Thanks to everyone who's reviewed my first chapter. You're really great, guys :) This is the second chapter. There are some description of nightmares that might be a little unsettling (saying more would be spoiling it, but read some passages with caution). More notes at the end.

Chapter 2

Harold eyed the two young men on his doorstep suspiciously. He had never seen them before – and, in a small town, that was enough to make someone mistrustful. There was something about them, though, that Harold did not know how to take. It was in the way they held themselves and the darkness beyond their eyes. Whoever they were, whatever their intentions, there was something deadly about them.

"Mr. Lindstrom?" the tallest spoke and his voice was surprisingly soft and calm. "I'm Sam, this is my brother, Dean. Ellen sent us."

Harold raised his eyebrows. When Ellen Harvelle had told him she would be sending the best, he had imagined it would be someone older and more experienced. The two were near children as far as he was concerned. But maybe, he thought, looking from one to the other, and how they stood there, tense and ready to spring into action, maybe they did not have the age, but they did have the experience. Harold nodded and stepped aside.

"Come on in, then."

The two followed him into the living room and sat down on the couch. Harold remained standing.

"We're so sorry for your loss, Mr. Lindstrom," Sam continued.

"Harold, please," he corrected quickly. "Ellen said you'd be able to help me. The police are saying natural causes. Heart attack or something. But Drew didn't have heart problems. And…he's been so odd in the past few weeks." He gulped and corrected himself: "Was so odd."

"Odd in what way?" Dean asked.

His tone was slightly sharper than his brother's. One would have mistaken him for being overly-blunt, except that Harold had seen men like him – the kind who saw too much and at one point did not really know what to do with what they saw.

"Drew had nightmares," Harold went on. "He'd been having them for over a week, every night, without fail. And I'm not just talking run of the mill bad dreams. I'm saying he woke up screaming. In tears. He kept mentioning this weird stuff. He said it felt like they were coming from a life that wasn't his. He said it was like he was dreaming someone else's dreams." He paused and tried to remember exactly what Andrew had described to him. "But that's not the worst of it."

"What else then?" Dean prompted.

Harold looked around, suddenly reluctant to talk about it, remembering one of his great-aunt's favorite superstitions: talking about certain things brought them closer to you. It drew their attention to your household. But, whatever had killed Andrew already had fixed its attention on the household.

"Andrew told me he couldn't move in his dreams. How he felt wide wake although he knew he was dreaming and he could not move or speak. But…that's normal, you know? Sometimes that happens?"

He looked at the two almost begging them to tell them it was so. At least it would absolve him of half the guilt he was feeling that he had not taken things seriously from the start. It was Sam who nodded.

"Sleep paralysis," he said. "Yeah, sometimes it happens."

Harold looked away.

"It ran in Andrew's family. His grandmother. She'd fled from the Soviet Union after the second world war, you see. She'd been in that famous night bomber regiment – the all-female regiment, you know. I'm sure she saw some things. Did some things. She had this kind of nightmares."

Sam was nodding slowly.

"There are studies that say sleep paralysis might have a genetic factor," he conceded.

Next to Sam, Dean shifted impatiently.

"But this wasn't that, was it?"

Harold shrugged. Ever since he had met Ellen Harvelle and had gotten the rude wake up call that some things were not what they seemed, the world had appeared much more complicated. Everything now had a deeper meaning. He wondered if he would have seen Andrew's death as something other than a heart attack if he had not encountered the supernatural before.

"Was there anything that made you suspicious?" Sam wanted to know. "Maybe something you saw or felt?"

He had seen nothing. He suspected Andrew had, but, if it was so, he had never shared it with him.

"It got really cold at night," he said at length. "I woke up and I felt freezing. It happened several times since Andrew's nightmares started. At first I thought the heating was broken. But I checked. It wasn't. And…there were others."

Dean and Sam exchanged worried looks.

"Others?" Dean repeated. "Other deaths?"

Harold flinched.

"No," he said quickly. "Other people having nightmares. The chief of my unit for example – his son. Apparently he's been having almost constant nightmares."

Yet again, the two brothers looked at each other. Harold suddenly felt like they could have been in a different world from him. He had never seen it before: two people able to say so many things just by looking at each other.

"Could we see your bedroom?" Sam asked.

Harold felt cold.

"Well, you're welcome to check it. I hope you won't mind if I don't join you, though. After I found Drew dead there…I don't know if I'll ever want to go in again."

Sam nodded, sending Harold a brief, sympathetic smile.

"I completely understand. We'll manage ourselves."

He got up and his brother followed, both completely in sync with each other. Harold watched them thoughtfully. The best, Ellen had said. Watching the subtle signs that made them such a good team, Harold was beginning to think that Ellen might not have oversold them, after all.

xxxXXXXxxxx

Dean was frowning at the silent EMF meter. The bedroom had been left untouched – minus Andrew's body, of course. There weren't a lot of signs that something had happened, though.

Sam bent down to pick up the book that had fallen off the bed and was now lying face down on the floor, still open. He scanned the passage, frowning.

"He was probably in the middle of reading when something came after him. He was interrupted at the best part, he wouldn't have stopped on his own."

Dean pointed to the lamp.

"Light's blown," he said. He spotted the old-fashioned alarm clock and frowned at the still hands. "And clock's stopped. At three sharp."

"How much do you wanna bet that's Andrew's time of death?" Sam asked, heading for the window. "This was open," he added. "That's strange. He was so nervous he kept the lights on and refused to go to sleep while he was alone in the house, and yet he kept the window open?"

"Maybe he didn't," Dean said. "Maybe whatever it was came in through the window. We know it wasn't a spirit – there's no EMF. So…a creature, maybe?"

Sam nodded thoughtfully. He looked out the window at the empty house he could see across the street. It had obviously been abandoned for many years. The yard was all in disarray and one of the upstairs windows was broken. He frowned, suddenly on the alert although he did not really know why.

"Hey, Dean?" he asked, turning briefly towards his brother.

Dean came to stand beside him.

"What?" he asked, looking out the window.

Sam was suddenly less sure there was anything to say.

"Nothing," he replied. "I thought I caught a glimpse of something moving down there. Must have been a cat or something."

Dean made a distracted sound.

"How about we go visit Harold's unit chief and have a talk with his son? See what kind of bad dreams he's having."

Sam nodded. Dean was already out the door. Sam cast one final look out the window at the empty house. He noticed the tree in front was swinging, but there was no wind outside.

xxxXXXxxxx

She watched them as they left the Lindstrom house. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest at the thought of the feast she would have tonight – and for many nights to come. She would make sure to restrain herself and not take everything at once this time. At first, she had been sure she would have a hard time choosing between the two. They both fit what she liked so, so well. But then the tallest had looked at her from the window. He had actually met her eyes, although she was sure he had not realized it. They never did. They never actually saw her until she wanted herself seen.

She had picked her new victim now. All she needed was to find out where they slept – and visit them in the night.

xxxXXXXxxxx

The son of Harold's unit chief worked at a small diner in town. Dean and Sam walked in, suits and tie already in place, prepared to do their usual song and dance. Dean's eyes widened as they reached the counter and he spotted the varied display of pies.

"You think Ellen will mind if we eat here instead of the Roadhouse? I don't think she has pies."

Sam snorted, amused.

"You piss her off, you're on your own."

"And here I thought you'd always be in my corner, Sammy."

He stopped when one of the waitresses approached them. Her nametag said "Linda" and she was eyeing the two with a wide-eyed look, even though Dean deemed her too young to be dating material.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" she asked, twirling her long dark hair and biting her lips. "We've got the best coffee in town."

"And we'd love some," Dean aid smoothly, showing his badge. "But first, work, I'm afraid."

Linda's demeanor changed when she noticed the badges.

"CDC?" she asked. "Hey, we're a clean, healthy establishment, I don't see what you're doing here. Just ask Marla. She kicks us out if the place isn't spotless."

"I've no doubt she does," Dean said, smiling to put her at ease. "But we're not here about your place."

"We actually want to talk to one of your employees," Sam took over. "Josh Peters?"

Linda stiffened.

"I knew he wasn't looking well. Hasn't been looking well for nearly two weeks. If he's walking around with the bird flu or something…"

"He probably isn't," Sam said. "In fact, he's probably healthy. But we do need to talk to him. He might have come into contact with someone who's not exactly well, and we need to see if he doesn't have any unusual symptoms. We don't think he does," he added, noticing Linda's face darkening. "We're just covering everything. So you can all be safe."

Linda did not look convinced. Still she shrugged and turned away to get Josh.

"Hey, that coffee of yours would be good too," Dean called after her, then turned to smirk at Sam. "Good one, Sammy. You almost had even me convinced."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Why is it that even when you're trying to say something nice to me, you still sound like a jerk?"

Dean chuckled. He grew serious again when Linda reappeared, leading a young boy in his late teens. He looked almost as tall as Sam. His eyes were darting to and fro nervously, as if he wanted to run away from whatever situation he was being forced in.

Sam and Dean took Josh to a small table a little apart from the other diners. Another waitress brought them their coffees. Her nametag said Marla and she looked like the type Dean would have dated. Unfortunately, she was currently trying to spend as little time with them as possible, as if she suspected Josh carried the plague.

"I didn't get in contact with anyone who was sick," Josh protested. "I'd know if I had."

"Did you know Andrew Lindstrom?" Sam asked.

Josh thought hard about that.

"I think his boyfriend work with my dad, doesn't he?"

"Husband," Sam corrected. "And he's dead."

Josh shook his head.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm sure I wasn't anywhere near him or any of my Dad's colleagues. Maybe you should be talking to Dad instead of me. He would have had more contact with them."

"Your Dad isn't having nightmares, Josh," Dean stated bluntly. "You are."

Josh froze, for the first time looking terrified.

"He told you about the nightmares? He swore he wouldn't tell anyone."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"We're not anyone, kid. He had to tell us. This could be serious."

Josh shook his head.

"Look, they're just stupid nightmares. Everyone has nightmares, don't they?"

"Every night is pushing it a bit, though," Dean pointed out.

"When did they start?" Sam asked. "When did they get so bad?"

Josh shrugged. He was tracing patterns with his fingers on the table and not looking at the two.

"Two weeks ago, I guess," he admitted. "I wouldn't even have told Dad. He worries about the slightest thing, you know. He's paranoid like that. But I must have thrashed in my sleep or something the second night and knocked back a glass on the nightstand. So he said."

"What do you mean, so he said?" Sam asked curiously. "You don't remember thrashing in your sleep."

Josh grimaced.

"The only thing I'm certain of in those nightmares is that I can't move at all," he said. "I will myself to lift my hand or something, but I can't. I can't lift a finger. I can't make a sound. Sometimes, I can't even breathe right." He stopped and ran a shaky hand through his hair. "It's damn unsettling. In fact, I didn't even sleep last night. I drank about three energy drinks before bed. I would have gotten into the coffee stash, too, but Dad locked the cabinet where he keeps the coffee. Said I drink too much. He wouldn't say that if he was dreaming my dreams."

"What else is in your dreams, Josh?" Sam prompted.

Josh hunched his shoulders.

"Nothing else!" he insisted. "At least, I don't remember anything else. Now, if you don't mind, I have to go back to work. And tell Linda and Marla I'm not infected with anything, would you? You have no idea how those two are."

He got up and walked quickly away from the table. Sam turned to Dean who was staring after Josh, thoughtfully.

"You're probably thinking the same thing I am, aren't you?"

Dean nodded.

"He's definitely not telling us everything," he agreed.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

They got back to the Roadhouse close to evening, after having a look around the town and after Sam hit the small archives room where he copied some newspapers. They had a small dinner then retired. They could have spun some ideas with Ellen, but there were too many Hunters there for their liking. A lot of times it felt like all of them were staring at the Winchesters. It might have been only in their minds, but it was still disconcerting.

"So," Dean said, when they were both settled in the room, Dean lying on his bed, Sam hunched over his laptop, chewing his nails. Dean made a mental note to whack him over the hand the next time Sam was within his reach when he did that. "What have we got so far?"

"We have two people in town having similar nightmares," said Sam. "They both started around the same time. Maybe there are more. One of them's already dead. I'm currently checking similar deaths and I asked Ash to look at similar incidents nationwide. Problem is, not a lot of people like to talk about their nightmares."

"Tell me about it," Dean muttered, with a meaningful look at Sam.

Sam ignored him.

"So," Dean went on, "What was it you and Harold were talking about? Sleep paralysis, you called it?"

Sam nodded distractedly, his eyes on the laptop screen.

"Yeah, it's sort of a sleeping disorder. You're in this half-dream state and you feel like you can't move or sometimes even breathe. It's often accompanied by hallucinations. Tactile and auditory most of the time. Sometimes even visual. It's caused by a high state of anxiety, although there are times when it comes out of the blue."

Dean nodded thoughtfully.

"Wasn't that how people started to explain supernatural entities that came to you while you were sleeping, though?" he asked. "Like a Succubus for example?"

Sam looked up.

"Yeah, you're right. However, Succubi and Incubi are only one of the few nightmare creatures. Just about every country in the world has its own version of them. From Buddhist lore to Northern Europe to Africa. We've got a large suspect pool. We'll need more info."

"What about our victims?" Dean asked. "What do they have in common? Except that they're both guys and related to firefighters?"

"I think that's just a coincidence, actually," Sam said. "They aren't close to each other in age. Josh is sixteen, Andrew was twenty-seven. Josh's interests are more about sports and stuff, apparently, while Andrew was a history teacher who enjoyed classic murder mysteries."

"Whose grandmother also had nightmares," Dean completed.

Sam conceded reluctantly.

"Yeah, but, Dean, she was in a war. That's bound to mess you up."

"Messed-up people are more vulnerable to certain supernatural attacks," Dean pointed out. "Look at poltergeists."

Sam was tapping the fingers of his good hand against his cast. Dean fought the urge to break his other hand.

"Dude, it's like you're trying to mess with that."

Sam shook his head irritated.

"Not now, Dean," he muttered. "I'm thinking."

"Well, try thinking without inflicting bodily harm on yourself," Dean snapped, making himself more comfortable on the bed and switching on the TV. He scowled at the grainy picture. "How about you call it a night, Sam?"

Sam's attention was once more fixed on the laptop.

"I'm fine," he muttered.

"You've got a broken wrist and you've been running yourself ragged for months," Dean insisted. "If you're fine, you won't stay that way for long."

They had both been running themselves ragged ever since their father had died, and, for a while, Dean had actually encouraged it. Then, after the zombie girl case, while they were at the hospital getting Sam's wrist seen to, Sam's attending physician had pulled Dean aside and he had been told in no uncertain terms to make sure Sam took it easy for a while. And Dean might have been in a haze of grief back then – still was, often enough – but words such as "exhaustion" and "malnutrition" tended to be a rude wake-up call for mot people. He had been covertly trying to get Sam to relax or, at least, to eat proper meals and sleep through the night. Keeping them at the Roadhouse, where Ellen offered them meal and beds for free, was part of his method. He would have preferred Bobby, since he trusted him more, but Bobby's cooking wasn't exactly enticing, especially not to someone with particular tastes, like Sam.

To his surprise, Sam actually switched off the laptop and settled more comfortably in bed, burying himself under the covers.

"Thanks," he muttered.

Dean glanced at Sam, but his brother's face was hidden in his pillow.

"For what?" he asked casually.

"You know," Sam said. "For getting me to slow down. Thanks."

Dead snorted. Apparently, he was not as subtle as he had thought.

"Shut up and go to sleep," he snarked.

-Quite a fair number of people have experienced sleep paralysis at one point (including your truly, which is how this story actually came to be. I was looking into nightmare mythology way back in high school). It usually doesn't last for more than a few minutes and it can be sometimes linked to external factors (such as stress). There are theories that it might have a genetic factor, but I don't think anything's been proven so far. In the past people gave it supernatural explanations, which is probably why there are a hell of a lot of creatures causing nightmares all over the world (the succubus and the incubus are the most popular, but there are plenty of others as well).

-the small reference to Andrew's Russian grandmother being in a bomber regiment in World War two is a reference to the 588th night bomber regiment, which was an all-female aviation unit (also known as the night witches).