Chapter 26: Accepting Challenges

The steering wheel felt good and solid in his hands, the vibrations of the road natural against his palms. One of the great lakes was visible on their left while the countryside changed from city to rural on their right. The sky overhead was cloudy but not overcast and Dean needed his shades to counter the sun's glare off the water.

A short grumbling noise accompanied Dad running both hands through his hair before looking out the passenger window. "I ran it down about a year ago," he said slowly. "It took me a while to figure out it was a demon. Since then, I've been working on a way of tracking it. I think I've figured out its pattern."

"Which is?" Dean pressed.

"It visits certain kids when they turn six months old. Exactly six months," Dad emphasized.

"Dad?" Dean asked, feeling a little scared. "How old was Sam when, uh..."

"Six months," Dad confirmed. "To the day."

"Crap," he breathed. Between the new information, what it might mean for Sammy, and Dad's combination of anger and guilt, Dean had to pull off the road while he could still see straight. They sat in relative silence beside the highway with semis blowing past, causing even the heavy Impala to shake. His mouth and throat bone dry, Dean attempted to swallow. Dragging his eyes from the safety of the needle sitting at 0 on his speedometer, Dean looked at his Dad. "But if it picks on infants, why would the demon want to bug a bunch a teenagers?"

Dad shook his head, dark eyes piercing and intense. "I don't know," he said heavily. "I guess it's up to even more than I thought." He scratched at his heavy stubble with one hand. "Maybe these kids were all visited when they were six months old?"

Dean's hand darted to the seat between them for his cell. "Follow-up visits? Holy crap. What the hell does it want?"

Dad's large hand closed over his and Dean could feel the strength of his father's determination and the depth of commitment to figuring this out. "I'm... I mean, we're going to figure this out, Dean. There's no need to alarm anyone unnecessarily. So far it's just a theory."

But Dad was still holding back. There was more, Dean was certain of it. "And?" he pressed.

Dad released his hand to stare out the window towards the water. "I was wondering if the demon focuses on mutants. It wouldn't explain why it skipped you, but it might explain why so many of the kids at the Institute have been dreaming of fire."

Dean looked down at the phone clutched in his hand. "Maybe I should call Jim, too?"

"Yeah," Dad breathed. "We might need more help on this one, son. Here, let me do it. I owe him an apology anyway."

"For what?" Dean asked as he passed over his cell.

Another tidal wave of guilt tore through the car. "For borrowing his cabin without letting him know." Dad glanced over. "I kind of took Adam camping."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I thought it might be you, except you weren't even supposed to be in the state."

"Sorry?" Dad's eyes sought forgiveness. Again.

Dean growled to himself as he threw his baby back in drive and checked traffic. "Just make the call," he ground out. It wasn't that Dad had lied... Yes it was. That was exactly it. Dad had lied about Adam, his existence, tracking a freaking demon, and had sneaked around behind Dean's back continuously. He had trusted his father implicitly, blindly, and look what it had earned him. Instead of trusting his judgment, Dad had taken a plunge off the deep end which had raised his stress level to the point of fully activating the mutant gene. Now Dad was doing some major backpedaling, granted, but could it ever be enough? Even if Dad had called and said "Dean, you're busted. I saw you. What the hell is going on?" it would have been better than what really happened. And he was a little tired of being the one always forgiving.

Food. He needed food, he was feeling irritable again. His hand dove inside his jacket pocket to retrieve a power-bar. Dean munched on it while he concentrated on driving and ignoring Dad's normal-sounding conversation with Jim. The man had no right to sound so freaking normal. Dean shoved the rest of his snack in his mouth, trying to hurry the process of digestion.

Dad dropped the cell on the seat between them. "I think there's a diner up ahead. Why don't we stop and pick up some real food?"

Dean nodded, unable to speak well with his mouth crammed full. "Ooo 'ink mm rear-ble," he accused.

"You are irritable," Dad said calmly. "We're going to sit down, eat, and then you're going to talk to me."

"Out 'at?" Dean demanded, still chewing.

"About what?" Dad repeated. "About why you're so angry. And don't bother denying it, your ears are red."

Disapproval. Dad disapproved of him being angry? Oh, now that was freaking rich! Dean shot a quick glare at his father before taking the next exit. Even if Dad was being an ass, food sounded like a real good idea. The diner didn't look like the best place he had ever stopped, but it would do for now. Dean parked in clear view of the windows so he would be able to keep an eye on his car from inside.

Logan stood on the front porch and watched as a thick line of salt poured from the back of a yellow dump truck. It was amazing what throwing a little money at people could make 'em do. He hoped the two foot deep and foot wide trench around the mansion would keep out the kind of baddies he couldn't sink his claws inta.

"Logan!" Summers barked from the front door. His team leader walked over to stand beside him. "I take it this is Hunter's doing? The salt?"

"He suggested it," Logan replied with a grunt. "But it's the Professor who came up with this." He waved a hand at the truck.

"And this is supposed to stop the kids from having nightmares about fire?" Summer's face twisted in a sour frown. "Really?"

"I don't know about the dreams, but it's s'posed to keep out whatever's behind 'em," Logan explained.

"Behind the dreams?" Summers let out a disdainful chuckle and Logan rolled his eyes. "Any idea 'what' is behind the dreams?"

"Xavier didn' tell ya?" Logan smirked. "Huh. Must not think you'll believe it." He shook his head slowly, like he couldn't believe it himself.

"Logan!"

Oh, that woman's voice was like nails on a chalkboard. The shrill sound set his teeth on edge. It was no wonder he never went inta the library.

"There you are," the Librarian said in a breathless voice, papers clutched in her hand. "Just a moment." She put on the spectacles hangin' from her neck to read over her papers before thrusting one of the pages at him. "Professor Xavier would like you to cut this into the stone just inside the front door. He said he will have some professionals come in later and fill it in with brass. We're going to use paint for now."

"Right." Logan accepted the paper from her. He looked over the symbol with all the squiggly lines. "I take it it's got ta be exactly like this?"

"Um, yes," she said absently as she shuffled through her sheaf. "Mister Summers? I believe the Professor wanted you to paint this on the front doors." The Librarian squinted at it, rotating it several times before settling on an 'up' direction. "It's a protection symbol recommended by Mister Singer."

Summers took it from her outstretched hand. "Protection from what?"

"Demons." Singer's rough voice was a welcome sound. "Looks like one of 'em is targeting your school."

"Demons?" Summers chuckled. "Oh, come on. Seriously, what's with the salt and the symbols?"

Singer glared at Summers like he was the biggest idiot he had ever met. "Like I said. Demons." He turned to nod in greeting. "Logan. Good to see you. How's the salt perimeter coming?"

Logan used his paper to point out the dump truck. "Looks like they'll finish before dark."

"Well we won't unless you get a move on," Singer barked. "I've got teachers salting students' rooms, protection wards going on all the outside doors, and traps like that one for inside."

"Trap?" Logan asked, his spine stiffening with the thought. "As in, trap a demon?"

"Okay, let's assume for one second you're not making all this up," Summers interrupted. Singer's eyes rolled all the way back into his head, which was shaking slowly back and forth. "Why would you want to trap something like a demon inside the mansion? Shouldn't that go on the outside?"

Singer stepped right up in Summers' personal space with a cold glare. "Son, have you ever seen an exorcism?" he demanded. Summers shrugged and shook his head as he leaned backwards, but Singer leaned in even closer. "Well I have. It ain't pretty. Not exactly the kind of thing you want the neighbors watching." He let out a loud snort as he backed off. "Idjit."

Singer spun on one heel to march quickly back to the house. "And git to work!" Singer snapped before disappearing indoors.

"He's serious?" Summers asked incredulously.

"Dead serious," Logan agreed. He carried his paper towards the house.

"You don't believe this," Summers dogged, following closely. "Logan? You can't believe this garbage."

Logan turned around slowly, considering his options. The Librarian stood right behind Summers, her eyes real big behind her specs.

"I seen a wendigo," he told Summers. "If it weren't for Hunter, that thing could still be feedin' on me. So yeah, I guess I do believe it. And I ain't lookin' to lock horns with no demon, so I got work ta do."

"Wendigo?" The Librarian asked, her face paling. "As in, a human being who became addicted to eating human flesh, acquiring the speed and cunning of a nearly perfect predator?"

"That's it," Logan agreed, turning his back on the twin expressions of disbelief. "Nasty critter."

John watched warily as Dean polished off the blueplate special. While they waited on a serving of pie, his son's gaze finally met his and there was smoldering anger in the familiar hazel green. Great. What had he done now?

"Feel better?" he asked conversationally, knowing it could open up a big damn can of worms.

Dean leaned forward on the table and by the look in his eyes and the set of his jaw, John knew whatever his son wanted now would not be easy. Then the look softened.

"I'm tired of being mad at you." Dean slumped back against the bench seat. "So is there anything else you've been holding out on? Now's the time, Dad."

Grace period. Amnesty. And most likely a one-time offer.

"I figured out it was a demon about six months ago," John informed his son. "I have a line on something that, if it's real, will kill it. And I mean dead, not just gone for now. But the guy I was sure had it claims he doesn't so I've hit a temporary dead-end there. But if he doesn't have it and it is real, then someone else has to have it, so I need to find that person. I've been making contacts with other hunters to that end.

"I've been working on a method for tracking demons. I don't have it all worked out yet, it's still just an idea, but with some additional research I think I'll figure it out." John took a deep breath as their waitress approached.

"Two slices of pie, with ice cream." She slid the plates in front of them. "Here's the ticket, pay up front when you're ready. Can I bring you fellas anything else?"

Dean was still staring wide-eyed at him.

"I could use more coffee," John told her. "We still have a long drive in front of us." The silence continued until she had freshened both of their cups.

"There's more?" Dean asked in disbelief, pulling his pie closer.

John waited for his son to begin chewing before opening the larger, and more complicated, can of worms.

"That's all about the demon. But you said anything I've been holding out on?" Dean gave him a curious look and a nod. He took a deep breath before making this plunge.

"I think Sam planned on picking a fight with me so he could go to Stanford," John said. He could see the anger beginning in Dean's face.

"You said you wanted it all," he reminded his son. "Now let me finish. I, uh, let him."

Dean's face froze in mid-chew. Both eyebrows rose slowly and his eyes widened. "Mmmm?"

John didn't need a translator for this. "Well, I couldn't very well approve of Sam going to college, now could I? I mean, when you got your GED I told you, point-blank, that was enough school. How could I let Sam go after that?"

Dean scowled and pointed his fork coated with pie filling at himself.

"No, I'm not blaming you," John snapped. "I was trying to be fair. Not play favorites."

Dean's eyes rolled all around as his jaw worked furiously through his mouthful of pie. "Are you freaking kidding me?" he demanded when his mouth was clear. Well, mostly. "That was your idea of not playing favorites?"

John scratched nervously behind one ear. "Yeah?"

"Anything else?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Uh, well, considering how the fight with Sam went down, and the fact he won't speak to either of us now, I promised Kate not to tell Adam about the supernatural." John sipped at his coffee. "And I promised for you too."

Dean snorted as he sliced off another hunk of pie. "Yeah, well, we'll see about that."

"Dean, I promised you wouldn't tell him," John repeated. He wondered if his son misunderstood.

"I heard you," Dean replied before shoving more pie in his mouth. He chewed through it before continuing, "You shoulda asked me. We'll see."

"Meaning?" John demanded.

Dean swallowed the rest. "Meaning, if he figures it out or asks, I'm telling him the truth." Dean shot him a glare. "I know how to be a good brother, Dad. I won't screw it up."

John frowned as he watched Dean devour the rest of his pie. John shoved his untouched plate closer. Dean gave him a slight nod of thanks before digging in. When he cleaned his plate by scraping the remains off with his fork, John felt it was all right to speak again.

"Dean, you know you were more than a brother to Sam..." he tried to explain, but Dean held up a hand.

"Forget it, Dad. I guess if he really needs something one of us will hear from him." Dean gave the second dirty plate a push away from him. "And if one of us had done a better job, maybe he'd still be around."

"You do mean me," John said.

Dean gave him a funny look before snagging the bill off the end of the table. Without a word, he left the table to go pay the cashier. John followed slowly, pondering his son's statement. Could Dean blame himself for his brother leaving and, well, being an ass? Oh, this was so going to be a topic in their next session with McCoy. If anyone deserved to be blamed it was John, and if anyone should be held above the mire he and Sam had created between them, it was Dean.

This was going to be a long six hours.

Sam surveyed the large apartment. It wasn't furnished, but that was all right. Sam figured he could scrounge up some furniture. The alleys around here were packed with the cast-offs of well-to-do people. Their trash was often better than what Sam could afford to buy.

With careful budgeting, he should be able to afford even this large apartment, a brand new bed, and have enough left over to feed him for the rest of the school year. He had never slept on a mattress that had never been used before. The thought of it was intoxicating. Sam didn't care if the bedframe was used, but he wanted that new mattress. Those metal underframes were supposed to be cheap, that might be a good option.

He signed the agency's paperwork and handed over a check for the first month's rent. The management company's representative, an older woman with shellacked silver hair, handed over the keys with a reminder that the rent was due no later than the second of every month. He escorted her out, anxious to see what it felt like to have one place all to himself.

Sam explored the den, kitchen and bedroom by himself. It felt...empty. For a moment, Sam half expected Dean to come barging through the door announcing he had found a table or chair 'just like new'. However this time, it would have to be Sam to find everything. That was all right. He was up for the challenge. First things first, though. Was there a mattress store within walking distance?