AN: Here's a nice long update, so hopefully some of you forgive me for the cliffies. *ducks and hides*

Kathy: Hey there! I love your comments. I hope you don't mind the creepy, horror factor! This story gets kinda dark…and gross.

Lena: The finale wrecked me. I actually dreamed about it. And I never cry from TV shows or movies. Anyway, I'm glad you like it. Should answer some questions in this chapter. LOL on the cleanup crew. I just adore reading your comments.

sfaulkenberry: I need season 1 comfort too! I don't think anything I've seen on TV has ever made me cry like that before. I love what you say about Sam. I think he never got over the belief that he was second best, though Dean never thought that.

Shazza: I know, I'm mean. I cried so much at the finale too! I need to go back and write more to cheer myself up!

Blondie: I really don't have anything against cops, I swear. I was going to make Ed the other bad guy but decided I liked him too much. I'm so happy you like the story! I thought the finale was much better than I expected (hate to say it, but true). It was so compelling and satisfying and sad and I thought the acting was amazing.

sylvia37: Cliffies are a bad habit for me!

It took Dean a moment before he could cool his rage into something he could use for focus instead of being blinded by it. The blows he'd taken to the head weren't helping that focus either, but he was far too familiar with working around that to give it more than a quick thought. Then it was time to evaluate his options and get the hell out of there. He was on his back, and his feet were free. There were manacles on his wrists attached to stakes sunk into the floor, and the chains attached to them were long enough that he could nearly fold his hands above his chest if he wanted. But he could not reach one hand to the opposite wrist.

He slid backwards, sitting up with his hands on his lap, then even farther so he was on his knees with his hands in front of him. On the way, he hooked a bobby pin off his boot. (Sam had mocked him for carrying them, but bobby pins stayed put better than paper clips and were stronger, making them better to pick a lock.)

It was a stretch to get his right hand to his left wrist, and he lost a little skin off both arms to do it, but the small pain didn't even register. Not with Sam in danger.

The locks were large and moved easily, like they were used frequently. Dean grit his teeth at the realization, but it was to his advantage. He was quickly loose. He pulled out the small boot knife the sheriff had missed, stepped far to the side, and cautiously slid the door open. He was far too good of a hunter to rush into a possible ambush, despite the urgency he felt. But he was alone. Rob, it appeared, like many before him, had underestimated Dean.

Stepping out into the sunlight, Dean took in his surroundings. The driveway was empty – the Impala was gone. Another reason Rob was going to die.

The house and shed were atop a small hill that overlooked the town to the south. But to the north, behind the shed, just past the base of the hill, was a small, overgrown cemetery with a square mausoleum at the far left. The road that led from town to the base of the winding driveway of the Morrow estate curled around the bottom of the hill to meander past the cemetery. A police car was driving down the road from the direction of town. The hill itself was a gentle slope mostly dotted with trees, ferns, and grass. But a wide swath directly behind the shed was mostly bare.

Dean took all of this in in half a second. Then his attention was caught by something – someone? – in the cemetery. A tall, dark-haired figure sprawled on its stomach. One that he recognized instantly even from 200 yards away and struggling to get his vision to settle completely thanks to Rob's love taps. Sammy.

Even as Dean started running, the cop car he'd seen drove into the cemetery and stopped just a few feet from his brother. The figure that got out wasn't Rob, like he'd expected, but a shorter, mousy-haired figure. Allen. And that wasn't any better. Dean pushed himself fast, harder, ignoring his pounding head, the fear that pinched his lungs and made it hard to draw in enough air. Rob had taken his gun. The knife he had was too light to do any damage if he threw it. He was too far away. Allen was standing over Sam, who didn't look like he was even moving.

Dean's feet slid on the loose dirt and he went down, falling backward hard enough that his arm disappeared into the dirt almost to his elbow. He was up again in an instant, Allen and Sam all he could see, terrified, desperate, trying to will away what he was about to see. No matter how fast he ran, he'd never be there in time. Despite his haste, everything moved in slow motion.

Allen nudged Sam's shoulder with a foot. He was talking. Or laughing. Dean's eyes were tearing from running. He clenched his boot knife so hard the handle dug into his hand. Allen was reaching his right hand up to his side. Resting on his gun. Drawing his gun. Dean was still across the cemetery. He was going to watch his brother die.

The gun cleared the holster.

Then Sam's knife was buried in Allen's foot and the cop was crying out and bending forward and Sam, that stupid, ridiculous, miraculous kid, was somehow pushing the barrel to the side, buying Dean the second he needed.

Then Dean's knife was buried in the flesh of Allen's bicep, Allen's gun was in Dean's hand, and he'd shoved the killer hard enough that Dean was between him and Sam.

As he should be.

Dean raised the gun, everything in him wanting to kill the person who was responsible for the state of his little brother and the freaking trail of blood obviously made when Sam had crawled away from the mausoleum. But he didn't get the chance.

Morrow was staggering backward, half tripping over a crooked grave stone and barely staying on his feet from his injuries. Yeah, that's right. He's got a bowie stuck in his foot. Nice work, Sammy. Allen moaned and fell back again, reaching a hand out for the wall of the mausoleum behind him. But the wall wasn't behind him. The open door was. He fell across the threshold and Dean had a split second to see the horror that crossed his face before his disappeared inside faster than a human could have moved.

Finally able to focus on Sam, Dean ignored the screams.

Dean rolled Sam onto his back with equal measures of speed and care. And winced. The right side of Sam's shirt and jacket were not just bloody – they were saturated. Before he could even look at the injury, he had to slow the bleeding.

Dean shrugged out of his own suit jacket, folded it and pushed it against Sam's side. "Sorry. I'm sorry, Sammy, I know it hurts, but we gotta slow the bleeding," murmured Dean when Sam bucked weakly. "What'd he do to you?" Dean's gaze flicked up for a second and he was surprised but pleased to see Sam's eyes were open.

He didn't expect an answer, but Sam's lips were moving. Allen's screams drowned out whatever Sam said, but Dean couldn't find it in himself to feel sorry for the man, not as he struggled to stop Sam's lifeblood from pouring out.

The pounding of Dean's head didn't even register in the list of things to pay attention to. The screams abruptly stopped and different sound from the mausoleum caught his attention, though he didn't stop the first aid. It sounded like someone had strummed the world's biggest guitar string. It was a low, deep, pervasive thrum that spread out like a ripple and faded.

"What was that?" asked Dean out loud, more to keep Sam's attention off his wound than anything else.

Sam said something in a thin voice that sounded like, "Johnny," which Dean didn't understand at all. He answered softly anyway.

"Pretty sure his name is Allen. Or…his name was Allen, not Johnny. Either way, I don't think he's with us any more. Turns out the sheriff's in on the whole feeding people to their pet spirit too." Dean carefully peeled up his makeshift bandage to get his first look at exactly what they were dealing with. Just above Sam's hip were four short slashes that cut deeply into the muscle. Dean began to curse, though he kept his tone the same. Sam wasn't tracking much of anything, but Dean knew just hearing a familiar voice was soothing. It was unfortunately a common occurrence in their lives to find yourself dazed and injured. Hearing your brother's voice was reassuring because it meant: you're safe. You can stand down – I've got watch. I'll take care of you.

Hearing a familiar voice, the familiar voice, really, also made it a lot easier to stay conscious, which Dean wanted Sam to do right now. "Claw marks. I did not expect that. Huh. I take it we need to torch Agatha, but somehow not let her do her clawing or skinning." Dean was working off Sam's jacket as he spoke. He didn't ignore the pained moan Sam made, exactly. He wasn't incapable of ignoring Sam's distress. He just couldn't stop in deference to it. He needed something for a bandage and of course, all the first aid supplies were in the Impala and their motel room. And his own jacket was a sodden mess.

Dean had already noted the small amount of blood on Sam's wrist, but taking off the jacket revealed yet another injury high on Sam's bicep, ratcheting Dean's anger and worry up yet another notch. "Ah…de," sighed Sam, making Dean wonder exactly how the kid was still conscious.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. Getting in the car isn't going to be a bed of roses either."

"No." Sam tapped Dean's knee with the side of his hand, looking for more attention. He took a few rallying breaths when Dean obediently looking up. "Al'eady tor'ed," he breathed. "S'm'th' more."

Only Dean's Ph.D. in Samese allowed him to interpret. "You already torched the old lady? There's something else killing people in there?" He tilted his head toward the mausoleum. The relief in Sam's eyes at being understood was answer enough. "Okay, but it can't be right now. You need more blood inside your body, plus some hospital grade stitches and pain killers wouldn't hurt. Not to mention antibiotics to ward off monster cooties."

He'd hoped for a smile or eye roll from that comment, but Sam had apparently exhausted himself and his eyes began to drift shut. "Hey, don't do that. No, you know the rule. Hospital, then sleep. Good news though, you get to ride in a cop car. No playing with the siren, though."

As if in answer, Dean heard a car coming. No, a lot of cars. And even without seeing them yet, since they were on the far side of the hill, he could make out his own baby's engine among them. That probably meant Rob was coming, and they were in an indefensible position. Allen's car was their only possibility for cover, unless he dragged Sam all the way behind the mausoleum. Besides which, Dean had no idea who else was coming. Maybe it would be someone helpful. Like that ever happened to Winchesters.

"Great," he sighed, trying to decide if he could get Sam into Allen's car before company arrived. Listening harder, he decided he could not. Tying off his jerry-rigged bandage, Dean kept pressure on Sam's side with one hand and cocked Allen's gun with the other. He knelt and pivoted to watch the road. Whoever came would find Dean crouched over his brother and ready to defend him. They didn't have to know anything beyond five feet was a little blurry. "Looks like somebody ordered a shit storm, Sammy, and I forgot my umbrella."

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

The Wanderer was stunned when it was ripped from Agatha, then furious to lose its prey. It reacted on instinct when another human stumbled within reach, not noticing or caring that it was one who had brought it victims. It relished his screams and took his skin, but the blood hadn't yet cooled when it regretted the decision. It was free to find a new host. A living host.

A live body would allow it to cross the iron – finally! How it had missed being able to feel the warmth of the blood of its victims, taste the iron in it, smell the lovely rot of death. It had been with Agatha so very long, and separating from her left it weakened. But the connection lingered, a tenuous link. Not with Agatha, but with those of her blood. There were many nearby. It would put out the call, and it would convince one to come in and let him free.

And oh, the havoc they would wreak.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Beth Winters stopped in the middle of vacuuming and walked to her minivan as if in a trance. Her boys scrambled after her, though she barely noticed. Though car seat safety was a passion of hers, it never occurred to her to buckle them in. In fact, she nearly sideswiped another car as she headed toward the Morrow cemetery, but she didn't notice that either.

Ed Morrow set down a half-drunk cup of coffee and shuffled sightlessly to his Lincoln Towncar. He frowned a second as he fumbled with his keys, but the lingering sense of wrongness didn't stop him.

Rob Clayburton got up from his table at the diner downtown in mid-sentence, walked through the kitchen to the back alley where he'd stashed the Impala he'd driven there, and started it up.

The town librarian heading to lunch did a u-turn in main street, completely forgetting about picking up food.

A cashier at the grocery store walked out in the middle of ringing up groceries. Five customers walked away from their carts. Three residents of the nursing home suddenly tried to leave, aided by the confusion of a number of the nurses and aides simply walking out. Throughout all of Travails, people heard the call of The Wanderer and headed for the Morrow family mausoleum.