Seems like the beginning and end of this have been the easiest to write…it was the middle that gave me a hard time.

Special thanks go to Geminigirl11 for supplying the French words used below, and for being a beta for this chapter.

To avoid confusion, I'll mention up front that gran'-mere means "grandmother" and gran'-pere means "grandfather."

I don't own anything Supernatural. Reviews welcomed.

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Chapter 10

"Ow!"

"Hold still…."

"Stop poking me!"

"I will if you'll just hold still…."

"Ow!"

"Dean---"

"Get off me! You're not my type anyway!"

Sam sighed in exasperation, and tried to rethread the stitching needle. Again. His obtuse brother was making his job ten times harder than it needed to be. He paused and rubbed his head…the voodoo dolls effects weren't fading as quickly as before. He had no idea why, but he was sporting a headache now that was much worse than the psychic-induced ones that he'd been having all week.

"You okay?" Dean asked, craning his neck to see Sam, who was perched over him on the bed.

Sam shook his head and returned to his attempts to rethread the needle, "Yeah."

Dean stared at him, looking dubious.

Sam smiled, "No, not really. Ever since Eva got me with that doll…I don't know…feels like my head's trying to split open."

"Are you---" Dean started to roll over and face him, but Sam grabbed his hips and pushed him back down, "Hey!"

"I said hold still," Sam hissed through gritted teeth, "You're bleeding, and I don't want to see you in the hospital again anytime soon…so let me work!"

Dean looked at him as if he'd grown another head, "Geez…a little touchy this morning?"

Sam blushed, suddenly feeling self-conscious, "Sorry…I'm sorry…I---" he rubbed his tired eyes, trying to clear them; "I don't like it when you're hurt."

Dean stared over his shoulder at him for a moment, and then relaxed on the pillow, "Hey…I don't like admitting to being hurt…." He said, his usual cockiness permeating his tone.

Sam snorted, "Yeah…understatement of the year."

Having to squint to see clearly, he straddled Dean's legs and hunched over to re-stitch a gash in Dean's lower back. It fortunately wasn't as deep as the ones he'd already fixed up by the shoulder blades. He heard the hotel room door open and close behind him, but didn't bother to look up. He'd recognize Sarah's perfume anywhere.

"Oh…I gotta get a picture of you two…." Sarah muttered with more than a hint of a smile in her voice. Sam was engrossed in his first-aid work, and didn't look up to get an explanation. He felt Dean tense beneath him.

"Huh? No! This isn't…uh…ahem…you almost done back there, Sammy?" Dean asked with a sudden note of discomfort in his voice.

Sam frowned; he hated being left out of jokes, "What are you two talking about?" he asked testily. He saw Sarah move closer in his peripheral vision, and then felt her kiss the back of his neck with a laugh.

"You're a little dense honey, but I love you."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and bit back a retort. The headache was making him irritable…he needed to just let Sarah and Dean carry on for now before he said something he'd regret. He finished up and placed the needle back in the dish of alcohol. A new bandage, and a few pieces of tape, and he was done. He climbed off his brother and sat at the edge of the bed, holding his head against the incessant pounding inside it.

"Still hurting?" Sarah asked from the other bed. He nodded.

He felt rather than saw Dean push up off the bed, and plop down beside him with a grunt. Sam chuckled softly. Only my brother could still move around after having his back sewn up twice in twenty-four hours…. He vaguely heard Dean say something about a flashlight to Sarah. The next thing he knew, his brother's hands were pushing his head back and he was blinded by a bright light in his eyes.

"Um, ow…" he griped.

What he liked to think of as Dean's "Doctor Voice" was the only reply, "No sign of concussion, so far…." And how are YOU feeling Mr. Winchester? Sam smiled to himself, but eyed Dean coolly, "You could have warned me, Jerk."

Dean continued his examination of Sam's head as if he hadn't heard, saying absently, "Bitching reflex appears normal." He let go, leaving Sam frowning.

Dean rose stiffly from the bed, and Sam watched as Sarah helped him slip a clean shirt over his bandages. Sam looked up at him sharply.

"Where are we going?" he asked, glancing at his watch. It was 4:30 in the morning.

Dean turned to him and pointed to the bed, "You are going to bed. I'm going over to Eva's."

Sam just blinked at him for a few seconds, "What…why?"

"Because getting some sleep might help your headache."

Sam shook his head, "No…why are you going to Eva's? The cops will be there today."

"Nah. It will be at least a few hours before they get the bodies out of the building and identified…the place will be empty for now. I need to be sure she didn't have any other voodoo crap planned with your hair."

Sam rose and donned his jacket, "I'm going," he said as he marched past Dean and out the door.

Behind him, he heard Sarah speaking to Dean, "He's sweet when he's worried about you."

He couldn't hear all of it…but from the reply, he didn't think Dean shared her opinion.

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"See anything else down there?" Dean called from the upstairs hallway. Sam was down below, examining the little "voodoo workstation" Eva kept in the living room. Her big spell book had burnt up along with her, so it was mostly ingredients and tools for casting spells and making those dolls.

Sam came into view, climbing the stairs and looking up at him, "Nothing of mine…that I can see anyway. What do you want to do with her other magic books? Take 'em or leave them?"

Dean frowned, Eva's words about Marie being a grave robber echoing in his mind. He shook his head, "Only if it's something dangerous. I'm not gonna rob her house."

"Well, I think we're safe. Without that spell book of hers, nothing down there is a threat to anyone," Sam stated quietly.

Dean nodded, and stepped into the last bedroom. From its size and décor, he assumed it was Eva's. He stepped in, shining the flashlight along the far wall, dispelling the pre-dawn gloom. He noted the photos Sam had mentioned featuring the man they now knew to be Eva's grandfather with the cross nearby.

He felt a twinge of regret at that thought. In a deluded way, Eva was protecting her family…at least its legacy…and Dean could relate to that. He reminded himself that she was a murderer…it was just like calling a hit man to kill someone…the blood was still on her hands. Nevertheless, he was saddened that she had to die. He hoped she finally would see the error that she had made.

They hadn't found the cross. So much the better…. Eva must have hidden it somewhere. He made a note, though, that if he ever saw mention of it, he'd return and make sure it stayed with her family…maybe with her grandfather once again, if it came to that. He wouldn't want another grave robber dredging all this back up.

He was scanning the dresser for any leftover voodoo "tools," when he heard Sam grunt behind him. He turned, finding Sam sitting at the edge of the bed, holding a light green book in one hand and rubbing his head with the other. Sam's continuing headache worried him. He knew little about voodoo attacks and their aftermath, but Sam had recovered quickly from his first run-in with the doll. That alone sent up a red flag now.

Why wasn't he recovering from this one just as quickly? He wondered if there was a connection with his 'Shining,' but didn't have enough information to even guess at what it might be. Sam had told him that, right before Eva attacked him, he had managed to actually control his ability for the first time.

"Head still hurting, little brother?" he asked softly.

"Heh…I'll tell ya…I'd really appreciate it if you got this jackhammer off my forehead."

Dean smirked and sank down on the bed beside Sam, "Sure. If you put this fire on my back out."

Sam laughed and sighed at the same time.

Dean grinned, and then glanced around the room, "I'll be glad to get out of this town."

"Yeah…" Sam mumbled, thumbing idly through the green book he'd found. Dean shined his light on it, trying to see.

"Whatcha got there?"

Sam glanced at him, "Eva's diary…I think."

"Shouldn't go through a girl's things, Sammy…."

Getting elbowed in the arm for the quip, he tried to see over Sam's arm, "Anything we need to worry about in there?"

Sam flipped to a page, "Check this out. These entries date back to the eighties."

He read aloud from the diary.

"Gran'-pere's cross caused more trouble today. Some fool found the old story in a local newspaper archive, and came asking if the cross was still around…. Gran'-pere told the man it had been melted down to make his teeth….I don't think the man will return, if his expression was any indication…I wish we could just get rid of it, it's caused so much trouble over the years, but gran'-pere refuses to give it up."

Sam smiled, "And here, about ten years ago…."

"I don't think gran'-mere's story will ever die out…today an art dealer named Babineaux approached gran'-pere about selling it…he made the mistake of letting her see it…he's been leaving it out more often lately…I think it reminds him of gran'-mere in ways that other things can't…he told the dealer no…but she seems determined…."

"That Babineaux woman placed the cross up for auction. We tried to stop her, but the police didn't believe us when we told them she stole it, or didn't care…. It sold last week to some collector from Florida…we contacted him, but he's going to make us buy it back…his asking price is more than gran'-pere's life savings…I don't know what we're going to do."

Sam shook his head, and flipped to nearly the end of the book, "They managed to buy it back about nine years ago, but here…."

"I can't believe what's happening…gran'-pere's grave was desecrated last night…at first I couldn't believe someone would do something like that in this day and age. We don't know who did it, yet. The police told us that it wasn't a 'top priority,' given the increase in crime since the storms last year…but I think I know who's behind it. If I'm correct, I swear to gran'-pere's spirit that she'll pay…."

Sam looked up, "That was just last week…."

Dean shook his head, "It's…I don't know…it's sad, you know? I feel sorry for her."

Sam frowned at that, and stared back at him, "The ghosts killed her Dean…she brought it on herself. Don't blame yourself for that."

Always reading my mind…he's gonna tell me how he does that someday. Dean shrugged, rising from the bed and wandering the room, "Yeah, I know."

Sammy was right, he hadn't actually killed her. But he would have. He almost had, when he saw her hurting Sam, but the ghosts had been the immediate problem. In the end, the problems solved themselves, he supposed. Of course, he didn't say any of that to Sam. He looked back to the bed, where Sam was placing the book on the comforter, being careful to wipe his fingerprints off the spine.

"We done here?" he asked. Sam nodded.

They wiped down all the banisters and shelves, removing as many fingerprints as possible. As they stepped back outside, the sun was peeking over the horizon. They headed back to the hotel.

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Interstate 59 North, passing Exit 41, the next afternoon

"Ow. Ow…dammit…ow! Watch where you're driving!"

Dean had been complaining ever since they'd started the return trip to New York. He'd asked Sarah to join Sam up front, so that he could lay in the backseat and give his injuries a rest. But Sam seemed to be driving over every pothole in the asphalt.

"If you're gonna complain all the way back to New York, then you get up here and drive," Sam groused back, glaring at him in the rear-view mirror.

"Nah, that's alright. You got it," Dean called back. The road was still jolting his stitches, but he'd aggravated Sammy…that should compensate. He closed his eyes and smiled when he heard the griping continue up front. From the giggling, he assumed that Sarah shared his amusement.

Sam was in a much better mood today, despite his defensiveness about driving. The lingering headache caused by the voodoo attack had disappeared by the time they got on the road. Dean didn't feel as bad picking on him now that he was back to relative normal. Well…normal for Sam….

He rested there for a moment, but despite the best efforts of the painkillers he had ingested before leaving, he couldn't fall asleep. He tried to get comfortable as best he could, but lying on his stomach in the back of the car just wasn't doing it for him. He hated to admit that his baby's back seat wasn't comfortable…and he'd never tell Sam.

He gave up trying to sleep and just rested his eyes, listening to the road go by and Sam and Sarah converse quietly in front. He heard the distinct sound of jeans on leather, and realized that Sarah had slid closer to Sam. He peeked through half-closed eyes and saw Sam's bandaged arm draped over her shoulders and the seat. He closed his eyes again.

He almost struck up a new conversation when the sounds from up front quieted, some time later, but decided against it. He was feeling distinctly like a third wheel. He hated that feeling. His morose feelings weren't helped by the depressing effects of the painkillers, or the lack of talking. He began to feel exiled to the backseat, even though it had been his idea.

He let his thoughts wander, settling on a day at Missouri's sometime after the funeral. Neither he nor Sam had spoken much. Dean had been more or less fully recovered from the battle with the demon…but Sam was still clammed up. Dean found it hard to be alone in the house, and Sam wanted to do nothing except sit in the back yard, so, he found himself restlessly meandering about, and finally ended up outside with his all-too-quiet brother.

He had already realized by that point what had happened with Sam; how he had unintentionally hurt him in the hospital…he just didn't know how to fix it. Sam was sitting on a garden bench in the back that day, staring into a box of odds and ends.

"Hey."

"Hey," Sam glanced over but didn't quite make eye contact. His face carried no expression at all.

"Missouri went to the store…said she was making our favorite food for dinner."

Sam looked at him, "How'd she know what we want?" he asked, then glanced at the house, "Oh…yeah."

She was a psychic after all…it was easy to forget sometimes.

Dean looked at the box. Some of the things inside were pretty old, "What is all that?"

"I'm just going through Dad's things."

Dean didn't answer. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Dean rose and took a step towards the house.

"I'm gonna get a beer. You want…anything?"

Sam shook his head, still staring at the box.

Things stayed quiet between them for days on end. Every now and then, one might ask the other if they needed something, but nothing more substantial than that. They never left the house. Dinners were spent with Missouri, but the dining room was like a tomb. A few 'pleases' and 'thank yous,' but nothing else. She had stopped trying to reach out to them. Neither of them was within reach. They took turns cleaning up.

A few weeks went by, and then, around the fifth week, Dean stepped out back. As usual, he found Sam on the bench. He was flipping through Dad's journal, but not reading any of it, just looking at the words. Dean sat down next to him, staring at Missouri's flowers.

"Sarah called."

Sam acknowledged him with a glance and a barely raised eyebrow, but nothing else.

"Said she's been trying to reach you…but your phone's turned off."

"Oh."

"Sammy…" he trailed off. What could he say? He dropped it for the moment. Switching gears to the other thing that had been nagging him.

"So, uh…I guess you'll want to be heading back to California…."

Sam just shook his head, appearing disinterested.

Dean looked at him, puzzled, "I thought…I thought you were going back to school?"

Sam shrugged, "There's nothing in California for me," he said softly.

Dean was confused, and he hated himself for the bubble of relief that rose through him at the idea that Sam might stay. As much as he wanted Sam close, he didn't want him to give up his dreams. He couldn't say any of that though. The words just wouldn't come.

"Sarah invited us to stay at her house for a while. We could do that."

Sam looked generally in his direction, again expressionless, "Sure."

That had been that. Stanford was out. Dean never asked why Sam made his decision to stay. He was afraid to. Sam never brought it up.

Now, listening to the murmured comments and small talk from the front seat, Dean felt that old fear creeping through him again. Sam was clearly in love with Sarah, whether he admitted it or not. All she'd have to do is ask….

And when that happened, he didn't know what he'd do.

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At some point, Dean fell asleep. The constant hum of the engine and the rhythmic sounds of the Interstate lulled him into unconsciousness. The painkillers probably contributed to that as well. He awoke in a puddle of drool when he felt the car slow down and come to a stop. Wiping his face in disgust, and tossing the small, now wet, camping pillow into the floorboard, he stretched his stiff arms and resettled his head on his folded jacket.

Sarah said something about finding the bathroom, and Dean surmised that this was why they had stopped. He watched Sarah open her door and get out through hooded eyes. Dean let his eyes drift lazily over the upholstery, wondering idly how much longer the painkillers were going to work.

"You gonna tell me what you've been brooding about back there?"

Sam's voice startled him. He saw his brother's eyes gazing intently at him in the mirror. He raised his eyebrows as if he didn't know what they were talking about.

"Nothing. Just sleepin'. Why?"

"You only slept for the last hour…you spent the four before that brooding. About what?"

"I don't brood."

Sam laughed and turned in the seat so that he was propped up over the back, staring down at Dean. Dean was unsure how his vertically over-endowed brother had even managed that move.

"Dean, you have never gone this long on the road without talking unless there was something bothering you. Seriously, man, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing, Sam…I…I've just been thinking about the past couple of months. That's all."

Sam considered that for a moment, then sighed and shook his head, "Yeah. It hasn't been a good year for us…."

Especially you, Sammy…. Dean shifted uncomfortably, wondering whether or not to say the other thing. He glanced up at Sam, who was staring at him suspiciously, "What?"

"You're making that face."

"What face? I don't make faces."

"You're making that face you make when you're holding out on me. What else is buggin' you?"

"I…well…nah, it's stupid."

"Goes without saying," Sam muttered. Dean glared at him, but Sam continued, "Tell me."

"It's just…I watch you and Sarah and I think…forget it," Dean turned and propped his head up on his forearms, "forget I brought it up."

Sam, as always, didn't listen, "I've noticed that you've been acting weird around us…what…" he paused, looking around like he'd just uncovered a big clue. Little brothers are so annoying.

"Are you jealous?"

Dean didn't answer, he closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Or slip into a coma. Anything to escape the pit of emotional crap he'd just dug himself into.

"You are," Sam continued, "Oh, my God, you are," he paused, "this is awesome."

Dean's eyes shot open and he stared at Sam as though he'd lost his mind, "What? Awesome?"

Sam laughed, "Yeah…I mean, all the times in high school when I was jealous of you and your dates…this is the first time…wow…this feels weird."

"It was all your fault," Dean replied, happy for the detour the conversation had taken, "you could have had Christie Stevenson."

"Half the school had her, that's why I didn't want her," Sam deadpanned. Dean smothered a laugh. He's right about that.

Captain Mood Swing wasn't finished yet, though, as he sobered immediately and looked thoughtful, "You can have any girl you want though," he reasoned, talking to himself and sounding just like a Hollywood detective with a clue, "you wouldn't be…wait…are you worried about us? I mean…you and me?"

Dean frowned and closed his eyes again, praying for sleep…or death.

"Don't be so dramatic, Sammy."

Sam favored him with a grin, "Dean…you're my brother. And the only family I---." He stopped, unwilling to finish the thought, then continued, "No one comes before you, not even Sarah. Even if this relationship goes somewhere, like, you know, in the future…no one takes your place."

The feeling of joy that washed over him affected him more than he would ever admit. He covered it with the standard joke, not knowing what else to say, "You are such a girl, Sammy. Next time we go shopping I'm buyin' you heels."

"Dean…what brought this up? I mean, why now?"

Dean answered that honestly, "I don't know. It's just been on my mind lately."

"That's why you've been acting funny?" Sam asked, "Why you asked if I wanted a separate room?"

He cocked an eyebrow at that, "You remember that?"

"I had a headache, I didn't go deaf."

Any response Dean might have made was cut off when Sarah returned to the car. She took note of Sam's awkward position on the seat and glanced between him and Dean, "Everything alright?"

Sam smiled at her, "Yeah…just killing time." Dean silently thanked him for preserving his dignity, but reminded himself that he didn't really expect anything different. His blood ran cold at Sam's next words, though.

"Dean was just telling me how jealous he was of you. He says he wished he could get his hair fixed as beautiful as yours," Sam glanced back at Dean with a huge grin.

Dean glowered, but there was no heat behind it, and he kicked himself for thinking Sam was going to sell him out, "Bitch."

Sarah looked at them both quizzically, but Sam cut off any questions by kissing her.

"Gross…get a room!"

"Shut up…."

"You shut up!"

"Jerk!"

"Perv!"

He saw Sarah roll her eyes, "Daylight's burning, boys…let's get back on the road."

Dean raised his eyebrows at that, but Sam beat him to it, "You've been hanging around Dean too long. I can tell."

"Girl after my own heart, Sammy," he looked at Sarah, "You sure you want grandma to drive, though, Sarah?"

Sarah laughed. Sam huffed, "I drive better than you, Mr. Road Rage."

"Dream on, Geek," he turned his attention back to Sarah, "the first time I let him drive this car, he hit a house. How do you hit a freakin' house?"

"First of all, Ass, you didn't 'let me' do anything. You were in jail. And secondly, I drove into that house to kill a ghost!"

"Yeah, whatever. Loser."

The cracks flew back and forth for a little while, before Sarah cranked up the radio to drown them out. The rhythmic thrumming of Metallica and the road beneath them soon lulled Dean back to sleep.

This time he didn't dream at all.

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They spent the rest of the week at Sarah's house. Her father had been disappointed when Sarah told him that the item Marie and Legiere had contacted him about was a fake.

It was true. More or less. But 'Chuckles' couldn't handle the truth of what actually happened as well as his daughter could, of that Dean was sure.

By the following Sunday, it was time for them to leave. Sarah's vacation was over, and they didn't want to be staying in her house while she was working all day. Not that she hadn't asked. Sam had regretfully declined. That surprised Dean somewhat…but Sam was never one to wear out a welcome. Though Dean's ears could testify that Sam made the last night he and Sarah had spent together quite memorable. Dean was still trying to forget those sounds. Scarred for life….

Dean's back was healing up nicely, and he could drive without too much difficulty now, so long as he didn't rub his bandages the wrong way. Sam was insistent on checking them every day and applying the antiseptic goop the hospital had given them. Dean didn't argue when Sam got that way. It was easier to simply submit to the worried attentions of your little brother and then mock him mercilessly about it later.

Sam hadn't had a psychic headache since they had left Picayune. The past three days had been telekinesis-free. Dean was pleased to see that particular worry disappear…but it disturbed him that they had vanished just as suddenly and unexpectedly as they had appeared a week earlier. He didn't like surprises…not when they affected Sammy in unforeseen ways.

He watched from the driver's seat, now, as Sam bid Sarah a long goodbye. He felt he should look away when they kissed…he knew it had to be painful for Sam. Sam formed attachments fairly easily; it had been difficult for him when they were always on the move as children. His attachment to this place, and her, would naturally run much deeper. After what seemed like an hour, they released each other, and Sam headed for the car. Dean returned Sarah's wave and warm smile. He liked her, and he was sure Sam would return to her someday. Whenever he was ready, he supposed.

He glanced at Sam when the younger man dropped into the seat and closed the door, "Sure you don't want to stay? We can find a hotel."

Sam looked at him, smiled, and ducked the question, "We ready to move out?"

Dean took a deep breath, "Where to?"

"I found something about a poltergeist in Denver, and another black dog in Nevada. Should be easy enough to handle for now…until we finish healing up," he paused and looked through the windshield as Dean pulled away from the house, "but we need to stop in Lawrence first."

Dean looked at him, curious at Sam's change in tone. A hard glint had appeared in Sam's eyes, "How come?"

"I have a favor to ask Missouri."

"Oh…okay," Dean drawled, "hey…you remember that prank we pulled on Old Man Hoskins' kids?"

TBC