3rd chapter is up. Thanks to all reading and reviewing, it's always so very nice to hear your thoughts (and your guesses, some of you guess quite closely to the direction I'm taking this).

Fair warning, this is where it gets kinda creepy. No, actually let me rephrase that. This is where it gets hella creepy. Read with caution and preferably not before bedtime.

Some scenes from this story were inspired by an oil painting called The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli. You might have seen it. But if you haven't, you probably shouldn't google it before bedtime, either.

Chapter 3

She had come across them many times before. Those that called themselves Hunters. Those that came with guns and knives and other terrible weapons, taking her family one by one, until only she was left, always moving, always on the run. Men and women who had seen the darkness, who walked in the shadows, followed by nightmares. But she had always been taught to avoid them. There was a time when only she and her mother were left, and her mother taught her the protection signs that Hunters surrounded themselves with. Salt and herbs did not keep her out, but her mother had taught her to avoid them nonetheless. Hunters would make a fine feast, but attacking one was too dangerous. It always led to death and ruin.

She knew now the two were Hunters. They stayed at the Hunter place and they had laid down salt lines at the doors and painted sigils on the window. Perhaps she should focus on easier prey, or even move on completely. If they caught her, they knew how to kill her. It was not safe.

But she remembered that exchange of glances between her and the younger man. And she knew this was better than the scraps she could get from the likes of Andrew or Josh. She could not let something like that go to waste. She would have to be careful, that was all.

It was late at night when she climbed in through the window. Three o'clock had always been her preferred feeding time. Her mother had told her once the human mind held the most terror at three o'clock. It was the time those like her could use to their advantage.

The two young men were both asleep in their separate beds. She entered the room in her true form, not the disguise she used to blend in with the humans. It was time to feed. She was so terribly hungry.

She approached the bed furthest from the door. The young man was sleeping, already caught in the throes of some uneasy dream, judging by the frown on his face. She reached out and sat on his chest. His frown deepened, his breath already becoming hampered by her weight. He would not wake, though. They never really did, not for this part. She reached out long dark fingers and placed them almost gently on his forehead.

"Give me your dreams," she whispered. "Give me your dreams and I'll make them worse."

xxxXXXXxxxx

When Dean woke up the next morning Sam was still asleep. Dean padded to his brother's bed and peered at Sam. His face was scrunched up, maybe from a nightmare, maybe from discomfort, since he'd rolled over in his sleep at one point and was now lying with his broken wrist under him. He looked wiped out, Dean thought, remembering what he had told Sam earlier about slowing down. He gave up his intention of waking Sam up by shouting a resounding chorus of some really obnoxious song. Instead, he shook Sam's shoulder gently.

"Hey, Sammy," he said, keeping his voice volume low. "Hey, time to wake up, man."

"Why?"

Dean shook his head. Sam could be a moody little thing when he did not want to wake up.

"You better be up when I finish my shower," he said.

He snorted when he heard Sam's petulant "You're not the boss of me". Yeah, Sam was fine. Still, he could not get rid of that niggling feeling of concern that had been bothering him since he woke up. He shook his head. A holiday. That was what they both needed. No cases and no traveling. And no Hunters around. Just him and Sam doing stupid touristy things in some town or other. Maybe he could find some pie festival. That would annoy the hell out of Sam and entertain the hell out of Dean.

Sam had rolled over when Dean returned from the shower, but he did not give any other signs of intending to get up. Dean shook his head.

"I'll head downstairs. Bring you some coffee. That should clear the cobwebs."

"Huh?" Sam asked, confused.

"You're useless," Dean proclaimed. "Just don't fall asleep again, ok?"

Dean was relieved to see not a lot of people were downstairs. Hunters had started making him nervous ever since Dad had dropped the bomb that Dean might have to kill Sam one day. Dean had his own ideas about Dad's ultimatum – most of those weren't suitable for polite conversation – but he knew other Hunters would be less inclined to analyze the meaning behind the words instead of simply acting on it. It was why Dean hated the idea of Sam being close to Hunters. Who could tell what they knew?

"You're alone thins morning."

Dean turned to grin at Jo.

"Sammy's still communing with his pillow," he answered. "You're up early."

Jo shrugged and went to sit beside him at the counter.

"Mum doesn't exactly let me sleep in," she said easily. "You know how she can be. Besides," he added with a twinkle in her eyes. "I wanted to catch you alone."

Dean looked away, as usual uncharacteristically uncomfortable with Jo's forwardness. Or maybe he just had a well-toned sense of self-preservation. He was not an idiot. He knew if he made a move on Jo, Ellen would have his hide.

"That case you're working on," Jo went on. "Interesting, isn't it?"

Of course, Dean thought, maybe it was less that Jo was interested in him and more that she had an unhealthy fascination for hunting.

"It's one of a kind," he said neutrally.

"Hmm," Jo commented. "Ash told me he got this pattern figured out. Similar incidents in nearby towns. Victims reported nightmares for weeks, even months. Then they died of supposedly natural causes."

Dean eyed her with renewed interest.

"What else have you got?" he asked, sensing Jo was saving the best for last.

"From what Ash could find, a lot of victims had a strange bruise on their chests," Jo said, her eyes sparkling. "No one knows how it got there. But, since it obviously wasn't what had killed them, no one paid much attention to it, either."

She paused and looked expectantly at Dean.

"So," she began, leaning towards Dean. "How did I do?"

Dean hesitated. Perhaps, a year before, he would have been quick to encourage Jo on her hunting path, thinking that it was the only thing worth doing. But that was beforehis father had died, leaving him with a burden that made him want to scream most of the time. It was before he had met Gordon Walker and had started to understand how quickly Hunters could lose their humanity. This was not something you encouraged someone else to do.

"Tell Ash thanks for the research," was all he said.

He grabbed the coffee Ellen had set on the table and headed back to his room, ignoring the dirty looks Jo was giving him.

Back in his room, Sam was sitting up on his bed, rubbing at his eyes. Dean frowned, noticing how pale his brother still looked.

"Hey, man, you're getting sick, you're going somewhere as far away from me as you can. I don't want any part of your germs."

Sam scowled.

"I haven't got germs," he muttered. He looked up and his eyes lit up as he spotted the mug in Dean's hands. "Tell me that's coffee."

Dean handed him the coffee raising his eyebrows asSam startedmaking what he considered obscene noises as he was gulping at his coffee.

"You're seriously making me uncomfortable right now."

"Bite me," Sam deadpanned.

He was starting to look more with it, though, so Dean supposed Ellen's coffee was indeed that good.

"We've got to talk to the coroner working on Andrew Lindstrom's body," he announced.

Sam looked up frowning.

"Why? They said natural causes, didn't they?"

"So they did," Dean agreed. "But according to Ash, there were other victims and they all had this weird bruise on their chest. If Andrew Lindstrom has one too…"

"We might have a lead," Sam concluded. "Fine, but I want a look inside the empty house that's across the Lindstrom property."

It was Dean's turn to be confused.

"Feel like going house hunting, Sammy?"

Sam looked like he was seriously contemplating fratricide. That look never failed to amuse Dean. However, this time, the frustration on Sam's face had to do with more than Dean's ill-timed quips.

"There's something about that house," he stated at length. "I don't know what it is. But something about it bothers me."

Dean's eyes narrowed.

"This your…uhh…weird radar speaking?"

Sam's jaw clenched.

"Not this time," he said. "I don't think so."

Well, Dean thought, that, at least, was a relief.

"Fine," he said. "We'll check out the house. Coroner first, though. Then maybe pie at that diner. We've got to see if Josh doesn't have any weird bruises too, after all."

"Of course," Sam stated flatly. "This has everything to do with Josh and nothing to do with the pie at the diner. Or with Marla."

Dean grinned.

"Marla," he said. "That was her name. Yeah, Marla definitely has potential."

He would never admit how he counted the exasperated look Sam gave him as one of his favorite things in the world. Riling Sammy up would always bring a smile on his face.

xxxXXXXxxxx

The coroner confirmed there was indeed a bruise on Andrew Lindstrom's chest, but stressed that there was no possible way it could have led to his death.

"But isn't that unusual?" Dean insisted.

The coroner shrugged. Dean thought she looked young enough to still be in college, but she acted as if she knew her job and he did not want to insult her. Alienating those working close to law enforcement was never a good thing.

"It looks like there was a weight on his chest at some point," she finally admitted.

Sam's eyes widened.

"You mean someone tried to kill him?"

The coroner snorted.

"That would be jumping to conclusions," she said. "No, actually it would be letting your imagination run wild."

"Well, how did he get the bruise then?" Dean asked, starting to feel more and more irritated by this "it isn't murder unless you can prove it" attitude.

The coroner shrugged, clearly not interested in a bruise on a man who had been declared dead of natural causes.

"Maybe he was playing with a particularly large dog and it jumped on him," she said. "Maybe he was carrying something heavy and fell. Truth is, he's the only one that can tell you what happened. Only he can't, can he?"

"I swear, some of these coroners love their jobs too much," Dean was muttering on their way to the diner where Josh worked. "They seem to enjoy getting on everyone's nerves and making them uncomfortable."

"You enjoy that, too," Sam replied, without missing a beat.

Dean did not even look away from the road when he took one hand from the wheel and smacked his brother over the head. He knew Sam's protests were mostly for show, anyway. His little brother could have easily moved out of the way before Dean got the chance to whack him.

"Glad to see you're feeling better," he commented. "At least you're feeling well enough to be a smart-mouth."

Marla was not happy to see them. She seemed skeptical that they only wanted some coffee and maybe a brief follow-up with Josh and warned them that if anyone in that diner was being a threat to people's health, they were duty-bound to report it. Then she ushered the two to the furthest table and moved away from them hurriedly.

"Man, I hate using CDC as a cover," Dean muttered. "People treat us like we're plague doctors. We should have gone with something else."

"The Feds wouldn't have been interested in what's clearly natural causes," Sam pointed out reasonably. "And we can't be Wildlife Services, either, because there was no animal attack, was there?"

Dean hated when Sam was being reasonable.

Josh appeared five minutes later carrying their coffees. He looked nervous to see them, although he was not as pale as the day before. Actually, he looked well-rested.

"I take it you laid off the energy drinks last night," Dean commented cheerfully.

Josh actually grinned.

"I slept well for the first time in two weeks," he admitted. "No more nightmares. No more creepiness"

Dean and Sam exchanged brief looks. Josh had not mentioned any creepiness before.

"What about bruises?" Dean asked bluntly. "Got any of those?"

Josh's eyes widened. He looked about to bolt, when Sam extended his arm, holding him in place.

"Look," he said calmly. "We're only trying to help."

Josh wrenched himself free of his hold.

"Help with what?" he demanded. "Look, I'm not being abused or anything, and even if I was, what's it to the CDC?"

"You're not answering our question Josh," Dean pointed out sternly. "We didn't suggest you were being abused. We only asked if there are any injuries on you that you can't explain."

Josh's eyes moved from Sam to Dean, unsure of what to say. Sam smiled at him reassuringly.

"I know this might sound frightening," he said. "But trust me, we don't want to hurt you or anything like that. We're only trying to help. Please answer the question. It could be a great help, not only to you."

Josh bit his lips. He had a hold on one of the napkins on the table and was busy demolishing it. He nodded curtly.

"Yeah, there's…there's a bruise on my chest," he admitted. "I woke up one night a couple of weeks ago and I was feeling a bit uncomfortable. And I saw this bruise…and it's been growing…or, at least, it was growing."

Dean tilted his head, noticing Josh's words.

"It's not growing anymore?" he prompted.

"Actually, it's gotten better over the past two days," Josh admitted. "And there were no nightmares last night…so maybe I'm getting better?"

He looked up at them for the first time, unable to hide the brief flash of fear in his eyes.

"It'sa good sign," Sam admitted, sliding his card across the table. "But, if it gets worse again, give us a call, won't you?"

Josh nodded and left, swaying slightly, possibly in exhaustion, or maybe in relief that he was going to be fine after all. Dean shook his head focusing on his coffee.

"I don't get it," he said.

Sam tilted his head.

"What's not to get? That he's getting better? Maybe whatever this is was content with just Andrew."

But Dean was not convinced.

"Unless we need to do more digging here, Andrew's was the first death of this kind. According to what Ash found, this thing is just getting started here. Maybe, for some reason, Josh is no longer a target – for now at least. And frankly, Sam, that bothers me. I don't know why but it has my hackles rising."

He half expected a quip from Sam, something about Dean not being the one with the psychic mojo, after all. But Sam said nothing, his eyes softening in concern as he looked at Dean with that steady gaze, as if he was ready to sit there and listen to anything Dean had to say, if that was what his brother needed. The surge of warmth Dean felt at the thought briefly overtook his worries.

"How about I buy you one more of those fancy coffees?" he offered gruffly.

He nearly chuckled at the pleased surprise brightening Sam's face. At times like this, he thought John Winchester must have been on drugs when he delivered that ultimatum. There was nothing under the sun that could make Sam turn evil. Especially not if Dean had any say in it.

xxxxXXXxxxx

The house across the street from Andrew and Harold's property was in a bad state. The yard was full of weeds and other overgrown plants. If there had been a path leading up to the house, it had long ago been covered by grass. Sam and Dean entered through the back door which was wrenched open.

"Probably homeless people use this place from time to time," Dean commented. "Do you know who owns it by the way and why they left it in such a state?"

Sam did not answer right away. As soon as he had entered the house he had been hit with the unpleasant sensation that something was not right. It felt like a wall was suddenly closing in on him, pressing on all sides. He staggered into Dean, who quickly grabbed his shoulder.

"Sam? You OK?"

Sam nodded curtly. The sensation of wrong left him almost as soon as Dean had grabbed him to steady him. There was nothing wrong now, only a strange shakiness, as if he was experiencing an adrenaline crash.

"Fine," he said. "It was just…weird for a moment."

He moved away from Dean's grasp, and Dean let him go, although Sam noticed he was sticking close.

"Was this your…uhhh…special kind of warning system?"

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean was doing his best not to call him a freak because of his powers. He was also doing his best not to mention his powers by name, using instead all kinds of euphemisms in true Dean-style. It was as if, if he did not mention that Sam had this freaky sixth sense, then it did not exist.

"It wasn't a vision," Sam said quickly. "It wasn't anything, really. Maybe you were right this morning and I'm coming down with something."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" Dean challenged.

Sam shrugged.

"Look, whatever it is, it's passed and I'm still standing. So why don't we have a look around, since we're already here and all?"

He noticed Dean's hesitation and knew his brother was fighting with years of having it drilled inside his head that he had to take care of Sam. One day, Sam mused, one day Dean would have to accept that Sam could take care of himself.

"Fine," Dean said at length, not sounding really pleased with his decision. He did not hesitate to add, almost as if to take his revenge on Sam: "But any more girly fainting spells and we're out of here, princess. Got it?"

Sam decided he would take his revenge for that comment later on, when they were not in an unknown house across from the place where someone had died under mysterious circumstances.

"To answer your question," he said, moving further inside, "No one's been in this house for at least three years. Owners moved. They tried renting it several times. But this is a small town. People come and go."

"Nothing sinister, then?" Dean asked, to make sure.

Sam shrugged.

"If there was something, I did not find it. That's not to say there's nothing sinister now. Empty houses are a paradise for supernatural creatures. They're the perfect hideout."

Dean made a non-comittal noise. He still did not look convinced that there was anything in the house worth exploring. In all honesty, Sam was not convinced, either. But something kept telling him he had to pay attention.

They went upstairs. There was a small bedroom that looked practically intact. The window was open. Sam went to peer outside.

"You can see the Lindstrom house from here," he announced. "I think you can see into the bedroom, too."

"Maybe," Dean said distractedly. "But you'd need damn good eyesight to see what was happening inside."

Sam did not answer. He realized he had looked right into that room when he had been standing in Andrew's bedroom. He tried to remember what he had seen there that had set up alarm bells in his head. He was sure he had not spotted anyone in the window. Then…what?

"Hey Sam," Dean's voice interrupted his thoughts, and Sam could have a note of interest in his brother's tone. "Come check this out."

Sam turned to see Dean looking through one of the drawers of the nightstand. He approached his brother and glanced at the I.D. cards Dean had in his hand. One of them belonged to Andrew Lindstrom.

"Our friend keeps souvenirs," Dean remarked.

"Huh," Sam muttered. "That's strange."

Dean nodded.

"You're telling me?"

"So, you haven't heard of anything like this before?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head.

"What I'm sure of is this ain't no succubus. They don't take trophies like this, they don't need them." His face wrinkled in distaste as he looked at the mold on walls. "They don't enjoy squatting, either."

Sam frowned.

"Maybe it's not squatting," he said. "Maybe it's hiding."

If there had been many other deaths in the area, maybe it was afraid somebody might be on to what was happening. True, most people accepted death by natural causes as what it was and did not look to establish any patterns. But Hunters would have figured out there was something going on. If so, Sam thought there must have been a lot of desperation involved to bring someone in a town close to a known Hunter roadhouse.

"Hey, Dean," he said. "I'm going to have a quick look down in the basement."

"Be careful," Dean said, still flicking through the IDs.

Sam snorted.

"I'm sure if there was something here we would have noticed it already."

Sam went downstairs and switched on his flashlight as he stepped through the trapdoor that led to the basement. The stairs were old and rotten, as decrepit as the rest of the building. Still, there was no indication that they were about to give way just yet.

He was halfway down the staircase when that same feeling of wrongness started pressing in on him again. He stopped and aimed the flashlight beam down at the basement floor. He could see nothing there.

"Dean?" he called uncertainly, afraid to raise his voice, as if he was sure he would attract unwanted attention if he did so.

Something slammed into Sam's side. He cried out and dropped the flashlight. His foot slipped and found air. Sam struggled to get his balance back, but it was not easy doing that with only one fully functional hand. He tumbled down the rest of the stairs, landing on his casted hand. The pain made the world lose focus around him. His last thought before he sunk completely under was "If I damaged my arm even worse, Dean's totally going to kill me."

xxxXXXxxx

She leaned over him. He would not wake up, not for a long while. Not ever, if she lost control and fed too much from him, like she had done with Andrew Lindstrom. She touched his forehead, feeling the dreams that lay in his mind. All such terrible dreams. A woman burning on the ceiling. A man lying dead on the hospital floor. His companion in danger of being killed. Himself becoming a thing of darkness and terror. All the fears that were in his mind, all tasted so sweet that she could not help it. She needed to feed.

A sound upstairs froze her.

"Sam?" the voice was harsh like a whip to her, but she could sense the fear beneath it all. "Sammy?"

She hesitated. She could catch him by surprise. She could bring both of them down, keep both of them there, feed from them both until they were both dead. Still, she was afraid. They were Hunters, and she felt too vulnerable to keep them prisoner like that. They were too resourceful. No, better they did not find out what she was for now.

She slunk away into the darkness of the basement, hiding behind some old furniture just as footsteps bounded down the stairs. The man was there – Dean, that was his name, she had read it in Sam's mind, always in the background, his presence so powerful it sometimes felt like a wall against her attempts of taking Sam's nightmares. Dean eyed the basement warily, but it was clear his focus was only on Sam. He knelt above his fallen brother, almost afraid to touch him. When he finally did reach out for Sam, she could see that his hands were unusually gentle. She had not expected such gestures from a man like him. From a Hunter.

"Sammy…" the voice had lost its hard edge, now trembling and vulnerable as he checked his fallen brother. "Think you've really done a number on yourself this time."

She watched in fascination. It was not that her kind did not know affection. She used to have a family, after all, and she had loved them and grieved for each of them when the Hunters had taken them one by one. But there had always been something in the way these others, these humans lived and loved that had always drawn her to them. Perhaps it was why those of her kind enjoyed feeding on their dreams.

Dean had his phone out, one hand on his brother's chest, as if afraid Sam's heart would stop beating if he moved it away.

"All right," he was saying, even though he had to be aware his brother could not hear him. "All right, Sammy. You just sit tight and I'll take care of everything. You're not walking out of here and I'm not moving you before we know what's what. But I'll get you help, right? I'll take care of everything."

She tried to ignore the pang of sympathy as she watched the two. They were food. Worse, they were Hunters. There was no reason for her to be so drawn to them.