Chapter 12:

Who Do I Have To Kill To Get Some Frenchfries Around Here?

He was about to throw up. The scene that lay at his feet was not only horrifying, but also real disgusting. Piles of bones and dried out raw carcasses lay scattered all across the ground. Every few feet there was at least some dead bird, raccoon, deer, possum, and others that he couldn't quite make out. It was like some land version of the Red Tide had come through. Nothing left in its wake was left alive.

Dean pulled a hand up to his mouth. He could feel himself convulse with nausea, any minute now he was about to produce chunks. Every few feet there lay an animal either broken or torn, its face marbled in fright. Observing the rest, it appeared as though the animals all had run in one giant flock; only were too slow to escape their predator. Whatever munched on them, it was hungry. Based on everything else they had seen, Dean could only guess it belonged to the mystery villain.

It unnerved him to think the creature was so close to Anya's home. He hadn't traveled two hundred feet into the woods when he saw the first carcass. Advancing more into the area, he saw several more of the protection marks he and his Dad had found close by at the Calvin's. There seemed to be a symbol on every tree outlining the woods to Anya's house. He wasn't sure if they were any good, but still the fact of the matter remained…his girl was in trouble.

Dean was at a crossroads in trying to understand just what sinking mudhole he had gotten himself into. All these signs were pointing at that possibly Anya either had mixed in with something bad like witchcraft or she was a witch. Why else would she be potting Anjelica Root and Sandelwood? A large part of him refused to believe that possible solution. But he couldn't deny that he was bound and determined to find out.

One glance at the sky and his legs kicked into gear. He hadn't liked being in the woods alone in the day. But as the sun began to set, one thing came to his attention—this was one stupid idea. He moved fast to get past the barrier and back to his stolen car.

If ever he and Anya met again, there wouldn't be any other choice but to confront her about it. There was too much that was fishy. No doubt it'd put an end to their budding relationship, but when people's lives are at stake, as it was instilled in him since four: put your hormones to the side and get the job done.

Settling back into the driver's seat, one thing occurred to him, plowing into his gut like a horned ram. Sam. With the sun settling, it would take an hour before sundown. And there was no way he was having his little brother stay any more than he should. Guilt festered like an angry wound for leaving him behind. And now with Sam there supposedly cleaning God-only knows what the guilt tripled. So it only seemed proper to pick him up.

Sam was still scrubbing on his hands and knees at the grungy floor tiles by the time Dean arrived. Lifting an intrigued eyebrow, the corner of his mouth creased into a smug smirk as he watched his brother slave away. It sort of interested him that Sam had not acknowledged his return. The kid was working hard, moving back and forth, covering a good decent portion of the floor.

The routine was non-stop. Circle-circle. Scrub-Scrub. Circle-circle. Scrub-Wipe. The dirt and grime broke away, lathering in a black soapy concoction on the floor. It was disgusting. Impressed at the determined back-breaking work Sam was applying into the scrub brush, Dean took a gander around noting the cleanliness of the once gag-inducing scene. Giving a short cough, his brother spun around in alarm, raising the brush as if in defense.

Spreading his arms wide, Dean said chuckling a bit, "Whoa. Whoa. Easy there tiger. It's just me."

Sam didn't answer. He didn't even give a huff or a small sign of disapproval. He just turned back around and resumed his work. That set off the 'warning' alarms on Dean's radar. "Sam?" Slightly concerned, Dean knelt down slapping a hand on the sweaty back. "Ahoy there Cinderella. Anyone home?"

There was a slight pause in the scrub-scrub. Green eyes shot up but didn't turn his way, and he still remained quiet. The oddity in Sam's behavior had sparked a nasty wave of concern officially flipping the Big Brother Mode Switch. "Hey," Dean gave a gentle shake, "What's wrong?"

Sam still didn't answer. Dean took a closer look and saw a large red swollen blotch on the kid's left cheek. "Sam, what the hell happened to your face?"

"It's nothing," the kid finally mumbled, "Accidentally fell."

"You sure about that?" Dean pressed, now in a mood to start swinging.

The scrubbing continued which caused Dean to roll his eyes in exasperation. "Okay. Okay. Stop this now," he assertively swiped away the dirty brush causing Sam to sit up in a slouch. "You're starting to piss me off Sammy. So stop what you are doing. This can wait."

Pulling the kids' shoulders in his direction, he ducked down alerting his kid brother to at least look him in the eye. Sam turned his head in the opposition direction, his shoulders drooping under his touch. Dean's earlier concern grew larger at seeing the clammy facial, sweaty forehead, and exhausted expression.

"I'm serious Sammy. Knock it off. Now tell me what's got your head up your ass."

Sam rolled his eyes to the side. Shrugging, he answered in a tired drawl, "I'm just tired is all. Now could you please let me get back to work? The faster I get this done, the faster the guy can talk to Dad, and the faster we can get out of here. Okay?"

Dean huffed at the ridiculousness of that statement. "No Sam, it's not okay," he replied calmly. "I think you've done enough for today. Dad is fine without this guy's input. The way I see it he should pay you."

The older brother expected at least a small snicker, instead only received a pained grimace. Appearing bothered, Sam choked out, "N-no Dean. Calvin explicitly said he wouldn't help Dad with the case until his house was clean. Dad expects me to get this done. It has to be done," Sam now started to sound like he was becoming upset. "I've already screwed up once. I don't need to get on Dad's bad side again, okay?"

Huh? That was a statement the older brother never thought he'd hear. It was slightly confusing. Were there mice in his ears that distorted that part of the conversation? Did his brother just admit compliancy? Usually Sam confuted that, always apt to recalcitrance.

"What do you care if you're on Dad's bad side? You're always on Dad's bad side!"

"Dean stop. Okay just…" his lip trembled, "I'm just tired, alright. I gotta get this done, cuz I don't want to fight with him no more."

Dean's jaw nearly dropped to the floor. That was a shocker! And it puzzled him. Sam was always instigating his and his Dad's arguments; he was the one always wanting to fight. Argument was like oxygen to the kid. Dean knew he would make one great lawyer some day...he was the apprentice of lying after all. But now he was expressing how much he didn't want to fight? And with their Dad no less?

It was official Sam had really come down with something.

Well Hell, if he was going to stay here if he did.

Intent on providing some reassurance with a sane, non-smart-alecky response, but coming up with nada, he settled with, "Okay. Well, in that case, at least let's get off this floor. Cuz seriously, a cockroach I think would complain to management."

Smirking at his brother's reply, Sam agreed with a nod of the head, climbing to his feet. In that moment, a bout of dizziness assaulted him and he listed to the side. He probably would have smashed his head in on the floor had Dean not caught him.

"Jeez there Sammy," Dean cried out concerned, bringing Ol' Jelly Legs back up. "What was that? You have a hot date with Beetlejuice's choice for tiling or something?"

Sam blinked several times. Next a series of mumbles floated adrift. "Sorry. Sorry...don't know what that was."

Noting the owlish blinking, Dean said, "Uh, how 'bout low blood sugar? When was the last time you ate?"

"Uh..." Sam's eyes roamed around in a circle. A persistent blank was all he could register. "Um," he shook his head, "I don't know. Can't remember. When we had those enchiladas, maybe? But it's okay. That was last night."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Sam, that was two days ago."

"Oh."

A fast-changing scowl worked its way over Dean's facial features. That was not what he wanted to hear. It was one thing to work the kid hard as a punishment in obtaining decent information; it was another starving him and working him hard to obtain possibly useless information.

"Okay. That's it! We're out of here," he stated gripping the kid's arm and walking him out, despite Sam's protests. Sam tried to yank his arm out of the vice-like grasp, but Dean tightened his fist.

Grimacing in pain, Sam said, "No Dean. It's okay. I'm almost done. Please! This can jeopardize the case."

Ding. Ding. Ding. Dean's bullshit detector rang. "Okay. Stop right there," he whirled around, his eyes shining like piercing daggers. "For one, I don't believe that because you typically don't care about the cases. And two, I don't care what that bastard says. This is not worth starving yourself and getting sick over it. You said you weren't feeling good this morning, and now you look like shit. So you can shove your complaints and protests up your ass. We're leaving!"

Sam bowed his head either in disappointment or exhaustion, he wasn't sure. And truthfully, he didn't care. Sam's well-being was no laughing matter to him. "Now either you come with me willingly and eat something...or I can drag you kicking or screaming—your choice—and shove a burger down your throat. So, what's it going to be?"

The little brother was speechless. His brother can be real persuading, forcefully or not. Even if he had wanted to stay in the shit-hole, it wouldn't have made any difference. He just hoped his Dad was in a giddy and forgiving mood. But the chances of that being the case was like chance of snow in the Tropics. Disappointment was an ever-present wall he could not climb. He really wanted to go to that college fair. Hanging his head down, he nodded in agreement.

"Okay then," Dean jibed walking on.

They hadn't even crossed into the adjacent room when the familiar clanking steps were heard. A second later, Mr. Calvin's beefy frame and greasy face came into view. His black beady eyes sideswiped the older Winchester coming to rest on the youngest, using his best intimidation stare. His decaying breath came out in large wheezes, causing the boy's to take a step back. "Did I say ew can stop?"

Sam glared back longing to tell the man off. But it was Dean who stepped forward threateningly. "Piss off," he spat, pushing his brother ahead and leaving Beetlejuice's lair all to the creepy man himself.

The sun was beginning to set.

A hazy coat of semi-darkness settled over the gloom of the forest, bringing with it a dense silence. No birds chirruped. No critter moved. There wasn't even a soft breeze. John sensed it, recognizing it as he had done so many times before. Evil was nearby.

Just as expected, there were more trees with the protective sigils on them. In the woods for a little over half an hour, he inspected each and every one, searching for the sign he saw the previous night. Now in the daylight, the pattern was in plain sight. An entire line of trees was marked with the same sigil stretching far beyond his sight ability. Maybe an enclosure? The line looked vaguely similar to that of closing something in. It only peaked his excitement.

Following along the trail of the marks, John soon came to one tree where the symbol was scratched off, the initials T.C and M.F within an irregular shaped heart carved over it. He shook his head. If the magical fence contained any power, the scratches would certainly have canceled its effectiveness out. All thanks to some lustful teenagers.

He carried on through the tough brush and thorn thickets, perusing the vast majority of the forest, taking in the dead scenery. The rustling and squeaks from Mopey and Dopey sounded behind him. Willis constantly whispered little things into the social workers ear causing her to giggle like a boy-crazy fifteen-year-old. It was like they were a couple acting giddily on their second date. The racket made it difficult to concentrate. He still couldn't believe the man allowed the woman to come along on this expedition.

But he was going to put a stop to that. Gloria may be allowed to walk through the woods, but no way will he allow her to venture inside the house with them.

Soon the condemned structure John saw while searching for Dean slid into view past a dense thicket of pines. The house a dark, rotting rectangle with a slanted roof and poled veranda stood out like a black thumbtack on a white board. Its presence haunting and eerie, giving a hair-raising vibe to any and all passersby. However to John, the house only looked and felt like any other old haunted domicile he wandered upon. It had yet to chivy him into turning back.

Gloria let out an awed 'oooh' behind him, clutching onto Willis's elbow, while her psuedo-date gawked at the house mesmerized. Obviously the man hadn't been into a whole lot of ramshackled houses in his pre-op career.

Before John chose to enter through the wooden door, he stopped and gazed fiercely at the tourist. He had to make it plain and clear he was not some tour guide. "Okay Mrs. Retvern, this is where I draw the line. I want you to stay out here."

"What? But I've come all this way!" The woman opposed.

"I don't want you coming into this house," John said imperatively. "I wasn't kidding that this could be dangerous, and I'm not having your blood on my hands."

"But…"

"No! If you take so much of a step on this porch, I'll have you arrested. Am I understood?"

Watery eyes stared back at him, and a wretched scowl worked over the woman's tiny lips. She stomped her foot. "But this is important to me."

"I don't care," he stated rudely, heading towards the door.

Willis released his whimpering date and strolled up behind him, "Well that went well."

John sent him a threatening glare.

Together the two men wearily crept through the door, John pulling out his shotgun and Willis pulling out a small handgun from inside his pocket. The inside of the dilapidated old house was dark, musty, and stunk of dead. Clicking on a flashlight, both John and Willis kept their eyes peeled and their ears alert. Observing their surroundings, the room they stood in was empty. No furniture, no material belongings. There was only an antiquated Victorian style fireplace with a white marble mantel and sides. Volumes of dust lay at their feet, hewing to their soles and jeans.

Steadily moving forward, cautious of the many creaks sounding from their steps, they also saw through the light a staircase with a spindled railing. To the right of the grand room was a small hallway, leading down into another dark room. The yellow beam of light caught a glimmering shine, which John noticed belonged to a faucet. The faucet it appeared belonged to an old rusty sink overtop white wooden cabinets. The dark room, he surmised, was either a washroom or a kitchen; it was difficult to make out from the distance.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Willis called childishly.

"Shhh," John silenced him angrily. "You trying to get us killed?"

Willis shrugged.

They advanced towards the stairs shining the light up the crooked steps, noting the several picture frames attached to the wall. John took the first step up.

It wasn't the creaks and whispers that woke it from its peaceful slumber.

It was the smell.

The aroma of flesh, of salty sweat, of the salivating heart muscle pumping cholesterol-filled blood, and of the sweet tangy juice it loved so much wafted through its nose. Bright fluorescent eyes opened. Wide nostrils flared taking in the savory scent. Creaks and moans of the floor from above caused it to sit up from its crouch.

Long spiny claws protruded fast from slimy finger pads.

A low guttural growl occurred and the shadow glided fast against the wall, disappearing through the floor.

The floor groaned behind them. Both John and Willis whirled around preparing to shoot with their weapons on an unsuspecting enemy.

"Whoa! Whoa!" Gloria called with her hands raised in surrender. "It's me. It's me."

"What the hell are you doing in here?" John yelled from the steps. "I told you to stay outside."

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't stay out there for very much longer. It was giving me the creeps!" the woman wailed.

"It wasn't even two minutes," John argued.

"Still…besides why the hell do you have weapons? What's going on?"

"What's going on right now is this is a serious investigation and you're obstructing justice. Now get out of here!" he bellowed, the walls vibrating from his rebounding echo.

"But I have to see if Mr. Lutzvitz is right. There could be real Spanish gold in here," she protested.

"What part of Don't Care did you not understand?" John snarled. "Get out now!"

Gloria glared at him like a spoiled five-year-old before giving a sharp mutter, "Fine."

She turned to leave when a clicking sounded to the left. John leaned over the banister aiming his gun and flashlight down the hallway, Willis mimicking his same movement. The same clicking sounded again only to the right. The three persons scoured every inch of the dark room finding nothing. Breathing heavily, feeling the pervading sense of fear tingling up and down her spine, Gloria decided to leave at that moment. She took a step back unaware of the billowy smoke at her lilac flats.

Gloria at first felt something soft and tickling at her feet. She looked down and stepped out of the interesting darkness, repulsed. Little did she know it would be the last rational thought to run through her head.

John heard the clicking again and his head whirled in a spiral trying to find the source. It grew louder and louder until finally he pinpointed it sounding from the social workers feet.

"Gloria, move—"

It was too late. The dark cloud rushed up her legs and John vaguely saw a clawed bluish hand grab the woman by her thigh, ripping into the tight-hemmed skirt. She screamed, and soon her body was yanked to the floor, sliding along it towards the far right corner. John and Willis let off a round of shots, careful to miss the flailing woman. John ran forward still shooting as something he couldn't quite see kept slashing and slicing into the social worker, sliding her to the opposite side of the room.

"It's moving through the shadows. It's moving through the shadows!" John cried out. He wasn't too far off when suddenly Gloria's bloody body was lifted up the wall, still screaming, and across the ceiling. "Shoot it! Shoot!"

"Help me! Help me!" the woman cried a blood-curdling scream. Bloods and parts suddenly started flying everywhere, spraying both men in the face. "Help me!"

John shot again, jumping to reach her, but it was too late. One second the woman was whole. The next she wasn't. With a gut-clenching 'pop', Gloria's body was ripped apart. Her pantyhosed legs fell to the ground with a splat, her torso falling in front of John. He gazed at the body with dread, his eyes widening in terror at seeing the woman still alive, shaking and jerking. Blood pumped profusely from her mouth along with a pained squeal. She then tried to crawl away feebly.

Jelly-legged John went in to help, bending over…until the shadow from the ceiling formed into a heavy corporeal thing, landing cat-like to the ground and slinging an arm across his face. The force of the impact knocked him flying into Willis and both tumbled to the ground, senseless. Next all they heard was the woman's last petrified scream as the rest of her body was dragged away.

John fought the nausea that invaded his throat. Exchanging a glance mixed with anger and terror towards Willis, who returned an equally horrified stare, John shakily lifted himself off the floor. Shaking away the tremors that bore in his hands, swallowing down the pooling saliva, he shined the flashlight at the ground—feeling the nausea triple at the spreading pool of blood and the trail leading from it. He didn't have a chance to make out the creature. It moved too fast and hit too hard for him to make an analysis.

"Come on," John gasped, "We gotta find this thing and put an end to it now."

Without another word and with dread, the two men pursued the trace of red. Along with fingers and an ear they saw along the way, the trail headed up the stairs. Swiftly reloading his shotgun, John climbed up the frail steps shaking his head the whole way. The woman's screams echoed in his head constantly, and he felt the crushing guilt weigh down when he couldn't help her. And now she's dead.

Finally reaching the top of the stairs, the trail led them down another long hallway each with a few doors on each side. John went on stepping alongside the blood. Willis remained behind him, checking the clip he had in his bullet chamber. Soon the tracks turned into a room, its door wide open.

Backing up to the wall, John shouldered his pack, and readied his weapon. He motioned using his marine gestures for Willis to take the other side and on his mark enter the room simultaneously. The once-cocky hunter didn't understand the cue. He shrugged staying in place.

Huffing in irritation, John counted to three before he leapt into yet another black room. Shining the light, he saw it was a bedroom. A rusty bedframe leaned against the back wall under a broken and chipped window, a dresser with several glass items scattered and a cracked mirror was to the far left wall, and a large heavy trunk sat in the far right corner with broken glass littering over the floor. But what caught his eye was the latched door hanging wide open in the middle of the floor. The blood trail led straight through the hole.

Swallowing down the apprehension, John signaled to Willis he was going in. The man nodded in confirmation that he was following. Both took a side over the square aperture. With a bated breath, John closed his eyes briefly before jumping through the hole. It was a short drop. Feeling something hard and hearing a loud crunch, John tensed, waiting. Seconds later Willis dropped in beside him. Peering at the ground, both gaped in marvel, in horror, and in disgust at the many bloody bones at their feet. They took a quick scan around the flooring and saw nothing but aged old bones and skulls. Animals. Humans. Most were cracked and dirty. Others just piles of shards. John found it rather impeccable timing to not like his job at the moment.

The clicking sounded again and both hunters tensed, ready for action. Hearing a grumbling, licking, and a tooth chiseling on flesh sound, he wove the light over to his left and there he saw a squatty man in drab torn clothing lunching on the arm of the social worker. John pulled the lever back on the gun.

The sound of the lever triggered the monster to look up; the sides of its greasy dirty face glinting in the light. It snarled then turned in a flash launched towards them. John's instinct immediately took hold and he dropped his flashlight, firing his weapon. Willis too let off a shower of bullets, the bright flares illuminating the fiend in a strobe effect. The monster snarled and thrashed, howled and cried, backing away from the onslaught of metal. John and Willis continued to fire, gritting their teeth through the ear-shattering booms from the guns.

The thing suddenly dropped to the ground, bloody, full of holes, and non-moving. Still the two men continued to shoot. In its head, chest, arms, legs, any and everywhere. With the chambers empty, the men still kept squeezing their triggers. Once it finally dawned on them how dark it was, and the monster was non-moving, they barely hesitated to move. Jumping up and pulling themselves back through the hole, and as fast as they could ran to the outside.

Panting for air, doubling over, John leaned against one of the porch's columns. Willis too huffed and puffed, his smug smile returning. He looked around noting that daylight had yet to surrender to the night. Dusk was among them and so was it time for an early night.

"So this was the beast's humble abode," he said rather snidely. "Well that takes care of that!"

An awful wave of rage crashed into John. Gritting his teeth, he fisted the man's collar and pushed him into the front wall. Glaring he spat, "You stupid, stupid son of a bitch!"

"Whoa man, get off!"

John pulled him off the wall and shoved him back into it harder. "You brought that woman along on purpose, didn't you? You knew she would attract it. Used her as bait, didn't you?"

Willis breathed. "How are you going to prove that? We didn't even know the thing was going to be here."

"You knew what we were getting into, and you—" John fumed stepping back, shaking his head, curling and uncurling his fists. "This is why we're not working together. You dragged that woman in and now her blood is on my hands as well. I should kill you right now just on principle."

"But you won't," Willis challenged. "Cuz you know our kind don't take murder too lightly. And I do have friends in high places."

"Do you now?" John continued to huff.

"Oh I do. But it doesn't matter, now right? It's done right? The monster's dead."

"No. We gotta bury it to be sure," John sighed. "And you do can that while I make a call to Calvin to find out why the hell would it be in his house."

Willis stepped back appalled. "Why is it my responsibility?" he whined.

"Because you were the one to allow that woman to come along therefore you are responsible for her death. So you can at least bury the damn thing," John snarled shoving into his grubby hands the flashlight.

"Fine," the cheeky bastard agreed, stomping back inside.

John took his cell out, surprised to find reception in his spot. He moved the cellular device and saw the reception bars decreased. Bringing it back to the one spot, he placed a call.

The small diner nearby their husky motel was packed...or as full as a small town's diner would fill up. Many of the locals—all in orange and green hunting vests, including the women—sat at the main counter chit-chatting and lighting Marlboros. Others, mainly blue-collars, took up most of the window seats. The whole place was buzzing with excitement and gossip, probably about the latest disappearance. At least there were a couple booths left.

The boys trudged in through the swing door, pausing to blink at the nuclear lighting. Once their corneas adjusted, stinging a bit, Dean carried on following the red and navy blue diamond tiles to a free booth in a corner.

Given the bright yellow insulation protruding out of open patches in the plastic seats and the overly wiped tabletops, the place had seen a lot of years: probably the Seventies due to Lava lamps decorating the back tables and a few Charlie's Angels' posters. Dean had made sure he picked the booth with the one of Jacquelyn Smith posing with a pistol.

Hmmm, Dean thought, she can rough me up any day.

Sam slumped languorously into the booth. Taking a tired glance around the table finding it...well, empty, he tiresomely gazed at his brother, whom was staring promiscuously at the wall poster. He let out a tiny huff, shaking his head.

"What?" Dean defended, hearing the huff. "You have to admit she has great legs."

Sam nodded in agreement. "Yeah, you're right. But at least I'm not so public about my affection...and not being so weird about a poster."

Dean cocked an eyebrow in confusion. "Weird? How am I being weird?"

"Dude, you're getting a boner just by looking at it, and in public! I'd say that's weird," Sam argued, believing he had gained extra kudos points over his brother.

The perplexed look immediately morphed into his trademark smirk. Dean shook his head, astounded at being criticized of the typical awkward-teenage tendencies. It was obvious his kid brother was ignorant of what he knew the kid did on special occasions (*ahem* Jennifer Aniston).

"Saaammmy, Saammy, Sammy," he drawled with a childish smirk, "What you don't know?"

Sam scoffed, "Whatever, dude."

"Hey there," a high-pitched voice spoke. They turned and saw it belonged to a tall, blonde, skinny-as-a-toothpick waitress with the biggest bug eyes they have ever seen. She spoke again in the high-pitched voice, causing them to flinch. But she seemed sweet, so they let it slide and tuned in. "Welcome to Annabella's. I'm Tiffany, and I'll be your main server. For starters, what can I getcha to drink?"

"Uh," Sam began, pausing to think of a selection, but instantly realizing he hadn't read a menu thus far.

"We're already to order Tiffany, if that's okay?" Dean cut in ignoring Sam's look of 'huh?'

"Yeah, that's fine. But wouldn't you like a menu? To see what we have?" She asked with one of her tiny eyebrows quirked.

Dean shook his hand. "Nah, we're good. You have the standard burger and fries, right?"

"Yeah. The Burger Float."

"Cool," Dean shrugged energetically, "Then we'll have two orders of those and a couple of Pepsi's."

"Dean, we're really tight on money," Sam said in almost a whisper, "I can just have a salad. It's no big deal."

"Uh no, it is a big deal," Dean objected, careless if the waitress was watching with a wonder if she should come back at another time. "After what you've been through today. You need some good quality protein and fattening up. So either you like it or not, you're getting' a burger, capeish. End of story."

He said it with such earnestness Sam couldn't defy it. He was far too tired for his rebellious-argumentative side to lay down strike. And it wouldn't have surprised him in the least if his brother knew that and was taking advantage. Knowing him, he'd probably do the same thing. "Alright fine," he replied in defeat (which was so un-like him, it scared him a bit.)

Tiffany fingered her notepad, waiting patiently. She realized that the handsome one on the left was obviously older, considering the dominative tone he gave. Her heart pumped rapidly, somewhat alarmed, afraid if she said the wrong thing or stepped out of line, he'd explode at her. But when he turned and gave her a breath-taking smile, her knees buckling a bit, she listened up. Brain-mode kicked in and it dawned on her that the other was the younger and the guy was looking out for him. Hearing the other concede, she immediately wrote down the order.

"Alright boys. You're order should be coming out real quick. I'll be back in a jiffy with those drinks."

"Thank you Tiffany," Dean called, watching her leave. After she disappeared through the kitchen swing door, he turned back to Sam who was seething at him. If he had been an introverted sort of person, he'd bow his head, imploring desperately what he had done...but he wasn't, so he laughed. "Come on Sammy. You know I'm the king of eye-staring contests. You can have another try, but you know you will fail miserably."

The kid didn't blink. He just continued to glare, which was hilarious. He gave the patented Sammy Winchester huff one more time. "Will you please stop treating me like a child? I'm perfectly capable of ordering my own meals."

Dean smiled. "Sure you are. But not tonight. Because I know what you like, and can do without. So guess what, I'm gonna fatten you up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and you're gonna hush up and get on with it. And then afterwards you're gettin' some sleep," he told him sincerely, "Just looking out for ya dude. And I know a burger's a burger, but just for tonight it's...how would you put it? Salubrious? Yeah."

The little bugger across from him blinked in astonishment. "Congratulations Dude, you can be taught," Sam mocked, emitting a couple of harsh coughs, "B-but so...so... incorrect though."

"Oh shut up Bunny Hopper," Dean spat which Sam returned with, along with his patented glare, "Dude the last time you brought up Guppy, you had a hissy fit?"

"Yeah I kinda overreacted there a little bit," Dean admitted.

"A little bit? Besides I told you that was not me. The bunny was just on my bed. I didn't put it there or snuggle with it, or"—he hacked up a lung again—"...or wha-whatever."

Of course, would the older brother believe that? What do you think?

He gave Sam an indulgent look of uh huh, whatever. "Uh huh, sssuuurrre. Cuz I think you gettin' all defensive about it is starting to make me wonder," he teased scratching his chin with an amused expression.

Sam launched across the table and amiably tried to smack him upside the side of his head. Dean sniggered, smacking the hand away. Sam quickly grew tired and slumped back down, frowning over his near-victory.

A look of feigned shock plastered over Dean's face. "What? No more? Ha, figures," he teased again, but pursed his lips at his little brother, realizing just how exhausted the kid was. "It's okay. I shouldn't tease you about the bunny. But you have to admit it was funny. Besides the fact there's a bunny I'd like to hop," he replied taking another look at the poster.

Sam shook his head again, letting out a coughed, "Ew."

"Oh yeah, I get the 'ew'," Dean gawked at him peculiarly, "When there's a certain someone wearing ladies perfume."

Sam cocked an eyebrow, interested. "What are you talking about?"

Dean jerked in surprise. "You can't smell that? Jeez dude, it's like you bathed in it. I'm surprised all the pasture animals hadn't been calling. What'd you do, go into Leann's room and take a peek?"

"For your 4-1-1, no," Sam replied sourly. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I didn't put any on. And no, I didn't sneak into Leann's room, like the sneaky bastard I supposedly am and sift through her underwear drawer that you're obviously thinking."

"But you can't deny you didn't at once think about it," Dean pointed a finger.

Sam shook his head. "Nope. That would've been rude, considering she's really sick. I heard her nearly puking up her guts all afternoon. It was gross to listen to and the smell was just as bad. Didn't help that I wasn't feeling so great either."

"Then why do you reek of old-woman, then?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. The things I've seen and cleaned in that house, I wouldn't be surprised if I smelt of a whole assortment of things. Besides there was actually a big bottle—more like a jug—of perfume that I accidentally spilt and cleaned up. That's the only thing I can think of," he explained, resisting against the memory of Mr. Calvin beating him senseless.

Dean gave a funny look. "Oh, okay. Just glad you're out of there. Seriously that house gave me the heebie jeebies."

"Gave you the heebie jeebies?" Sam gazed at him wondrously.

"Yeah I know and—"

A phone ring sounded. Dean jerked comically at the vibration in his jeans pocket. Fishing out the device, he groaned a little reading the caller ID. Figuring he needed to get it over and done with, he pressed the green button.

Before he could get a chance to say "Hey Dad", the earpiece was suddenly loud with John Winchester's voice. "Dean, what the hell happened? What did he do? Now the guy won't talk!"

Sam sat back with amazed interest, and guilt. His father's voice was so loud; it was a wonder if everyone in the whole vicinity had heard. He heard the first part loud and clear, but the rest came out too garbled to interpret. Dean replaced the phone to his other ear and turned his head away. Sam leaned in more just as Tiffany came back with both their meals and drinks. Giving her a quiet 'Thank You', he turned his attention back to his brother. He couldn't see Dean's face, just heard his side of the conversation.

"—Forget it dad it wasn't Sammy."

Sam slumped some more. Of course his dad blamed it on him...what else was new?

"It was me this time," he heard Dean state. "...As in I took Sam out of there. It wasn't worth it...No no...Would," he stopped, clearly because his Dad was on a tirade. "Dad...Dad. Stop," Dean shook his head in irritation, before blurting into the piece, "Shut up!"

A pause.

"Yeah, you heard me. The house was nearly finished but Sammy was exhausted. The guy was working him too hard and he hadn't eaten all day. You should have seen him."

Sam let his head fall to the table. Great, now he's going to think I'm just weak as a kitten. So let's do everything for poor Sammy, he thought bitterly.

Dean continued to argue with John. "Dad, he took a nosedive to the floor. He nearly passed out...No we're at a diner right now. No...but...Dad listen," Sam could tell Dean was getting desperate. And judging from the deeply furrowed eyebrows and strained facial muscles, he was becoming all the more upset.

"...But..." he sighed. "You know what Dad? Screw you!" And he hung up.

Sam's eyebrows were sky-high. Never before had his brother challenged or disobeyed their father...and Hells Bells if he ever were to curse at him. Whatever his father had relayed, it obviously bothered his brother to the point of direct confrontation. Knowing how John would have reacted to that one little phrase (...said harshly or not), the relationship between the two would be like a cement block suspended on a thin wire. And he hated to think that it might have been about him.

Dean stared at the phone for a good minute. Panting deeply, unable to believe what he had just done, he stared at the little bronze screen, waiting. He didn't have to wait long as a second later the screen lit up again, again with the label Dad. Not apt for a mind-blowing lecture only the Gods could match, Dean turned the phone off. It was for his and Sam's own good. He would have to deal with the consequences later...and boy, were there going to be consequences? He could hardly wait! Realizing the sixteen-year-old's expectant look, he turned away not wanting Sam to see he was upset.

Sam, however, did see it. It wasn't hard given the moistened eyes. So he allowed a few minutes of silence. That way Dean had some time to cool down, and wasn't prone to bite his head off at the least bit said. Chomping lazily at the over-salted pencil sticks the restaurant had the nerve to call fries, Sam sat pondering. And it only took him a short bit to realize: About What? There wasn't anything to think about. He didn't want to think of his Dad. He most definitely didn't want to think about the house and the horrendous cleaning. And certainly, he hadn't wanted his heart broken any more over the College Fair. Crud, he thought. So what?

Then like a lightning bolt flash, it hit him. Something that could possibly get Dean back into a better mood. "Hey Dean," he called tentatively, hoping Dean, in his sourness, wouldn't ignore him. To his surprise, Dean had turned, but had not said anything. That was a start. "Hey, I got something that might make you feel better...y'know, about the case."

Dean's eyebrows creased. He remained quiet, but his face blurted that he was interested. So Sam went on, unbeknownst of what Dean's reaction might be to his earlier hypothesis, "I think..." he licked his lips, "I think I know what it is. I think…I think it might be…the Boogeyman."

There was complete and total silence. The other occupants in the diner raved about their own business, creating all sorts of noise—but right there between the brothers, there was not a peep. They just stared at each other for the longest time.

Dean deadpanned for as long as he could. A split-second later, his facial muscles twitched, escalating into full on humorous spasms. Eventually, the twenty-year-old couldn't contain it any longer and went into a basic stoner-on-a-high-laughing-his-ass-off-attack. Sam couldn't help but snigger too. At least his theory had changed the mood, even if he wasn't kidding. His snigger fit continued as Dean dropped his head onto the table, banging his fists.

"See, I told you it might make you feel better," Sam laughed, before going serious, "But the problem is, I really think it is." At that, Dean's laughs slowed, and he gazed at him through teary eyes. "I'm being serious Dude. I've been thinking about it for a while and I remember the lore about it as a kid. This thing likes darkness. It comes from under the bed, sooo I think there's a chance that...that the made-up-kid's-story can be true."

The convulsive fit hadn't ceased and Sam wondered if it ever would. Still laughing, Dean said, "Uh that's thoughtful Sammy. But..." he cracked out into a snort.

A looonnnngggg snort.

Regaining his composure soon after, Dean said, "Okay. Okay. Under the bed, got it. But...don't you think that's a little far out in left field? Okay, okay," he caught Sam's shunned expression, "We find out that some weird things are actually true, sure. But come on, the boogeyman? That's about as real as the freakin' tooth fairy scamming kiddies for their teeth."

"But it is a theory," Sam piped, trying to keep the giddy atmosphere going, and yet pressing the issue that he may be right.

Dean nodded. "But it is a theory, that's right," he laughed some more, sighing, "Oh my God, that was good." He checked his watch. "Okay Dude, let's eat and get out of here. We ain't leaving until you've had all of your vegetables," he pushed Sam's basket of fries toward him.

Sam groaned with disgust. Slowly picking up the pencil-sticks, he began to munch on them, staring intensely at the tabletop.

Dean caught the forlorn abysmal look and it only lit a fire under his curious sides' behind. Sam was an excellent researcher. Odds were the kid was right. He had been so many times before. "Okay. Say you're right about the B-man. What all do you have?"

A bright smile flourished across the little brother's features, and he told him all he knew.

After the harsh and yet surprising phonecall he placed to his kid, John stowed the phone back into his pocket, screaming out a curse. He had never felt so angry before. Right now, he wanted to beat the crap out of anything, something hard and durable, not even caring if it hurt or not. His kid had failed again, and now his other one he relied on so much had disrespected big time. The punishment he was going to lay on both of them had him itching to run to his car and deliver as much pain as possible.

Until Willis came running out of the door, out of breath.

"What? What's going on?"

"I-it's gone," the man gasped, coughing. "It's gone."

John's stomach flipped. "What the hell do you mean it's gone?"

"I mean, I went back into the hole and it wasn't there. No body. No hair. No nothing. I checked the other rooms, it's not there either!"

"Then where the hell did it go?"