They carried Robert back to the house, into his bedroom, and helped her bandage him up, cleaning the wound and dressing it with gauze. In human form, the cut didn't look nearly as bad as it had on the wolf.

"I'm going to have to start charging you for valet," Dean said half-heartedly as he took a seat at the kitchen table. "Seems like all I do is shuttle him to his room."

"How about for vet services, instead?" she replied, her voice as weary as his.

"Does your brother know you make all the dog jokes?"

"Of course. How else would I keep him in his place?"

Sam grabbed the other chair, sitting down as Angela pulled some kind of stew from the refrigerator and placed it in the microwave.

Dean grinned weakly. "Fair enough. How's your arm?"

She sighed. "It's there. I guess I have to thank you two for that. And for going out and finding him." She turned back to him. "Thank you for doing that. I don't know what would have happened if you didn't. And with that thing out there…"

"Hey, did you find anything, by the way?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head. "Nope. I mean, I wasn't exactly looking if you know what I mean, but I didn't see anything unusual."

"If last night's any indication, you should be thankful for that," Angela said.

"Yeah."

"I just have no idea what that thing could be," she said, as the microwave beeped behind her. She spooned some of the stew into bowls for them. "I spent all this morning going over in my head stuff I know about black wolves, but I haven't stumbled upon anything. I mean, it seems close to the old 'devil dog' of legend, but that's about as close as I get."

"Devil dog?"

"You know…the demon dog, Devil's dog—the creature that forebodes evil, or death, in British folklore."

"Black Dog," said Dean.

"Kinda like the Grim," she replied. Dean turned to Sam, gesturing towards her with a wide smile. She frowned at him. "What? They're good books. In fact, Rowling did base her 'grim' on the black dog of legend—it's called all kinds of things, actually, like gytrash, Old Shuck and the Barghest—and she's not the only author to have done so. Conan Doyle wrote about it in his Sherlock Holmes stories."

"The Hound of the Baskervilles," said Sam.

"Right. The lore is pretty much the same…a black dog with red eyes, appearing only at night. Most called it the 'devil's servant' or the devil's dog. Some think it's a version of a hellhound."

"Black dog is not a hellhound," said Dean. "Definitely different from a hellhound."

"And you know that because…" she trailed off as she caught his expression. "No way. You've seen one?"

"Eh, no. Not exactly 'seen' one. But we've dealt with them."

"No," Sam muttered. "I dealt with one. You were off kissing demons at the time."

"What?"

"Never mind," Dean said with a cough. "Anyways, this thing isn't a hellhound. This creature's visible—and definitely powerful. Not that the hellhounds weren't, but they couldn't exactly be stopped. I get the sense this thing can. The question is how."

She shook her head as she placed the bowls on the table. The stew was beef and potatoes, and pretty good. "Well, I need to go back to the library. This is going to drive me nuts."

"We'll go with you," volunteered Sam.

"No…you can go with me. He," she gestured at Dean with her spoon, "needs to stay here and sleep. Though if you would shower first, please, you look like Hades."

"Hades?"

"Just shower. And keep an eye on my brother. If you need me, call."

They finished up the stew, Dean rising to take a shower as Sam grabbed Angela's keys. They headed out the door, opting for Angela's truck over the Impala.

Dean checked on Robert a final time before collapsing on the sofa. The kid seemed to be a little better, though his cheeks were sunken in and his skin looked pallid. He closed his eyes, laying an arm over his head, the image of Angela's brother the last thing on his mind before everything went dark.

Sam gripped the wheel tightly, struggling to keep the old truck under control. It was a lot more difficult to steer than the Impala—of course, he wasn't surprised, considering how much time Dean spent on making that car run like glass.

Angela had her feet propped up on the passenger's side dash, her arm hanging out the window. The Texas air had lost its chill, and the day was balmy and pleasant. She'd opted for them to retry the college library to look for information, to avoid going downtown—next to the sheriff's office—where the public library was located.

"So…hellhounds, huh?" she said, almost inaudibly.

"What?"

She shook her head with a light laugh. "I said 'hellhounds.' You guys have actually fought hellhounds."

"Yeah."

"What else have you come across? Since you went solo?"

He shrugged. "Um…we found a wendigo in the north. Vampires…"

"Sure, that's to be expected."

"…demons…"

"…again, to be expected."

He drummed his fingers on the wheel, a little irritated. "We also took out a shtriga, a few Indian spirits, a wailing woman…"

"La Llorona? You saw La Llorona?"

"Yeah. And we've run across a couple of urban legends—Bloody Mary, the Hook Man, H.H. Holmes. And then there were the reapers."

"Reapers…how did you fight reapers?"

He paused for a moment. "We didn't."

Angela glanced over at him, her voice quiet. "What happened?"

"I don't really know how to explain what happened. The first time we didn't actually fight it, we freed it from servitude. The second time…Dean…"

"Dean dealt with it?"

"No. He was being chased by it."

"Chased? How did he…I mean…reapers are death."

"I don't know. Only first, Dean was dying, then, he was fine. And Dad…" he stopped, swallowing.

She sat back, a shadow passing over her face. "Oh."

"Yeah." He sniffed, clearing his throat. "We're not sure what happened. Only that somehow Dean survived when he shouldn't have survived. I know he was being chased by the reaper; I spoke to him when it was happening."

"How did you do that?"

He laughed softly. "Through a Ouiji board."

She laughed with him for a moment.

"Well, anyways, it worked. He told me what was happening. And it just got worse. I really thought he was going to die. But he didn't. He woke up—completely healed. And he didn't remember anything. And then, all of a sudden, Dad…Dad was dead."

"I'm really sorry, Sam."

"So am I."

Angela was silent for a moment. "It's…incredible, really. I mean, I know you two have gone through a lot, but I never expected it to be that much."

"You don't know the half of it."

"I know a little more than you might think," she replied.

"Really."

"Yeah. I've sort of been keeping tabs on you. Just a little. You know, old habits."

He raised an eyebrow. "Right. And how much exactly do you know?"

"Well…I know that Dean is wanted for murder in Missouri; that he was somehow involved in a bank robbery in Milwaukee, and that you've got the Feds on your tail. I know you've been to that roadhouse run by Ellen Harvelle, but you're somewhat ostracized from the hunters' circles because you're suspected in the death of one and the arrest of another, Gordon Walker. Oh yeah, and that you're good friends with the same guy who supplied your Dad's stuff, Bobby."

She turned to him; he stared back, open-mouthed, causing her to smile. "This community is pretty tight knit, Sam. Hunters, suppliers, keepers—and us. Not that you find much networking among people like us, but there are ways. There have to be. We're always in danger, from all sides. So I have to keep track of what people are up to, to make sure they're not threatening Roberto or my position here. Naturally, I was going to run across information about you. I mean, your father was pretty well known, but you two are blazing a trail right behind him."

"Jeez."

"I don't know everything, of course—just what I can find out from my contacts. That's why your laundry list of creatures surprised me—I didn't know about the hunting side of things. Or what it is you're chasing."

"Chasing."

"Yeah. Chasing. First your Dad, and now you guys. You Winchesters always seem to be hunting after something. What is it you're after, Sam?"

He glanced at her again; she was watching him intently, her eyes sharp.

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "I know you know a lot, Angie, but there are some things I don't really feel like talking about. That's for your own good. And your brother's."

She noted the expression on his face and slumped down further in the seat, shrugging. "Okay. Fine."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me. I know when it's useless to push an issue with you."

Sam smiled softly, and turned the truck down a small road, heading towards the college. "So…what about your family? I don't know much about your history, I guess."

"Not much history. We've dealt with the run of the mill things—spirits, ghosts, vamps, stuff like that. A couple here and there that are like this one."

"How? Your family's never left Campeon, have you?"

"No, but…there's this funny sort of 'rule:' supernatural things attract supernatural things. I don't know why, but things come looking for us, even staying put."

He grinned. "If that's the case Dean and I have been going about this the wrong way."

She laughed. "I doubt it. You've done a lot of good. Here we spend more time fighting things off than protecting others. I sometimes wonder why my father chose to keep us in one place rather than trying to hunt like you do. I'm sure he could have saved a lot of lives."

"Maybe he wanted to keep his family intact. Life on the road is hard, especially for kids."

Angela leaned her head back, glancing at him. "Was it really that bad?"

"Sometimes."

"From what I remember of your Dad, he was really something. I've never seen anyone stand up to my father like he did. They went head to head like you wouldn't believe. If my Dad hadn't been as strong as he was, I'm sure he would have been killed."

"How did you get the drop on my Dad, anyway?"

She shrugged. "I didn't, really. My father was the distraction. And Roberto. It's not easy facing off against a coyote and a wolf. The girl with the gun behind you isn't your biggest concern."

"Until she shoots you."

"Yeah, well…the gun, anyway. I actually kinda missed. I was aiming for his shoulder."

Sam laughed. "Sounds like you had a pretty good set-up."

"It was. It worked really well."

"What happened?"

The college was drawing up in front of them. She leaned over, using her good arm to wind the window up. "What do you mean?"

"To your family. What happened to your dad?"

Angela leaned back, watching as the college buildings drew closer. "You said there were some things you don't really feel like talking about, right?"

He nodded slowly as she turned back to him. Her eyes had lost some of their customary sparkle. "Well, there are some things I don't really feel like talking about, either."

Sam shuttled the truck into a parking space in front of the library, throwing the old gearshift into PARK. "Okay. Fine," he returned, with a small smile.

Sam's wireless worked at the college—not everything in Campeon was outdated—and he spent the time surfing for information about black dogs while Angela looked up stuff in the library's tiny folklore section.

It took them about two hours. He'd managed to discover everything about the British folklore on black dogs, but nothing seemed to point in the direction of what they'd fought the night before.

It was Angela who came up a few hours later, a book on South American history and legends in hand, and asked him to 'wiki' the word cadejo.

Not much appeared—just something about a Nicaraguan legend of a type of demon dog—one that could be black or white. The white cadejo was a protector. But the black cadejo, described as a large dog with red eyes that could bind, which made clattering noises and smelled—was called the messenger of the Devil itself. One that attacked visitors at night.

He sat back from his computer as she read over his shoulder. "This almost hits it dead on—but that's really unusual."

"Why? Because usually legends don't hit this closely to the real thing?"

"Yeah, mostly. I mean, I'd almost expect it to be a Grim over this."

"Well, Roberto isn't exactly in a general category," she whispered.

"Not exactly—but he can be classified as a shapeshifter in general. Just one that tailored towards good, not evil. But this thing—this fits exactly what's written."

"So…what?"

"So…what's a Nicaraguan beast doing up in South Texas?"

"Good point."

"Well, whatever it's doing up here, it's got to be stopped. And according to this, there are only two ways to kill a cadejo. Providing it's not the actual servant of the Devil."

"Which are?"

He gestured to the article. "A 'regular' cadejo can be killed with a machete slice to the throat. A more powerful cadejo has to be chased away by a white cadejo."

"The white cadejo certainly sounds a bit like a white wolf, doesn't it?"

"May explain why it was uncomfortable when your brother was around. Maybe it doesn't necessarily have to be a white cadejo as a white or silver colored wolf."

"Well, whether that's true or not, there's no going out with Roberto anymore. He's staying at home if I have to leash him to the wall. I think we need to focus on the machete."

He turned to look at her. "Seriously?"

She shrugged. "What other choice do we have?"

"That's easy for you to say. You're not going to be out there trying to stick a twelve inch knife into that thing."

"Says who?"

He closed his laptop. "Says me. And Dean, when he finds out about it. And you, because you know that's a really stupid idea."

She pursed her lips. "Yeah, it is. But I can't let you two go out there and face that thing alone. I mean, this is my town. My town, my problem."

"Well, lucky for you Dean and I don't work like that. We'll figure something out. Don't worry."

"Are you serious?" Dean asked, staring between them with a wide-eyed expression. "A machete?"

"We've survived worse than this," Sam said. "We can figure something out."

"You did see that thing while you were out there last night, didn't you Sam? I mean, you did see it."

"Well, no one said it was going to be easy."

"No one said it was going to be suicide, either. How the hell are we supposed to slit that thing's throat with a machete?"

"We need a game plan," Angela said. "That's the only way one of us is going to be able to get close enough to do what needs to be done."

"One of us?" Dean said, rising from the chair he'd been straddling. "You mean, one of us." He gestured between he and Sam.

"You're just assuming I can't help."

He gave her a wan look, and tapped on her injured arm. She grimaced in pain.

"I'm not assuming anything, Rambo."

"I can still put you in a hammerlock," she said through gritted teeth.

"And while I don't doubt that," Dean said calmly, "it does mean you can't be shouldering rifles and rolling under huge stinky beasts. Which means it's down to the two of us figuring out a game plan."

"Just because my arm's injured doesn't mean my mind doesn't work. I can still help you come up with a plan."

"Fine. You can help with 'the plan'. Just don't expect to be riding shotgun on this."

"I'm not."

"Anytime you two would like to try and figure this out," Sam said, tossing up a casual hand. "If we're going to do anything, it needs to start soon. That thing could draw closer to the town any day now. It's already come out of the mesa area and towards the main roads."

"Right. But that still leaves the problem of slitting its throat—with a machete."

"What if we—you—try and incapacitate it, somehow? You know, with a tranquilizer or gas?"

"We tried to 'incapacitate' it last night with real bullets and that didn't seem to work."

"Well, maybe the hide's impenetrable to certain types of bullets. Like a werewolf. That doesn't mean a tranquilizer won't work."

"And how exactly are we going to get close enough to shoot it with a tranquilizer?"

"By using someone as bait to lure it out."

Sam and Dean stared at her for a moment.

"Not me. One of you guys."

"Oh. Well, thanks for that."

"You said I couldn't. Who else is going to run in front of it?"

Dean opened his mouth to respond.

"She's right," interrupted Sam. "It may be our only option. There doesn't have to be three of us. If we set up on one side of the bridge during the daylight, one of us can go into the ridge and try and lure it out. It obviously comes out that far if it's tempted enough."

"Okay, say I buy that crazy idea for a minute. Who sets up, and who's the bait?"

"Well," said Sam, with a half-smile, "whoever runs faster?"

Dean rolled to the side, kicking off the old-fashioned crocheted blanket. He missed the chill from a few nights ago.

Damn Texas. Hot even when it's supposed to be cold.

He'd ended up back on Angela's couch, after she insisted they get their stuff and stay with her for the rest of their time in Campeon. Sam was bunking in the room where Roberto slept, which had two separate beds.

The young man hadn't moved all day, though he looked better than he had in the morning. But he'd not woken up; Angela had told them not to worry about it, but with all that had happened, Dean couldn't help but feel uneasy.

They'd spent the rest of the evening setting down the plan for tomorrow night. Sam, who was faster—and who the beast had apparently not wanted to tangle with earlier—had agreed to try and lure it out of the canyon. Dean, a better shot, would set up close to the narrow steel bridge across the river. The strategy sounded like it could work, but he'd never felt so agitated about a plan in his life. The idea of setting Sam up in front of that—that thing—on the raw hope that they could stun it long enough to slash its throat—it seemed dangerous and rash, even for him.

Angela had supplied them with a tranquilizer gun and some medication strong enough to bring down an elephant. "Just in case," she'd murmured.

Apparently, 'supernatural things attract supernatural things' and her family had had to use those darts more than once on creatures passing through town. That concept blew his mind—the idea of the shapeshifter, or the demon, or the vamp, coming to you—it was crazy. But then again, this entire situation was a little crazy.

Sam was getting more used to things, though. He'd finally seemed comfortable with Angela again, smiling and laughing, and even reminiscing about college. They'd reached some kind of understanding over the past few days. He didn't know what it was, but Angela no longer seemed wary, and Sam no longer seemed depressed. Suddenly it was a level playing field again, with two very strong allies in their corner.

Allies that, for now, they couldn't use.

That's what agitated him most at the moment. They had to go back into those woods, in front of that cadejo, or whatever the hell it was called, with nothing but a machete, and without the Nahual or Angela as any significant kind of backup.

There was movement in the back of the house, and the refrigerator light came on. He rolled up into a sitting position.

"You okay?" Angela asked, shuffling down the hall towards him, a water glass in her good hand.

"Yeah. Fine."

"Tomorrow?"

He didn't answer, just ran a hand through his hair.

"Hmm." She tilted her head to the side, looking, for the first time since he'd met her, a little unsure. "Uh…would you like to…you want to clean some gear?"

He raised his eyebrows. "What?"

She shook her head, breaking into a grin. "That sounded like a really bad pick-up line, didn't it?"

He smirked at her. "Yeah. Kinda. But effective."

"Stop it. I should have known better, it sounded stupid in my head before I said it. Look, I know it calms me down when I get anxious. I figured you'd be the same way. How else can you ask such a weird question?"

"You don't. You just admit it—you want to be alone together."

"Whatever. You are as bad as Sam said. He warned me about you, you know."

"Really? Wish he'd warned me about you."

"Well, on that he could have done with a warning himself," she said, still grinning, and gestured behind her. "There's a shed out back we use. Third one down the property, in the corner. It's got everything you need; all you'll need is the equipment. I'll meet you in ten."

He watched her head outside, then pulled on his jeans and gathered some of the weapons from the Impala, along with the few they'd brought with them the night before. There was a small, weather-beaten shed seated far in the back of the property.

She had an overhead light turned on, and was slowly disassembling one of her rifles. He glanced around, laying his own stuff down on the large wood block table. The walls were lined with tools and gadgets, complicated and complex, but looking no different than a standard garage. To the undiscerning eye, it was nothing more than a typical storage shed.

The table showed it was anything but. There were a number of weapons laid out in front of him—almost as many as they kept stored in the Impala, but with a little more variety and a some expensive bells and whistles.

She had put down oil, cloths, rods for cleaning, polish and powder. He positioned himself across from her, setting to work quickly, disassembling, oiling and cleaning, polishing, reassembling. Angela was focused on her work, cleaning much more slowly than Dean, but being meticulous. Fifteen minutes passed in silence, with only the rhythmic constructing and dismantling filling the silence. It brought a sense of comfort he'd craved for a while.

A piece of her hair fell forward, into her face, and she clucked her tongue, shoving it aside with an oily hand. It came forward again, and she sighed, rubbing her hand on a towel and snatching a rubber band from the table. She tried to pull it up three times one-handed before he shook his head, laying down the pistol he was holding.

"Here."

She frowned for a moment, then handed him the band. He gathered her hair up quickly and snapped the band around it, away from her face. When she turned back, she gave him a grin. "Hey, you're pretty good at that."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out a rubber band."

"You'd be surprised. My brother's useless at those kinds of things."

He shrugged. "Sam's better at them than me. He's kinda girly that way."

She laughed lightly, picking up a rag, and began wiping down a rifle. "Poor Sam."

Dean paused, glancing up at her, the sense of comfort and familiarity dissolving. She was still smiling, but the expression in her eyes had changed—hardened somehow—at the mention of Sam's name.

He sighed, laying the gun back on the table. "What?"

"I didn't say any… "

"Please. Out with it."

The smile dimmed just a bit. "Well…how is Sam these days?"

"Nice try. What you mean is, what's wrong with Sam these days."

She met his gaze, but continued calmly with her polishing. "I didn't ask that."

"You didn't have to." He straightened, grabbing another gun, and forced a grin. "Nothing's wrong with Sam. Other than the fact that he lost his girlfriend and his father in the last year. He's tired, and stubborn, and angry at the world. That's what's wrong with Sam these days."

A shadow passed across her face. "If you're going to play at being up front about it, you might as well not lie. I knew Sam for almost two years. He's changed, and there's more to it than just Jessica and your Dad."

"Of course he's changed. Living this life would change anybody."

"Will you stop with the 'almighty hunters' act? I told you—I knew Sam. I know something's wrong with him, and I know you're trying to cover it up for him. I can see it in your eyes. You make the same face I do whenever I get the 'what's up with your brother' question."

He turned away, clenching his jaw. She was way too close for comfort.

"I know your father's death had an impact on him. I know Jessica's death did too. But whatever he's shouldering now, that's what's changed him. What happened to him?"

"You want to do this your way? Fine. We'll do it your way. I don't want to talk about it," he snapped, raising his eyes to hers. I don't like this, not being able to lie. He felt like a safety net had been pulled out from under him. "That's the truth. I don't want to talk about it."

There was silence for a moment. He glanced down at the pistol in his hand, fumbling with the clip, waiting for the hailstorm.

Something was lifted from the table; there was the sound of bullets being gathered and the slow 'rat-chat-chat' of metal clinking. "Fine."

He looked up in disbelief, a little stunned. It was not what he'd expected to hear, even from her. "What did you say?"

"I said 'fine.' You don't have to say anything."

"That's it? Just 'fine?' No 'whys', no 'how comes', just 'fine'?"

"Just 'fine.' That's it." She frowned at the expression on his face. "Why? Were you wanting the third degree?"

"No."

"Then…" she flipped her pistol out. "Fine." She waited a moment, and when he didn't say anything else, picked up the rag, returning to her cleaning.

For some reason, that aggravated him even more. He popped out the clip, checking the bullets, and slammed the cartridge back in sharply. Dammit, I've never met someone like her before. I don't know how to act. It's like…

She was focused on her work, a slight pout to her lips, her eyes narrowed. Irritated with him. Irritated, but considerate enough not to ask any more questions. Stubborn, but respectful.

He knew the feeling.

It's like looking in a freakin' mirror, that's what.

"You get this?" he asked suddenly, gesturing back and forth between them. "This…thing?"

Angela pursed her lips, her expression unchanging. She didn't have to ask what he meant. "The 'vibe' thing, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"No."

"I don't either. It's kinda weird, isn't it?"

"Yeah. And a little scary, at least on my end."

Dean tossed her a look, finishing up the pistol and reaching for one of the shotguns.

"Maybe it's an older sibling thing," she murmured. "Maybe it's a dad thing. Or a training thing. Who knows?" she latched her pistol barrel back in one-handed. "I guess it's not hard to believe we'd think alike. We were raised almost the same way."

"We were raised exactly the same way."

"Yeah. It's still weird, though."

"You're not kidding."

She sighed, her face softening. "I don't know. Maybe we're just 'the unforgiven,' or something."

He stopped, the shotgun half open. "The unforgiven?"

"Yeah, 'The Unforgiven.' It's..."

"Metallica."

"Yeah. You know it?"

"Metallica? Nope, not at all."

He managed a straight face for a moment, then smirked at her.

"Jerk," she replied, throwing a cloth at him, grinning.

"So," he said, keeping the cloth and wiping down the gun with a half-smile, "what makes you think you're unforgiven?"

The good-natured grin faded, though her eyes maintained their sparkle. "I don't know. There's something about the way it goes. It fits, I guess."

Dean paused, considering for a moment. "The unforgiven, huh?"

"Yeah."

He returned to the shotgun in front of him. "Yeah."

Sam made his way through the small living room of Angela's house, walking quietly past the sofa, where Dean was curled up, still sleeping. He wore his jeans, which meant he'd been up sometime last night. Doing what, Sam wouldn't even venture to guess.

Angela wasn't up, either, but it was still early. Considering what had happened to her brother, he wasn't surprised that she was exhausted.

He cracked open the lightweight wood, slipping past the screen door and onto the cement porch. The sunlight was bright, and the air was warmer than the day before.

"Hi."

Sam jumped, turning around. "Robert…Roberto. Hey, man…how are you feeling?"

"Better than I have in a while, I guess." The Nahual was seated in a rocker, a blanket pulled around him despite the warmth of the dawn. "What about you?"

"I'm okay."

"You weren't hurt by that monster?"

"No. You got us out of there before anything really nasty happened. Thanks, man."

A smile flickered across the young man's sunken face. "Sure. Thanks for taking care of my sister."

"You're welcome. Anytime." He sat down on the stoop, watching as an old truck rolled across the asphalt street.

"I don't usually have to worry about her…but sometimes she's just too stubborn for her own good. She does risky and unnecessary things." He finally glanced down at Sam, his face pale. "This is a good thing for her, you know. To have you and your brother here. She needs people she can talk to."

"She can't talk to you?"

He shook his head. "Not exactly. It's not the same."

They sat in silence for a moment, Sam lifting his face to catch some of the early sunlight as it broke over the house.

"I never thought it would get to this point," Robert said suddenly. "I'd hoped we'd be stronger or better by the time we faced something like this. We wanted very much to live up to what our father wanted and expected of us. It's un poquito deficil to realize we're not even close."

Sam didn't answer him immediately, watching the soft wind blow across the front yard, shaking the long braches of the old oak in the corner. "I guess I can understand that. About wanting to live up to something. In a way this has been good for us, too," he replied finally.

"Are you glad you found out? About Angie?"

"Yeah…I am."

"Why?"

He thought for a moment. "Because it means I'm not alone."

"Alone? Alone in what?"

He turned towards him. "In…a lot of things."

Robert observed him with his strange gaze. "I guess you're not."

"If anyone had ever told me I'd end up here, though…"

"You'd never have believed it? Nobody would, who knew Angie. No one ever suspects a thing."

"Dean did."

"He did?" Robert raised an eyebrow. "Your brother was suspicious?"

Sam laughed lightly. "Yeah. From the very beginning. She of him, too. It felt a little like 'spy versus spy'."

For the first time since they'd met, Robert laughed. "One drops a cannonball, the other drops a house?"

"Something like that."

"Well, he did better than most, I'll give him that."

Sam turned. "Yeah. Dean has an instinct for those sorts of things."

"What do I have an instinct for?"

He turned to find Dean standing just inside the screen door, staring at the both of them with a sleepy gaze.

"Getting dropped in the dirt by a girl," Sam said quietly, but with a grin.

Dean threw him a nasty look, then popped the door open, walking out onto the porch. "How you feelin, Rob? No need to stretch your legs, take a little canter out there or anything?"

Robert started, his eyes darting around, as if by reflex. "No. Don't talk so loudly. We have nosy neighbors."

The older Winchester raised an eyebrow, glancing around at the completely empty street. With the exception of far off traffic, the only noise was the early morning chirping of crickets. "Really."

"You'd be surprised." He rolled out of the chair, standing unsteadily for a moment. "I'm going to put on some coffee and eggs. You want any?"

Dean raised his eyebrows and nodded, his customary expression of acceptance. "Only if you got some tortillas."

"This is South Texas. Just don't ask me to make them, that's Angelita's line."

Sam laughed softly as the young man went into the house, closing the screen door behind him. His brother moved to the edge of the porch, leaning against one of the spindly supports and taking in a breath. "Hard to imagine there's something completely evil on the other side of this, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Sam breathed in, letting the tranquility of the morning settle over him. "It almost feels like it's not a part of the real world."

"That's because the real world left it behind about thirty years ago," Dean said, sitting down on the stoop beside him.

"Well, I hope it stays this way."

They sat for a few moments in silence, absorbing the sun as it rose in the sky. Sam finally looked over at his brother. "Where'd you go last night?"

Dean through him a questioning look. "What?"

"The jeans."

"Oh," Dean glanced down at the pants, which were slightly crumpled from sleeping in. "Nowhere. Out to the garage. I couldn't sleep."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"They have a warehouse back there," Dean replied. "I guess Angela couldn't sleep either, so she set up in there and let me use some of her stuff."

"She has a warehouse?"

"Whole arsenal."

Sam shook his head. "You know, they're basically us, without the Impala."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Dean, they're skilled enough to be hunters, they spend their time warding off the supernatural—they were taught everything they know by their father…and now they're left to defend themselves against a world that's essentially against them. And the brother…they're basically us."

"Except you're not him, Sam."

He looked up into his brother's face.

"I…"

"Whatever you are, it's not that. If you try and make it that, you're disrespecting everything he's gone through dealing with what he is. Whatever the hell happened to you, Sam, it doesn't make you like him. He's had to live with what he is his whole life. Whatever happened to you, better or worse, you got something of a normal life before it. It's not the same thing."

Sam swallowed. "And she doesn't have to worry about him, is that what you're saying?"

"Oh, she has to worry about him. But not like I have to worry about you. At least when he goes skittering off she has a twenty mile search radius. You have me running all over the goddamn country."

"Funny. You know what I mean."

Dean's grin faded. "Yes, I know what you mean. And I don't know if she has to worry. But every life is different, no matter how similar it looks. Different problems, different outcomes. You know that." He glanced over at Sam. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to find something to compare it to, Sammy. This isn't it."

Another old truck rolled by, this one full of people. The truck blared its horn, a hand raised from the rolled down window. Sam raised a hand in response. "Would be nice if it was, though, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe."

"Are you two going to enjoy the fresh Texas sunshine forever? Roberto's nearly burned down my kitchen." Angela's sleepy voice rose from behind the screen door, her dark hair tumbling down her shoulders in messy curls.

They turned, gazing up at her through the mesh. She yawned, her face still bearing a sleepy look. Sam looked over at Dean, who had a soft, but wary, grin on his face. He's thinking the same thing I am—how long had she been standing there?

She nodded towards the kitchen. "Come on. He's almost done."

"Sure," Sam said, rising. Dean followed, pulling open the door to let his brother inside. She smiled at him, though Sam was certain he could detect a hint of alertness in her dark eyes as he passed by.

Dean let Sam pass him, watching Angela with narrowed eyes. She gave him a cat-like look in return, then grinned.

"Nosy," he whispered as he went by.

"Paranoid," she shot back.

Her brother was in the kitchen dishing out a few eggs, some ham and coffee for them. They settled around the small table, eating contentedly.

The comfortable setting of the morning lasted for a few moments, until Robert settled back, setting his fork on his place, and fixed his sister with a serious gaze.

"So…what's the game plan for tonight?"

Angela had a fork raised halfway to her mouth. She closed her lips, a shadow crossing her face.

"You can't leave me out of this."

"I can most certainly leave you out of this, Roberto," she snapped. "You're not going."

"I am not going to just sit behind here while you go and put yourself in danger, again, to protect this town, again. Dios mio, Angelita!"

Her fork clinked roughly against her plate. "Don't start with me. This isn't just me this time, and I am not going to run the risk of you dying because you have some grand idea that you should."

"And it's okay for you to?"

"No, no," Dean cut in, leaning forward. "It's not okay for her to, which is why it's not her job to decide who gets to stay and go."

Robert turned his tilted eyes to Dean. "It's yours?"

"Pretty much. Since we're the ones who're going to be fighting and killing that thing."

The young man's face darkened for a moment. "And we're just cut out of it?"

"Believe me, if we had a choice, you wouldn't be cut out of it. I would be ten times more than willing to use you as bait instead of Sam here, and lure that sonavabitch out of his hiding spot and across that bridge. And I'd love for her to be the set up shot. Problem is, you're a few transformations shy of the Pet Sematary, and she's no good to me with a lame arm. So…since we're the ones who'll be doing the actual hunting, we're the ones who'll do the actual deciding—who gets to stay, and who gets to go. You stay. She goes."

"What?"

"As a pack mule," Angela muttered to her brother. "I'm not hunting."

"Still…"

"We can't trust you to stay in the car," Sam explained. "You'll be out there, wanting to help—wanting to transform. We can't have you do that if it means your life."

"So…I get to stay at home tapping my fingers while you three risk your lives on my monster."

"Your monster?" Dean scoffed. "What, you call dibs or something?"

"You wouldn't understand."

Sam studied him a moment. "Try us."

Robert glanced over at him. "My father was the leader as far as our family was concerned. When he died, Angela stepped in and tried to take his place, but she can't replace him. Because she's only human. It's my job to take over where he left off."

"Roberto," Angela said softly.

"No! I'm nowhere close to where Papa was. I can't even stop one creature. How am I going to be able to protect people when something stronger comes in to town?"

"Something stronger? You've seen something stronger than this?"

"Roberto—Papa had nearly forty years on you when you were born. Of course he was strong enough to handle everything that came his way. But he learned those techniques—he learned to survive, through perseverance, and intelligence, and training. When situations like this came about he decided how best to handle it—he didn't just throw himself into the fire and hope to come out okay. And if he'd had an opportunity to use allies like them, he would have used them, you can believe that."

"You can't save everything by yourself," Sam said. "You need to be able to rely on others to help you."

"That's how we've stayed alive," said Dean, with a quick glance at Sam. "And it would be a damn shame to waste what you are because you decided to be reckless."

The younger man's nostrils flared, but he didn't say anything. There was silence for a moment.

"Well, since we have that settled," Dean slapped his hands on the table, and stood. "I think I'm going to check on our supplies. In particular, that we have a couple of very sharp, very long machetes."