AN: I am back after a brief hiatus. ("Hey, let's turn our little garden into a huge garden for next year! I'll spend the entire holiday weekend working on getting it ready." Then my poor muscles reminded me that I am not twenty years old. I think I'm still tired.)

Back to Season 2. I picture this happening not long after episode 4, Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things. John is gone, the guys are mourning, and Sam's got a busted arm.

Janice helped a ton, finding approximately 3,672 grammar mistakes. She also identified a place or two that I made leaps of logic that needed more explanation. I'm so grateful!

* * *

"Mothman isn't real," Sam argued in the pedantic tone he'd learned when he was about five and which still irritated Dean.

"Really? Well, Dad, and I killed a pair in Santa Claus, Indiana, while you were at Stanford, genius," snapped Dean. Sam's face went slack with surprise, then went blank a minute later, and Dean silently cursed himself. They were both mourning Dad, Sam was still missing Jessica and nursing a brand-new broken arm, and all of that was on top of worrying about Sam's visions. And here Dean was picking a fight and bringing up Stanford.

"Fine. They're real. How do we kill it?" asked Sam flatly, looking back at the newspaper on his lap. They'd picked it up along with coffee, but neither of them was really very awake yet after a night of dozing in the car.

Dean worked his jaw, trying to decide if an apology was warranted and if it would make things better or worse to offer one. He settled for. "Blades. You chop 'em up and burn the pieces. Bullets don't do crap. Hey, there's a truck stop in Eaton where we can grab a shower, and the diner next door has good food, not just grease." It was an olive branch. Dean liked the greasy spoons, and didn't mind missing a shower once in a while, but that wasn't Sam.

"That sounds good, but not sure if I can trust you about a diner," Sam muttered. He didn't look up, but Dean heard the apology accepted clearly enough. He tightened his fingers around the wheel, then relaxed them again. This was Sam. It wasn't supposed to be hard.

"They serve a side of nothing but a bowl of cut up fruit, not in a pie or anything. It's weird, so I figured you'd like it."

"You telling me something's weird?" Sam huffed. "You wouldn't know normal if it bit you on the ass." And just like that, it was all fine again. Easy again. "So, mothman in Louisiana, huh? How'd that go?"

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

The breakfast was even better than Dean had promised, with fluffy pancakes and real maple syrup, and the story about Dad figuring out about the best way to kill a couple of mothmen – more correctly called lapsae viri – was funny. Even funnier was the visual of Dad having to climb into a bat-infested belfry to retrieve his favorite gun which a falco had stolen. ("He came down and his shirt was moving, and he figured out there was a bat trapped inside it. He ripped that sucker off so fast he sent buttons everywhere! He was more freaked out about the bats than the moth people.") Not funny was Dean revealing that the three parallel scars on his left forearm were from the "fricken sharp" claws of one of the ravenous creatures. They were, apparently, extremely fast.

"So, it sounds like they ambush a person or big animal and slash at them until they bleed to death then carry them off and, uh, eat them, right?" Sam asked. The previous hunt wasn't even mentioned in Dad's journal. It hadn't taken Sam long to realize that very few from the first part of his time gone were. He wondered if Dad had simply started a different journal or...maybe he'd missed Sam more than Sam had believed. It was a hard thought. Sometimes, grief struck unexpectedly and with devastating force. And it was equal opportunity. It was more than happy to bring up Jessica, Pastor Jim, Caleb, even Mom, and bury him in an avalanche.

But Sam couldn't do that anymore. Dean had propped him up after Jess, but Dean was suffering now, too. And they had so much on their plate that Sam couldn't afford to lose himself, even for a little while. Dean was human and deserved to have a partner and not an obligation. Dean was strong, but he was also...looking at him funny.

"Did you hear a word I said?"

Well, no. "I wasn't listening because you say so much crap. Was it worth listening to?"

"Bitch. Yes, this is about the Hunt."

This time, Sam listened to the details of where they were likely to find the mothmans (mothmen?), the best way to lure them out of hiding, and what they were most vulnerable to. Because yes, it was important. But also because it was important to Dean. It was one of the ways that he tried to keep Sam safe, and it was a good one. Information was sort of their stock in trade. That and killing what needed killing.

And based on the newspaper reports of eleven people dead or missing, these definitely needed killing.

Besides, a good, justified kill that would save humans' lives was a nearly sure-fire way to make Dean feel better. At one time, that fact had depressed Sam, but he was learning to take it for what it was.

"Think we'll be done in time to hit the bar?" Sam asked, because he could look out for his brother, too. Dean asked a question with just a look. "Well, maybe we can hustle some good money so we don't have to sleep in the car so often. You're getting a little old for that."

He took the swat with good grace. He deserved it.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Since breaking his arm, Sam had become the de facto second man in their typical pool hustle. Normally, they switched off. The first guy would play someone fairly straight and, naturally, almost always beat them. The second guy would start heckling a game or two in, drinking steadily and acting progressively drunker until there was an opportunity to step in and give the mark what they thought would be a sure win. Sam was a natural at it anyway because he looked younger and more innocent, but Dean really enjoyed playing arrogant asses for the fool.

A cast, however, automatically made Sam look more vulnerable. Nobody really thought he'd be much of a threat at the pool table. However, he was almost as good with his left hand as he was with his right, having been trained from a young age to be pretty much ambidextrous.

But tonight, it was clear pretty early on that they weren't going to pull a hustle. The only guy who took on Dean's challenge was a guy pushing sixty with a flannel shirt and the hands of someone who worked hard for a living. He seemed friendly, too, and Sam relaxed, knowing Dean wouldn't want to take the money of a guy like that. Chances were, he'd bet twenty bucks or the next beer and leave it at that. He might have no problem bilking arrogant assholes with money to spare, but he didn't like taking from someone who worked hard and wasn't a dick. He had a very specific set of ethics about such things, and he rarely if ever deviated from them. He was a regular Robin Hood, Sam thought with a silent chuckle.

Off the hook for a con, Sam flagged down the bartender and ordered whiskey (double, neat) instead of his normal beer. Dean had been drinking a lot more since Dad's death, so Sam had mostly abstained. But his arm ached and Dean was actually smiling and laughing with his opponent and a couple other similar guys. He saw Dean clock his order and raise an eyebrow and just shrugged in response. He wasn't going to get shit-faced, just take the edge off.

He pulled out a ratty copy of Compendium Obscuritatis, Innaturalis, et Monstruosus. It wasn't the greatest resource, since much of it delved straight into fairy tale, but it did cover many different kinds of monsters. Besides, as far as he could tell, it was the only book they had that mentioned anything like a lapsae. He took a sip of the whiskey and started to mentally translate what he was reading, sighing a little at the unnecessarily flowery prose of the author, one D. C. A. Simeon.

Like to a man, but one that is starved nearly to bones, the unnatural creature can unfurl wings that span from upper limbs to lower and take flight. It then circles the night sky to troll for [maybe patrol for?] victims of its rapacious appetites. The monster dives like a falcon toward its prey. Claws like daggers [poniards? knives?] quickly eviscerate the poor creature, be it deer, cattle, or man. All authorities find is a large spill of blood, for when the life has left the victim, the terrible bird man flies off with the body to devour elsewhere.

When attacked, they are known to spit… Damn it, what was "mordax?"

"Who goes to a bar and reads?" asked an unfamiliar voice.

Sam looked up at the woman who'd spoken. He'd noted her only in the way of being aware of people who approached. She was fortyish and pretty with a few rough edges. She was also carrying a gun, though most people probably wouldn't have noticed. Still, that wasn't terribly unusual and the comment was casual, while she waited at the bar for a drink.

"Someone who has work to do and a brother who likes hanging out in bars," Sam answered, tipping his head toward Dean, who was currently demonstrating a behind-the-back shot, probably bet five bucks from all his watchers that he could pull it off. He didn't bother to hide his book; that was one advantage of reading something that was written in Latin.

The woman chuckled. "And you can concentrate in here?"

Yeah, it was no problem for Sam. It wasn't even a very loud bar. Besides, he'd done half his homework in the back of the car or motel rooms with the TV blaring and thin enough walls to hear the neighbors' tv's too, or yes, tucked in the corner of a dive bar while Dad worked the crowd for information. "Lots of practice," he said honestly. "I used to study in the middle of the busiest coffee shop on campus."

"College boy, huh?" She tried again to wave the bartender down, but he was busy at the other end of the bar.

"Hey, Linda, you cow, what's taking so long to get a coupla drinks?" bellowed a loud voice. "Slutting around with a kid half your age? Figures."

The woman, Linda, apparently, turned around, her mouth set tight with anger. "Screw you, Glen," she practically snarled at the big man who had approached and was taunting her. He was over six feet and powerfully built, beer belly notwithstanding. Linda gestured toward the bartender. "Dan's busy and I was just talking while I waited. Shut your hole and you'll be drunk soon enough. DrunkER."

"You can't talk to me like that," Glen the asshole replied and slapped Linda hard.

Sam was off his stool before he registered moving, bodying his way between Glen and Linda. He wanted to ask the woman if she was okay, but if Glen was willing to slap her around, he was more than likely the type of guy who would throw a sucker punch. "Back off," he warned, watching for tells.

"Get outta my way, kid. This ain't your business."

"I'm not going to let you hit her again," Sam responded calmly, then ducked a roundhouse punch that Glen had telegraphed badly. While he was still off-balance, Sam gave him a little shove, enough that he could pivot to the side to give himself a little room. Not as much room as he'd like, not with how many tables were crowded into the small bar, but better than risking squashing Linda between himself and the bar. He wished the onlookers would move, but they seemed content to watch.

Facing this way, Sam could also see Dean and, more to the point, Dean could see him. He was watching, of course, tensed to come intervene, but Sam shook his head slightly. He had this. Glen took another ill-conceived swing that Sam could have dodged in his sleep. He could've ended the fight right there with a punch or pulling Glen down onto his knee while he was still regaining his equilibrium, but he was still hoping to get out of there without having to go down that road.

Glen came up faster than Sam had expected and nearly landed two rapid jabs toward Sam's torso, but Sam had too much training to get caught and dodged those too. "Just let it go. Go home," he tried. Glen didn't even respond except to throw a throat shot. Sam blocked it with his cast, making Glen bellow in pain. It didn't feel good for Sam, either, but now he was pissed off. A throat punch is different from a punch meant to blacken an eye or bloody a nose. It's a strike that's dangerous, even potentially deadly. While Glen was still recoiling, Sam snapped a quick punch at his chin, enough to rock his head back and show him that he might suck at fist-fighting, but Sam did not.

Glen actually growled, then flicked open a knife. Suddenly everyone in the vicinity was moving, hurrying away from the fight. Sam kicked a chair out of his way, watching the other man warily but not pulling a weapon of his own even though he was wearing two knives and a gun. He could tell that Glen was no knife fighter, either. He was comfortable with it in his hand, but he didn't hold it the best way to maximize his reach and his stance was all wrong. "Last chance, Glen," he warned, balancing on the balls of his feet so he could move quickly.

Naturally, Glen didn't take the warning, instead leaping toward him. Sam unexpectedly heard a grunt of pain from Dean, and it made his response stronger than it might have been otherwise not knowing what was going on with his brother. He easily side-stepped the lumbering charge, grabbing the wrist of the hand holding the knife, and lifted his knee as he slammed the wrist down. There was an audible crack at the impact, and he followed up with an elbow to the side of Glen's head. The man landed in a whimpering mess.

Sam spun to look for Dean and tangled with someone. He registered that it was Linda, so he twisted to make sure he didn't land on her and instead came down hard on his right elbow. He disentangled himself and jumped to his feet, then relaxed slightly to see Dean shrugging off the guy he'd been playing pool with, mostly unscathed. His nose was bleeding a little, but other than that, he seemed fine.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked Linda, a little belatedly.

"Yes. I'm sorry," she answered breathlessly. "That was...amazing."

The clear sound of a shotgun being racked made everyone freeze. "You gonna leave or I gotta call the cops?" asked the bartender, who was holding the weapon. At least he was only pointing it at the ceiling.

"I dunno about them," Dean snapped. "But we're outta here. Nice hospitality you got in this town."

"I'm so –" the other pool player started, but Dean waved him off. He and Sam made their way out of the bar without turning their backs.

"What happened?" Sam asked the second they were driving out of the parking lot. The bleeding from Dean's nose had stopped, but he was curious about what had started it in the first place.

"You okay?" Dean asked without answering and Sam knew he wouldn't get a response until Dean was satisfied.

"Yeah, he didn't touch me." He rubbed his casted arm without thinking about it. The fight hadn't done it any favors, and the arm was back to really hurting. "The fall's the only thing that hurt."

Dean frowned but nodded. "Okay. I was coming to back you up when the douche pulled a knife, and Chet, the guy who was playing pool with me, and a couple other guys grabbed me. One of 'em caught me in the nose." He frowned harder. "They said they thought I was going to help the dickbag."

"What?" Sam frowned too. "Huh. I would've figured in a town this size that everybody would know everybody else. Linda called both the guy who hit her and the bartender by name."

They pulled into the parking lot of the motel. "Anything else about that whole thing feel off to you?" Dean asked.

"A lot," Sam admitted. "The fight between Linda and Glen felt set up, almost like they were acting out parts. And he acted drunk but didn't smell like booze at all."

Dean nodded. "The guys who grabbed me moved so fast it almost seems like they knew what was coming. And the bartender had plenty of time to pull the shotgun once the asshat pulled a knife, but he didn't until after you wiped the floor with him. I guess he could have been too surprised but with everything else that's off, it seems weird."

"None of it makes sense, though." Sam drummed his fingers on his knee. "I mean, what's the point? There's a lot easier ways to go after my wallet."

"Maybe the townies just wanted entertainment, like giving an outsider a beat-down. Or maybe that couple messes with anybody new," Dean said, eyeing Sam as he said it. He was definitely the more cynical of the brothers and sometimes still seemed to try to protect Sam from the ugliness that was out there, which was endearing but a little silly given what they faced down on a daily basis. "And the other people might just let it happen. Then you broke script by kicking his ass, and he pulled the knife, so the bartender kicked everyone out. I mean, a beating's one thing, a knife's another."

It was a bit of stretch, but Sam sighed. He didn't have any better explanations. Dean was probably right, which meant he'd been an idiot to fall right into their little trap. "Yeah," he answered a little morosely. "That makes sense."

Dean paused before climbing out. "Hey, you see a woman getting slapped around, you do something about it. You did good." Sam shrugged. It was how they'd been raised and, honestly, he probably couldn't have stopped himself from reacting the way he had.

"Yeah," Sam said again, feeling marginally better. He climbed out and considered the fact that Dean had parked behind the motel, out of sight of the road. He looked at his brother over the roof of the car. "Do you think we should find a different place to stay, outside of town?"

Dean thought about it for a second. "No. We should be good to stay here. We're not acting like feds or anything." A handful of people had seen the last person who was taken, and all described a man with wings. Between that and the acidic substance found around the blood pools left behind by the victims, they were certain about what they were facing. Dean wasn't done. "There are plenty of witnesses that saw who started it. You just defended yourself and didn't pull a weapon on him even after he did."

Sam scoffed. "I didn't need to."

Dean grinned proudly. "No, you didn't."

Sam scoffed again but couldn't help a feeling a rush of warmth at Dean's praise. He wondered if he'd ever outgrow that. Probably not.

"There's blood on your shirt," Dean said as Sam followed him into their room, suddenly serious.

Sam looked at his elbow and discovered a small cut just above his cast. "Musta landed on something when I fell. It's nothing," he said honestly. It was too small for stitches, and he hadn't even noticed it. Luckily, Dean let it go.

Sam was tired and his arm was doing more than ache. He quickly got ready for bed and swallowed a couple Tylenol. When he came out of the bathroom, he was surprised to see that Dean had the sharpening steel out. "It's late. Aren't you going to bed?"

"Nah. I'm still wired. I didn't get to punch anybody," Dean answered with a smile. "You can hit the hay, but I'm sharpening the machetes so we're ready to do some moth chopping." He looked way too happy about the prospect.

Sam rolled his eyes and hid a fond smile. Despite his sore arm, he quickly fell asleep to the rhythmic sound of Dean honing the edges of the machetes. It wasn't as good as Led Zeppelin and the hum of the Impala, but it was practically a Winchester lullaby.

* * *

AN: The story title comes from the Janet S Dickens quote: "The wings of transformation are born of patience and struggle." It was suggested by Janice.

Santa Claus, Indiana is a real place. I've been there. It's a pretty charming little town that embraces all things Christmas.

Compendium Obscuritatis, Innaturalis, et Monstruosus is Latin for "Compendium of the Obscure, Unnatural, and Monstrous," translation taking from Google translate. I made it and its author up.

The word mothman and its plural were driving me crazy, so I gave the creatures the alternate name of lapsae viri, which in Latin is soaring man, according to my good friend Google translate.