"So he's the Sandman?"

"Yeah," said Sam, rubbing his head.

"And that was… what did you call it? A Nightmare?"

"Yes."

The Sandman nodded, and a check mark appeared in the sand over his head.

"What the hell was it trying to do?" Dean demanded, trying to ignore the game of charades going on in the corner. Sam might trust this thing, but Dean didn't.

Sam shrugged. "I have no idea." He was still pale, and he kept rubbing the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, all sure signs that he was in pain and overtired. His response to the small, golden creature in their room - apparently the Sandman - had been very muted, another sure sign that he needed to go back to sleep so that he could wake up with enough energy to freak out like Dean wanted to.

"How do we kill it? You've been attacked by one of those things before."

Sam shrugged again. "Yeah, and I don't know." He looked over at the Sandman. "Do you have any ideas?"

The Sandman shrugged, waving a hand of sand in some sort of demonstration.

"You can kill it, but you don't know what else?" Sam guessed. "Alright." He pressed his fingers between his eyes.

"How did Jack kill it?" Dean asked, clinging to his patience with a thread.

"With his staff," Sam answered.

It was probably bad to swear in front of the mythical spirit of children's dreams, or whatever the hell the Sandman was supposed to be, but Dean did it anyway. "What sort of staff?"

The Sandman helpfully created an image of a shepherd's crook in his floating sand, which explained nothing but was still somewhat appreciated.

"So we just beat it to death with a special stick?"

"No, he… it kind of…" Sam struggled to find the words. "He shot ice at it."

"Ice," Dean repeated.

"Winter spirit," Sam replied, now squinting.

The Sandman watched them with interest, head turning between them each time they spoke. Dean had to tape down the urge to pull Sam behind him and back them out of the room. And the stronger urge to check if rocksalt worked on golden sand.

"So unless we have Goldie over here or Frosty the Snowman around, the next time we get attacked by one of those things we're screwed," Dean summarised.

The Sandman crossed his tiny arms and scowled at him.

Dean shrugged. "You're not sticking around."

"His name is Jack, not Frosty. And don't mind him," Sam said first to Dean and then to the Sandman. The little man was placated easily and shuffled closer. Sam sat down on the bed and the Sandman hopped up on the mattress at the end of it. Dean's hands itched for his shotgun.

"We need to get moving," Sam said. "We need to find Jess."

"No, you need to get some more sleep. You just got out of the hospital," Dean argued, and the Sandman nodded in agreement. He crept closer with a fistful of dream sand and only stopped when Dean glared, rolling his eyes.

Dean didn't trust any sand creature to start doing stuff to his brother, whether or not it had just saved their lives.

"We can't stay here," Sam disagreed. He waved a hand towards the black stain that was all that was left of the nightmare. "Who knows if more might be coming, and I don't want to stick around to explain the damage."

One of the benefits of motels was that it was rare that people cared to call the police, most people were just passing through and either rolled over and went back to sleep or simply banged on the walls, but it still happened and Dean wouldn't be surprised if someone poked around for a body after they were gone. And they would need to be gone soon.

"What are the odds that more of those things will come after us?"

Sam shrugged.

The Sandman's gaze hardened.

Sam noticed. "How many Nightmares are there?"

No sand swirled around the Sandman's head, but Sam seemed to guess the answer anyway.

"There's more of them every day, isn't there?"

A single terse nod was the response.

"We need to get moving," Dean growled. "You're sleeping in the car."

"Both times it showed up, I was asleep," Sam argued. He turned to the Sandman. "That's how it works, right? They come for dreams?"

The Sandman shook his head, disapprovingly, and took a step back. When Sam glanced over at Dean, he gathered another fistful of sand and held it over Sam's head, a question mark forming over his own.

Dean scowled at the creature, but he was relieved to find that the Sandman wasn't any more willing than he was to put up with Sammy's crap.

"You just got out of the hospital, Sam! Stop with this! Get some freaking rest. I don't care how many Nightmares come after us, you're not gonna stop sleeping."

"We don't know how to stop them, Dean!"

"We'll figure something out," Dean growled.

"We can't just sit around and wait to be attacked!"

Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Dad sent me co-ordinates. We'll go find him. He'll know what to do, and if not," Dean shook his head. He didn't like thinking of his dad not having an answer to this latest weirdness. "We'll sleep in shifts," he decided. "After we find Dad."

"Dad called you? Why didn't you say something?" Sam demanded.

"He texted me. And we got attacked by that freaky sand thing before I could do anything. Remember that? No offence," he added to the Sandman, who looked more offended at being in any way likened to the Nightmare.

"Then we needed to go. What do the coordinates say? Where're we going? Was there anything else? Is he okay? Did he ask about us? Does he know about Jess? He has to, I've sent him hundreds of messages. I'll start researching. I can drive too." Sam snatched up his boots and started throwing the few things that they had unpacked into a bag, which was a relief. But the manic gleam in his eye was not.

"Did you not hear me about getting some sleep? And no way are you driving my car."

"How far away are we going? Are you just going to stay awake the entire time? I need to do some research, Dean. What if Dad's in trouble? That's what you were worried about right? What if this is just another stupid hunt? We still can't walk into it unprepared."

He made good arguments, Dean reflected. Sam probably would have made a good lawyer. Would make, he corrected himself. This life wasn't for Sam. This hadn't changed any of that. He was only here because his friend and girlfriend were in trouble. And Dad.

It was reassuring that, even after four years of no contact, four years that Sam spent cosying up to some Christmas spirit, he had still been willing to drop everything and come for their dad. Although not without some whining. He hadn't forgotten everything Dean ever taught him either.

But he had forgotten just enough.

"I'll pull over if I need it, and you can do your research once we get there. But you're getting some rest whether you like it or not."

The Sandman might not be able to talk, but he could follow a conversation damn well. Dean didn't even have to give him a nod before the cloud of sand dropped onto Sam's head.

Sam had only a moment to glare at him, before he yawned and dropped back on his bed like a puppet with cut strings.

The Sandman shot him a triumphant grin, and Dean caught himself returning it before he could stop himself.

He cleared his throat. "Alright, alright. But you're not doing that again." He sighed, snatching up his own bag and tugging it over his shoulder. "I don't suppose you've any experience wrangling overgrown muppets, do you?"


Jack could count the amount of spirits that he was on even moderate terms with on both hands. He counted 'moderate terms' as being able to get a word out before he was attacked.

He was not on moderate terms with the Easter Bunny.

Most of his spirit contacts were seasonal spirits, and even though the weather was turning warmer, it was still too cold for summer, and too far from autumn for those two to meet him in person. He couldn't venture too far from the cold. Not while he was still recuperating.

His physical injuries had healed after the fire. But he wasn't back to full strength yet. He tired easily, and his powers weren't back to where they were. Most nights he found himself relying on the wind to carry him around rather than being able to float under his own power. His staff was whole again, but it still felt brittle. As though it was hollow on the inside.

If there was anything Jack could do to restore it, he couldn't do it as weak as he was now.

He couldn't even travel any further south than he was. Sioux Falls was fine, but any further south than Burgess and he was in danger of fainting. That was embarrassing enough to have to deal with twice - the second time was to test the theory - he wasn't planning on trying again until he felt stronger.

It made him feel guilty that he couldn't do more than talk to the few other spirits he knew and warn them about Jessica and James. And about that yellow-eyed creature.

There were more than a few spirits with yellow-eyes, but when he described what had attacked him in Stanford, all the other spirits looked shifty. The exact same way that they did whenever the Nightmare King came up in conversation.

It was before Jack's time, but some of the older spirits liked to chat sometimes. Especially the trickster spirits. He couldn't take everything they said seriously, but their fear seemed real enough now.

If it had just been another yellow-eyed spirit or creature, then Jack was sure he might have been dismissed, but no one could deny that the Nightmares were growing bolder. Jack had only seen the one that attacked Sam up close. Otherwise they kept to the shadows, or at least, they had.

Jack o' Lantern claimed that he had been attacked by a Nightmare, and Willow Wisp had the scars to prove it.

Jack didn't spend much time with the light sprites, but they were noticeably more afraid after going face-to-face with a Nightmare. They were both centuries older than him, but they were even afraid of him.

He had passed those warnings onto Flower, and she had promised to pass it onto the others. As well as a description of James and Jessica.

Jack didn't have much hope of his friends being found by one of the hundreds of flower spirits around the globe, but they had over a thousand eyes between them. And that was better than any other human could ever hope for.

In the meantime, Jack had to focus on regaining his strength. It made him feel uncomfortable, but the easiest way for him to do that was to play with children, and to play in the snow. Something about their happiness made him stronger. Their joy made it easier for him.

And it was so easy to create that joy.

Weaker or not, creating snow days was something that Jack had been literally born to do. Or so he chose to believe.

Burgess was getting a snow day.