okay, at this point, I have some confessions to make:

first, disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. shocking, eh?

Also, I must admit that the use of sweat and belladonna in the ritual mentioned in the last chapter are all 'borrowed' from Stephen King short stories, specifically from the collection 'Night Shift'. As to whether that info is accurate, I don't know.

The cat giving birth to serpents as a bad omen is something I 'borrowed' from an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

okay, now maybe I won't get sued…

again, thank you reviewers! I am loving this story, hope you are too!

Chapter Three: Differences

"Okay, any way we can tell what the omen's warning us about?" Sam asked as he entered the Impala, Dean already in the driver's seat.

Dean shook his head. "No… We'll just have to wait for more, I guess. Maybe check out Dad's journal."

Sam considered telling Dean about the dream. Maybe there was more to it than he thought. Maybe it was another clue about what was going on.

Just then, Dean's phone rang, cutting off Sam's thoughts. Dean snatched the cell up immediately, and Sam noted the eagerness with which he moved. They hadn't heard from Dad in a while, and Dean was apparently expecting this to be him. Sam couldn't say that he shared the same feelings. He did wonder about his dad at times, wondering if he was all right, but it wasn't as often as he knew it should've been.

"Hello?" Dean answered, holding back from saying 'Dad?'.

"Is this Dean? Dean Winchester?" an unfamiliar older woman's voice came over.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, the disappointment nearly overwhelming. "Yes," he replied simply. He wondered who this woman was. Suddenly a sickening fear settled in his stomach. Was this someone calling about Dad? Some hospital worker who found this number on his cell and was trying to contact a family member?

"Who is it?" Sam asked curiously. Dean held up a hand for him to wait, giving him an irritated look. He didn't mean it, but the worry in his gut came out as anger because Sam's talking could keep him from hearing whatever the woman had to say.

"My name is Sarah Franklin. I was trying to reach your father, but all I got was his answering machine. On the recording, he gave your number if someone needed help…" the woman on the line explained.

Dean sighed, the fear leaving him. Just another job. Dad was probably fine. Actually, he should probably stop thinking about Dad and focus on the new hunt. It was certainly less painful. "Yeah, that's right," he replied, "What do you need help with?"

"There are…strange things going on," Sarah Franklin explained vaguely, yet urgency was emphasized in her tone, "Something that has to be dealt with immediately. I need you to come here right away."

"Uhm, well, where are you, ma'am?" Dean asked, trying not to sound too unpromising. They were already investigating something. Sarah Franklin's problem might have to take a backseat to whatever was going on in this town.

"Coolidge, Arizona," Sarah Franklin replied promptly.

Dean raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Coolidge? Really?"

"Yes," she replied, adding, "Something terrible is going to happen. You have to stop it. Come meet with me and I'll explain."

She gave the address, and then said a quick goodbye, adding again a comment about how important it was that he get there, then hung up.

"What was that all about?" Sam asked confusedly.

Dean gave a quick rundown of the conversation as he pulled out and started toward Sarah Franklin's house.

"So she knows Dad?" Sam asked.

"I guess. She wasn't much for chitchat," Dean replied, "And she kept repeating herself, like she thought I was thick or something."

"Huh, that's weird," Sam remarked, "Usually people don't think that about you until they actually meet you."

"Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam finished. He was really milking the usual banter for all it was worth today. It distracted him, made him feel more relaxed. But, he knew that that was a selfish thing to do. They had to focus on the hunt.

"So maybe this has happened here before," Sam suggested, getting back to the important topic.

"Maybe. Check out Dad's journal on the way," Dean advised.

Sam obeyed, reaching down under his seat for the leather-bound book.

"You are a fucking jackass, you know that, Tucker?" Gavin growled to the younger man.

Tucker shrugged. "Not my fault," he responded simply.

The death-row inmates were out in a yard about the size of a football field that was fenced in by a twenty-foot high chain-link fence, the top of which was lined with barbed wire. There were watchtowers at each corner of the yard where two guards stood observing the prisoners, each armed with a rifle. The desert stretched out beyond the yard for what seemed like forever. The town of Florence was actually near by, but the massive prison blocked in from view, almost definitely a planned arrangement.

The prisoners mulled around, some playing cards, some tossing a football around. All of them stayed far away from Gavin and Tucker. Gavin was still suffering from the beating the guards had given him earlier, walking with a slight limp.

"You were supposed to be keeping watch, you little shit," Gavin snapped.

Tucker shrugged a shoulder. "I wasn't gonna stop 'em. They saw the lights and thought somethin' was up."

Gavin glared at him. "Funny how you never do shit…unless your sister's in trouble, right Tuck?" he said with a malicious smirk.

Tucker stopped for a minute and looked at Gavin. His body was perfectly relaxed, but his eyes burned with a fury that was a shock compared to the emptiness that normally filled them. But Gavin just kept smirking at him, unafraid. Finally, Tucker just looked away, eyes on the ground.

"But, I did get a little bit of something," Gavin went on, a little more optimistically, "Not much, but it just might be enough." Tucker didn't seem to be listening; he typically tuned out once Gavin started babbling about his magic. But, Gavin didn't stop, having no one else to boast to. "Just enough for one spell. Not one strong enough to break the curses…" He paused for a minute, thinking.

"I lost my appeal," Tucker stated abruptly.

Gavin looked at him angrily, pissed off that he'd been interrupted. "Do I look like I give a damn?"

Tucker raised and lowered a shoulder. "Just thought I'd tell somebody."

Gavin rolled his eyes. "And I thought they couldn't kill retards anymore," he remarked.

Tucker didn't seem to mind the insult much. Gavin went back to thinking for a moment. As his eyes scanned the yard, his gaze settled on some activity on the nearest watchtower. The guards were changing shift. Suddenly, Gavin gave a small smile, a glint of inspiration in his eyes. "I can't break the curses..." he said thoughtfully, "But there are loopholes…"

"Hey, looks like Dad's been here before," Sam told Dean when he found the right section in the journal, "About ten years ago."

"Yeah?" Dean said, interest peaked. "Must've been one of his long weekends," he remarked offhandedly, "What was he hunting?"

"Victor Gavin," Sam replied. In the journal there were some notes jotted down, but most of the information came from newspaper articles that had been taped to the book. "He was into black magic. Killed five people in ritualistic sacrifices. He was trying to open some portal..."

"Lemme guess," Dean interjected, "To Hell, right?"

"Yup," Sam replied with a nod.

"Figures," Dean said with a snort, "It's never a portal to Disneyland or something. Typical 'end the world' nutcase. Why can't they ever get more creative?" Dean shook his head, then went back to the serious stuff. "Where was the portal?"

Sam scanned the pages. "Dad didn't find it. And it looks like Victor Gavin ever did either, but I think he got caught just in time."

"What'd Dad do to him?" Dean asked interestedly. The question had arisen many times in the past what to do with an evil human. He wanted to know how his dad handled things, sort of as a guideline. Personally, he didn't see how being human got you a free pass. In Dean's opinion, if you acted like a monster, you should be taken care of like a monster. In fact, to Dean, evil humans were worse than evil creatures. The demons couldn't really help it; they were created to be evil. Humans chose to be.

"The police got to him first," Sam explained, a sort of superior tone in his voice that earned him a glare from Dean. Sam saw things differently. In his mind, humans were, to a point, innocent. They were on a higher plane than the monsters. And to kill them, no matter what they'd done, was murder and just as evil.

"Bet they couldn't hold on to him for long," Dean said pointedly. Let Sam have his ethics. Reality would conquer it. People who practiced black magic aren't just arrested by the cops without causing some chaos and carnage.

"Maybe not," Sam allowed, "But Dad has some spells written here. I think he used a binding spell to take away Gavin's power. Once Gavin was convicted-which didn't take very long because of the way he acted in court…"

"How so?"

"According to the article, he stood up in the middle of a witness's testimony and proclaimed 'those fuckers' deaths were the only things they'd ever done that were worth a shit'. Then he flashed the jury."

"Yeah, that'd pretty much do it," Dean commented dryly.

"Anyway, once he was convicted, Dad put some back-up curses on him."

"What kind? The 'be good or your nads shrivel up' one?" Dean asked with a slightly sadistic smirk.

"First, he cursed Gavin with a modified biding spell so that Gavin's body could never leave his prison. Then he cast another one so that even if Gavin got his powers back, they couldn't touch the prison."

Dean gave a satisfied smile. "Sounds like Dad did a pretty good job," he said pointedly. Dad had put a lot of thought into those spells and come up with a perfect system to keep Gavin down. Not even Sam could deny that.

"Yeah," Sam admitted, "But he wasn't alone."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

"This is really advanced magic. Dad had to have had some help," Sam explained. He knew that their dad was good, but not this good. These spells were incredibly advanced by themselves, but they also had to be compatible with each other for all of them to work simultaneously.

"You don't know that," Dean shot back angrily. He hated how Sam had absolutely no faith in their father. It was a pretty shitty attitude to have.

"Fine, whatever," Sam declared crossly, slamming the journal shut. He couldn't argue with Dean about Dad right now. It was a bad enough day already. But he knew for a fact that their Dad couldn't have taken down Victor Gavin on his own. If Dean didn't want to cut the hero worship for about ten seconds and realize the obvious, fine. Sam wasn't going to waste his time trying to convince Dean. He knew from experience that it would be pointless. But whoever had helped Dad could still be nearby; the person might even know what to do now.

Dean looked over at his moody brother with a mixture of annoyance and concern. Sam was broody now and then, and Dean couldn't blame him; his girlfriend had been murdered right in front of him just a few months ago. He was actually impressed that Sam had managed to deal with it as well as he had. But today was different. There was something about Sammy that was sending red flags up in big brother's head. But Sam wasn't letting on what it was. He seemed determined to hide it from Dean. "Man, what is with you today?"

"Nothing," Sam replied too quickly. Dean saw right through it; Sam wasn't that good of a liar in general, but whatever was bugging him now was making him even worse at it.

"Oh, well that must be why you're being such a ray of sunshine today," Dean remarked sarcastically, letting Sam know immediately that he was caught. Dean slipped some dry humor in when he could, but he wanted to get through to Sam. "Come on. You're having more mood swings than that crazy chick in 'Misery'. What is going on?"

Sam hesitated. He hated it when Dean made him squirm; he'd inherited the skill from Dad. Dad could always tell when they were lying, and he could always get them to come clean.

The dream was what was making Sam act this way, and he knew it. He just wasn't sure if he wanted to tell Dean about it yet. And, despite what his instincts were telling him, he didn't think that the dream was very significant. But the look Dean was giving him right now told Sam that it didn't matter if he thought the dream was important or not; it was time to spill his guts.

"I had this dream…" Sam started, knowing that he was about to get a 'psychic boy' comment.

"A 'shining' dream?" Dean asked, just as Sam had expected.

"It's not the 'shining'," Sam stated tiredly. He really didn't like being compared to a Stephen King novel. "They're…warnings."

"Whatever," Dean said dismissively. They could have the debate over the exact label of Sam's psychic stuff later. "What happened in the dream?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know… it was all pretty vague. It was dark…there was a mirror…"

"A mirror?" Dean said curiously, "That could be important."

"How?" Sam asked skeptically.

"Mirrors are the windows to the soul," Dean stated matter-of-factly. Sam gave Dean a strange look that he didn't catch. Not only did the sentence not make much sense, the words were too poetic for Dean

"You just made that up," Sam accused lightly, raising an eyebrow.

Dean shook his head. "Have a little more faith in me, Sammy. I know what I'm talking about," he defended, but not angrily. "Mirrors symbolically and ritualistically view into a person's soul. Don't ask me how that actually works," he admitted, "But that's what I know."

"Okay," Sam said, "How is that significant?"

"Beats me," Dean replied plainly, "It's your dream. So what else happened?"

"Not much," Sam answered, "My face started to melt, and I got super-creeped out, but otherwise, not much."

"Well, I would too," Dean said comfortingly, "I mean, imagine if my pretty face got messed up. Dream or no dream, I'd be huddled in a corner for about a week." Sam chuckled. He liked that Dean was still being Dean, making him laugh. He'd felt so shitty after that dream-and a part of him still did-that he was glad to share some laughs with his brother. But of course, Dean was also being Dean in that he was concerned for his little brother. "So anything else? You hear anyone chanting 'redrum' or something?"

Sam shook his head with a smirk. "No, not 'redrum'." He left the other half of the sentence open, waiting for the question that Dean might or might not ask. He knew he shouldn't be avoiding the subject, but he couldn't help it. He felt uncomfortable when he talked about his 'shining' or whatever the hell it was, but bringing up where it fit in the big puzzle of things was even worse. And, of course, the subject of Max would come up. Maybe openly, but it would be dwelling under the surface in the minds of both brothers.

Dean did catch the missing piece of Sam's words, just as his little brother had dreaded, but known he would. "Did you hear someone chanting something else?" he asked skeptically. A part of him really hoped that Sammy hadn't. If he had, chances were that it was some obscure warning that didn't make sense immediately. Then it would turn into a mystery, and Dean freaking hated mysteries. He hated anything that wasn't boldfaced and honest about itself. Dean was aware that chances were, Sam had had an important warning in his dream, but Dean half-wished that he just hadn't entered this conversation. For Dean, the unknown future could remain as unknown as it wanted. Dream warnings that left cryptic clues behind about the future were a bitch to deal with. You had to walk on eggshells all the time. 'What if the message meant that?' 'What if we missed this?' On and on. Eventually you went crazy trying to guess what was destined to happen.

"Yeah. 'One like you'," Sam answered, waiting for Dean's reaction. He knew Dean didn't like nor was very good at mysteries, but he knew that Dean would quickly come to the same conclusion he had.

"What does that mean? 'One like you'?" Dean asked rather critically. Not critical to Sam, but to whatever had left such a stupid message behind. "Why's it always have to be some kind of game? Why can't they ever just come out and say something right out?"

"'They'?" Sam quoted confusedly.

"Yeah, you know, 'they'," Dean repeated, as though it were obvious, "Whoever emails that stuff into your head. The Powers That Be or whatever."

"Have you been watching 'Angel' again?" Sam teasingly accused, tipped off by the title Dean had used.

"No!" Dean defended. It was a good try, but not a successful one. Dean crumbled under the look Sam gave him, scowling. "Shut up."

Sam courteously pretended to wipe his mouth to hide the snicker. He didn't bring up the three words from his dream again, but he felt no guilt about it. Dean had sidetracked himself. Besides, Sam told himself, Dean wasn't every good at puzzles anyway. Though, Sam seemed committed to not acknowledge the fact that deep down, he didn't want Dean to figure it out. If Dean did, then they'd have to talk about it. Not just the casual discussion with the occasional Haley Joel joke, but actually get into it. Sam didn't want that. The usual conversations were enough; they'd practically become routine by now, and that was fine. But any deeper, and it would just be too much.

Sam having his premonitions made him and Dean different on a strange and uncomfortable level. The typical differences were fine, sure. But this wasn't the same thing. Sam could be the smart researcher brother, and Dean could be the smart-ass gunfighter brother. But Sam couldn't be the 'gifted' brother with visions and Dean couldn't just be the brother along for the ride. Sam knew that Dean could kick some major ass, that he was a good man, and an even greater hunter. But when it came to the premonition stuff, Dean was just out of his element. And Sam knew that he himself was to, but he didn't really have much of a choice but to deal with it.

Now some tasty tidbits of 'extra' info:

Florence State Prison is a real prison in Arizona, and it does have a death row.

The stuff about Coolidge, Florence, and Tombstone (the town I vaguely mentioned in the 1st chapter) is all geographically accurate.

The weird prayer that I had Victor Gavin use in the previous chapter was the Lord's Prayer backwards, something that is often used in black masses.