Author's note: This concludes part two of the story. I'll be continuing it in part three, chs. 21-30. My thanks to Kunju for her beta fu, and to you folks for your kind feedback and your patience while this story was stalled the past few months. I hope to keep it flowing now. And I hope you enjoy! EB

Brothers and Strangers

By EB

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Chapter 20

"Figure we'll bunk here tonight. Head to Fleming first thing in the a.m." Dad glances without interest around the motel room, and then gives Sam a brisk nod. "Beer run. Be back in a few."

Sam nods, and sighs once the door shuts behind his father. His hip aches, too much sitting still in a car that never has had quite enough space for his legs.

For some unspoken reason they've stopped just short of their destination for the night, a bare twenty miles or so from Fleming. Now that they're close, Sam doesn't sense Dean at all. Maybe all of it's just been an illusion. He's felt Dean near because he needed to feel him, because he wanted to so desperately. Nothing psychic about it, just old-fashioned loneliness. Except for his time at Stanford, he and Dean have never been separated for long. Plenty of times since then he's wished for it, felt like he was going to strangle Dean in his sleep for being so fucking annoying, cringing at the stale pickup lines he used on girls who deserved way better, his tics and ingrained habits.

He doesn't sense anything now. This is just some burb outside a burb -- Wherever, Connecticut, a tiny town near another even smaller town in a flyspeck of a state, and Dean is – somewhere, not here. And tomorrow, come whatever else, Sam and his father are going to find him.

He sighs again and levers himself off the bed, fills a plastic glass with ice and pours some water from the bathroom tap. It tastes strongly of minerals, salty, and he grimaces and looks at his unshaven face, the bags under his eyes –

And sees another face, a silent explosion of light and no heat, teeth bared in a radiant grin.

"There you are," the man croons, singsong, gazing at him with clear blue eyes. "Sammy. Dean's little Sammy. Only he's not Dean anymore. Did you miss the memo, Sammy? Big brother's a little brother now."

"No," Sam says hoarsely. "He's Dean. He'll always be Dean."

The motel bathroom is gone. This room is spacious, vaguely familiar, sunlight pouring through a wide, tall window, even though the sun is already down outside. The man – Gabriel, Sam thinks desperately, his name is Gabriel – toasts him with an ice-choked glass and takes a sip. "Things change. Some of them, at least."

"Who are you? Or maybe I should be asking what you are."

"Everything you aren't," Gabriel says easily. "Rich, for one. Powerful. Oh yeah. I have everything you don't, Sammy. And I have Dean."

It's hot here, hotter than it should be. The light from the window burns, redder and brighter than sunlight. Sam glances at it, feels no surprise at the flames licking at the heavy draperies. "I'll get him back," he says. "You can count on that."

Gabriel gives a slow nod. Sam hates that smirk, suddenly. Loathes it with a gut-level intensity he isn't sure he's felt since Jess's death. "Did I mention I have friends?" Gabriel asks conversationally. "Lots and lots of friends."

Sam licks dry lips, and feels sweat tickling its way down his temple. "If that's what you call them."

"Would you like to meet some of them? Because I promise: they're just dying to meet you."

Sam draws a breath, and flames engulf the room, searing his skin, sucking all the oxygen away. He reels, catches himself on a low divan, sees red eyes through the flames, slaver dripping from toothy jaws.

"Thing is, Sammy," Gabriel says calmly, voice carrying through the din of snapping flames, "you can see me. Us. But what you don't realize is: WE SEE YOU, TOO."

There is no difference between Gabriel's grin and the ones Sam sees all around him. He can't breathe, smoke fills his lungs, and teeth close on his throat. There is a gristly popping sound, and he tastes blood.

He opens his eyes to a water-stained ceiling, and his father's drawn face.

"Getting kinda tired of this little routine we're doing here, Sammy," Dad says. He rubs his hand over his face.

"Wha."

His head is aching, a familiar violent pain, and he sits up with a groan.

"What did you see?"

Sam swallows bile. "We gotta go. Now, tonight, it's –"

"You ain't going anywhere, buddy. Not right now."

"But Dean –"

"You got a nosebleed and an earbleed, both." Dad swallows, keeps right on looking grim while Sam reaches up to touch his nose, not really all that surprised that it's true. "Don't gotta tell me, whatever it was, it was bad. Is he – Is Dean –"

"He's alive." Dad holds out a glass of water and Sam drinks thirstily, tasting ashes on the back of his tongue. He still feels hot, and there is a phantom pain in his throat, like an old, mortal wound. "I'm sure he's alive. But something -- It's Gabriel."

"The brother."

"He's -- He's not human, Dad. Or not completely. Not anymore."

Dad gives a slow nod. "Possessed?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I couldn't -- I couldn't tell."

After the water there's a bottle of beer, chilled and sweaty, and the pain of his unstrangled throat has begun to recede, supplanted by a throbbing headache centered at the back of his skull. He sips the beer, and says, "How did Dean find them so fast?"

Dad drinks some of his own beer – from the angle when he tilts the bottle, almost gone, and it may not have been his first of the evening, who can say – and shrugs. "Might already have known who they were before he split. Went right to em."

"Maybe." It doesn't feel right, but he doesn't know anything, not for sure.

"So what's the game plan?"

His father is looking at him expectantly, and Sam fills this strange moment by drinking his cold brew, letting it wash the rest of the taste of fire from his mouth. Dad's always been the one who's sure, who's barking orders with no flicker of doubt that they'll be followed. Sam isn't used to being on the receiving end of this look, like he has answers. He doesn't, he never has, but for the need to get Dean back. Back with him, back where he belongs, where he is loved, where he is FAMILY.

He shrugs uneasily. "Check things out, see Dean, find out what's going on. Beyond that -- I don't know."

After another hour he takes some pills for the pounding headache. Lying in bed later on, the room silent and his father tense and unsleeping at his side, he wonders why, in all the visions of Dean's history, his biological family, he has never seen Dean as an adult. Wonders what that means.

He pulls the blanket and spread higher over his shoulders, fighting down a chill of icy fear.

According to the map, the northern and eastern outskirts of Fleming are also the edges of the Fleming estate. It isn't marked as such, but Sam can see no other reason for the enormous chunk of land that is otherwise unmarked: no plats for individual holdings, a space large enough for a modest state park, but this isn't state or federal land. It's private, and there is only one family he knows of locally with such substantial acreage.

The Fleming estate is a big spot of emptiness on the map, and driving through the namesake little town, Sam feels very small by comparison.

"Isn't much, is it?"

Dad drives slowly down the tree-lined main street, face unreadable as he glances around.

"Pretty."

It is. Fleming is small, picturesque, big neat houses with immaculate gardens, and in the center a town square straight out of a postcard, train station, expensive shops. The people out and about look like Sam's Stanford-era image of the good life: well-dressed, smiling, WASP-y families, moms and dads and kids, enjoying one of the last weekends before school starts back up.

Looking at it makes him feel vaguely sick now. He can't imagine a place where Dean would fit in less. No pool halls, no cheap little diners. He hasn't seen a single fast-food place, and among these expensive little imported cars the Impala sticks out as nakedly as if a decked-out street-smart prostitute were to start shopping among all the neat, sparkling families.

"Fucking Stepford," Dad mutters, and Sam doesn't nod or say anything, but he silently agrees. The wrongness is vague, but it's there. Fleming is way too perfect. From the people to the squeaky-clean streets, the immaculate cars, the gleaming shop windows, it's unreal.

He fights down a shiver and clears his throat. "The house. We need to find the house."

Dad stirs but doesn't reply.

According to the map there are only two roads bisecting the Fleming estate. One is a state road, the other simply a meandering line, PR 4, Private Road 4. The woods are heavier here at the northern boundary of the town, old growth left to do pretty much as it wants. They drive considerably under the speed limit, looking for signs. There is no traffic. For a good-sized highway it's sort of strange. There should be commuters, or since it's the weekend, maybe vacationers taking the scenic route. But there are no other vehicles.

"Like they can't see it," Sam whispers.

"What?"

He glances over to see Dad watching him curiously. "The house," Sam continues slowly. "It's protected."

"I'm gonna take a guess you don't mean a security system."

"Wards. But it's old power, very old." Gooseflesh prickles his arms, and he looks down at them without surprise. "This house should be a tourist attraction, but I doubt very many people even know it exists. It's hidden."

"Filthy rich family, right? Pays a lot for privacy."

Sam shakes his head. "It's not that. You feel it, don't you? The energy?"

Dad watches the road, expression flirting with dread, hope, a jittery look of fear. But he doesn't reply. Doesn't need to, really.

PR 4 is tucked away behind old-growth beech, trees that might have been saplings around the time of the founding fathers. It's a gravel road, one narrow lane that does not invite investigation.

"There," Sam says hollowly. "That one."

His father slows until the Impala's barely crawling. "Thought we'd look for the state road."

"We could, but we wouldn't see anything. Even with this one it's protected."

The Impala crunches to a stop on the narrow crumbling shoulder. "Private road," Dad says heavily. "Trespassing?"

"They won't call the cops. The estate has its own ways of looking after itself."

"So we go?"

"We go."

A few yards off the highway the trees close behind them, green and tall. A hawk with glossy rufous tail feathers swoops low, so close Sam can see its eyes, black and unreadable. Don't see me, Sam thinks blindly. Don't see me.

The forest is claustrophobic, nothing but the skinny band of road and tall, whispering trees on either side. They drive slowly, silently, and Sam feels the tension like hands around his throat, fingers tightening until he can barely breathe.

After a few identical miles the trees thin to their left, still undeveloped countryside but it is the beginning of a natural clearing, a broad meadow slashed through the middle by a creek.

There are telephone or electrical wires along the road. Birds line the wires, dozens of them. Sam sees a hawk – maybe the same one – perched between two sparrows, predator lying down with prey, and swallows a thick jolt of fear.

Watching. They're watching us. And who do they report to? They're birds.

"So where's the damn house?"

Dad's face is tight with tension. Sam swallows again and whispers, "We're almost there."

"What is it, a fucking mansion?"

"Yes. But that isn't all it is."

He sees the first of it above the trees. The low-lying meadow, a belt of oak and beech around the edges, and beyond it, a roof topped with a cupola. Long, wide, blending so well with the trees.

The road curves, the trees thin further, and the house is there.

Still a mile away, maybe two, but it sprawls languidly ahead, broad and tall and unspeakable. Sam reaches out without thinking, fingers closing on his father's forearm, and the Impala jolts to a stop.

"Jesus," Dad breathes. "It really is a mansion."

The house is like no other Sam's seen. A part of his brain that can still process informs him of the obvious additions, the added-on sections, making a once-large house now immense. But mostly he can only gape.

A heavy wrought-iron gate closes the way to a broad driveway, and behind it the house stretches wide, three stories at least, a Baroque conglomeration of brick and marble and tile. Neo-Byzantine, maybe, or Second Empire. No, neither of those, more as if some long-ago architect had designed this in a fever-dream, a delirium of styles. Jacobean, Elizabethan, with Frank Lloyd Wright in the low-lying secondary house to the right, squat and jarring.

You could get lost in this house, Sam thinks, and that is what it wants.

He blinks fast, twice, three times, and behind the house he sees the rest. The sun has darkened, but there aren't any clouds today, it's a bright, hot summer day. Behind the chimneys and cupolas is a darker shape, thin towers and minarets angling up into the sky. It's murky, wavering in Sam's sight, and he draws a breath to speak, to say something like Let's get out of here or Don't you SEE, it's huge but it's so much bigger than it wants you to know.

A hawk flutters down to land in a branch a couple of feet from the car. And lips breathe hot and rank against Sam's ear, a voice screaming GET OUT. GET OUT, SECONDBORN.

He claps his hands over his ears and can't hear himself screaming, too.

"But you didn't see anything."

Sam presses his fingers together over the bridge of his nose. His head feels stuffed full, like he's getting some mother of a sinus infection or something, but he's perfectly healthy. Whatever's filling up his head, it isn't illness. "I told you," he says quietly, "just the house. And that damn bird following us around."

"What bird?" Dad stands a few feet away, putting some distance between them like he's afraid whatever Sam's got is catching. "I didn't see any birds, Sammy."

"Never mind, doesn't matter. Or – it does, but." He sighs, looks squarely at his father. "We gotta get Dean out of here, Dad. This place -- It's not good for him. Not good for anybody. Don't you feel it?"

Dad just looks at him, and Sam feels another stab of wrongness, seeing the lost look on his father's face.

"You don't, do you?" Sam swallows. "It – whatever this is – you're not sensing it like I do."

"Sorry, buddy, I think you got the psychic end of the pool." Dad looks away. "I just came to get my kid back. If I gotta scrag a demon to do it, well." He gives a hollow laugh. "Can't say that comes as much of a surprise these days."

And really it doesn't. Not when all's said and done. Maybe it's fate, kismet, whatever, but Dean doesn't have to be a Winchester for demons to play a critical part in his life. And Sam's sure whatever yelled at him outside the Fleming family mansion was demonic in origin. Gabriel, he thinks, is still mostly human. Mostly. But that voice had held nothing human. He shivers, glancing around the little park where they retreated after fleeing the house. It looks innocuous, pretty little park, complete with playground at one end, swingsets and teeter-totters and an elaborate jungle gym. No kids, but it's early yet.

Dean's here. He knows it, feels it in the marrow of his bones. They just have to find him, and then get him to listen. Might not be easy, that last, but Dean's smart, he's canny. He'll know when two plus two don't equal four.

"Come on." Dad squeezes his shoulder, lifts his chin. "Day's wasting."

Sam follows, and later he blames his preoccupation with finding Dean for distracting him from what was about to happen. Should have sensed it, spidey-skills on high alert after the demon voice at the house. But he doesn't, just lumbers behind his father, and so they're both standing unprepared in the shade of another beech tree when they see a car coming.

"Damn," Dad breathes at his side. "That is a sweet ride."

His father's face is slack, rapt with admiration. Sam glances between Dad and car, sees a slick red convertible, engine rumbling like the Impala's. But it's the driver Sam can't stop staring at.

Because it's Dean. Dean behind the wheel of this –

"'70," Dad says hoarsely. "That's a hemi. Plymouth Barracuda."

"Dad. It's Dean."

Dean parks the Barracuda further down the street, an angled slot near a trendy-looking little restaurant. Clots of people out front, probably waiting for tables. Belatedly Sam thinks, It's Sunday, early, that's a brunch crowd. Kids aren't even out yet for the park, that's why no one's playing on the swings.

He shrinks back behind the cover of the trees, thinking blindly that he's glad the Impala's parked further away. Unsure why he doesn't want Dean to see them yet, only that he is. Not the car, not them.

Dad's still standing there, looking lost, puzzled. Sam yanks him back, just in time for Dean to step out of his gleaming new muscle car. Dean who's wearing the wrong clothing, no jeans and leather jacket, just slacks and an ordinary shirt, even has the tails tucked in.

"Dean," Dad says thickly, at the same time a very young voice cries, "Unca Dee!"

A child detaches from the small crowd, pelting down the sidewalk in Dean's direction. Four, Sam thinks, maybe five years old, dark-haired, and Dean scoops him up, swings him high before settling him on his hip. Dean's laughter rings clear in the air, separate from the rest of the brunch folks, familiar and devastating.

Other people are coming over as well. Clearly this is a meet-up: a blonde woman carrying a baby, a dark-haired woman in a sleek summer dress. They hug Dean, too, quick cheek-kisses, more laughter.

And another companion, male. Sam's heart stutters in his chest, gives a leap and settles into pounding far too fast. Tall, dark wavy hair, an easy smile on his face.

"Gabriel," Sam whispers. "That's him."

At his side Dad says nothing, and Sam sees Gabriel pause, the minute hitch in his step.

The little group hears something, probably a call inside, because they're moving into the restaurant, Dean still holding that little boy, who's chattering about something to him. Dean's smile is wondering, not just amused but something deeper, something that moves Sam's heart in a wholly different way. Dean, he thinks, loves this child already. It's been less than two weeks, but Dean loves this little boy, is connected to him.

Gabriel pauses on the sidewalk after the others have gone in. His gaze focuses immediately on Sam's hiding place. A thin smile lifts the corners of his generous mouth, and he waves once. Smile gone, he mouths something, and then ducks inside.

Dad stands very still, watching. Sam pries his dry lips apart, hears only a wheeze of air instead of words.

"Guess he found them," Dad says hoarsely.

Sam nods, and thinks, You didn't hear him. You couldn't. But I did. "He's mine now," he said. Mine.

Dad gives him a grim look. "Time to get him back," he says, words as stark as carved granite.

"Yeah," Sam manages. "It is."

END PART TWO

to be concluded in part three. EB