed a serious lesson in respect and humility. And Sam—Sam had spent too much time in this jerk's company—he needed to be shown his life had other options.

Blake felt a tap on his shoulder. Garrett was handing him a wire stick and an open package of hotdogs. He took it while the smiling group around him turned their comments to other things. He let the jokes become background noise while he concentrated on spearing his hotdog, but when his eyes moved up he realized not all in the group were jovial. Donna was watching him. Her face was impassive, but scrutinizing—looking at him like she was seeing something no one else did, silently criticizing his thoughts.

And she didn't look away when he stared back.

He hated it when she looked at him that way. It was one of the reasons he'd broken up with her. She was a smart girl, handsome—if that word could be used to describe a girl—and witty, but honestly, Blake didn't know how he'd lasted as long with her as he had.

And he didn't know how Charlie could stand it.


The sun was all but gone—leaving mere traces of dark pink in the western most sweep of the blackening sky. Stars were already visible above the opening in the grove that circled them. Dean looked to them uncomfortably—tracking the evening as new dots of light appeared—needing to take his gaze away from the group he sat with.

Sam's friends had somehow both spread out and drawn closer—lounging, hunched on bench-like logs around a roaring fire probably larger than sanity or canyon advised fire safety should allow. Still, it was contained to the fire pit and Dean was grateful for it because the night had turned more cold than cool and he could feel the chill slowly penetrating, carefully creeping into him. Prickling along his skin.

Next to him on the log, Sam was bending into his jacket and hadn't protested Kim's proximity when she'd leaned delicately into him—letting their knees touch when he stuck a marshmallow loaded stick out toward the flames.

Sam was still watching him—hovering next to him. He'd followed closely when Dean had picked up his satchel to make his second sweep of the area, and was still throwing him glances, as though worried Dean might try venturing back into the dark without him—but overall had relaxed into the atmosphere of innocent s'mores and even more innocent conversation. Somehow, Dean felt himself getting dragged along with it as well.

At first, held been playing a role—taking a few potshots at Blake, which earned him cautioning looks from Sam, and then goading Sam's friends into telling him every embarrassing thing they could about Sam's college years. Because he figured that's what Sam's friends would expect. That's what Dean thought might pass for normal in the not-so-real world most people lived in. Plus, he'd wanted to know.

He'd been caught off guard by the realness behind the stories. By the details. By the affection. By the laughing way Sam was pulled into the memories with everyone else. At a few points, Dean found himself laughing too, shooting Sam half-smiles when he could tell his brother was watching him, checking his reactions.

It was all so annoyingly normal Dean had to remind himself he was there to work a job. That Sam was there to work a job. This was the other reason he kept looking to the sky—so he wouldn't get sucked into believing that the group around the fire was all that currently existed. He needed to look away. He needed to keep his eyes adjusted to the dark, instead of the flames. He needed to be able to see what was out there when it came.

It was inevitable that a portion of the evening would turn to academics. Dean hadn't expected that to be the part to capture his attention—abate his vigilance. But it did. It did, because of the way he saw it affecting Sam. He was thrown by the way it made his little brother blush and squirm and fidget—amazed at how it made Sam avert his gaze from Dean like nothing in the past two weeks had been able to.

It had started with Sara, who was apparently working her way into law school, discussing how difficult she found it to prepare for the entry exam. "I've decided that I hate the L-SAT. Even the practice tests are killing me," she confessed.

"You'll do better than you think," Sam placated.

"Easy for you to say," Sara countered. She turned to Dean. "Sam aced it—didn't even take the prep course."

Sam grinned—a wide, absolute, complete grin Dean couldn't remember seeing on his face—ever. "I didn't take the prep course because I couldn't afford it," Sam recounted dryly, "but I tracked Blake down after every class and made him go over in detail everything they talked about."

"Which is how I ended up with such a good score," Blake cut in. Sam grinned at his response.

"Oh whatever, Sam," Donna spoke. "You're near genius at all that stuff—even if you hadn't had Blake to help you." Her face glowed in the firelight and she huddled closer to Charlie even as she turned to Dean, leaning near as though speaking confidentially, "I'm telling you, Dean—your brother—future U.S. Supreme Court Justice. Probably the youngest ever."

Dean nodded, finding he suddenly couldn't say anything. He swallowed hard and tried to look glad.

He felt an odd ache in his chest and his heart gave a double thump—like the outer cold had seeped into his center. He pulled his hand up to cover his breastbone in confusion because the ache suddenly seemed much more physical than mental. But, in the lull of conversation silence, it abated so quickly he wondered if it had really been there at all.

Sam was watching him, anxious eyes pinned to the hand Dean was still using to cover his heart—the hand Dean quickly dropped when he irritably realized what Sam might be thinking. Sam's jaw muscle jumped, twice—his body language ridged as he placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Are you okay?" he whispered, eyes broody and worried when Dean spared him the briefest glance.

"Yes," he hissed back.

"Alright—enough academics," Garrett projected over their huddled whisper. "We came here for ghosts! And I demand Charlie give us ghosts."

The group laughed. Dean ignored Sam to focus on Charlie.

"Nah," said Charlie when he realized he was the center of attention. "Someone else should do the story telling this time."

Donna had slid off the log and was sitting in front of Charlie—his arms wrapped around her shoulders. "No way, you're not getting out of this—time for a ghost story." She sat straighter, forcing him to release his hold.

"Fine fine," he agreed.

Garrett tossed him a flashlight. Charlie flashed it tritely in front of his face for a second, highlighting his nose and cheekbones. He lowered his voice. "What story do you want? There's the legend of the Hookman? Or I could tell the one about Bloody Mary?"

Dean nearly groaned aloud. He stopped ignoring Sam long enough for the two of them to exchange a meaningful look.

"No—those are old," balked Kim. "You said there were stories of ghosts around here—tell us one of those."

Dean perked up a bit, remembering he was on a job—realizing Charlie telling a local legend could actually be useful.

"Okay," Charlie conceded. He dropped the flashlight, clicked it off, leaving his face compellingly dark.

Dean realized the fire's blaze had ebbed considerably but no one seemed bothered enough to add another log.

"This story is a true story about a woman," Charlie began, voice slow and serious.

Sara giggled and Garrett shushed her.

The rest of the Stanford kids had gone silent.

"A woman who went walking away from her cabin—"

Dean curbed his own impulse to laugh, letting his focus circle those surrounding the fire, intrigued by their innocent reactions to ghost stories. A pastime he would never understand.

"—and vanished into thin air."

Donna had moved back onto the log—was sitting on Charlie's right. Dean's left.

"They say she came back—"

Straight across from him, Sara and Garrett were watching with rapt attention.

"—with everything but her body—which to this day has never been found."

And there, sitting on the log between Sara and Charlie—watching him with sharp glowering eyes and a predatory smile—was a swaying elegant being Dean had never seen before.

Damn it! He silently swore—reaching behind him to scramble for his shotgun while trying to keep his eyes pinned to the evocative face. Too late to be on cue, the EMF in the bag he was groping for began to crackle and whine.

"What is that?" asked Sara as she and the rest of the group looked in his direction—gallingly oblivious to the threat among them.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, sounding vaguely panicked.

Dean tore his eyes from the woman to check his brother. He saw first the back of Sam's head—then saw where Sam was looking. Fog was pouring off the river in mass. In a few seconds it would envelop them completely. Dean swore again—out loud this time.

"Grab onto each other!" Sam ordered while clamping his hand around Dean's jacket collar, leaving Dean's right arm free to fire when ready.

Dean had the shotgun in his grip but there was nothing to aim at. The apparition had vanished. Dean saw only a slip of empty space where the ghost had been before the fog consumed them. By then it was too late for him to fire anyway—even if the apparition hadn't vanished. A rippling pain abruptly captured his body, making him feel on fire, making him feel snaps of agony from head to toe, a pain distantly reminiscent of the electrocution that caused his heart attack.

But where that had ended—this kept going.

And this time there was no unconsciousness in sight.

He dropped the shotgun, toppling backward off the log, vaguely aware he'd taken Sam back with him as he did.

"Dean," he heard Sam call. Sam's hand was still on his collar, knuckles digging into his neck. He heard other voices too—worried scattered voices. Dean grit his teeth together and didn't answer any of them. If he opened his mouth, he wouldn't be able to do it without screaming.

"Dean," Sam's voice came again and this time it cracked in the middle of saying his name. "Dean, it hurts."


tbc