The Winchester boys drove to the yard in silence; not even the radio, Dean's favourite silence buster, was on. The anxiety and dread were almost palpable. However the negative feelings disappeared when Dean turned the car into the yard. Both boys breathed out in happy relief when they realised that despite the events of last evening, the yard still felt like home. They'd both been worried that the attack had ruined the second place they thought of as home, that it had taken away the safety and comfort the yard emanated. But the yard still retained it's comforting familiarity. The piles of gutted cars were projects or spare parts, and not sinister hiding places, the changing shadows thrown by the trees were not monsters in waiting, but just effects of the sun playing hide and seek with the clouds, and the rustling, whispering sounds breaking the silence were not threatening attacks but just the wind shifting leaves and grass. Still, the brothers held their guns ready.

Rumsfeld was as happy to see them as they were to see him, and both stopped to briefly pat the often aloof dog. He did not follow them to the house, choosing instead to stand by the back passenger door of the impala.

"Sorry boy, she's not in there." Sam told the dog when he noticed its vigil. With a sad whine, Rumsfeld trotted back to the battered truck he used for sunbathing. A minute later, he raised his head and sniffed the air, then he jumped off the truck and went round the house.

The brothers imagined the worst when they found the bodies gone, but considering Rumsfeld was home and Bobby had been late coming to the hospital, they quickly figured the man had cleaned up before heading over last night. No wonder he had been exhausted. Both brothers already held Bobby in extremely high esteem, and it didn't seem possible that he'd inch any higher, but remarkably, he did. It was good that he didn't expect them to return any favours because they could never be even with him, even if they tried for the rest of their lives.

However, Bobby had not managed or maybe he just hadn't gotten time to get rid of the three blood stains that marked where each wolf had gone down, and those stains were the only evidence of what had happened the evening before. Dean's eyes lingered on the red splodges and he tried and failed not to think about what would happen to Emily if the curse had been transferred to her, and they failed to stop its progression. He wondered whether she too would end up dead on a stranger's porch, alone and unmourned, whether she'd be laid in an unmarked grave or consumed on a pyre, whether a prayer would even be said for her soul. He shook his head as if to clear it and walked into the house. Sam's thoughts run morbidly parallel to Dean's and he took a shuddering breath to compose himself before following his brother inside.

While Sam showered, Dean steeled himself and made breakfast in the same kitchen their sister had lay bleeding not too long ago, and with the same fortitude, he went and scrubbed the porch clean. Then while Dean showered, Sam located the books Bobby had requested, the laptops, Emily's hairbrush, comb and toothbrush, a dress and her flip-flops, the iPod, and the travel coffee mug she had gifted Bobby. She'd had a trucker cap and the words 'Sensei Singer' cheekily engraved on it. Bobby loved the thing, and even though it was a travel mug, he drank coffee out of it everyday and didn't carry it when he travelled for fear of losing it. Today was going to be the first time ever for it to be taken out of the house. Sam prayed it would make the return journey or Bobby would have his head.

When Dean came back downstairs, complaining about how steamy Sam had left the bathroom, the boys sat down together to have breakfast. That was when Sam finally aired a suggestion that had taken root in his head and wouldn't leave him alone.

"I think those wolves targeted us specifically." he stated cautiously.

Dean looked at his brother like he was a few fries short of a Happy Meal, and briefly wondered whether the shock of the attack had belatedly caught up to Sam. "Werewolves don't do specific targets, they're not strategists, Sam! They're animals!" he answered slowly.

Sam elected not to dwell on Dean's rather disparaging tone. He had a theory and he intended to voice it. "Think about it Dean. Where did they come from? There should have been other attacks nearby, leading up to this. The yard couldn't have been the first place four full grown werewolves attacked! I think someone brought them or controlled them."

Dean considered Sam's words and realised he had a point. Even though the two of them had concluded that these werewolves were nothing like the one they'd met as children or those they'd subsequently read about, what with being able to change on a non full moon night, the brothers knew that other wolf traits would most likely still be existent. And one of those traits would be the inability to curb the beast when in wolf form. One wolf would have been bad indeed, but four would have been deadly; these wolves should therefore have left a bloody trail of destruction in their wake. But there was none. There had been no attacks, and no sightings. It was like someone had caged up the four wolves and transported them to the yard! Or the wolves had somehow held onto their humanity until reaching the yard. Of the two incredibly far left options, the former seemed less crazy.

"Mmm, okay, I admit, you might be onto something Sammy. But who or what can have power over werewolves? Enough juice to use them as weapons?"

Sam shrugged. "I have no idea!" He'd not really thought that far ahead.

"Demon maybe?" Dean suggested.

"Don't think so. They've got their hellhounds, they wouldn't really have any need for werewolves. Besides, demons don't just want her dead. They want her dead and in hell." he said matter-of-factly. However, the surreality of the statement did not escape him and not for the first time, he wondered why they were in this life.

"A witch?"

"If she's powerful enough to control four werewolves, she's powerful enough to come after us on her own." Sam said, effectively shooting that suggestion down as well.

"Some bitches just like delegating!" Dean grouched.

Despite everything, Sam couldn't help smiling at that. "Yeah, well, whoever or whatever sent them, probably knows by now that they didn't succeed."

"And you think there'll be another attempt."

"We have to suppose that there will be."

"Shit!" Dean breathed.

"Exactly!"

"Guess the vacation is bust!"

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his brother's answer. "We have to find out who those guys were. Maybe we can find the person who sent them and end this on our terms."

"How are you going to do that, psychic wonder? Make tea from their ashes?"

"You know about tasseography?" Sam injected a note of disbelief in his voice, unable to resist baiting his brother.

"What?" Dean answered as predictably as Sam had thought he would. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Sam held in a grin. "That's what reading tea leaves is called."

"Seriously?"

"You wanna look it up?" Sam asked innocently, pretending he didn't know the reason for Dean's disbelief. "I'm sure Bobby has got a dictionary around here somewhere!"

"Damn it, I don't need a dictionary! Could you be a bigger geek?" Dean shook his head. "Jesus, I wonder how we could possibly be related!"

"You're the one who brought it up!" Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I was trying not to blatantly point out the obvious; all four wolf boys are dead, so we can't exactly go up to them and ask shit! Oh … wait, don't tell me you're thinking of an Ouija board?"

Sam glared at Dean for a few moments before speaking. "Fine, what do you suggest then?"

Dean shrugged. Aside from bursting his brother's bubble, he really had no ideas. "For now the best we can do is return to the hospital. We've got the computers, Bobby is on it, and you and Rae can theorise to your dork hearts content. Between the four of us, we'll figure this thing out, and get the son of a bitch who did this."

Whether they got it figured in time or whether it would have any bearing on Emily's condition was a matter neither brother wanted to think about. They finished their breakfast hurriedly, and washed up. Dean grabbed the duffel that had the books and Emily's things, while Sam carried the two satchels with the laptops. With their guns at the ready again, they stepped out the front door. Rumsfeld bounded over to them, from the right side of the house his sudden appearance making Dean squawk.

"You're going to get yourself shot, boy. You don't go running up to an armed man! Especially one who has recently had a run in with wolves!"

Sam whose own heart was beating a mile a minute couldn't resist teasing his brother. "Man, Dean, you just squealed like a little girl!" he laughed heartily.

"Shut up!" Dean growled at Sam. "What's with him anyway?" he added looking at the rottweiler with a frown. Rumsfeld, while extremely alert, was a placid dog. He wasn't easily excitable, nor was he given to chasing critters or exploring the yard. It was that combination of alertness and calmness that made him a great guard dog.

The dog barked and raced away. Then returned when he realised they were not following him. He nipped at their ankles, eliciting an irritated bellowed "What?" from Dean.

"I think he wants us to follow him!" Sam exclaimed.

"You clearly watched too many episodes of Lassie!" Dean snorted.

"Just follow the dog!" it was Sam's turn to growl.

"Fine!" Dean snapped. "But if it turns out he just found a dead squirrel, I'm going to hit you over the head with it!" They put the bags in the car and followed the dog.

Rumsfeld led them round back, across the expansive yard, past the small copse at the edge of the property, past the split-rail fence that was in such disrepair that it wouldn't keep a determined two year old out, not that a two year old child would want to venture into the yard! They went through a dense wooded area that made them wonder whether it was some kind of unclaimed no-man's land or part of a neighbour's acreage, past a flower garden that was more neglected than Bobby's place had been before Emily's arrival. And then they arrived so suddenly at a cabin, it was like it had materialised from the air. Beautifully built and nestled so perfectly in the woods, it was probably some rich family's holiday cabin, but from the look of it, the family hadn't used it in years. However, someone else had. Parked in the driveway that was crawling with weeds, was a nondescript grey van. Rumsfeld stopped and sat next to it.

"Good boy," Sam praised the dog even though he had no idea what they had found.

"Nice wheels!" Dean snorted derisively. "Go on, Sammy, check it out, I'll cover you."

Sam resisted the urge to ask 'why me?' and carefully sidled to the van. He was surprised to find it open. He slipped inside and began the search. The glovebox was a bust; it contained just a map, an old owner's manual and a box of cassettes.

"Guess you're not the only one stuck in the stone ages!" he snickered at Dean before continuing his search. He found the vehicle's registration, insurance details and a picture tucked into the sun visor. According to the documentation, the car was registered to a Hunter Keating, a thirty year old male. Sam knew this meant little in the scheme of things. After all, Dean's beloved impala was registered to a Dean Edwards, so it was just as likely that Hunter Keating was an alias.

The picture however gave Sam pause as he looked down at the faces of their attackers. "Looks like these guys were brothers," he said solemnly as he stepped out of the van and handed the picture and registration to Dean.

Dean took the picture and studied it. It hadn't been evident during the flurry of the attack, or its aftermath, but the resemblance between all four men was unmistakable. Dark haired, and brown eyed, they were good-looking, vibrant and happy. Dean closed his eyes temporarily, willing away the images of the men dead … killed by him and his siblings. He reminded himself that the four hadn't been men, but monsters. Monsters that had attacked them. Monsters they had killed in self-defence. But it was hard to reconcile the attack while looking down at a picture of people who looked so wholesome. He sighed and turned the picture over to see if it was marked. It wasn't.

"Jesus, I hope there were no wives or kids!" he said heavily.

"Or parents ... or another sibling." Sam added, his voice clogged with emotion.

Both knew someone important and well loved by the four men had taken that picture. The way they all smiled at the camera was evidence of that. Someone out there was missing these men.

Dean sighed once again and tucked the picture and registration into his pockets. "Let's check out the house."

The door opened to a great room which evidently had served as the sleeping quarters for the squatters as there were four unrolled sleeping bags laid out in a row on the floor, with various articles of clothing and grooming things scattered over them. There were five duffel bags as well. Disregarding this find for the moment, Sam and Dean swept the whole house first, so they wouldn't get any nasty surprises later.

Evidently the four men had used only three rooms; the kitchen, with its sparse cans and packets of food, the utilitarian bathroom and the great room. The rest of the house had not been disturbed; it was covered in thick dust and cobwebs.

Once assured they were alone, Sam and Dean put away their guns and returned to properly investigate the great room. Dean pointed Sam to the corner sleeping bag on top of which lay neatly folded clothes, while a duffel bag and a pair of worn converse shoes were lined precisely at the bottom. "Looks like you're not the only anal one!" he smirked trying to inject some lightness into the somber atmosphere.

"It's called being neat, Dean!" Sam latched onto the opening with relief.

"You say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to. Same difference!" Dean said dismissively, greatly enjoying the affronted look on Sam's face.

Feeling all shades of crappy and guilt, they went through the men's things.

"I've got a wallet!" Dean said waving it around.

"We're not at an auction, Dean! Open it!" Sam snarked.

It belonged to a Carver Keating, aged twenty-nine. Sam found twenty-three year old Archer Keating's wallet tucked into a folded sock. Dean was right, the man really was anal. Gunner Keating was twenty-seven and the car's registration details matched Hunter Keating's identification. The Keatings were from Spokane, Washington.

"Archer, Carver, Gunner, and Hunter? What was their mother smoking when she named them?" Dean snickered derisively.

"Warrior Weed?" Sam quipped innocently.

Dean laughed himself into hiccoughs.

"What are we going to do about this?" Sam asked after Dean had laughed himself out.

Dean shrugged. "Umm … mmm … okay, let's gather all this stuff and put it in the van. We'll figure out what to do with it later. We'll take the van's keys, the wallets and the phones with us though."

It took three trips to get everything in the van. Then they trudged back to the yard. At the edge of the copse, Rumsfeld began to growl. Shushing the dog, the brothers shared a split second glance with each other and retrieved their guns. They crossed the yard in a silent dead run and flattened themselves against the wall. Their eyes were briefly drawn to the tomatoes that Emily had harvested before she'd been attacked. The vegetables had rotted in the sun, and the sight made the boys' hearts stutter. Taking steadying breaths, they looked away from the ground to each other. At Dean's signal, Sam flung open the kitchen door.

"Don't move!"

Two unwavering guns pointed at another.