ENTITY (Chapter Three)

In El Reno, Oklahoma, Dean Winchester sat on a paisley couch in an orange and lime green walled motel room, the nauseating color scheme helping to keep the elder hunter awake. He idly flicked through their father's journal and surreptitiously monitored his sleeping brother. As though able to sense the observation, Sam rolled in his sleep and his feet twisted in the blanket Dean had lain over him. The younger boy fidgeted, murmured wordlessly then sighed and stilled. Dean caught sight of the dried blood on his brother's face, and a sharp, painful twinge drilled through him. He fisted his hands and his gaze slid to the left, to the second bed and the figure that lay in a deep slumber upon it.

His jaw tightened as he considered the dark-haired child. He drew his attention down to the EMF meter on the couch beside him and, for the tenth time in as many hours, Dean flicked it on and held it toward the girl. The needle did not even flicker, did not even move. He released a tense breath and switched it off. He placed it beside the small bottle of holy water. His attention lingered there, indecision and an unwillingness to confirm his fears causing him to hesitate, to question his thoughts, his hunch. Exhaling heavily, he lifted the bottle, uncapped it and moved to the second bed. He shook several drops onto the child's exposed skin, the tender flesh of her inner wrist. His hand shook and he held his breath. She shifted in her sleep and Dean shifted back. But then she stilled and her flesh did not pucker, did not fizz and sizzle. Dean released a breath, but the uneasiness remained. He recapped the bottle and moved to the window. He nudged the curtain aside and looked outside.

Early morning darkness cloaked the exterior of the motel in a heavy shroud, the few flickering globes spaced unevenly along the walkway doing little to beat away the night. Dawn lay several hours away, but the rain had cleared and the resultant chill had formed a fine mist on the Chevy. Dean scrubbed at his eyes, the lenses scratchy, his body worn. He let the curtain fall and turned back to the room. His attention skimmed over the girl, then fixed on Sam. That painful ache wormed through him again and he longed for his brother to wake. But Sam showed no signs of doing that any time soon. With a weary slump of his shoulders, Dean walked to the kitchenette, pulled open the fridge and snagged the second last chocolate bar. He returned to the couch, sat heavily and quietly opened the cellophane wrapping. Three large bites later, Dean felt vaguely nauseated, the candy wrapper lay discarded at his feet with the other seven, and he again cast a wishful eye toward Sam.

Dawn found the elder hunter seated in the same place, an empty carton of milk added to the mess of candy wrappers, and his face lit by the dull glow of Sam's laptop computer. He yawned and stretched, grimacing as weary muscles pulled. He pushed himself up, peered outside, then with a troubled sigh, dropped the curtain back. He made sure the heavy fabric pulled tight to the frame before he trudged to the bathroom, silently closed the door and leaned over the wash basin. The cracked mirror offered him a rather unflattering reflection. He scowled, splashed his face with cold water which effectively worsened his appearance, but did serve to beat away some of the aching fatigue. He returned to the hideous couch and the frustratingly endless wait.

Mid-morning brought Dean some company but it was not that which he waited for. The young girl he had found hidden in the attic of the Texas house woke, sat up, rubbed at her eyes then stared at him. Dean watched as her eyes widened. "Hey," he started gently. "I'm Dean, remember, we met last night. You told me that your name is Tara, and that your friend's name is Boris." The girl considered him then looked down. She snagged the fluffy toy dog from beside her.

Dean wet his lips and cocked his head to the side. "Christo," he said. He raised an eyebrow as Tara hugged the toy to her chest. "Christo," he repeated a little louder. Again, the name received no physical reaction. "Okay, no-one's home in there." Dean sighed, only partially relieved. Demonic possession had actually seemed the easier option.

"Where's my Mommy?"

"She's, ah…." Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. He massaged one particularly sore spot, and then scrubbed his hands over his thighs. "Tara, you and I met last night, when you were hiding in the attic with Boris. Do you remember?"

She hugged the stuffed animal to her chest. "Yeah, you're Dean."

"That's right."

"Where's my mommy and daddy?" The girl bobbed her head and scanned the small room. "Are they outside?"

"Uh… Tara, no. They're not here. They're…." Dean sucked in a breath. He whisked his gaze to his sibling as he teased at his lower lip with his teeth. He frowned as Sam shifted restlessly, his brow creased with pain.

"They're gone?"

Dean's heart clenched as the child's shrewd awareness skewered him. "Yeah," he breathed. "I'm sorry."

Tears filled the little girl's eyes and her lips quivered. "No. No… not real. Wasn't real. Just playing. Hide and seek. I was hiding. You found me, but Mommy and Daddy are still looking for me.I'll hide a bit longer, okay. It'll be fun. Daddy will laugh. He always laughs when I play tricks on him. Says he's angry, but I can tell he's not. You'll help me, Dean. Help me hide?"

By the end of her little self-talk, the child was almost entirely calm. But it had left Dean rattled. He swallowed thickly and forced a numb nod and a smile for the girl's benefit. His attention drew to his brother as Sam tossed his head and moaned. Dean quickly stood, crossed the room and knelt by the younger man's side. He gently swept the tousled locks from Sam's forehead and tenderly thumbed at the pain lines that deepened there. Tara watched him intently. She knotted a hand into one of Boris' large floppy ears and methodically wound the fabric around her small fist. Around and around until the skin of her hand adopted a dusky, flushed hue. Only when she could wind the fabric no tighter, did she finally stop.

"Tara, don't, don't do that."

The child blinked, confused.

"Boris." He nodded to the stuffed animal, unnerved as the girl continued to stare, her eyes a little too bright. "Tara, let Boris go. You're hurting his ear." The child stared dumbly for another few seconds before she seemed to recover her faculties. Pain tightened her features as she released her hand and Dean winced. Another moan from Sam drew his attention back to his brother.

"Sam?" Dean clasped the fingers of his free hand with those of Sam's left and intertwined the digits. He felt his brother's pulse, the steady and reassuring thrum of the younger man's life-force. He used it as an anchor, a safe harbor, and he borrowed that strength to beckon the younger boy to him as he woke. "Hey, little brother. It's about time you woke up."

Sam grunted and his eyes sprang open. His eyes moved to Dean's, the blue-green depths clouded with confusion. "Dean?"

"Yeah, the one and only. You're bound to feel a bit rough to start with so don't move too fast."

"Where are we?"

"El Reno."

"Am I dying?"

Dean's grip tightened. "Why do you ask that? Are you in pain? How's your head? Shit, Sam, I checked you over, woke you a dozen times. What did I miss? You seemed okay, you seemed—"

"Enough, you're giving me a headache," Sam said huskily. He shifted in attempt to sit up.

Dean untangled his fingers and placed a palm against the younger man's shoulder. "You have a headache?"

"No, but the hair, man. What's with the hair?"

Dean relaxed and a smile teased his lips. He playfully ruffled the unruly mop. "Wise-ass. What do you remember?"

"Too much, I think." He sat up and this time Dean let him. "Did we… did you?" His eyes searched Dean's. Dean nodded toward the other bed, and Sam frowned and looked across. His eyes widened. "Oh."

"Sam, meet Tara… and Boris."

Sam blinked and his lips parted. He steadied himself against the bed and shifted his legs over the side. "Hey, Tara," he whispered, his voice throaty and low. "I'm Sam."

Dean watched Tara as the girl intensely considered his brother. Her elfin features drew into a contemplative scowl as the seconds lengthened. She mouthed something and Dean cocked his head to the side. Beside him, Sam grimaced and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead.

"Hey," Dean said. He grabbed his brother's upper arms and moved so he blocked the line of sight to Tara. "Sam, look at me. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing, just a twinge. It's nothing." He dropped his hand to his lap.

"Sam?"

Dean flinched and whirled. "Tara, what is it? What do you want?"

"Sam." She leaned over, forced to crane her neck to see the younger hunter behind Dean. When the child had gained a line of sight, she added, "Dean and I are playing hide and seek. You can play too, but I'm hiding first. Dean is helping me hide."

Dean shrugged at Sam's confused expression. He nodded toward the door, and then led the retreat from the motel room. He snagged a bottle of juice from the refrigerator on the way out and deftly uncapped it. "Sam and I are going outside; we'll leave the door open. If you need us, just call."

"Sam." Tara started.

"Yeah," Sam said as he hesitated. His fingers tapped nervously against his thigh.

"Boris likes you."

"Uh, good. That's good. I'll just be outside. With Dean."

"You'll come back?"

Sam nodded and Dean held the door open for him, allowing the younger man to step through. Dean smiled at the girl and won a small smile in return. It quickly faded as she looked to the open doorway, to where his brother had disappeared. Dean stepped outside. He passed the juice to his brother. "Drink it slowly."

Sam took the bottle. "What was it?" he asked. He thumbed toward the open door. "What the hell did that to her parents?"

Dean shrugged and averted his gaze.

"Dean?" Sam's eyes searched Dean's face, scouring, probing.

"Drink, Sam, you're dehydrated. Puking and then sleeping for half a day will get you that way."

Sam ducked his head, his face creased with heavy uncertainty. He fingered the bottle. Eventually his shoulders slumped and he took a swallow, swished and then walked a short distance away before spitting it out. He repeated the action several times, before he commenced drinking.

"Not too much, Sam," Dean warned. Sam downed three quarters of the bottle before he stopped. Dean passed him the cap. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'll live. So what was it? What did you find?"

Dean stiffened and his jaw tensed. He regarded his brother silently, not liking the haunted look in the younger boy's eyes, or the dark circles that lay beneath them. Though Sam had slept for over twelve hours, the exhausted slumber had not undone the six hours of physical torture. It would take more than a bit of apple juice to get Sam back up to speed.

"You didn't get it, did you?" Sam said, but it was more an accusation than a question.

Dean shrugged, but did not look away. He steeled himself against the raw need in Sam's eyes, the little brother who had relied on Dean to make it better, to make it safe. He recognized the acknowledgement of failure that Sam reflected back at him and it hurt. He wanted to explain, to make Sam understand… but he could not get his recalcitrant, denial-twisted tongue to form words. And, to be honest, he hoped that some other theory would present itself before he had to.

Movement at the window caught his eye and it was almost with relief that Dean shifted his gaze. Tara pulled the curtain back. She pressed the palm of one hand against the glass and stared at Sam. Sourness invaded the elder hunter's mouth and twisted through his nostrils. Metallic and coppery. Beneath that dwelt the putrefying stench of torn intestines and bowels. The elapsed hours had intensified that stench, and no matter how much Dean had showered, had scrubbed, had sought to rid his body of the decaying smell, it remained. Cloying. Sickly. He rubbed at his scalp. Nudged his fingers through his hair. He sensed the dead couple's cells in between the strands – the microscopic molecules of those two people in his follicles, in his pores. His stomach twisted.

"What would do that, Dean? What could do that?"

Tara moved closer to the window and her face pressed against the glass. She watched Sam, not Dean… just Sam. She did not blink, and Dean shuddered against a chill that tracked the length of his spine.

"You must have some idea. You've researched, right. What did you find?"

He opened his mouth then closed it again. He wondered how Sam had not figured it out. The kid was college educated, smart as hell and quick to reach even the most implausible conclusion, yet this evaded him. Dean wanted him to figure it out. He did not want to be the one who laid it all out because the slow dawn of self-realization would be easier for Sam than a brutally jarring announcement. But the long hours of suffering must have screwed with Sam's mind, slowed him down, minced his brain-cells and left him intellectually deficient. Either that, or Sam just did not want to accept the reality of the situation.

"Dean? What do you think it was?"

"Max," Dean said softly. He winced at the confusion in Sam's eyes then held his breath as it morphed into pain. Denial erected a solid wall just a few seconds later.

"No. She's not like Max. No way, Dean. She's barely ten years old."

"She's eight."

Sam's lips twisted. "Those were her parents. That was her mother. Max's mom died like ours, Dean. Tara's didn't. They die yesterday. It's not the same."

"Adoption," Dean said simply. "Viv Hamilton can confirm it. We'll need Tara's date and place of birth, that's all."

"It was something else. It was not Tara."

"I'm not so good at all this vision stuff of yours, but the way I see it a connection does not just spontaneously occur. It has to be created, manifested from powerful psychic suggestion. Using mind power to massacre your family with steak knives kind of meets that criterion, Sam. It explains how she linked with you." He softened his words. "If it makes any difference, she does not remember doing it."

Sam pressed his lips tightly together and shook his head. "It does not explain how she maintained the link with me for as long as she did. Max couldn't. Tara wouldn't be able to either. It doesn't work that way."

"Then how does it work?"

"Tara did not kill her family, Dean. She's not like Max. Not even close."

"But she is psychic."

Sam glanced at him and looked away. "Call Viv. She'll confirm that the kid was not adopted. I'll start researching. At least one of us is good at that."

"Ouch."

Sam's lips twitched but it was not the ghost of a smile, it was something darker, more morose. He turned and headed back to the motel room. He had abandoned the juice. Three quarters of a bottle of apple juice would hardly keep the six foot four bean pole upright, let alone functional enough for research or anything else for that matter.

"Sam."

The younger man stopped and turned slightly, but not enough for Dean to see his face. Dean suspected it was deliberate and that made the elder hunter ache. "I'll dial in some food," he said as normally as possible. "What do you want? Pizza, pasta or burgers?"

"Not hungry, Dean."

"Pizza, pasta or burgers?"

"Not hungry."

"Don't make me kick your ass."

"Screw you."

"Sam, you have to eat."

Sam's shoulders slumped. "Get whatever you want. I don't care."

Sam eyed the plastic containers and bags that constituted the banquet Dean had arranged. Dean watched him, and Sam felt like a toddler taking its first steps under the vigilant eye of an overprotective parent. "This looks good," he lied, even managing a smile for his brother's benefit. Dean had excelled himself in the catering department. He had arranged three separate deliveries and some how managed to get them all to arrive within minutes of each other. It seemed he had covered almost every base: soup, salad, meat and even a selection of desserts. There would be a lot of waste, Sam decided.

Dean leaned forward, clearly pleased by Sam's interest. "I thought the soup might stay down, if you're still a bit queasy. And the salads are pretty light. The dressing is on the side, in case, you didn't want it."

"It's good. Nice. Thanks."

"And there's bread rolls and—"

"I can see them," Sam said. He forced a thin smile. "Don't go all Martha Stewart on me, man."

"I'm not. I felt like some variety. No big deal."

"Okay."

Dean ducked his head, his gaze averted. "So, did you find anything on the internet?"

"No."

"So I'm not such a bad researcher after all?"

Sam ignored that. He claimed the soup, lifted the lid and eyed it with apprehension. His stomach cramped and rumbled. He blushed and accepted the spoon Dean passed him. He was not quite ready to chow down though. Tara, it seemed, had no such difficulties. The child sat opposite Sam, at the farthest point away from him, but the young hunter knew that he lay directly in her line of sight. It had taken a few false starts to reach that unspoken compromise. He had the distance he craved. She had the direct line of sight that she needed. Sam tried to understand the unease he felt around the child. There was a connection there, a link, some kind of tentative hold that she had over him… but it was not like Max.

He watched as she scrounged around in the bags until she had a selection of fries, chicken nuggets and several salads before her. She eyed them appreciatively then deliberately selected one of the fries. She dipped it in a tub of sauce and stuck it in her mouth. Her eyes widened, and a contented, almost blissful, calm descended.

"Haven't eaten for a while," Dean noted as he observed the girl.

Tara grinned then covered her mouth with her hand. "Oops," she said, "bad manners." She giggled, selected another fry and repeated the routine.

"At least someone is enjoying the food," Dean said as he selected his own food from the huge pile.

Sam forced a smile and dipped his spoon into the soup. He swirled it a few times, then collected some of the broth. The process stopped there. "Has Viv called back?"

"Not yet, she has to go through the records. Could take a few hours. She may not even be able to get back to me until tomorrow."

"We could ask…." He nodded toward Tara.

"Not a good idea."

Sam played with the soup some more. "We have to find out what happened, we have to ask."

"Sam, eat your soup. This conversation can wait."

It could not, but Tara had discovered that she could eat and listen at the same time, and the bright curiosity in her eyes demanded that they suspend their conversation until they were alone. Sam sighed and started on the steaming broth, and though the first few spoonfuls were difficult, he quickly found his way to the bottom of the cup. He pushed it aside then scanned the table. "You having that?" he asked as he pointed to the container of salad.

"No, it's yours. The bread, chicken wings and potato salad are as well, and anything else that waters those freaky taste-buds of yours. You get first pick, Sam."

"Even the burger?" He noticed that Dean had not yet started on it. The elder hunter had worked through the fries, after having adopted a similar eating pattern to the one Tara had opened the meal with. Both now wore contented cholesterol saturated grins.

Dean hesitated. He rested one hand on the still wrapped burger. "It's double beef," he said cautiously, as though that would make it less appealing.

"Sounds good."

Something close to pain crossed the elder hunter's features. "Really? I mean, if you want it, but… I thought you'd dig the whole soup and salad thing, so I didn't order you one."

Sam shrugged. "I could go a burger." He watched Dean's face, knowing that his brother would hand the meal over, it seemed that going hungry or sacrificing favorite foods was all part and parcel of being a big brother. Sam decided that being the youngest had its perks.

"Dude?" Dean griped, "Really?"

Sam chuckled softly. "I'm glad I was born second, Dean."

Dean did not seem to get it, and he stared, confusion marring his features. He toyed with the wrapping on the burger, and the hesitation was almost pitiful. "Well, do you want it or not?" he finally asked.

"No. I was messing with you."

"Oh." Dean absorbed the admission then added, "That's low. Burgers are sacred, dude. You know that."

"Yeah, I do."

The look Dean shot him was dark, almost murderous, and Sam laughed. He hoed into the salad, polishing it off with as much gusto as the soup. The chicken wings went next, then another salad, the bread roll and one of the desserts: some jellied-cake-custard thing that rapidly vanished into the gaping vortex that was Sam's stomach. He started to slow down a little then, and found Dean watching him. His brother wore a proud, self-satisfied smile that warmed Sam… and irritated him. He chose to let the former emotion foster, but warned his brother off staring with a single, brusque, "Dude."

Dean grinned. "That's my boy," he said proudly, and Sam physically resisted the urge to smack him. He would have, but the dessert had to be demolished first. Then that pecan pie that sat in the centre of the table, defenseless and vulnerable. Sam eyed it even as he worked through the last of the jellied cake thingy. He smacked his lips, moved the container away and glanced at Dean and Tara. Neither seemed ready to offer a challenge, but just reaching in seemed rude, somehow. Casual, disinterest would be the best option. Dean slid the pie toward him, his eyebrows raised in amusement. "That's why I'm the one that does the hustling, Sam. You are just too transparent, little brother."

He ought to get angry over that remark, but the pecan pie stopped before his nose and a spoon appeared. Soon, Sam wore the same contented, cholesterol saturated grin as his companions and not a crumb of food remained on the table, just a mess of containers, bags and wrappers.

They sat that way for several long minutes then Dean's cell phone rang. Sam's head jerked toward the sound then his eyes skittered to Dean's. "Viv?"

Dean retrieved the phone and flipped it open. "Dean Winchester," he answered. Sam held his breath. He sought to read Dean's expression, his stomach flip-flopping as the older boy nodded, confirming Sam's assumption that the senior government official was on the line.

"Okay," Dean said and a frown knotted his brow. "Yeah, that's the right one." Dean's eyes met Sam's, then flicked to Tara. He listened for several moments then said, "No, that's all I needed to know. Thanks." He paused and added, "Dad, yeah, he's good. I'll give him your regards. Thanks, Viv, and let us know if you have any more problems with that other matter." Dean's eyes met Sam's as he cut the connection. Sam held his breath, but Dean's expression gave nothing away. He stood and began tidying up the mess from the table.

"Dean?"

"Not here, Sammy. We'll talk outside."

Sam's gut clenched. What had Viv said? What had she found? He looked at Tara, at the unapologetic way she stared at him, and apprehension skated cold across his skin. Sam's stomach churned and he knew that the pecan pie had been a big mistake.

End Chapter Three