A/N: Hey everybody, this is the last of the my pre-written chapters so updates may be a bit slower (only six chapters left to go though). I'm planning on working on the next one today, so no worries! Enjoy this :-)

And happy birthday (belated) to my loyal reviewer squidgy78. Hope you enjoy this!

Sam

They'd stayed on the lawn all night. Sam almost hadn't expected Dean to be game for it, but then he was, and Sam berated himself for doubting. Dean could be—and was—a jerk sometimes, but he was as loyal as...well, Sam wasn't sure what he was as loyal as. More than anyone in fact or fiction whom Sam had ever known.

They walked home in the pale light of dawn. Dean seemed to think that whatever was out there—if anything—would be less likely to strike by day. "We stay out of the woods, we're probably fine."

"Probably?" Sam hadn't liked those odds.
"We'll crack down on the lore today. Get this sonuvabitch ganked by nightfall."

"Promise?" Sam had felt five again, asking like that, but Dean didn't point out his immaturity. Just cuffed him on the back of the head and smiled fondly. "Promise."

In the light of the morning, Sam rubs a weary hand over his eyes. Dean had pointed out that they needed to sleep, and so Sam had pretended to—but as soon as his brother's even breathing had reassured him, he slipped silently from his bunk and made his way into the kitchen.

It's been productive, even though his head is humming with weariness and every miniscule muscle in his eyes feels strained. It's been productive—he's found something, and he gets to his feet to go and shake his still-slumbering brother awake when Dean wanders into the kitchen.

Morning-Dean is something of a spectacle—rubbing the pillow-creases out of his face (that's what you get for sleeping face-down) and with his usually carefully flicked-up hair standing out every which way.

"Dude," Dean says, fixing a sleepily peeved eye upon him. "Why are you up? It's—"

"It's ten o'clock," Sam interrupts crisply; or at least, it's supposed to be crisp. it comes out kind of mumbly.

Dean's gaze sharpens. "You didn't get any sleep."

Sam shrugs, caught. "Yeah? So? There was work to do."

Dean purses his lips, displeased. It's an unspoken Dean-code that he is allowed to sacrifice food, sleep, and general health for Sam or Dad or God-knows-what—but Sam isn't.

Sam doesn't care (not really). This is important; and he's fifteen, old enough to make his own decisions.

"I found something," he says, and Dean's eyes shift from exasperated chagrin to interest.

"Guess sleep is overrated," he murmurs, taking the seat across from Sam. "What have you got?"

Sam licks his lips. "It's pretty creepy."

"I'm sure I've heard worse. Shoot."

"It's an...Asin," Sam says, tapping a forefinger on the faded words Myths and Legends of the Alsea Native American Tribe.

He's not surprised when Dean snorts. "What the hell?"

"Asin," Sam repeats patiently. "It's...well, we weren't far off. It's like a female Wendigo. Native American nightmare stuff. She sings to get kids into the woods and then she..." he pauses.

The Family Business has given him an iron stomach for most horrors, but somehow this is …closer.

"She eats them," Dean finishes, so Sam doesn't have to. "Nasty."

"Yeah," Sam stands up, blinks, thinks that he may have screwed himself over as far as action goes. He's bone-tired.

"What's it take to gank this mother?" Dean grabs a poptart out of the cupboard and jams an unreasonably large piece of it into his mouth.

Normally, Sam would make some derogatory remark about the legitimacy of the word "ganking," which has always been a favorite of Dean's...but today he just doesn't have the energy. Doesn't have the time. "It says nothing about killing her," he admits.

Dean leans over his shoulder, munching his poptart. "Associated with huckleberries," he says. "Huh."

"What?" Sam asks.

"Saw some by the road, the other day. Kinda like blueberries."

"Yeah, I know." Sam brushes the crumbs of Dean's makeshift breakfast off the pages.

"Well, what do you want to do?" Dean runs a hand through his hair, restoring it to its usual state.

Sam looks up at him quick, startled. Dean's asking his opinion? Dean thinks he has a say in this?

It's invigorating. And kind of terrifying. "There's those disappearances up where Dad probably went," he says.

Doesn't look at Dean when he mentions Dad. Doesn't wait to see whether Dean winces or not.

"Guess they're goners," Dean observes softly, after a pause. Then, "But...maybe Dad got there in time."

"Not if the Asin is here," Sam points out, and that tiny, dreadful silence falls—that silence they've known for...almost forever, the silence that means what if Dad didn't make it.

Dean breaks the silence. Dean always does, because Sam knows that Dean doesn't want him to be afraid. "Where does it live?"

"Dark and damp," Sam answers. "Of course." He's trying to wrap his mind around this, this whole we've got to kill or gank or what-the-hell-ever this thing without help, without Dad, but it's like he can't process it.

"There anything like that around here?"

Sam swallows. "One of those local history books mentioned an abandoned mineshaft. For silver, or gold, or something. Back from the Gold-Rush days." He lifts a shoulder when Dean looks at him. "What? It was an interesting book. Plus it paid off."

Dean just mutters, "Geekboy," kind of affectionately, and hands Sam a poptart. "Gotta eat up, Sammy. We have work to do."

"It's Sam," Sam corrects automatically, but he eats the poptart. It's slightly stale.

"Huckleberries," Dean muses, scanning the book. "Doesn't say whether it's good or bad for this bitch. Though I guess...well, the Indians avoided 'em. Maybe they were right to—or maybe they're the only thing that would work." He smacks a hand against the cover, stands up. "Guess it's the best we've got."

"For...?"

"A weapon," Dean explains, grinning. "Pack a shotgun round with some ground-up leaves or somethin'. I don't know."

"Is that going to work?" Sam's skeptical. "I mean, even if they're deadly to her. You really think you can pack—"

Dean shrugs. "We'll just have to figure it out. "He moves for the weapons bag, and Sam feels a wave of panic rise in him. Dean's so casual, so eager to take this creature on...with little knowledge or advantage. Shotgun shells full of leaves.

Of course, Sam thinks. This is about Dad.

It's always about dad. Dean probably figures that if he kills this monster, Dad will be proud of him. Dad will talk to him.

Dad won't leave him again.

It's sick that Dean would risk his life for that—hell, he'd risk everything. Everything but me, he realizes, and wonders if that's supposed to make him feel better.

Also—"Dean—you know I'm going with you."

"Of course," Dean nods, but it's too quick.

"All the way," Sam persists, and knows from the look on his brother's face that he's caught him.

"Sammy..."

"I mean it," Sam says, firmly (maybe a little desperately). "You can't do some sort of stupid suicide mission, just because—"

Dean cuts him off so he can't finish. "You can run re-con, keep watch—"

"You're not going in alone." Sam sets his jaw, pulling out all the stops on stubborn. It would usually work, too, but Dean's got one non-negotiable point. One thing he won't cave on. Take care of Sammy. It's practically ingrained in his DNA.

It's the only thing he won't give in on, even to Sam.

Sam has the uneasy feeling that he's hit solid steel on this, in a way he doesn't even with Dad. But before he can form another argument, there's a pounding on the door.

Dean grabs his gun, holds it behind his back. Opens the door.

Sam can't see who it is, but then Dean says—"Rachael?"

Sam's on his feet and beside his brother in a flash. He takes one look at Rachael's face—tear-streaked and deathly pale, and she doesn't have to say a word, at least not to Sam.

Sam just—knows.