ENTITY (Chapter Seven)

Sam had lost count of the times he had woken, or of the number of pills he had taken, or the number of bleary-eyed, nonsensical conversations he had had with his brother before he had passed out again. All those separate events ran into a blur, but this time held just a little more promise.

He lay still as consciousness returned, remembering that sharp movements brought pain or nausea, and sometimes both. Neither his stomach nor his body seemed particularly friendly at the moment and he was keen to not piss either off. Slowly opening his eyes, but still not moving his head, he blinked to clear the fuzzy vision. The room was in darkness, the pillow hard against his ear. Even if he was not going to stay awake for long, he needed to roll over to his other side and flatten the other ear. Then he remembered that he could not. His left shoulder prohibited even the thought of laying on that side. No wonder his right ear felt as though it had been steam ironed. He swallowed, tasting dry sourness in his mouth. He needed a drink.

He blinked again, sighing softly as he tested his muscles, moving his legs just a little. He could see Dean. His brother was seated by the window, the curtains drawn and the television on. By the look on his brother's face, Sam realised that Dean was enjoying whatever program he had tuned into. He shifted a little so he could see the screen. It flashed and wavered, confusing. He squinted, taking in the shapes, the colors and the images in an attempt to make sense of them. Several faces appeared before one that he recognised. He huffed softly, his eyes widening. "Oh dude," he breathed, "you and I need to have a serious talk."

Dean jumped, his face flushing. Papers flipped and scrunched as he hurriedly ferreted around on the table.

Sam carefully pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The action left him feeling a little nauseated, but not enough to miss out on the delight of having caught his brother out. "Oprah," he exclaimed. "Oprah," he repeated, carefully drawing the name out. Dean growled, a low guttural and threatening sound and Sam laughed. "No 'chick-flick moments', huh? Sure, no sweat, man. No warm, fuzzy, sensitive side there. So, spell it out for me. Just how does Oprah fit into that picture?"

"Shut your cake-hole, bitch," Dean warned. He found the remote and flicked the television off. The room cascaded into darkness, staying that way for a minute until Dean moved from the table and flicked on an overhead light. Sam blinked, forced to laugh harder as Dean glowered down at him. Dean's dark gaze only served to worsen Sam's levity, forcing him into that state of uncontrolled laughter that bordered on pain. Sam realised then that he would pay a high price for ridiculing his brother, and he tried to stop, he tried to get off the runaway cart that was hilarity before he crashed and burned. But the cart was out of control.

Dean stalked around the room, mouthing off but Sam couldn't grasp the words. Pain caught in his chest and ripped up his shoulder. He struggled to breathe and at some point Dean recognised the shift between the sound of Sam's laughter and the sound of his pain. Sam felt Dean at his side, felt his brother's warm touch, heard his soothing words. Tears sprang to his eyes as he bent forward, fighting to regain his breath. Dean rubbed his back, offering him an anchor away from the pain. It worked, and within moments Sam had his equilibrium back and was able to breathe normally. Despite the pain, the levity had not left him and he found himself giggling tentatively, caught on that precarious edge where even the most innocuous action could start it all off again.

"Settle down, Sam."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

Sam hiccupped and giggled harder. Gently he pushed his brother away. "Don't speak," he begged. "Go."

Dean raised his eyebrows, but did as requested. Sam bowed his head, coughing to clear the residual ache through his chest. He breathed as deeply as he could and forced his thoughts away from anything that could cause another fit of hysterical laughter.

"Karma, dude," Dean whispered, obviously assuming he was out of earshot.

Sam suppressed another inane giggle at his brother's dry comment, wincing then grimacing as he struggled against the almost undeniable urge to laugh. He raised his head. Dean stood by the door, watching, clearly uncertain about leaving – about whether he might still be needed.

"Jerk," Sam said, but he daren't not further tease his brother about that television talk show – the one he now tried so desperately hard not to think about.

"Well, you're obviously feeling better."

"Yeah, some."

"Good, cos Barney's Bar and Grill has topless waitresses tonight and we're going."

Sam suddenly did not feel quite so well. "Dean," he started.

Dean held up a hand, forestalling any attempt that Sam could make to weasel out of it. "Don't even try," he warned before he smiled widely, a hint of brotherly maliciousness in the grin. "We're going and you're going to enjoy every moment of it or at the very least you're going to quit your whining and let me have some god damn fun."

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long night.

Sam could have said no, he could have stayed back at the motel. They were not bound at the hip and neither was Sam obliged to blindly follow his brother. Barney's Bar and Grill with topless waiters held no appeal whatsoever, in fact, it almost turned his stomach. But, if Dean was going then so was Sam.

Sam stared out of the Chevy's passenger side window and reflected on his reasons for joining his brother. Dean needed a break, he needed to relax. It was beyond Sam's comprehension how a noisy, potentially violent and seedy bar gave Dean the peace he needed, but it did. He also knew that Dean would not go alone – he would not leave Sam while he was injured, regardless of how cage-crazy he got. So, if Dean was to get some well-needed bar time, then Sam had to get some too, no matter how unpleasant it might be for him.

Sam shifted in the seat, glad to be away from the motel but aware of the uncomfortable sensations through his body. It wasn't quite pain, the painkillers took care of most of that, but it was that edge of wary fatigue that within hours, and without adequate rest, would ramp up to an intolerable level. Sam knew that Barney's would not be kind to his injuries and he knew that in another hour or two it would be more than simple fatigue and no pills would take the edge off it. But he could grin and bear it – for Dean. He could and would do it.

Dean pulled the Impala into a darkened car park, the shockers bounced through the gutter and clunked before levelling out. Sam peered around, searching for the tell-tale Harley Davidson's, revved up street cars and scantily clad females that frequented Dean's preferred hang-outs. He saw none. Instead, he saw a large restaurant, the high glass windows affording him a view of the mixed groups of old and young, families and couples, even kids, that dined there. Sam ducked his head, frowning as he twisted to scan behind them. Dean pulled the Impala into a vacant lot then cut the engine. Sam continued to scan the area, realising that Barney's had to be around the corner and out of sight.

"You want steak?" Dean asked.

Sam glanced at his brother then up at the restaurant's neon Steak Palace sign. "We eating here first and then going to Barneys?"

"Maybe."

"Yes or no?"

Dean twirled the car keys. "Maybe there is no Barney's," he said with feigned innocence.

"What?" Sam watched his brother, observing the sly glint in his eye and the infuriatingly cocky tilt of his head. It dawned on Sam then. He had been duped. They had never been going to Barney's Bar and Grill. "You asshole," he breathed, relief and indignation warring within him.

Dean grinned, clearly pleased to have tortured his little brother so effectively for the past few hours. "Guilty as charged," he chortled as he pushed his door open. "C'mon sunshine, steak's getting cold."

Sam huffed and shook his head. He wanted to be angry, he really did, but he could not. He scanned the restaurant again, appreciating the name and the patronage. The menu was obvious and Sam's mouth watered. If he could have chosen any place to enjoy a meal, it would have been right here. He joined his brother at the front of the car, lightly grabbing Dean's jacket. "Thanks," he said softly as he gestured toward the restaurant. "For this, I know you would prefer to go elsewhere and—"

"Uh, don't go there, bro. It'll just bring you pain."

"Yeah, okay, whatever. Oprah."

Dean's eyes narrowed, his expression hard, but there was a hint of humor, of relief.

Sam moved away from the car toward the restaurant, but movement to their right caught his attention. Something small, darkly colored and low to the ground scampered behind the cars. He caught only a flash of the shape before it disappeared behind a maroon sedan. Sam squinted into the darkness, crouching to see where it had gone.

"Dude, the steak's this way."

"Hang on, there's something there."

"Sam, remember the last time you loitered around in a car park."

Sam huffed, ignoring his brother. He slowly moved deeper into the lot, into an area where the cars were spaced further apart. He felt Dean nudge up against him as he came to another stop.

"Sam?"

Dean sounded worried now, and Sam grabbed at his arm, stopping him from taking point. "I think it's a dog," Sam whispered, sneaking around the side of a car.

"A dog?" Dean exclaimed, his covert attempts forgotten. He straightened and tugged at Sam's arm. "You have got to be kidding."

"It's probably lost, Dean. Scared. I think we can catch it."

"We'll catch rabies. Chicks don't dig the whole foaming at the mouth deal, Sam. I'm not risking this face for a mangy canine."

Sam stopped at the back of the car and rested against the fender. He dropped into a low crouch and peered around the rear of the vehicle. "Hey," he whispered as he came almost face to face with a set of liquid brown eyes framed by a shaggy mop of unkempt dog hair. It was a long-haired mutt, a bit of this and a bit of that. But it had a collar and a tag which meant it had been loved sometime. The dog considered Sam cautiously, tilted its head to one side before tentatively moving one step closer.

"Oh dude, fleas," Dean griped as he nudged in beside Sam. "You're not touching that thing."

"It's a dog."

"It could be Cujo. You know your whole shining deal attracts that shit. Not to mention the fleas. It's a freaking flea farm, Sam. Possessed killer fleas. Damn, the shotgun's in the car," he suddenly exclaimed, his tone horrified.

"Dean, you need to calm down. It's a dog. Just a dog. It's not possessed."

"You touch that thing and you're walking back to the motel."

"She's got a collar."

"She?"

"Yeah, no tackle." Sam reached out carefully, smiling as the animal took another tentative step forward. She gingerly sniffed at Sam's hand.

"Sam!" Dean exclaimed. "It could take your fingers off."

"It isn't and it won't."

"You a freaking whisperer now?"

"Dean," Sam hissed, "shut the hell up." He crept forward, now close enough to reach the dog's collar. The animal continued to sniff at Sam's hands, but her eyes watched Dean. Sam tensed, ready to make his move, to grab her collar, but she bolted just as he was about to grab her. He almost fell forward as she sprinted away, a flash of dark fur and now wild eyes. Sam pushed himself up and whirled to face his brother. "What did you do?"

"Hey, back down Dr. Dolittle. I didn't scare it off. It's probably been cornered before and realized you were trying to grab it." Dean quickly scanned the car park then moved toward the restaurant. "Thank Christ for that is all I'm saying. That could have gotten nasty."

Sam hesitated. He stared into the darkness but the animal had disappeared. "Sam," Dean called impatiently. He had stopped several steps away and clearly was going no further until Sam joined him. "C'mon, or I'll leave your ass out here. I'm not joking – and if you get abducted, I won't come looking for you."

Sam chuckled, amused by his brother's weak and false threats. He took one last look around, then turned and joined his brother. "You would come looking for me, smart ass."

"Wouldn't."

"Would."

"You'd be toast, man. Or sausages."

"Thanks for the memories."

"My pleasure," Dean responded, grinning wickedly.

They walked in silence for a moment then Sam added, "You know, Missy had a thing for you. Give her a few years and you and her could've made pock-faced, toothless, bone-crunching children together."

"Gross. You deliberately trying to ruin my appetite?"

Sam shrugged, pulled open the restaurant door and smirked at his now slightly pale faced brother as Dean walked ahead of him. "A bar of soap, a haircut and a new dress and she'd have come up quite nicely."

"You're sick, dude."

Sam laughed as he followed his brother into the restaurant, allowing Dean to take the lead in choosing a table. It gave the elder an opportunity check out the waitresses and to do a little flirting. Sam followed along behind, offering a charming smile as they were seated by a pretty brunette. She responded to Dean's efforts, but considered him with a little more interest.

"What happened to your arm?" she asked after several long moments of considering him and his sling-encased appendage.

Sam frowned, glanced at his brother and swallowed thickly.

Dean quickly cut in. "Car accident," he said, drawing the attention away from Sam. "It was a bit nasty and a bit fresh. No one else was injured," he added.

"Oh, gosh. That's just awful."

Sam forced a smile, but did not trust himself to speak. The girl watched him, her expression a mixture of false concern and morbid interest. He could see her pursing her lips to quiz him further and he flicked his gaze to Dean, his eyes pleading.

"We'll grab a pitcher of beer and one of water. And we'll both have the steak deluxe." Dean deftly folded the menus and passed them back to the waitress, effectively dismissing her. She hesitated, clearly eager to stay, but with no cause to do so, she reluctantly left.

Sam glanced at Dean, then dropped his gaze. He toyed with the napkin, then exhaled heavily. "So, how do we find Beth?"

"There's no hurry. Tara's fine for a while. How about we have a break, get some R and R, maybe find a girl or two. Hell, it's about time you got laid."

Sam's face flushed and he looked away. "We have to find Beth. We have to fix Tara and then we have to get back on the road."

"Yeah, yeah and find Dad."

Sam inhaled sharply, anger rifling through him. "And you don't want that?"

"Of course I want that, Sam. But can't we just chill for a while? You know, take a break, loiter around, do some tourist things… and get you some action. You're not a monk, you know."

"Drop the getting laid jokes, Dean," Sam threatened, his voice low. "It's not funny."

Dean considered him carefully, then shrugged. "Fine. Whatever. But until you can beat me at arm wrestling, we're going to do the tourist thing."

"We don't have time—"

"Actually, we do. I gave Missouri a call last night. She has a couple of contacts that she let know about Tara. They're going to tie up the missing persons side of things and find her a placement for once this is over. Until then, they will keep the heat off any attempts to find the girl. We can take our time on this one, Sam."

"These friends of Missouri's, she trusts them? Because if Tara is taken before we can finish this, more people could die."

"I guess Missouri knows who to trust and who not to. She doesn't strike me as the flaky type who would just spill her guts to any old Joe."

"No. You've got a point. So how much time do we have?"

"Missouri suggested at least a couple of weeks. She figures you'll need at least half of that before you can use your arm properly."

"I'd rather not wait."

"We don't really have a choice, Sam," Dean said gently. "I know it sucks, but for this week at least, getting that shoulder fixed and you off those painkillers is going to be our top priority. I won't compromise that by running off trying to find Beth."

Sam considered him, his gaze dark and pained. He searched Dean's face and Dean suspected that his brother looked for some hint of disdain, of resentment toward Sam's current physical state and the potential liability that it posed. But Sam would not find any of those feelings in Dean, because they were not there.

Finally Sam inhaled, relaxing. "Fine, five days."

"Six."

"Okay six, but we've already done one."

"Technically, two. You slept through the first day. And neither of them are being counted."

Sam's eyes widened. "But it's Monday?"

"Tuesday."

"Shit. You're kidding?"

"No. You needed it."

"So you've seen two Oprah programs?"

"Sammy," Dean growled, "don't go there."

Just over four hours after their arrival at the Steak Palace, Sam sat alone at their booth, his head in a book. He tried to read, really he did, but discomfort that bordered on barely tolerable pain made concentration near impossible. He wearily raised his head and looked across the tables – past the few still seated patrons who seemed intent on staying until the midnight closing time, which now wasn't all that far away – to his brother.

Dean had attracted the attention of an amorous blonde who he now engaged in flirtatious chit-chat by the salad bar at the far corner of the restaurant. It was inevitable really. His brother was a chick magnet. It was something about the denim, the leather jacket and the smile. There was probably a lot more to it. Sam didn't really get it, but he had repeatedly witnessed the effect that the older man had on women and no longer questioned it. Actually, usually it annoyed him because it distracted his brother's attention, made him lose his focus. But right now he was glad to see Dean playing the flirting game because it afforded the older man a chance to relax and recharge.

Dean and the young woman were both right into it, and had been playing the game for well over two hours. Dean had returned to Sam's table several times, sometimes staying for long enough to down yet another beer before he swaggered back to the young woman. In the past hour though, their playing must have ramped up because Dean now only returned every twenty or so minutes to briefly check on Sam, to gain reassurance that their delayed departure was not causing Sam any discomfort. Sam had been deliberately lying to his brother about that fact for well over an hour, and he intended to do so for another hour until closing time.

At least that was the plan.

Sam sighed and tried slouching in the seat but winced as the changed posture aggravated the bruises on his back. He tried sitting up straighter but that did not alleviate the aching fatigue that wore at him. And as for his shoulder, he struggled to not think about it.

He needed to lie down. He needed to sleep. That was the only sure fire way to escape the pain. He considered stretching out on the booth's seat, but knew that would be a dead giveaway to his brother and he had no intention of influencing Dean's departure time.

He did gaze longingly across the tables though, hoping that Dean would tire of the flirting and want to leave earlier. Dean suddenly turned toward him, catching his eye and Sam ducked his head, his face flushing. His present selfishness and neediness irritated him. Dean needed the distraction from the shit they were presently dealing with. He especially needed a break from Sam, from tending to his injuries and doling out his medication when Sam was too senseless to do it for himself. No, leaving early and denying Dean a reprieve from all of that was not an option.

Sam sucked in a breath and held it, closing his eyes as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He forced himself to blink and to breathe.

"Sam?"

He jumped, grimacing as his muscles tensed. "Dammit, Dean. Don't sneak up on me like that."

"I didn't."

"Bullshit."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," Sam ground out, irritated. "You don't need to be here."

Dean slid into the seat opposite him and leaned forward, his hands almost touching Sam's. "Look at me."

Sam reluctantly met his brother's gaze, trying for an expression of fierce indignation.

Dean studied him for a moment then his expression hardened. "How bad is it?"

"What?"

"The pain. How bad is it?"

Sam rolled his eyes and coughed lightly, drawing his attention back to the book. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, and I'm Mother freakin' Theresa," Dean snarled. "You are a pig-headed bastard, you know that."

The words stung Sam and he sought to defend himself. "I just want you to have some fun," he explained. "You need some fun, Dean."

"This," Dean angrily gestured toward him, "is not fun." He grabbed Sam's book and offered him a hand.

Sam hesitated then took the offered assistance. He followed his brother to the exit, hesitating as Dean pulled open the door then moved to allow him through. He glanced across at the woman Dean had been chatting with. She had been joined by a friend and both were smiling and watching he and his brother leave. Sam doubted she realised that Dean would never call her, would never see her again. "You going to say goodbye to her," he asked quietly.

"Sam, I'm not in the mood for your self-righteous crap right now."

"That's not what I meant."

Dean studied him, searching his face. Sam held the gaze, allowing his brother to scrutinise him. Dean relaxed a little, his voice somewhat less harsh when he spoke again. "No, I don't need to. She's cool. C'mon, let's get out of here. You're scaring the patrons with those huge black circles under your eyes. You look like you're stoned."

"Nice, man."

"I just tell it like it is, Jimi."

"You do know that most of the Jimi Hendrix drug stories were fiction."

It was Dean's turn to roll his eyes. "Yada yada, Professor. The car's over there."

"I know where it is."

"Then freakin' walk, dude."

"Your six days aren't up, Sam."

"I know."

Dean raised his eyebrows and regarded his brother with curious bemusement. "Do you really? If we find Beth and we find out how to beat this thing, we will sit on that information for at least another day. Longer if that's what you need."

"Maybe" Sam retorted, his tone mildly indignant. He toed at the dirt as he swept his gaze around the fairgrounds. "Anyway, my shoulder's fine. It's healed. See, no sling."

"Yeah, I can see that. Unless you've acquired some magical healing powers that you haven't shared with me, there is no way that your shoulder is fine. And, you're still popping pain pills, Sam."

"Are you spying on me?" Sam challenged, his face flushing in anger.

"Oh, c'mon, little brother, just because you're managing your own medication now, you didn't really expect me not to still keep an eye on you. "

"I'm not a child."

"No, but you are a pig-headed bastard and that's almost as bad."

"We've already lost five days here, Dean. We have to find Beth."

"I told you that Missouri has that under control."

"You know how quickly a trail goes cold. It's been over two weeks since Tara's parents were murdered, the longer we wait the less likelihood there is of finding Beth. We need to find her."

"We had a deal, Sam," Dean said, deliberately softening his tone. "We agreed on laying low for six days at the minimum. You can't expect to get over an injury like that in under a week. Cut yourself a break. You went through hell. Give yourself a chance to recover."

Sam scuffed at the dirt. "Okay, fine, you've made your point. I'm not ready to take on whatever is in Tara, but finding Beth and talking to her is not physically taxing, Dean. We have to find the woman, find out what she knows, whether she will help us. Once we have a plan we can sit back and grow barnacles on our backsides for all I care. But we need a plan."

"Barnacles, huh. Sounds painful."

"Dean," Sam said, exasperated.

"Okay Barnacle Boy, I can work with that. So they'll have fairy floss here, and those crappy pop the clown games?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Great, those clowns are going down." Dean rubbed his hands together. He raised his eyebrows as Sam huffed and shook his head. "What?"

"We're here to look for Beth. A carnival attracts lots of people, lots of potential connections. Someone has to know her, or know of her."

"Yeah, I get that."

"There's no time for games."

"They're not games, they're practice. Ever notice how creepy those clowns are? I can shoot those red-nosed, crazy haired bitches while you do your whole puppy-dog look thing. You're better at that than me anyway."

"There's hundreds of people here, Dean. I can't speak to all of them on my own."

"Sure you can."

"No I can't," Sam said forcefully. He nudged his brother toward the entrance. "No games, Dean."

"You are one hell of a kill-joy, anyone told you that?"

"Yeah, you. Repeatedly."

"Any of it sinking in?"

"I have a big-brother crap-filter. Most of what you say gets sieved out, doesn't get a chance to sink in."

"Sticks and stones," Dean drawled, winking at his brother. He sidled in behind a rotund woman with a bawling toddler hanging off her arm. He screwed up his face and turned his back on the pair. "You got cash," he asked as he withdrew his wallet.

"A couple of twenties. You?"

"Bit of this and that." He pulled out a five dollar note, checked the admission fee, grimaced and exchanged it for a ten. "Freakin' clowns better be worth it."

"No games, Dean."

"Huh, did you say something? I have a crap-filter too, Sammy," he added as he flashed a toothy grin.

"Jerk."

Dean chuckled, laughing as Sam punched him in the arm. "Christ, you hit like a girl," he said, ducking another swipe from his frustrated sibling. He threw a light swat in return, because it was expected, but it had no force and it completely missed its mark.

Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and adopted an air of casual ignorance. He nodded at Dean to pick up the slack in the queue, then leaned in to his brother, his voice low. "These gigs often have palm readers and psychics. That'd be a good place to start."

Dean nodded, hesitating to allow a small gap to build between them and the screaming toddler. "You packing?"

Sam nodded almost imperceptibly and he shuffled and exhaled heavily as though burdened by the weight of the weapon against the small of his back. "You?"

"Yeah."

"You know we can't when we, you know."

"I know."

Sam nodded and pulled back. He stooped his shoulders and scanned the car park, his eyes taking on that haunted, morose look that Dean hated seeing in his kid brother. The toddler let out with an ear-splitting screech and Dean grimaced. He swung around and addressed the woman. "Dammit, can't you shut that thing up?"

"What did you say?" The woman turned on him, her moist and reddened eyes narrowed. She shoved the child behind her and puffed out her hideously ample chest toward Dean.

Dean opened his mouth to respond but Sam beat him to it. "He has Tourette's Syndrome," Sam explained. He pushed Dean aside, elbowing him to keep him quiet. "He can't help it. It's a medical condition. It makes him say socially inappropriate things."

"Doesn't look like there's anything wrong with him," the woman said suspiciously. She peered past Sam to the open mouthed and quietly seething older boy. "He looks perfectly normal."

"That's what makes it so sad," Sam said. "He looks so normal, but the brain injury, combined with the Tourette's, means that he can't function normally. We've got him medicated, but he is so excited to be going to the carnival. He just loves the clowns."

"You're a relative?"

"His carer." Dean jabbed Sam for that comment and smiled when he gasped. He grunted as Sam elbowed him in return."I've got a letter here that explains everything," Sam continued as he fished around in his jacket for a letter Dean knew did not exist. The woman watched expectantly.

"Fuck, fuck," Dean said. He rolled his eyes as Sam glowered at him. "Fuck you all," he added as an after thought.

Sam flashed a smile and an apology. "He means no harm. He doesn't know what he's saying."

"He shouldn't be allowed out in public," the woman said.

"Neither should you, bitch," Dean bit back.

Sam smiled graciously. "Sorry," he said. The woman glowered at the young man, then the bawling toddler finally drew her attention and she scooped the child up and turned her back on the brothers.

Sam slowly turned to his sibling. He pinned the older man with a pointed glare. Dean opened his mouth and Sam deliberately shook his head. The woman reached the head of the queue a few moments later and Dean tilted his head to the side, nudged Sam and said in a sing-song voice, "Naughty corner, the kid needs a naughty corner."

Sam grabbed him, clamped a hand over Dean's mouth and forced a smile. "Sorry. Sorry," he said as Dean clawed at him. When Sam did not allow him to break free, Dean bit down on the soft flesh of Sam's middle finger. Not enough to break the skin, but enough to cause pain. The attack was effective. Sam cursed and released him.

The woman watched them, anger and disgust playing across her face. She shook her head, disgust winning over, grabbed her screaming brat and stalked into the fairgrounds. Dean rubbed at his face and glowered at his brother. "What the hell was that for?"

"You even need to ask."

"You gave me Tourette's, dude. It didn't occur to you how tempting that would be?"

"I figured you had a few more brain cells than you obviously have."

"That kid needs a damned good hiding."

"That's not the answer."

"Who died and made you Super Nanny?" Dean paid the admission for them both then headed into the fairground. The beefy woman had disappeared, but Dean could still hear the wailing child. He deliberately tugged Sam in the opposite direction. He glanced at his brother as Sam rubbed at his hand. He frowned, relieved when Sam stopped.

"I'm just saying that hitting kids doesn't always achieve the right outcome. Dad never had to hit us, Dean, and we turned out okay."

"Never needed to. I kept you in line," Dean responded cheekily. "And I've always been the good son, Sam, you know that."

Sam rolled his eyes. "No, I mean, it must have been hard, two boys and all."

Dean shrugged, once again surprised by his brother's random complimentary observations about their father. He was about to nudge a bit further, when Sam pointed at something across the fairgrounds.

"That looks promising."

Dean glanced at it, briefly noted the purple and gold fringed tent that had caught Sam's attention, then his gaze shifted. "Oh yeah, that does look promising," he agreed as he eyed a well endowed blonde girl in cut off denim jeans and a crop top that just barely covered her breasts. The chilly fall morning accentuated the girl's nipples and Dean's lips curved appreciatively.

"Focus."

"I'm focused."

"Not on her, on the tent."

"What tent?" He yelped as Sam snagged his jacket and pulled him away from the blonde and toward the purple tent. "Oh man, you know how I hate those palm reading freaks."

"Just behave, would you."

Dean shirked out of his brother's grasp and scowled at him. "Fun. F. U. N. What's the harm in having a little."

"We've got a job to do."

"You do the tent thing, I'll check out things over here." He had taken one step in the opposite direction before he was again yanked off his feet. "Dude, enough already."

"Dean."

"Okay, okay." He rubbed at the sleeve of his jacket and quickly inspected it for crease marks from his brother's continual groping at it. "But lay off with the hands, bro. It looks bad."

The purple tent turned out to be a dud psychic on her first day out, she had not even bothered to unwrap the newly purchased tarot cards. And she had no idea about Beth or anyone that sounded like her. The next two hours proved just as fruitless. By midday, Dean bought them both lunch and nudged Sam to a table. "You doing okay?" he asked as he handed over the hotdogs.

"Yeah, just frustrated, you know. I thought someone might know her. Or know of her."

"We don't have a lot to go on," Dean said as he stuffed one end of the hotdog into his mouth. He arched an eyebrow at Sam's disgusted look. "What?" he said, smirking as a crumb ejected itself from his mouth and landed on Sam's hand. He grinned as Sam recoiled.

"That's gross."

Dean laughed and stuffed even more into his mouth. He leaned back, relaxed. He eyed Sam, pleased with the effect the down time was having on the younger man. He was still a way off being fully recovered though, and Dean scanned the fairgrounds for the clown shooting tent that he knew had to be around somewhere. It would do Sam good to pop some inanimate objects for once. Get him to loosen up a bit.

The sound of women's voices tweaked his consciousness and he turned his head a little. Two women had arrived at the next table and were discussing an absent friend.

"lt's just so odd of her not to come today. I know she's been out of sorts for a couple of weeks now, but even so, she organized this."

"And in predictably resplendent Beth Redmond style," the second woman said tetchily.

"She did ask you to help."

"I phoned her last week, Marj, and found her attitude to be condescendingly hostile. She slammed the phone in my ear."

"I'm telling you, that's not like her. Something's happened."

Dean looked across at Sam and saw that the younger man had picked up the same thread. Wordless communication solidified who moved and a moment later Sam stood. He eased into the strangers' conversation with unabashed confidence that charmed rather than alienated. Dean couldn't help but marvel at how rapidly the younger man won their trust. Within minutes, the youngest Winchester was seated with the strangers, sharing their fries and garnering information with grace and ease. It was decidedly unnerving. If Sam were anything other than indelibly moral and pure, the women would have been in trouble.

Dean stood, glanced at his brother to check that Sam was aware of his actions, then left the table. He did not go far, and kept an eye on the younger man, gesturing to him once Sam had left the women and headed his way.

"We got her," Sam said as he arrived at Dean's side. He bounced lightly, his eyes bright. "We can head out there now." Sam lightly tugged on Dean's jacket, grinned then let go and headed off toward the main gate.

Dean kept his feet firmly planted, a wave of anxious unease unsteadying him. Their brief respite was deader than those inanimate clowns would have been had Dean gotten a shot at them. The loss of that semi-normal existence twisted through Dean in a way he had never thought possible. But it was not the past and the lost reprieve that burned through the elder hunter, but rather the future and what it would bring. The future that was now.

End Chapter Seven