Disclaimer: I have not made a major media purchase since my last post, so it can be assumed that I still don't own Supernatural.

AN: Just to clarify, because on proofreading I realized the many ways this chapter could be read, the relationship between the brothers is just brotherly. No Wincest will be appearing here, only because that's not where this story happens to be going. They are close, perhaps overly so, because this is how I read a relationship, their only stable primary relationship, developed under intense, life threatening conditions.

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple."

Oscar Wilde

The Importance of Being Earnest

Chapter Four

He must have seen Dean's fists clench—hell, seen his whole body clench, muscles quick to respond, so ready to fight—because Sam's hand found his shoulder. He didn't push or grab. He simply laid his hand over Dean's shoulder and restrained him. The older brother was furious and he knew Sam should be freaked out by what was happening and how'd he'd just been labeled, but the hand on his shoulder told him that Sam was calm. Unbidden through his mind, the unwritten Winchester rule flashed: One and only one Winchester may freak out at any one time. Whoever gets there first has the floor. Sam's hand was steady on his shoulder—Dean was murderous so Sam was calm, simple as that. As easily as breathing he had moved his arm and saved Walker's life.

For the moment, anyway.

Sam's thoughts spun as he tried to figure a way out of this mess. There were a thousand ways this could bite them in the ass more than it already had. First and foremost in his mind was the chilling knowledge that Dean was a fugitive—a dead fugitive but still—and it would only take one curious tourist to at worst send him to prison for life and at best reopen a multi-state manhunt that would destroy what was left of his brother's life. Sam's eyes flicked around the room, taking in the security cameras in the dining room and most likely in the lobby as well. Looking over Dean's shoulder, he met Walker's eyes… the taller man flicked his eyes towards his older brother before looking back at Sam, smirking. He knew—he had them by the balls.

Half of Sam's mind desperately wanted to freak out, and was being restrained by the barest of margins. His psychic medium? Christ on a bike!

Sam could see Dean pulling back into himself, glancing at the crowd. He pressed briefly on the shoulder beneath his hand. Keep your mouth shut, Dean. Sam knew his brother's first instinct here would be to lie… and given their lives and experiences he wouldn't really be wrong. But Sam hadn't slept through his years in pre-law—the crowd already knew half the truth, and they couldn't yet be sure exactly how far Walker was willing to go, and how much he had communicated to his guests. There was only one way to take the situation back—only one safe route to go.

And it would only work if Dean kept his mouth shut.

Trust me, Sam's hand said, and Dean was quiet… wary, tense, and still standing firmly between Sam and Walker, but he was quiet.

Putting on his best smile, his poor-orphaned-but-really-a-sweet-honest-boy smile (which worked so much better for him than for Dean because he never used it to get laid, well, except for that one time)—Sam broke the first and sovereign rule of the Winchester family (unless of course you were some girl from Ohio and Dean was still trying to get laid).

He told the truth—the whole, mostly unedited, ever so much stranger than fiction—truth. He unconsciously slipped into his 'lawyer voice,' laying out the story of their lives, starting with their mother's murder and their dark childhood, through Jess's death, where his breath hitched and he'd had to pause for a moment, through everything they'd been through since. The shapeshifter he left out, but not the asylum, or Dean's near death—he pointedly ignored Dean's hissed 'what the hell!'—and stopped short of including Max. Missouri didn't know that, so Walker couldn't know it, either. The only reason he'd included the faith healer bit was to drum up sympathy from the audience. He hoped he told them enough so that they wouldn't go looking for the truth, and enough so that if they did, they'd be too sympathetic to turn Dean in.

Because Sam had paid attention in school… he'd learned that a single person can be hard to convince of anything, a person alone is naturally wary and somewhat distrusting. People in groups, say, twelve on a jury or thirty eating breakfast, are much easier to convince of anything. The larger the group the more easily convinced they generally are; they feel safe, and they begin to identify with whatever they're being told, and here there was no prosecution, only defense… Sam's defense. Sam's earnest storytelling, Sam's obvious pain, there's been so much and we can't take much more and we risk it all for your safety and you wouldn't take him from me, would you?

Sam never said it, but everyone in the room heard it… the crowd, moved; Walker, speculative; Dean, quietly shocked.

I can't be alone, Sam's calm retelling said. Don't take him from me. I wouldn't survive it.

And neither would you.

As Sam's voice died, Walker jumped in, obviously trying to regain control of the situation. "Well, that was exciting, wasn't it? Make a fine movie someday. Well, guess we should let these poor boys eat, and then we can start on the hunt! Enjoy, folks!"

There was a moment of applause… one older woman blew her nose loudly, and Sam stepped back, falling into his chair. He felt exhausted, like he'd run ten miles, as though all his energy had been poured into the crowd in front of him. He wasn't so sure it hadn't.

Dean waited until Walker retreated before sitting back down at the table, tuning out the excited chatter of the crowd behind them. He stared at Sam, an inscrutable expression on his face. Sam pushed the cold eggs around on his plate, ignoring his brother's unwavering gaze. Dean knew they hadn't had a lot of options, there, but…but Jesus! If he wanted everyone to see his skeletons he wouldn't keep them in the god damned closet!

At the same time, the crisis seemed to have passed. No one appeared to suspect anything, because, damn, had Sammy sold that story! They just had to ride this out, and leave as soon as it was done. They couldn't afford to raise suspicions; he'd seen Walker smirk at him, and knew they'd be picked up by the cops before they even got off the mountain. Still, there had to be a way to make sure Sam thought twice before trying the honesty defense again. Hmmm…

"You know, Sam, that whole lawyer thing you did there, that," he paused, lowering his voice for emphasis, "that was really sexy. You could totally get laid that way. I bet any girl in the room would take you under the table right now."

Sam sputtered around a cup of coffee, all moodiness forgotten. "Christ, Dean! There's something severely wrong with you. Just, really, really wrong with you."

Dean merely smirked, sipping his coffee calmly. Mission accomplished.

After finishing their food, both of them cleaning their plates for a change, they looked out over the assembled amateur ghost hunters. Sighing, Dean shoved back from the table. "So, how're we gonna work this?"

Sam shrugged, looking uncertain. "Well, we can't carry any visible weapons. This may be shocking for you, but many people find a sawed-off shotgun somewhat off-putting. Besides, we can't let anyone get hurt."

"They're the idiots who signed up for this freak weekend. You get what you pay for, I say." Off Sam's look, he sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I get ya, morality boy. Like you didn't just milk every last one of them for their pity," he held up his hand to stall Sam's protest. "Well, why don't we, uh… talk about looking into the history of this place, you know, the importance of research and all that? Safe enough, right… then we can, uh, walk through the place with the EMF. With a place this big, should take most of the day."

Sam gave the little half smile that seemed to be all he could manage lately. "Sounds good to me."

As they stood, Dean put a restraining hand on Sam's arm. "Dude, let me do the talking this time. God knows what'll come out of your mouth anymore." Seeing the mirth in his brother's eyes, Sam acquiesced wordlessly, leaning against the table and watching the crowd over Dean's shoulder.

Dean braced himself slightly, turning the Winchester charm up as high as it would go. "So—uh, if you're all finished, then we can get started. The first thing you do on any ghost hunt is thoroughly research the site. Now this inn was built in," he hesitated, casting back to what he and Sam had gathered, but didn't have a chance to finish.

"1894. It was a mansion, a wedding present for a mine owner's wife. John and Laura Bennet." The speaker was a college age guy up front.

Dean sensed Sam shift behind him. "Yeah, that's right," he replied, arching a brow. "Laura was very interested in—"

"The paranormal. She held séances in the third floor library almost once a month. Some say she herself was psychic." This time the interrupter was a plump older woman wearing a silk shawl seated in the back. Sam shifted again behind him, and Dean realized he was laughing, silently.

"Yes, that's right. They were both killed when the miners rioted in 1910. They were—"

"Hacked to death in their beds with mining picks. Several miners that were known to be in the house disappeared during the attack. Most believe they fled to avoid prosecution, but others believe they disappeared in the house. After that, the building was closed down for over ninety years, until being renovated and reopened by the Walker family, the last living descendents of the Bennets."

The last know-it-all was on the far side of the room, a British sounding guy in a sports jacket. Frowning, Dean looked around the room. "Has everyone done this research already?"

The woman in the shawl spoke back up. "Oh, no, honey. This was all in those pamphlets in the lobby." She waved a folded piece of paper over her head to prove her point.

Dean sighed, rubbing his forehead and looking down to avoid actually committing the crime he was wanted for. "Hell. This is hell."

Behind him, Sam's laughter was no longer silent.

Five hours later, Dean's day hadn't gotten much better. He was leading the group down the third floor hallway, holding his EMF in front of him and moving towards the library. It seemed like a good place to stop before lunch. Sam was trailing the group, swinging the camcorder back and forth along the dark paneled hall. Bright sunlight poured in through floor to ceiling windows at each end of the hallway. So far, they hadn't had much more than a few minor spikes on the meter, nothing to really write home about. To their credit, the crowd was patient, not getting antsy or overly noisy even though nothing had happened for hours. He was starting to give them nicknames in his head, to keep them straight… silk shawl, British dude and his tweedy friends, college brats A through G, hot older chicks A, B, and C, plaid shirt, plaid shirt with a lisp, ugly boots… it was a way to pass the time, anyway.

Dean had even gotten some real amusement out of them when one woman asked Sam if he was sensing anything in the Bennet's former bedroom. Sam's clipped 'no' was probably the rudest thing he'd ever said to an old lady. Dean had filed it away, under: 'Bring up later, relentlessly.'

But what he really wanted was a chance to get this done and get the hell out of here, to at least be able to work without a studio audience. As he looked back at his trail of eager little ghost hunting ducklings, he figured that probably wasn't going to happen. Pushing open the door to the library, he moved in, watching his meter carefully.

Like many rooms in the inn, the library had a wall of windows on its far side, these draped in plush velvet, and three walls full of books. It opened into the floor above, creating a vaulted, two story space with a small balcony running along the upper shelves. Set up in front of the fireplace was a large round table, covered in a crimson cloth. Theatrically displayed on it were a crystal ball, several half burnt white candles, and a deck of tarot cards. Dean rolled his eyes as the guests ohhed and ahhed over the table, as though it were some major clue that would crack the case.

Knowing without having to look that the presence at his left shoulder was Sam, Dean muttered, "I think this might just be the worst thing that's ever happened to us."

Snapping the camcorder off and tucking it in his pocket, Sam gave his quiet, dude, seriously, laugh. "I think that's stretching it a little bit, Dean."

Silk shawl, who had been fluttering excitedly around the table, suddenly gave a squeal. "Oh, tonight we should have a séance! Perhaps we can ask the spirits why they're lingering, and help them move on!"

Excited chatter met her idea, and Dean bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, or screaming. "Still think I'm 'stretching it' Sammy? Who do you think they're gonna want to lead their little séance, oh brother dear, my psychic medium?"

Sam took the high road and ignored both silk shawl and his brother, choosing to ask instead, "You figure we'll send them down to lunch after this?"

Dean nodded, watching the guests as they examined the bookshelves with interest. "Yeah… then maybe we can get some real work done."

"You know we can't burn this place down, right?"

Rolling his eyes at Sam's holier-than-thou tone, Dean gritted his teeth. "Yeah, whatever, but you know I'm kicking Walker's ass at some point."

There was no reply for a long moment, and he turned slightly to look at Sam. "Sam?"

His younger brother's eyes were dark, and Dean was reminded, suddenly, of the blade he'd seen that morning. Sam's voice was as dark as his eyes when he replied.

"Just don't kill him."

Dean's reply was cut short by the screech of his EMF. His attention pulled away from his brother, he lifted the device, trying to ascertain where the reading was coming from. The guests all jumped and began to gather around them, blocking Dean's readings and pushing the brothers together in their haste to see the meter. Sam's hand braced against his back, and a strange familiar feeling washed over Dean, one he hadn't quite analyzed yet, a feeling like Sam was suddenly far away, pulled away, somehow. A cold, chilling sense of a terrible space between them…

Oh, no, not now… not here!

Sure enough, Sam stiffened with a gasp, swaying on his feet. He had both hands pressed into his face, and was slowly sinking towards the floor under the weight of his agony. Several hands reached out to grab, to help, to pull him back up, and Sam cried out in pain as they touched him. Dean's shock lasted for half a second as his brain processed the information available. Sammy's in pain… people are touching him… Sam hurts more.

"Get OFF HIM!" His voice sounded strange even to his own ears, and he grabbed the nearest person and shoved them off Sam, as if to illustrate his point. Silk shawl all but flew backwards into the arms of plaid with a lisp, and she couldn't have looked more shocked if she'd been mauled by a kitten. Everyone stepped back from Sam, sensing, finally, that they'd been walking with predators all day, and there was officially blood in the water.

Dean kneeled in front of Sam, torn between the absolute need to reach out when he was needed, and the fear that he could somehow hurt him as the onlookers had. Reality seemed to tumble forward around him, rolling out of control down some deadly hill, and Dean decided to listen to his instincts. He had to be able to help… he couldn't be useless, helpless.

Sam whimpered, softly, cringing against the stabbing pain, and Dean placed his hands on his head, his fingers tangled in dark locks, and he whispered softly to his brother, like he had so often when he'd been sick. Sam cried out, again, and something in Dean broke, a little.

It woke up, deep in him, judged Sam's pain, and found it unacceptable.

And suddenly Sam was far but close, too, and the look of pain flowed off his face as his eyes shut into the vision. Holy shit! Dean breathed to himself, not releasing his hold on his brother. I helped! I—I—what the hell did I do?

Vaguely aware of his brother's hands, Sam felt relief rise up under him, strong and relentless and as familiar as the smell of earth after rain, and with a sigh he fell, painlessly for once, into the vision.