They say "write hot, edit cool." Well I wrote a hot 2500 extra words to this chapter that I loved, but ultimately had to edit out. So, hence the delay. Thanks to Kathy, Long Live BRUCAS, shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod, jham868 and OldGirl-NoraArlani for their reviews

WARNING: There is some semi-graphic and upsetting content in this chapter. I've been warning that it's coming, so read at your own risk.

Tom Bromont wasn't used to the big truck he was driving, in fact, if Jamal wasn't still on his honeymoon and Chris laid up with a broken foot, he'd never be out here making deliveries to these small towns. He much preferred work back at the warehouse, where there was a lot less pressure and he could enjoy the company of the other guys. His bad mood continued as his phone rang. It was the office, so he couldn't just ignore it. "Now what" he grumbled to himself as he hit connect.

"Hi Connie," he answered with a sigh.

"Hey Tom, just checking to see where you are." Connie was nice enough, but she could be a no-nonsense taskmaster. sometimes. He glanced at the clock on his dash which read 8:43.

"I just left Kempville about 25 minutes ago. Why?"

"'Cause Mike just called and he wants that delivery in Hammond by 9:30 sharp." She sounded apologetic, not that it did Tom any good.

"Jesus, Connie, I'll have to really put the pedal down to get there on time." He was just approaching Watkins bridge and Hammond was a good 50 minutes from there. It was going to be tight.

"I hear ya, Tom, but you know how Mike gets." Yeah, he did. Mike was an unreasonable son of a bitch most of the time. Normally he didn't have to deal with him directly since the warehouse had a lot of places where he could make himself scarce when the boss came by. He sighed again.

"Thanks Connie, I'll do my best." After saying a quick goodbye, he disconnected the call. Pushing the accelerator a little faster than he would like, he reached for his styrofoam cup of caffeine.

He had just driven onto the bridge, coffee halfway to his mouth, when he heard a loud pop of a blown tire and the wheel jerked sharply under his hand. The hot coffee flew up and then splashed against his chest and legs as he instinctively tried to get both hands on the wheel. Cursing the painful scalding, he wrestled with the big vehicle which bounced against the metal guardrail. The murky, green-blue of the water below momentarily came into view and Tom panicked, afraid that he was going to plummet into the river.

Yanking the wheel away from the precipice, the truck yawed wildly across the bridge, smashing into a small silver Honda that was coming from the other direction. With an ominous rumble, Tom both heard and felt the cargo in the back of the truck break free and slam forward. He stomped on the brakes, locking up the wheels, but the pedal was wet with coffee and his foot slid and caught the accelerator as he fought for control. The momentum was too great and the crumpled Honda was pushed up the railing on the other side of the bridge.

For a second, his eyes met those of the woman driver, frozen wide with terror. Her mouth was open in a scream he couldn't hear over the screech of tearing metal and squeal of rubber on the asphalt. As something in the back fell and shifted, the truck lurched again, crushing the front of the truck further into the car and the whole mess tilted inexorably further into the side of the bridge. Tom's head whipped forward and to the side with the impact, knocking hard against the window. His last thought before he lost consciousness was that Mike was going to be furious.

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For 10 years now, Deputy Kyle Warren had been on the job. He'd seen pretty much everything a small town like Kempville could throw at him. Sometimes he wondered if he should test his mettle and apply for a policing job in a big city like Indianapolis, or St. Louis, but he had been born and raised in Kempville and his heart was here.

Working with the Sheriff was pretty much all he could have wished for when he decided to become a cop. Brian was a good guy who cared about the town and its citizens. The entire Sheriff's office took the motto "To Serve and Protect" seriously. Brian was less than 5 years older then he was, so Kyle considered him both a friend and a mentor. He had just joined the force around the time when when Mr. and Mrs. MacCallum had died. He remembered how tough that was on Brian, trying to earn his stripes while taking care of three teenagers. He admired the man and was proud to be working for him.

A flashing red light distantly appeared on the road behind him and Kyle was happy to know that although he would be first on scene, he would have the support of the volunteer firefighters to help. Some of these wrecks were a mess. He picked up his radio and called back to the shop where Shirley picked up.

"Hi Shirley." The older woman was amazing at keeping the whole station in order, but she had never adapted to the police radio, so you had to talk to her as if you were on the phone if you needed information.

"Oh hi Deputy," she answered.

"So I'm about 5 minutes out from the bridge, Shirl, any intel on what I'm getting in to?" Sometimes the official call didn't contain all the facts, but Shirley knew everyone in the whole county and so she often had more details from unofficial sources about whatever was happening.

"Sounds like a bad one, Kyle. Don Gorman called it in and said that the sound of the crash was so loud it scared his dog half to death. And my friend Carol, she lives by the turn off, well she walked down to the end of her lane and she says there's a truck tipped right over onto its nose blocking the bridge. She told me she's sending her son Roger over." Roger Powell coached the high school football team and he was a solid man with some basic medical training. As the first glimpse of the wrecked truck came into view around a bend in the road, Kyle would be glad for any help he could get. This one looked bad.

"Okay, thanks. I'm just pulling up now and it looks like we're going to need a heavy winch and some more hands on deck, Shirl."

"Wayne already dispatched fire and rescue, but I'll send Marnie and Wayne," she said, all efficiency now. Kyle thanked her and replaced the radio as he pulled over at the edge of the bridge. He put his hazards on and climbed out of his rig. The truck was propped up on its cab, the back twisted and bent, one of the cargo doors had popped open and was creaking slightly on rusty hinges. The guardrail of the bridge was scraped away, crumpled like paper and dangling towards the river. Fluids were leaking from the engine, forming puddles on the bridge which dripped into the water. Luckily the driver's side was still on the pavement and Kyle hurried over to the door. Blood smeared on the window which had broken into a spiderweb, and the driver wasn't moving. Tugging on the handle, Kyle was just able to pry open the cab.

"Hey, need a hand?," a voice called from over his shoulder, startling Kyle slightly. He saw Roger approaching around the back of the truck with a large first aid kit and a couple of blankets. Kyle waved him over and cautiously climbed up to check on the man in the truck. The older guy was dripping blood down the side of his head, unconscious, but with a strong pulse. The truck didn't look like it was in danger of going over the side, so it was probably best to leave the man until the firefighters got here. They were only a few minutes behind him.

"The guy is alive, so I'll just put one of those blankets on him and wait for fire and rescue to arrive." The sound of a siren grew steadily and Roger nodded passing up the requested item.

"How about the car he hit?" Roger asked. The car? At his puzzled look Roger motioned him to the other side of the truck. Walking around, it was amazing how, from this side the wreck looked even worse. The cab was pushed back into the body of the truck at an angle and mashed between the grill and one of the huge bridge trusses was a silver car. Kyle's stomach dropped. Judging by how mangled the vehicle was, this could be gruesome, and not something civilians needed to see.

"Roger, I'll check the car, you go meet the firefighters." Without looking to see if the other man had obeyed, Kyle forced himself to approach the car. The truck had pushed the smaller vehicle almost on its side, wheels towards the river, so Kyle had to crouch down to try and see into it. Blood was pooling under the smashed window, but he saw a shock of long red hair and a woman's hand dangling from the wreck.

"Ma'am?," he asked as he maneuvered to get a better look. He reached up to check for a pulse and her face tilted towards him. Kyle's heart began to race as he recognized the victim. It was Brian's sister, Fiona. Not much of a praying man, he nevertheless sent a message heavenwards as he searched for a pulse with trembling fingers. He didn't find one. Wiping his bloody fingers on his pants, he tried to calm his ragged breathing. Dear God, what was he going to tell his friend?

A small sound came from within the car and hope leapt into his throat until he realized that it hadn't come from the front seat. Shifting toward the back, Kyle moved a box and some debris out of his way so that he could see into the rear. Brian's little nephew was suspended in his booster seat. The other side of the car had torn open and part of the torn railing jutted through pinning the child where he sat. Unable to reach the boy, Kyle watched, holding his breath until the youngster moaned and moved his head slightly. Climbing out from under the car as quickly as he could Kyle ran to the back of the truck and waved frantically at the rescue crew that had just arrived.

"Over here! He's alive, get over here!"

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Dean took his time heading out of town. First he stopped at Suzie Q's for take out coffee and a danish. Then he spent some time driving around the town. He saw tidy residential neighbourhoods, shabby side streets, and two or three back roads that probably connected with other local communities. Like most places of its size, there wasn't much to Kempville. The main street held most of the businesses with some blue collar workplaces on the fringes. There was one elementary school about half a block away from the only high school, but he drove by five churches, each a different denomination. He also made a point of cruising past the address Declan had given him. Sure enough the house was a modest two story, set back from the street at the end of a cul-de-sac.

All in all, he'd been through thousands of towns just like this one in his life. The only difference was that this was the one where Sam was going to live, and that meant that Dean needed to know everything about Kempville. Still, there was only so long a tour through this burgh was going to take and so he hit the main road towards the highway.

As he drove, he found himself glancing to his right. The empty passenger seat brought up memories of their last hunt in Oregon. It had been an epic trip, and he'd finally shaken off the last residue from the Mark of Cain and felt like himself again. Funny, who could have imagined that ganking a ghoul-pire would be Sam's last case? Had Dean known this would the final case he worked with Sam, would he have done things differently? Nah, he snorted wryly to himself. Probably not. And hey, a least Sammy retired on a win. Resolutely ignoring the empty seat beside him, Dean turned the radio up and reluctantly pointed Baby towards Lebanon.

About 10 minutes outside of town, Dean's phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket with one hand. A glance showed that it was his brother and he had to smile. Guess the kid missed him already. Still, he didn't have it in him to say another anguished goodbye, so he thought about ignoring the call, but curiosity and his unending need to respond to Sam had him thumbing the answer button.

"Hey Sam, what's up?" He tried to keep his voice light; no need to make this even more painful.

"Dean."

It was just one word, his name, but Sam's voice wavered. Dean had heard his brother say his name in a million different ways and countless different circumstances, but the misery in Sam's voice had Dean slowing down to pull the car onto the shoulder.

"Sam, what's happening?" Even as he asked, he knew something was horribly wrong. Sam never sounded like that. The kid took a deep, shuddery breath and Dean's stomach dropped. This was bad.

"Sam!?" he prompted again, more urgently, as he tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder. Whatever was going on, he needed to get back to his brother. Kicking up gravel he yanked the car around 180. He could hear as his brother swallowed hard a few times, apparently unable to form words.

"There's been an accident," Sam began, his voice tight and higher than usual. "It's Fiona and Jonathan. Brian just called." His voice broke and he gasped for breath and Dean could almost see him fighting for control.

"Okay, Sammy. Just hold on, I'll be there as soon as I can." Sam cleared his throat. The kid was obviously crying.

"'Kay," rasped Sam. Shit, Sam could be a bit of an emo sap sometimes, but he seldom flat out cried. Listening to it caused a familiar ache in Dean's chest. He put his foot down and the car leapt forward like it's namesake.

His explorations of earlier this morning served him well and he was able to keep his speed up as he cut around downtown. An ambulance blasted by him headed in the opposite direction and Dean could hear a medivac helicopter overhead. As he approached the bridge across the river, he saw flashing lights and vehicles pulled over along the side of the road. Notably he saw the Sheriff's SUV. He slowed down and crept the car towards the edge of the bridge. Deputy Bryden was there looking particularly serious as he set up some traffic cones. Dean rolled down the window as he pulled abreast.

"Hey, Deputy? What happened?" Wayne walked over and leaned down to talk through the window.

"Hey Dean," he said. He shot a glance over his shoulder at the wreck and grimaced. "It's pretty terrible. The poor Sheriff." As Dean's questioning look, he just shook his head. "I'd better let you through to talk to Kyle." Standing back Wayne motioned him forward across the narrowed bridge.

Dean inched the Impala past the battered truck, careful to avoid emergency personnel who were bringing equipment across the bridge. As he passed the crumpled cargo truck, he saw that the activity was clustered around the front and a mangled hunk of metal. From this angle he could barely recognize it as a car, but he caught a glimpse of the silver trunk and his heart sunk. That was Fiona's car. Crossing the bridge, Dean quickly parked out of the way and jogged back to where the Sheriff and his Deputy were standing.

"Brian!" Dean called, but the Sheriff never turned around. It was Deputy Warren who walked back to meet him.

"Hey," the officer said. He looked pained and troubled.

"What happened?" Dean asked for what felt like the 10th time. He may not have any clout here, but he slipped into the authoritative persona he usually reserved for a case. Kyle lowered his voice but responded, even as he threw a look over his shoulder at his boss.

"Looks like the truck lost control. The driver is on his way to Millford General. Jonathan…," at this, Kyle had to pause, and Dean could see the man fight to control himself as he'd been trained. "Uh, the child was airlifted to Millford as well. But," his voice grew even softer and sorrow crept into his tone. "Fiona didn't make it. They're cutting her free now." Kyle dragged a hand down his face and rubbed his chin sadly.

Damn. Death was a familiar companion for Dean, but this was still shocking. The idea that Fiona was gone was hard to swallow. The girl had been kind, funny and sweet. Fleetingly he remembered the sparkle in her eyes as she doused him with water, and then the brush of her lips on his cheek as she'd claimed him as family. The loss hit him, tightening his chest and weighing him down. She didn't deserve to die, although Dean knew better than anyone that people seldom got what they deserved. His eyes drifted to Brian who hadn't moved from where he was standing, watching the firefighters work.

"Thanks," Dean told Kyle, before going over to stand beside the Sheriff.

Brian was white, all the color drained from his face. He stood completely rigid, hands tightly gripping the edge of his hand which he was slowly twisting. Dean didn't know the man very well, but he'd come to respect him over the past few days. The MacCallums were a tight knit family and this loss was going to be hard to bear. Although he knew first hand how Brian was feeling, all he could do was stand in silent solidarity with the man.

"I taught her to drive, you know," Brian murmured, so quietly that Dean wouldn't have heard if he wasn't standing right beside him. "She was such a careful driver, even more so once Johnny came along." Dean cast a glance at Brian's stricken expression. He was still staring at the hub of activity near the totaled car, but he wasn't seeing it. Brian was obviously lost in memory.

"When Johnny arrived, we fought. I told her that we'd all take care of her, that I wanted her to stay in school. But she was so stubborn, determined to make it on her own. And she did." Brian's voice cracked and tears began to trail down his face. He didn't bother to wipe them away and they fell darkening his uniform shirt just above his badge.

"I don't know if I ever told her how proud I was of her." Brian's words were heavy with regret as he roughly smeared the tears from his cheeks. He wanted to reassure the grieving man, but it wasn't his place. Suddenly Dean was profoundly grateful that last night he had found the courage to tell Sam how he felt. Brian wasn't going to get that chance.

The activity by the wreck paused as a limp body was moved to a gurney and covered by a sheet. Slowly they began to move Fiona to the waiting ambulance. The sight of the shrouded body seemed to unlock Brian and he moved towards the gurney. With a respectful nod, the paramedics stepped away, leaving the Sheriff alone with his sister. Dean turned away too, granting the privacy he would want if he were the one saying goodbye.

Feeling the need to act, to do something, Dean jogged back to the car. He slipped the EMF meter out of the trunk and then walked back to the wreckage. Discreetly, but efficiently, Dean scanned the truck cab, what was left of the car, and the bridge surrounding the area. The EMF didn't react. There was no proof of spirit activity, and no sulfur or other signs of demonic involvement. It was a bittersweet relief to know that Fiona hadn't died because of the supernatural. Hopefully knowing that would help Sam. He slid the meter into his pocket and headed back to where Brian and Kyle were watching the paramedics get ready to leave. The slam of the closing doors had a ring of finality that made Brian visibly startle. The poor man was in shock.

With one hand on his friend's shoulder, Kyle waved Dean over.

"Uh, Dean, you don't mind taking Brian back to the main house do you? His rig is on the opposite side of the bridge." Judging by the pointed look Kyle was giving him, it was obvious that the deputy just didn't want the other man driving.

"Of course, I need to get back to Sam anyhow." He nodded at the deputy who gently shoved Brian towards the Impala. Moving on autopilot, the stunned Sheriff followed him back to the car. With a quick glance at Brian's pale face Dean turned the radio off and the heat up. Outside the windshield the morning was beautiful, the sky was blue and the sun was shining. Inside the car, the oppressive quiet felt more appropriate for a wet and gloomy night. It was almost jarring.

Thankfully it was a short drive. Brian spent the trip staring blankly at his hands and, not wanting to offer empty platitudes, Dean left him alone. It wasn't until he turned the car into the long driveway that Brian spoke.

"Why does this keep happening to my family?" he moaned. There wasn't anything even slightly amusing about the situation, but Dean had to smirk sadly. Ironically, that was the question he'd so often asked himself. He gripped the leather wrapped steering wheel, whitening his knuckles.

"I wish I knew," Dean said as he parked the car beside the house.