Title: Hunter's Crossing

Author: Signs Of Sun

Notes:

To princess peanut's comment "And it wasn't short! Lol!"

Too funny. True. Chapter 3 wasn't short. Sad part is that it's not even the longest fanfic chapter I've ever posted. I do believe my record was in the neighborhood of 7500 words. But that was a long time ago and many fandoms past. I promise to try to keep myself restrained-I tend to go on a bit. LOL!

To Ghostwriter: "Guilt dream or premonition?"

Nice catch! I was wonderin' if anyone would ask.

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Hunter's Crossing

Chapter 4

The blast, a gigantic wall of flames in flight, exploded outward towards the spot where Sam stood. The force shook his body straight to the core, but his feet were still involuntarily planted in place. The fire barreled forward and escape became hopeless. Sam's braced himself for the impact only for the deep orange flames to suddenly vanish mere inches from connecting with his skin. They were replaced with a single heartbeat of brilliant and warm blue, almost white, light before darkness arrived.

Sam blinked his eyes and rolled his head to the side, glancing around first off to his left then the right. His gaze met with the ordinary objects of any bedroom; a six drawer cherry finish dresser, his worn out duffle sitting in the big cushy chair by the window, a mirror, a large closet, and only other items that rightfully belonged in the space.

His head rested off to his right against the pillow he studied his own reflection in the rectangular mirror for a moment. His mind sifted through the debris of what he had seen, but stumbled over and over on one particular obstacle, whether the images had been a vision, a straight out dream, or a mixture of both-a vision within a dream. The recollections of lying down on the bed, of closing his eyes, of taking in the softness of the mattress, and of listening to the stillness of the night were all clear. But had he fallen asleep? The answer was elusive, always just out of reach by lurking in the shadows of his mind. He knew he had been close to going under, having let his body wander off towards that surreal place in between sleep and wakefulness. But had he gone there completely? At first pass it seemed so, but his brain registered that the pounding inside his skull had been present inside at least pieces of the journey. And he hadn't jolted awake. He had simply and slowly opened his eyes. In fact, the peaceful feeling that the brilliant warm white light had sent through him lingered, suppressing immediate panic.

"Dean," he whispered out, realizing there was a possibility that the images had been more than just a regular dream. He had hoped to find evidence that solidified that what he had witnessed had been created out of the previous evening's events. But doubts rose up in him, adamantly resisting the idea that it had simply been a creation of his emotions, his fears.

Throwing back the sheet Sam swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. He bowed his head, tucked his chin to his chest, and for a long moment sat there, searching his mind and body for traces of what level of consciousness he had been in only minutes before.

But the residue had been washed away from him far too quickly. Blowing out an over burdened exhale he left the bed behind and wandered out of the room. The unfamiliar living room was navigated easily by use of the faint moonlight that trickled in through the huge windows that spanned most of the lake side front of the house and Sam reached the kitchen without turning on any lights. He had scouted it out earlier when they first arrived and promptly decided that if the house's owner considered this a cabin then his regular house must be a full fledged mansion with accompanying estate grounds. The beautiful black stone countertops, brand new appliances, enormous island, and pricey detailed hickory cabinetry cost what most people's annual salary came to. And that was just the kitchen. He went directly to the refrigerator, a sleek stainless steel giant of an appliance. Reaching down for the handle of fridge side of it he caught sight of the water dispenser. Sam shook his head and let out a tiny laugh. Dean had probably gotten excited when he had seen it. Conveniences that were small and insignificant to most like the water dispenser here with its crushed ice feature and the steam shower in that town where they had survived an army of bugs invading were always not so small and trivial to his brother. What was normal to some was luxury to others. Dean's life had been the road. Sam had had a few years in a place that he and Jess had made into a comfortable home to retreat to at the end of a long day. Sam's particular favorite purchases had been the top of the line coffee maker and the desk made out of real wood, not the fake stuff that just looked like wood. They had set it near the window that overlooked a corner of the campus and Sam had happily spent hour after hour there.

Even their father had been gifted with a portion of his life where there were a few indulgences like the incredibly comfortable and rather expensive sofa he had talked Mary Winchester into purchasing. Their father had relayed the story as if it had been a fight for Sunday afternoon football viewers everywhere. How could a man kick back with a beer and pizza and cheer on their team without the proper seating? At the memory of his father rare moment of sharing Sam truly grinned.

It was a strange thing. Sam and his father had been gifted those memories to only have them torn away. Dean, on the other hand, had a different kind of a monster, a void. He may not have had to experience the loss, but he also had been shorted of the gifts in the first place. He never had gotten to experience those things. Sam wasn't sure which was worse. Most days, he adamantly voted for his end of the deal, but there were moments where he was saddened that his brother had to take the tiniest opportunities in the microscopic windows of time in which they were available to him. A steam shower in an empty house they had broken into or a few days in a borrowed luxury cabin with a state of the art kitchen.

Shaking his head harshly Sam abandoned the line of thought. It was a road he knew he shouldn't continue down. The places it led were places to be avoided as long as sanity remained a goal. Finally opening the refrigerator he snatched a Poland Springs bottled water and closed the door again.

On his way back into the living room he stretched a bit, rolling his shoulders and twisting at the waist slightly back and forth. The nagging kinks were the leftovers of exhaustion and a tumble down a flight of stairs. He stopped in front of the nearest window and peered out into the night. The world had a blue hue attached to it, the work of moonlight. The lake was calm and Sam noticed the dock jutting out into the water off the property of the cabin. If insomnia took up camp in his body he would trek down there and sit for a while. Sam cut short opening the icy cold bottle of water to turn his attention to a noise over his left shoulder.

"Son of a bitch!" came the muffled irritated voice that could only belong to his older brother. The door to Dean's bedroom was still closed and Sam stared at it for a moment. His heart tugged at him to go knock on the door, but his mind wondered if he could get away with creeping back to his bedroom. Somehow his brother was always able to tell that Sam had been assaulted with a nightmare or a vision. All Dean had to do was look him in the eyes and there was no changing his mind, convincing him that there had been no painful images or stressful string of events was a lost cause. Sam had tried it a dozens of times, but Dean was able to see the truth and went straight into worry mode. The last thing Sam wanted, both for himself and his brother, was a worried Dean. It seemed a gear his brother was in all too frequently in recent days.

The decision was made by the clunk sound that followed the cursing. Sam made his way around the tan L shaped couch and arrived at his brother's door. He inhaled deeply, blew it out slowly, and rapped his knuckles on the door lightly. Leaning in his towards the door he listened, but suddenly the activity from inside had ceased. He tapped again on the wood in something that vaguely resembled a knock, but it elicited no reaction from inside the bedroom.

"Dean?" he offered softly, very slowly opening the door. Calling out his name and the lethargic speed of opening the door were mostly so that he wouldn't surprise his brother when he entered, on the off chance his knocking hadn't been heard. Surprising Dean Winchester wasn't really recommended for health reasons. The man's reflexes held potential for unpleasant consequences.

Sam poked his head inside the room as soon it was open enough to slip a portion of his upper body through. Realization swept over Sam. He was completely unnoticed which couldn't be a good sign. Dean was sitting up on the edge of the bed, head bowed, chin tucked in towards his collarbone. His upper body rocked back and forth gently in a consistent slow beat. There was a large water soaked towel draped over his shoulders, each of its ends covered the upper portion of an arm. The fingertips of Dean's right hand were desperately clamped around the wrist of his left. His left forearm was held just slightly out away from his body, untouched by the fabric of the towel.

"Dean," Sam stated again. His brother was so far tucked into himself, mentally coping with physical pain that he had virtually blocked his surroundings out and hadn't registered Sam's presence.

Opening the door the rest of the way Sam stepped inside and moved towards his brother. Crouching in front of the bed where Dean sat Sam spotted the cup laying on its side on the floor beside the bed table. There were a puddle of water slowly soaking into the carpet. It explained away the clunk sound he had heard. Returning his attention back to Dean, Sam found his brother glancing up at him briefly. It was just an instant of acknowledgement, but it carried a lot of weight. Dean knew Sam was there, but wasn't regrouping his position or anything to try and cover the discomfort he was in.

"Dean, is there anything you need? Anything I can do?"

"A glass of water would be good."

"Here," Sam responded, offering him the bottled water he'd carried with him all the way from the kitchen. Dean released his grasp on his left wrist and accepted the bottle.

"You really are psychic, aren't you?" Dean commented, a faint teasing in his tone.

"Not this time. Just thirsty."

"If it was yours then here," Dean replied, straightening up a fraction and holding out the water for Sam to retrieve.

"Man, there's like a case of the stuff in the fridge. You're not exactly depriving me of anything. Besides you have to be careful and make sure you drink a lot of fluids. You're at risk for dehydration."

"Thank you Dr. Winchester," Dean threw back, a bit of his smart mouthing talent resurfacing.

"Just drink the water, you pain in the ass." Sam stood up when his brother opened the water and took an extended drink, leaving half the bottle empty. Sam aimlessly wandered the room, studying the objects in it half heartedly. It was much like his own room and held a queen size bed, the dresser and mirror, a large cushy chair by the window, and a closet. The only exceptions were the room had its own private bathroom and the walls were decorated with what appeared to be family photos. By the time his gaze drifted back to his big brother the bottle of Poland Springs water lay empty and discarded on the bed. It provided Sam with something to occupy himself so he could resist the urge to ask Dean how he was doing physically. He grabbed the bottle and went into the bathroom. After tossing it in the trash can there he located the stack of clean towels in the cabinet and took one of them back into the bedroom.

"You haven't slept at all have you?" he asked, kneeling on the floor near the bed table. He picked up the drinking glass and set it near the lamp on the night stand and then worked to mop up the water on the carpet.

"Sleep? Whose needs sleep? All the good stuff happens at night, doesn't it?"

"I guess that depends on your idea of good stuff. In your case, I suppose, yes that would be true."

"You always were one of those really annoying morning people. Always needing to convince everybody else of the benefits of an early start and getting up at the crack of dawn."

"Yeah you and Dad were always night people. Necessity of the job I guess."

"Evil doesn't really keep banker's hours huh? As they say the freaks come out at night."

"Well, think of this way. At least you don't have to call ahead and schedule an appointment?"

"That's true. Mostly just show up and kick the holy crap out of them."

Sam let out a warm laugh agreeably. There was a trace of fondness floating on the surface of it at the same time. Dean had a way of keeping things simple. He was one of those rare people who didn't see the need in complicating everything by sugar coating or watering down or spicing up. Dean tended to be more like an arrow that seeks out its target, straight from bow to bull's eye.

"It was kinda cool though sometimes. The times I didn't go. You and Dad would sleep past noon, having stumbled in at some god forsaken hour. After I'd patched you guys up, you two would crash, and I had the whole morning to myself."

"Yeah what exactly did you do all those mornings?"

"How do you think I got into Stanford?"

"You're telling me you studied that whole time?"

"Mostly."

Dean nodded and let out a soft "hmm" noise, a sound halfway between agreement and pondering. Quiet seized the room for a long moment before Sam finally had gathered up the energy to bring up the topic.

"Listen, Dean."

"Sam, don't. What's done is done."

"You sure...cuz..."

"We're cool, Sam."

"Yeah okay," he sighed out and let only a heartbeat pass with nothing between them. He could either change his mind and fight his brother on the point or move along. He chose, at least for the time being, to move along.

"So this thing back at that house. What do you think it was?" he asked.

"I didn't exactly get a very long look at it."

"Yeah me either."

"Rude son of gun though. Some kind of hospitality huh?"

"Tell me about it. One minute I'm at the top of the stairs and the next I'm eatin' dirt at the bottom."

"Guess we'll have to teach it some manners."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Sam laughed out.

"Maybe some kind of malevolent spirit. We'll check out the history of the house. Shit! The house. Wonder what's left?"

"Fire department should have gotten there not too long after we got here. I called while I was getting the bags out of the trunk."

"Sorry. Guess I was a little distracted."

"Yeah I sort of figured burning down a building and possibly starting a wildfire might not get us off on the right foot in town."

"Good thinkin' Sammy."

"Nice visitin' with you too. Don't wish me good night or anythin',' Dean added when Sam abruptly departed the room. A few seconds of Sam's footsteps traveling the distance from one bedroom to other followed. A moment of silence then the heavy footfalls returned again before Sam reappeared in Dean's bedroom, laptop in hand. After just a few seconds of visually searching the room he located the phone jack and plugged the cable into the DSL filter that was there. Then he plopped down in the big sage green chair by the window, setting the computer on the little table under the window.

"I'll see what I can find," Sam commented.

"Knock yourself out," Dean mumbled. Sam opened the laptop and dug in, working in silence for ten or so minutes.

"So far nothing on the house. And nothing on the spirit. I have a feeling one is linked to the other so I just need to hit upon a trail for one or the other."

"You'll find it," Dean responded reassuringly.

"I sure have found a bunch of other interesting stuff though. Dude, New England is jam packed with ghosts. I mean we could hang here in this region for months and still find jobs."

"Sounds good. Take notes geek boy."

"You actually want to stick around after this job of Dad's, whatever the heck it is, is done? You want to hunt more of these things that have nothing to do with what were really chasing?" Sam inquired and lifted his gaze from the screen long enough to throw a sideways glance at his brother.

"It's what hunters were made to do," Dean replied simply. He sensed Sam looking over at him, but he didn't meet his gaze. Instead he alternated between studying the details of the walls and letting his eyelids slide closed.

"You were made for it? Or you were made into it?"

"Doesn't matter."

"But don't you ever wonder?"

"Sam, I am what I am," he paused for a moment, a smirk spreading over his lips, realizing how that had come out so he added a chaser, "and I do not like green eggs and ham."

"I don't believe you just said that."

"Honestly, I'm not really sure I do either. But serious Sam. It doesn't matter how I got here. It matters that I'm here. I'm a hunter. Okay, so I'm not exactly Mr. All American normal but …"

"What?" Sam asked quietly. Finally Dean looked over at him and held his gaze.

"I like it. Looking back and asking 'what if' and 'why' isn't going to make a difference. What's going to make a difference is doing what I have within my power to do, to make better. It'd be a waste not to use what Dad taught us."

"Okay, so it has it's moments."

"See now that's what I'm talking about! I knew you had it in ya. You've been holdin' back on me Sammy boy."

"I said it has its moments. I didn't say I was ready to sign up for life."

"I'll wear ya down eventually. It's just a matter of time. Resistance is futile."

Sam let out a noise verging on a snort and turned his attention to the laptop again. He could hear Dean shift on the bed, laying back and stretching out his legs on top of the blankets. Sam resisted the urge to glance up when a groan accompanied the settling in. The dim light in the room departed with a click as Dean turned off the lamp on the bed table.

Sam had been searching a short while unsuccessfully. Every time he thought he was on the right path it only led to a dead end. Removing his fingertips from the keyboard he ran his palms down over his face and allowed himself a long yawn.

"I can't find any..." he started, turning to look over at his brother. He let the remainder of the sentence go unspoken. Dean's body was completely still with the exception of the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Exhaustion had taken him. He'd fallen asleep flat on his back on top of the covers with the exception of his left forearm and hand which hung limply over the edge of the bed. Sam suspected that the burn there felt better in midair than in contact with anything else. That was probably the reason for falling asleep above instead of under the blankets and sheet. Dean had refused the hospital, but Sam had already decided that once daylight hit he would go in search of something stronger than that ibuprofen to offer Dean.

Sighing he collapsed back into the oversized chair and struck a deal with himself. He'd rest for just a few minutes then forge on with the internet searching.

It wasn't meant to be though. Only a few quiet moments later Sam had joined his brother in slumber.

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The dark form skirted the edges of the moonlit clearing where the log home sat. Its speed made the distance from the water's edge to the backyard in just a few breath's time. There was no noise, no tell tale sign of its movements, as it left the perimeter of the yard and journeyed towards the porch. Only the tension of its purposefully motions hung in the summer night air.

Arriving at its destination the form began to seek out the end of its mission.

The home's occupants remained sleeping deeply, oblivious to what lurked so close by in the shadows.

To Be Continued…