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by PixieLeigh1234

Sam desperately hopes to find a cure from the MoC for Dean. When Sam finds it, Dean refuses, until circumstances leave him unable to refuse any longer. But with the cure, consequences follow. Consequences Sam, Dean and Cas could never have foreseen. But will the knowledge they seek in the aftermath provide answers, or will it leave them all once again facing an uncertain future.

6. Chapter 6

A/N - I'm so sorry its taken so long to bring you this chapter. Hope you enjoy xx

Chapter Six

Dean runs against the gale, sending out a silent plea that he'll find his baby brother in time. His lungs are burning, but he can't stop. He won't stop. There is no stopping. Not with Sammy's life in danger. Every second counts. He has to reach Sammy before that black-eyed sonuvabitch can wipe his kid off the map.

Laughter pierces through the whistling of the wind blasting around the graveyard and fear wrenches within Dean's gut. He skids to an abrupt stop seeing the figure standing at the edge of the open grave, silently staring down into the pit. He draws in a sharp breath, spotting the familiar shaggy hair belonging to his brother; the top of Sammy's head visible over the cusp of the grave where he's slowly digging within, Sam's back to the one watching him.

No hunter senses will be able to clue Sam into the danger.

Dean runs for his brother.

"SAM! SAMMY!" Dean yells, the wind snatching away the sound of his voice the second it leaves his mouth. "SAMMY, TURN THE FUCK AROUND!" He screams, seconds before slamming into a brick wall. The impact shocks the air straight out of his lungs and splinters his nose, blood spurting in several directions. He yells with the pain, his ass hitting ground heavily and leaving him gasping for needed air as he coughs the blood out of his mouth.

Dean pushes his way to his feet, despite the pain, despite his lack of breath. As he does, he's hurriedly trying to come up with a way of navigating around this new obstacle preventing him from reaching his brother, only to realise that nothing but air greets him. There is no brick wall. There is no wall. There is only headstones in the ground all around him. Reaching his arms out before him, his fingers meet resistance. He pushes his hands flat against some invisible barrier that blocks his path. Throwing his weight behind his hands, his eyes shoot to Sammy still digging, still so very unaware of the danger behind him. The fear in Dean's gut snakes its way up into his heart as he cautiously stretches his arms outwards on either side of him, coming in contact with the same resistance presented in front of him. He steps back, takes another step, and meets the same unseen wall.

His heart speeds up, thudding against his ribs. He slams his fist into the barrier, pain blossoming over his knuckles as the skin splits open. But he ignores it in favour of punching and kicking at the barrier, trying to find a weakness he can utilise to penetrate through. But there is none. It's solid. Nothing is getting through. Movement stills his desperate attempts to free himself, and as he watches that figure slowly crouch down at the graveside, the realisation sinks in as to Dean's situation.

He's caged.

Unable to assist his brother only feet before him.

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY BROTHER YOU EVIL SONUVABITCH!" Dean roars, shoving himself against the invisible barrier trapping him in.

Unable to save Sammy.

Because Dean is fucking USELESS!

Dean can only watch, snarling his rage, as the demon lashes out quick as a flash and grabs Sam around the back of the neck; a startled yelp releasing from Sammy's throat along with the clang of the shovel hitting wood. The demon drags Sam out of the grave by the scruff of his neck. Sam's struggling against the hold, scrambling to get his feet underneath him, but it is of little use as the demon throws Sam across the graveyard like a ragdoll. Dean punches the barrier as Sam crashes into the ground and slides a few feet across the damp grass.

Sammy turns over and Dean chokes back a sob as he's greeted with the first clear look at his baby brother's face, the fear in those eyes. Shit. Deep purple and red bruising litters Sammy's left cheek, eye and eyebrow which is split in two by a jagged and deep, semi-healing gash. Yellowish-green bruising lingers around the other eye, while several deep cuts are slashed across Sammy's cheeks, his lips split in several places. The worst bruising is around the kid's throat; finger-shaped bruising. Trapped in his prison, Dean can only watch as the demon stalks towards Sammy who is struggling to push himself backwards with his elbows and feet, clearly hiding far severer injuries beneath his clothing.

Fuck.

Dean's booted foot slams into the barrier as Sammy is hauled into the air with a flick of the demon's wrist, his boy's body twisting around in mid-air until Sam drops. Landing on his stomach atop a tall headstone with a cry, Sammy's body hangs over each side, neither his toes nor his fingers touching ground. But Dean's kid still struggles, still fights, no matter how much his attempts are just as hopeless as every punch and kick Dean throws at the barrier surrounding him.

Sam's pinned by the demon's powers.

Dean's eyes widen with increased fear for his baby brother at the sight of the long thin branch appearing in the demon's right hand. He slams his full body against the wall. "DON'T YOU TOUCH HIM! DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH HIM!"

Snarls escape Dean as the demon curls its fingers into the back waistband of Sam's dirty jeans and uses its strength to rip them away, Sam's underwear tearing away with them. Dean gags. Sammy's butt and thighs are black and blue, bruises overlapping bruises and not an inch of healthy, normal skin can be seen.

Fuck!

Squeezing his eyes shut, hot and silent tears trickle down Dean's cheeks. He hears it rather than sees it; the whistling sound of the switch slashing downwards, striking the bruised flesh of Sam's backside. Sammy's pained yell snaps Dean's eyes back open. Sammy's trying to thrash against the invisible binds locking him over the headstone, the switch having slashed a line through his skin, blood oozing out. Dean flinches as the demon rears its arm back and lashes the switch down, utilising every ounce of its strength to bring that length of wood down, the hit cutting into flesh once again.

Over and over the switch falls, tearing Sam's butt into mincemeat before Dean's eyes.

"Sammy," Dean whispers, dropping his forehead against the barrier, flinching with every hit, with every scream torn from his little boy's throat. "Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. STOP IT! STOP IT! FUCKING STOP IT!"

Fury beyond anything he's ever felt before charges through Dean's veins. Rearing backwards, he slams himself against the barrier, again and again, throwing all of his strength, reserves and more, against it. The barrier crumbles and Dean is falling forwards with surprise, just managing to set his hands underneath him as he hits ground. He's up and running within milliseconds, swinging the colt in his hold up to the demon's head.

The demon slowly turns its head to look at Dean before he can pull the trigger. Liquid black eyes stare out of the face Dean looks at in the mirror every day, the vicious smirk twisting Dean's face into something evil.

The demon laughs.

"I'm gonna take my sweet time with little Sammy here, Deano," the demon wearing Dean's face growls. "You can wait your turn. We both know I'm gonna overpower you eventually. You are just a weak fragment of a larger whole. And this," the demon gestures at its body, Dean's body, "is much stronger. This is freedom from everything."

Dean pulls the trigger.

Fucker can have his freedom.

With the release of the demon's powers upon him, Sam slumps sideways off the headstone and Dean just manages to catch him before he hits ground. "I gotcha, Sammy. I'm here," he whispers, gently turning Sammy over onto his side as not to hurt him any further.

Dean jolts backwards with a yell, the sunken corpse of his baby brother slipping from his hold …

Dean snaps awake, his body jolting upwards from the table. He swallows back the nausea threatening to overtake him, realising he's in the bunkers library and not that graveyard. The same graveyard he died in. The same graveyard that had been haunting his nightmares ever since. Except the outcome is always so very different to what happened on that day. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he pushes his chair back and stands, crossing to the whiskey decanter on the shelf. Grabbing a glass, he pours a generous amount and chugs it back, swiping the back of his hand against his mouth. He pours himself another.

"Same one?"

Dean turns his gaze to Cas standing just inside the archway leading up from the crow's nest, book in hand. "Yeah." He swallows back a mouthful of whiskey. "Why'd you let me sleep?"

"Because you needed to rest," says Cas in return. "You cannot keep going on like this, Dean. Allowing your actions under the Mark's influence to eat away at you. It won't help you or Sam. You did not do those things to your brother."

"I didn't?" Dean snaps, snorting harshly. "So those weren't my fists beating on my baby brother that time you had to pull me away from Sammy, that right, Cas?"

"Dean …"

Dean slams his glass down. He can't deal with Cas wanting him to talk about this right now. He hurries through the door to the right of the telescope, ignoring Cas calling after him, and enters the hallway with the most direct route to their bedrooms. He hasn't gone very far before he staggers against the wall, slumps over and puts his head in his hands.

Cas can say it all he wants, that what Dean did under the Mark of Cain's influence isn't Dean's fault. But Dean knows better. And Sam, with his too big freaking heart, may not hold Dean's actions against him, but Dean does. Dean may not have gone to the extent at which his nightmare was eluding to, but the intent was there. He had threatened to mincemeat his baby brother's backside with a switch just for doing the most natural of things; talking. Dean had beaten Sam with his fists when his little brother had taken off the day Dean had torn the kid's bedroom door from its hinges – and therefore taken away the very safe haven Dean had made for Sam against that situation. Sam would have ended up in the same bruised and beaten state from Dean's nightmare if Cas hadn't stopped Dean.

Dean could spend a lifetime making it up to Sam. Trouble was Sam won't let him. To Sam it hadn't been Dean doing those things; it's all in the past; it's over and done with. And for Sammy, Dean can accept that. But in the dark recesses of Dean's mind it still eats away at him if he lets himself think about it. Because he had nearly become what he had always sworn to his kid and to himself that he would never become. The kind of person who dishes out a beating for no god damn reason except for being in a bad mood; the kind of person who whips a kid's ass until its bleeding because their very presence pisses them off and then makes the kid believe they deserved every lick. The kind of man Dean's father had become with Sam the few times Dean wasn't around.

Dean had made promises a long time ago and he'd nearly broken every one of them. And when the Mark was gone, he had promised himself that he would never physically discipline Sam again out of fear of losing his temper like that once more. And while Dean knows he has a bad temper, he'd had to learn at an early age how to keep it under tight control when punishing Sam. Pushing himself upright, Dean shoves away from the wall and starts walking, briefly scrubbing his hands over his hair. It was why he'd dished out a grounding for Sam's painkiller consumption rather than the spanking he no doubt would have before. But that promise hadn't lasted very long. And it had taken every ounce of willpower he had to actually go through with it – to raise his hand and give Sam what he needed from Dean.

These past years, ever since collecting Sam from Stanford, Sam's had enormous leeway to be a grown-ass adult because Dean's been nowhere near as strict with Sam as he had when Sammy was younger. That's not to say Sammy hasn't had his butt tanned after they partnered up in hunting, because he has, but there were definitely moments there where Dean's leniency made for huge mistakes; where he should have reeled Sam in and didn't because he was going through his own shit. Or was too hurt by Sam's actions to do the right thing for the kid.

And Sam might be able to fool everyone else that his grown-ass self is the most independent shit on the planet, but the kid actually welcomes structure. It's partially the reason Sammy flew so far out of control when Dean went to Hell. And in shoving Bobby aside as well, the kid had left himself wide open to that skank Ruby's manipulations, with no one there to look to for guidance. To throw those small, inquiring looks – that Dean knows the kid still thinks he's being oh so inconspicuous about – to figure out if an action he's taking is the best course. And it was why, where Sammy's behaviour was concerned, Dean had also learnt at an early age to give his little brother two things without fail: consistency and consequences.

Dean had always been consistent in applying rules and following through with consequences if those rules were broken. Ironic, considering the laws both of them have broken over the years. But those are made to be that way in the lives of hunters living on the outskirts of society. Those are not the rules Dean had set out long ago. In keeping to consistency of consequences, both actions had given Sam the structure he craves. The structure Dean had tried his hardest to give Sam as a child, but was often disrupted due to John's constant disappearances and then his reappearance, days, weeks or months later. The latter becoming more of a regular timeframe as Dean had aged. That's why Sam's craving for that same structure is even stronger now.

Spanking had always been the most prominent of consequences because it was always the best deterrent where Sammy's concerned. But Dean hadn't realised just how much Sam silently depends on that in his structure of consequences in everyday life. Oh the kid hates getting his butt spanked and he'll protest sky-high against it, which is exactly why it works for Sam.

But Dean had taken that away. And the kid had known it without Dean even saying one word.

Which is why, a week on from Dean refraining from spanking Sam for his painkiller intake, Dean had been pushed, shoved and stomped all over the floor by Sammy. And Dean had taken it, knowing he deserved it.

It hadn't been until Sam had thrown his very genuine temper tantrum about his new bedtime sticking around permanently that realisation had sunk in. And Dean had felt like a complete dick for not seeing it sooner. Sam had been goading him the whole time. Purposely being the biggest giant brat he could be until Dean took his head out of his ass. Dean had had to sit back and carefully weigh up his options whilst waiting for Sam to calm the hell down from his tantrum. It had boiled down to two options; he either spanked Sam, or he didn't. Dean had opted to put Sam across his knee. Blowing his promise wide open in the process.

It had physically hurt inside him to take Sam's pants down and apply his hand to the bare flesh of his brother's butt, to redden the skin to the point the sting would linger for a good few hours, to cause Sam to cry in pain. Dean hadn't come away from that without shedding a few stray tears of his own. But for once, he was able to climb his way through it and bring himself out of that dark pit in the course of the spanking. The realisation striking him that he needed the same structure Sammy craves, but at the other end of the spectrum. Because where Sam craves the discipline the structure gives, Dean craves the control; that's where he lives. Being in charge, and taking control of that charge, is where he needs to be.

Sam once said Dean had to let him grow up. Dean had finally told him he wasn't a kid anymore before Sam had said 'yes' to the devil. Dean had lied to Sam that day, he had lied to himself. Because Sammy's innocence sees him sitting too far on the side of kid rather than adult; it always has and always will. Neither of them can change that no matter how many times they might try. Dean had lied to Sam because Sammy needed to hear those words from Dean; that Dean finally saw Sam as enough of a grown up to make that kind of decision and go through with it, to be strong enough to fight back against Lucifer and throw himself and the devil down into the Cage. Even when it went against every fibre of Dean's being he had said the words. Lying to himself so he didn't stop Sam from going through with it, and to prevent the dive Dean would've taken down that pit after his kid if he could've. But the significance of Sammy's sacrifice would've been dwindled to nothing if Dean had killed himself. And he had thought about it on those really dark days, especially after finding no way to get Sammy out without releasing Lucifer all over again. Lisa had found him more than once staring down the barrel of his gun.

The Mark of Cain had brought Dean's lies to the surface; had revealed how much Sammy will always be a kid rather than the adult he should be allowed to be. How much Sammy is still his baby brother at home and within their hunting team, rather than sitting in the equal spot he should hold at Dean's side. But Dean can't. It's a trait of Dean's personality he just can't fix. He doesn't have it in him to treat Sam any differently. More so now than ever before and he really doesn't understand why that is. He just knows they need to get back to being on the same footing on both sides, home and hunting; settling back into the roles they belong and staying there without losing any of the lessons they've learnt over the past ten years.

And that means he needs to be firmer with Sammy, stricter. Without descending into being an abusive bastard. Sam is and will always be Dean's responsibility; that is never going to leave Dean, no matter if the kid's nine or ninety. And if in his sleeping hours Dean's tormented by his actions as a demon and under the mark's influence… that is never going to leave him, but maybe it's time he lets Cas help with that. Instead of shoving Cas away whenever the nightmares make an appearance.

Dean comes to a stop. His feet have walked him to the low-lit hallway of Sam's bedroom. Sam's door sits ajar just as it had two hours previously, during Dean's last check-in. Glancing down at his watch he took note of the time: 09:43; Sammy's been out for the count for just over twenty-three hours now. To say Dean's worried is an understatement. He and Cas had hit the books shortly after their soup in the kitchen, knowing at this point in time that anything could be related to the spell used to remove the Mark. In between pouring over Latin and throwing the Enochian written texts Cas' way, Dean had been calling contacts, looking for any and all leads on Rowena. It was proving more difficult than it should be but they can't get out there and hunt the bitch down themselves until after Sam wakes up. Nor will they know whether or not the theory Cas' has come up with for the reasoning behind Sammy's collapse is accurate until Sam wakes either.

Dean fucking hates the theory no matter how plausible it may be. And if it does prove to be correct… they're up shit creek without any paddles all over again.

It's a waiting game at this juncture.

Pushing open Sam's bedroom door, the low lighting from the hall filters over the room. It takes Dean a moment to realise what it is that he's seeing, but then his brain catches up and a grin spreads across his lips, a snort of amusement leaving him before he's laughing, the tension draining from his body. Sam doesn't even stir at the sound.

Sammy's undeniably a fidget in his sleep. The numerous times Dean's had to share a bed with his baby brother and ended up right on the edge, almost fallen out, or actually fallen out because of Sammy's fidgeting is testament to that. Pulling out his phone, Dean snaps a quick photo, the opportunity just too good to pass up. He stores it in his Sammy file amongst the other stupidly adorable photos Dean has of the kid – the one's he'll deny owning. Ever.

Sammy's blankets and pillows are all on the floor. The kid himself has somehow curled his ginormous frame right on the lower left-hand corner of the bed, his head and right arm hanging over the edge of the mattress, while the left arm is half-tucked underneath him, the thumb half-hanging from his open lips. His legs are tucked up under his torso, with his half-naked butt in the air, his sweats and boxer-briefs having partially fallen down his butt due to his fidgeting, also a common occurrence. Dean had awoken more than once to that sight unfortunately.

Mirth under control, Dean approaches the bed with a shake of his head and a lingering smile. One more movement from Sammy and the kid is over the edge and on the floor. Pulling the boxer-briefs and sweats back up to fully cover Sammy's rump, he scoops Sam up and deposits him on his stomach at the right end of the bed and in the centre of the mattress. He foregoes shoving a pillow back under Sam's head and sets the pillows on either side of the kid's body instead. Hopefully they might keep him from fidgeting off either side of the mattress. Picking up the blankets, he grasps two corners and shakes them out in the air, letting them drop over his kid.

Rounding the bed, Dean runs a hand over the kids head, a fraction of the weight on his shoulders lifted. It might be a peculiar sleeping position but the fact that Sammy had fidgeted his way into that position in the past two hours since Dean last checked him is a good sign. It means Sammy's crawled his way up from unconsciousness and into natural sleep. It shouldn't be long now before Sammy wakes fully, at least another few hours.

Enough time for Dean and Cas to get in some more research, call more contacts and possibly get some food and a shower in there somewhere. Dean knows he is starting to ripen, neither he nor Cas have had a chance to shower after or since their sparing session out on the green yesterday.

#

Dean runs a hand over his chin and cheeks as he heads for Sam's room after finally managing to fit in a shower and a shave. His stubble isn't as trimmed as he usually wears it, but it would suffice. It's not the first time it's been scruffy and the length of the hair on his face really isn't Dean's top priority at the moment. That spot belongs to Sammy, who still hasn't woken up. It's been just over three hours since Dean found the kid only inches away from toppling off his bed and Dean's seriously starting to think about trying to shake his kid awake. Cas, however, is adamant that they should leave Sammy to wake in his own time and unfortunately Dean had agreed. Sammy has only been sleeping a natural sleep for around five hours and obviously the kid still needs rest.

Grasping hold of Sam's door edge, Dean pushes it open slightly, cringing when he hears the irritating squeak of the second-hand hinges. He really needs to fix that. Because Dean either screwed them on too tightly to the doorframe or they just need some oil to get them moving freely without noise again. Though as he frowns at the room before him, hitting his fist against the light switch on the wall next to him, Dean wonders whether he can actually make that noise louder. To be heard throughout the entire fucking bunker. Then maybe this situation could be avoided. Because as the light flares it reveals exactly what Dean's seeing.

Sam's empty bed.

"Sam?" Dean calls, moving into the room and quickly checks the floor the other side of Sam's bed in case his baby brother did eventually fidget his way off the mattress, but Sam isn't lying on the floor.

Dean proceeds to check every conceivable space within the medium sized room in case Sammy had a nightmare, or a freak out or something and tried hiding his large frame away. Sammy has sure done that before, hidden himself away in a small space you definitely wouldn't expect him to be able to curl his ginormous body into. Nothing. With the eyes of an experienced hunter, Dean surveys his surroundings; observing the thrown back covers; the phone lying silently on the nightstand next to Sam's wallet; the boots still seated on the floor beneath the wooden desk chair where Dean earlier placed them; the clothing draped over the back of the same chair; the guns and knives sitting atop the kid's desk. Everything is still in the same place it should be.

Everything except for Sam.

Dean turns abruptly on his heel, being careful to keep his shit together. He'll have his own freak-out if Sam doesn't turn up in the next god damn five minutes. Sammy has been out for a long time so he undoubtedly woke to a full bladder and needed to use the toilet. But upon entering the bathroom, Dean can immediately see not one of the three toilet cubicle doors is closed fully. He still pushes them all open, checking each one and coming up empty. He throws back the five shower curtains, still finding no trace of his baby brother.

"SAM!" He yells and waits.

He receives no response. He steps out into the hall and does the same thing, yelling his little brother's name down the hall in both directions. Again Dean receives no response from his younger sibling. A soft growl of frustration releases from Dean's throat as he moves off quickly down the hallway. He hears footsteps approaching from down the hall and moves to intercept, knowing its Cas and not Sammy before they even meet in the hall.

"Dean, what ...?" Cas immediately starts to question, taking in the worry creasing his partner's face.

"Sammy's not in his bed. He's not in the bathroom. We need to do a search of the place top to bottom," Dean rushes out before giving quick-fire instructions for the areas of the bunker Cas is to search whilst Dean takes the rest. they separate quickly, hurrying off in different directions.

#

"He couldn't have gotten past me, Dean," Cas tells Dean, the pair of them standing in the library near the crow's nest entrance twenty minutes later. They've cleared the entire bunker and there is still not one sign of Dean's baby brother. "I moved into the crow's nest after you fell asleep. The main bunker door is not exactly quiet. Even absorbed in books, I would have heard it open and close. I am not that lax to my surroundings."

"Then how the hell could Sam have gotten out of the bunker, Cas! He didn't go through the front door, he hasn't taken a car – thank fuck! - there's no indication the garage doors have even been opened since last I brought the Impala in; neither the inside doors nor the outer." Dean has his fingers buried in his hair in frustration. "There's no other way out! How could he have …" Dean stops in his tracks, releasing one hand from his hair to smack it against his forehead, staring at Cas with wide eyes.

Cas frowns back at him, before realisation dawns in the former-angel's eyes.

"The escape hatch," they chorus, already bolting towards the hall.

Sam and Dean had found the escape hatch on one of their explorations, though it isn't exactly a hatch at the bottom. Its door matches the rest of those in the main bunker, blending into its surroundings, but it leads into a small cylindrical shaft equipped with just a metal ladder. Dean had ascended it and found a hatch at the top with Enochian sigils, demonic-warding and a couple of other unknown sigils coating the inside. Twisting the flat handle until a loud click reverberated down through the shaft, Dean had shoved the hatch upwards and climbed out, finding himself inside a small room within the power plant. The top of the hatch covered with just as many sigils as the inside.

Now as he stands at the bottom of the ladder, shining his flashlight upwards, he can clearly see the hatch is open. Either Sammy had climbed out of his own free will, or - and worst case scenario - something that could bypass the sigils and wards had sneaked into the bunker and taken Sammy out without Dean and Cas' knowledge. And as Dean couldn't see any reason as to why Sam would just leave, shoeless and still in his pj's, Dean is leading towards the latter. And when Dean finds whoever or whatever it is …

"Does Sam sleepwalk?"

Dean almost smacks his head on the ladder as he spins around to look at Cas. Flinching, Cas throws up a hand to shield his eyes and Dean quickly drops his flashlight beam to his partner's chest. "What'd you say?"

"Does Sam sleepwalk?" Cas repeats more slowly.

Does… Dean starts to go over the words in his mind, before he abruptly steps forwards and grabs Cas' face, smashing his lips to his partner's. "Genius," he states after pulling away. He starts to hurry off only to stop with impatience as Cas calls after him.

"What about the hatch?" Cas queries, shining his own flashlight up the shaft.

"Let's get Sam first, then I'll go up and close it. C'mon." Dean gestures down the hallway with his hands.

Cas shoots him a worried glance. "But what if Sam tries to sleepwalk back down it? It would only take one second for his barefoot to slip off a rung, Dean."

Dean lets out a sigh. Jogging back to the shaft, he throws a glare at his partner for even thinking Sam is clumsy enough to slip off a ladder, sleepwalking or not. And fine, yeah, maybe Cas is right, but the more time they waste here, the further away Sammy can get. There's no telling how long his kid has been gone for. Sticking his flashlight in his mouth, Dean scales the ladder and climbs out, taking a minute to look around the area. He'd doubted Sammy would have climbed the ladder only to sit on his ass in the power plant which is why Dean hadn't climbed up here to begin with. But now that he's here, he exits the small room through the open door and steps out onto what he knows to be the third layer of wide mezzanine running along the inner edge of the huge building. He flashes his flashlight around, yells his brother's name and receives no response. The likelihood of Sammy sticking around in the plant and falling back into a normal sleep was definitely unlikely.

Returning to the small hatch room, Dean climbs back into the shaft, pulling the hatch closed behind him. He twists the flat handle, locking the hatch in place. Descending the ladder, he shakes his head at Cas when he reaches the bottom. "No sign. Think you'll be able to sense for him once we're up top?"

Cas' eyebrow arch's. "Do you think that wise with what we earlier discovered, Dean?"

"No, Cas, I don't okay!" Dean snaps back in frustration. "I just wanna find my kid."

"As do I, Dean. But we won't be helping Sam in the long run if we resort to that."

Rubbing a hand over his hair and taking a moment to steady himself, Dean nods sharply knowing full well Cas is right. "Let's get out there then."

#SPN#

Sam's blind.

His scream gurgles in his throat. His head is tipped backwards against the edge of what feels like a metal surface, painfully stretching his neck. While his mouth is held forcefully open by invisible fingers, trapping the sound from releasing fully from him. He's pinned down, unable to move, and yet he can feel no bindings holding him in place. He tries to struggle, but at the slightest movement of any limb, a heavy and uncomfortable weight settles over his body, crushing him. It stills his movements and snatches his breath away. Leaving him little choice but to fall still once again. Then the weight lifts from him and his nostrils flare with the force in which he inhales his next breath.

Where's Dean? Dean?! DEAN! Dean, Dean, Dean …!

Sam flinches when he feels liquid drip onto his tongue and begin to pool in his mouth. He pushes all of his concentration into preventing it from sliding down his throat. A bitter taste floods his taste buds and makes him gag and spit out the majority, only for his mouth to swiftly fill again. Something – a hand? – clamps down over both his mouth and nose, cutting off his ability to breathe freely and eventually forces him to swallow down the bitter-tasting liquid. He coughs the second the pressure lifts from his mouth and nose, feeling residue of whatever it is he's just swallowed trickling down his chin. He coughs again, hoping he might throw up, but nothing happens.

Sam freezes as he feels a presence beside him; one that sends an ice-cold shiver running down his spine. Someone – or something – is on his left, leaning down right next to his face. He can smell the stagnant breath and feel it blowing against the stubble on his cheeks with every exhale.

"Better than mother's milk," the whispered words puff against Sam's ear.

Oh god, no. Sam feels like his hearts stuttered to a stop. He can feel the blood in his veins freeze up. No no no no no no …

How can this be? This can't be real! Sam desperately thrashes, fruitlessly fighting to get away. He has to get away. This can't be happening to him! Not again! Yellow Eyes is dead! Azazel's dead! Gone! Extinguished! Snuffed out of existence! Dean saw to that with a direct shot between the eyes from a Colt bullet. That demon can't be …

"Missed me, Sammy?" the voice whispers amused.

A hoarse scream leaves Sam's throat as he curls tighter into himself, laughter echoing in his ears. His breathing is warring against the sobs threatening to vacate his mouth whilst his heart thuds a frantic rhythm against his ribcage.

A nightmare. All a stupid fucking nightmare.

But he can still taste that bitter tang of demon blood, a substance that had tainted his veins and body for thirty-two years. That had been a catalyst for one of the largest rifts ever to separate him and Dean. Sam wraps his arms around his knees, drawing them closer to his chest, and drops his head down so he can slip his right thumb inside his mouth, suckling on it, hoping it will eradicate that haunting bitter tang from his tongue. Its taste had not been something Sam had noticed during his addiction those two years before the Cage. When he had craved it on almost a daily basis. But he can never forget it now.

I'm safe. I'm safe in my bedroom in the bunker. Azazel doesn't have me. Dean's here. Azazel can never have me. I'm safe. I'm free. I'm safe. Dean's here. Azazel can't have me. I'm safe. I'm free. Yellow-Eyes is dead. Dean's here. Sam's breathing evens out with each thought of his brother. His heartbeat finally slowing to a reasonably normal pace. Where is Dean? His big brother always has a sixth sense for knowing when Sam's having a nightmare and is generally there when he wakes up.

But Dean isn't here now.

Geez, Sam, quit being a big baby. It was a nightmare, you've had hundreds of 'em, Sam scolds himself because honestly, he's a big boy now isn't he? He doesn't need his big brother to come running just because Sam's had a nightmare. He doesn't need Dean to soothe his fears. Dean's already had to put up with him having had some minor freak-out earlier. His brother doesn't need to be any more worried about him than he probably already is thanks to Sam's little collapse out on the green.

A breeze rustles over him, the sounds of leaves catching in his ears. Wait, huh? That can't be right. They don't have plants in the bunker, not even for decoration. Dean doesn't like them. And they certainly wouldn't be blowing in a breeze because the bunker doesn't have wind running through its hallways and rooms either. The hairs on Sam's bare arms stand on end as another breeze washes over him. He snaps open his eyes, releasing his body from its curled position and pushes himself upright, his eyes widening with confusion as he spies nothing but tall trees all around him. Its daylight, what he can see of the sky through the tops of the trees is overcast, no sun to offer him a vague time of day.

Oh shit. Dean's gonna kill me.

#SPN#

Dean throws glances out the driver-side window, the windshield, the passenger-side window as he drives, hoping to catch any kind of glimpse of his missing Sasquatch. He's been searching for two hours with no sign and he's going to have to head for a gas stop shortly, the tank almost running on empty. Cas has had about as much luck as Dean on the other side of town, meaning zero luck.

If not for Cas, the idea of Sam sleepwalking never would have entered Dean's mind. Sammy had gone through a phase of sleepwalking shortly after finding out about the supernatural. The night-time wanderings had started sporadically. And after a few nights of watching his brother wander around the motel room they were occupying at the time in a daze, his eyes open but glazed over, it had taken Dean making a desperate call to Bobby to figure out what the hell was going on. Because Dean's thoughts had immediately jumped to a supernatural bastard attacking his brother; sleepwalking had never crossed his mind then just as it hadn't this time.

Thankfully Bobby had just finished up a hunt relatively close by – though after finding out Dean and Sam were alone again for the third time in as many weeks, Dean was pretty sure the grizzled hunter would have dropped everything anyway no matter how far away he was. Bobby had arrived on their motel room doorstep five hours later…

Dean scoops Sammy up as the knock comes on the door. The three-two-one-three knock code belonging to only Uncle Bobby. Situating his too-small-for-his-age baby brother on his hip and securing him there with one arm, Sammy buries his face in Dean's neck in his usual shyness as Dean crosses to the door. He picks up the shotgun leaning against the wall next to the door and cocks it. He knocks a one-three-two code against the back of the door. It's returned with the same three-two-one-three code of only a moment before. Sliding the chain across, Dean cracks open the door, relief flooding his system at the familiar sight of Uncle Bobby.

"Hey sport," Bobby smiles down at him as Dean widens the door to accommodate Bobby's entrance.

Sammy snaps his head up from Dean's neck the second he hears Uncle Bobby's voice, his shyness evaporated. "Unca B'by!" Sammy squeals from around his pacifier, squirming in Dean's hold with his arms outstretched to Bobby, fingers making grabby motions. Dean snorts, uncocks the shotgun and sets it on the table before shifting his kid from his hip to hold him out to Bobby, who's more than happy to take Sammy, the bearded face split wide into a grin.

"Hey there, squirt," Bobby jiggles Sammy in his arms, causing the kid to giggle as the old hunter steps fully into the room, allowing Dean to close the motel door behind him.

"Thanks for coming, Uncle Bobby," Dean replies, his relief no doubt visible to the old hunter, no matter how much he tries to hold it back. "You good with him for a minute, while I get his bedtime milk warmed up?"

"Yeah, boy, I got him," Bobby responds. "I'll get him in his jammies," he adds tickling Sammy's stomach and making the kid squeal once again around his pacifier.

Dean snickers as he always does whenever he hears Bobby say 'jammies'. It's hilarious. Bobby reaches out, ruffling Dean's hair as he passes.

"Gerroff, Uncle Bobby," Dean complains, ducking out from beneath the hand, but there's a grin on his face as he makes his way over to the stove, hearing Bobby's chuckle and Sammy's giggle from behind him. Grabbing the milk from the motel fridge, Dean pours it into a saucepan, smiling as he listens to Sammy babbling enthusiastically to Bobby behind him, and Bobby's infrequent responses when Sammy actually lets him get a word in. Dean is always grateful that Bobby doesn't interrupt or tell Sammy to stop nattering, because Sammy so rarely opens his mouth to talk to anyone outside of Dean and it does the kid good. Even if it can be annoying at times.

Within the hour, Sammy's had his bedtime milk and is down for the count, curled into Dean's side. Dean has learnt recently that when Sammy sleeps, Dean should sleep too, because there's no telling when Sam might be up.

Eyes snapping open from sleep to the feel of his little brother squirming out of his arms several hours later, Dean lets him go, quietly watching Sammy slide down over the edge of the bed, his little legs kicking behind him before touching ground a moment later. Sitting up and getting out of bed as well, Dean slowly and quietly makes his way around Sammy and over to where Uncle Bobby is occupying one of the chairs at the kitchenette table, the experienced hunter's eyes fixed on Sammy. Dean's kid is wandering around, his eyes glazed over, pacifier between his lips, soft toy pup Binx tucked under one arm, and Sammy's bam-bam (blanket) is gripped in his other hand and trailing behind the kid. Dean sets himself down on the other chair, watching Sammy and knowing to quietly leave Bobby to figure out what the hell's going on.

Bobby shoots Dean a reassuring half-grin ten minutes later, patting Dean's closest knee. "Your brother's alright, Dean. He's sleepwalking," Bobby tells him quietly, eyes fixed back on Sam now sitting on the floor playing with the toys Dean had managed to persuade John to keep because they're valuable in teaching Sammy.

And while that is true, they are mostly educational toys, there are also a few like Dean's old green army men, his cars and Lego, and the airplane that are purely recreational. But once John found out Sam was aware of the supernatural the eldest Winchester had wanted the toys gone, along with the books, comics and drawing stuff Sammy also loves. The man wanting to wipe out that portion of a little boy's childhood so he can use the space in the trunk the toy bag usually occupies for more fucking weapons and ammo. Only when Dean had promised to keep them in the backseat and not the trunk did John relent, because Dean refused to have his little boy turned into a fucking soldier at eight-years-old, especially when Sammy is still so fucking young and no more the size of a four-year-old.

"Sleepwalking?" Dean questions sharply, though keeping his voice at the same level as Bobby had spoken as not to disturb Sammy, his tone both curious and concerned. Because whilst he had heard about sleepwalking, Dean has never seen anyone doing so and he's concerned for Sammy's safety and the impact this sleepwalking will have on his kid in the long run. "What do I do?"

"'Fraid there's not much you can do, Dean, aside from making sure all windows and doors are locked before you both sleep." Bobby turns his gaze to Dean, gaze intense. "And that he can't get hold of any weapons." Dean bristles, feeling insulted that Bobby could even think Dean would let Sammy touch a weapon in his waking hours, let alone in his sleep. Bobby holds up a hand before Dean can open his mouth. "Now, you know I don't mean naught by that, boy," Bobby continues, "but Sam isn't consciously aware of his actions when he's sleepwalking. He could easily pick up a gun thinking it just a toy and shoot himself… or you."

Dean deflates, scrubbing a hand over his hair. Sammy knows he mustn't touch the guns when he's awake, but sleeping… Bobby's right. But Dean also knows he's meant to keep the shotgun on hand at night. Fuck. "Okay. Weapons away. Windows and doors locked. I should also hide the keys away before I sleep then." Because Sammy is too intelligent for his own good sometimes…

Bobby had remained with them until John had shown up two days later. Dean and Sammy had stayed in the motel room whilst Bobby undoubtedly hauled John over the coals once they reached a good enough distance from the room, and Dean's ears, because Dean unashamedly would have listened in for sure if he could have. Not that it changed his father's stubborn nature and attitude, only made him furious with Bobby. Dean and Sam didn't see Bobby for a good couple months after that.

Dean slams on the brakes, tyres squealing as he glances briefly in the rear-view mirror, before throwing the Impala into reverse. Twisting in his seat to look behind him, he reverses the car back up the narrow lane, turning the wheel to take him over to a gravel turnout, a wide gate covering the entrance leading up to a red barn. Cutting the engine, Dean throws open his door and jumps out, approaching the guy he had seen fixing his fence in passing and which had caused Dean to stop. The mid-sixties looking guy looks up at him, setting the top of his hammer on the beam of wood he'd previously been banging a nail into.

"Hey, have you seen a guy come past here at all? He's about yea high," Dean lifts an arm over his head to indicate Sammy's height, "girly hair, wearing only grey sweats and a white t-shirt," Dean hides his grimace at that, knowing Sammy must be freezing his ass off wherever he is, "probably looking like a lost puppy."

The guy shakes his head, eyes quickly looking Dean up and down before flickering over to the Impala and back. "Haven't seen no-one come by all day, son," the guy responds, his voice booming. "He yours? This missing boy."

"Little brother. His names Sam." Dean digs out his wallet and flips it open, pulling out a business card. He holds it out to the guy who accepts it. "It's got my cell number on it. Please, if you see or hear anything of Sam, call me. Name's Dean."

The guy arch's a bushy grey eyebrow and nods. "Will do, Dean."

"Thanks." Dean nods, crossing back to the Impala. Getting in, he switches on the engine and takes off to continue his search. He doubts he'll ever hear from the guy, but he wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to ask the first person he's seen in the area if Sammy has crossed their path recently. It's one of the problems with living in the vicinity of such small towns.

Dean slows as he reaches the woods edging the area of the property he's just paid a visit to, peering out his window and trying to see through the dense trees. He hits his palm against the steering wheel suddenly, before hitting the gas.

Dammit, Sammy. Where the fuck are you?

#SPN#

Sam moves to push himself to his feet only to topple straight back onto his butt. His legs feel weak and shaky beneath him when he tries to apply weight to them. Scratch that, all of him feels that way. As if he's been completely drained of energy. But how had he gotten here in the woods? The last thing Sam remembers is being in the bathroom with Dean after his shower. Had he fallen asleep? He had a vague recollection of Dean telling him to stay upright or something but after that… who knows? Maybe he fell asleep; maybe they went on a hunt he now has no memory of. Maybe he has a head injury. Sam lifts his hands to his head, feeling along his forehead, his temples, his scalp, and down his neck, fingers moving with fast but meticulous movements of muscle memory. He'd checked for head injuries too many times in his life. Both his own and Dean's. This time he felt no injury so he could scratch off head injury. There's no blood …

Sam freezes, a horrifying scenario crossing his mind. Oh God. What if the nightmare wasn't a nightmare? What if it's real? What if some demon had grabbed him. Fed him their blood. What if there was demon blood in him again? Sam hurriedly felt around his mouth, feeling no wet and sticky liquid or dried and crusty residue on his skin. But he can't be sure. Sam does the only thing he can think of. He jams his fingers down his throat, his gag reflex kicking in and he spews nothing but bile onto the ground. Leaning closer, rubbing a hand over his tummy that's now sore from the force of his retching, he inspects the small puddle with a grimace. He can't see any red splotches, but he also doesn't know how long he's been out here for. The blood could have already been absorbed into his system.

No. Sam buries his head in his hands, fingers clutching at his hair. No no no no no no. It can't have happened again. It just can't! Not when he's only just been freed from that nightmare. Is he going to be cursed with demon blood until the day he dies because of his past mistakes? Is demon blood his ultimate punishment? Sam sniffles, lowering his hands down from his hair, scrubbing them over his face and wiping away the residue of his tears.

Sam shoves himself upwards, regardless of the shakiness in his legs and catches himself on a tree before he can topple back down to the ground. He has no idea if any of that is true, whether the demon blood is there and until he does have some semblance of idea he's not going to dwell on it. He can't, otherwise he'll fall apart. And he can't afford to do that. It's time to stop feeling sorry for himself and find a way out of here. Wherever here is. Looking around, he realises he's actually in a small clearing, a few tree stumps scattered around and what looks to be eastern cottonwood trees all around him. Now that he can relatively stand on his own two feet with just the mild assistance of the tree, he takes stock. He's got no wallet, no keys, no weapons, no socks, no shoes and no phone. At least he can be thankful he has his sweats and a t-shirt on even if he is shivering with cold. He rubs his hands up and down his arms and curls his toes under him to save some warmth.

Now he has to figure out what to do. He's in the woods without knowing which way will bring him to some sort of civilisation. He doesn't know how large the woods are in any given direction. He could pick a direction and chance walking but he could be going in entirely the wrong direction for hours, or days. And he doesn't have any provisions for days; no food, no water.

And what if Dean is out here somewhere too. Hurt and alone? Or with Cas, both of them hurt. Does Sam chance calling for them? What if Sam hadn't been caught by demons but he, his brother and Cas had been hunting something and it's still out there? Sam has no weapons. He can run, dodge and fight for a while but without a necessary weapon or even knowing what kind of weapon he'd need for a probable monster, he wouldn't hold out very long without back up. Preferably in the shape of Dean and Cas. A huff of frustrated breath leaves him. Too many questions. Too many options. He should just pick a direction and go. He isn't getting anywhere just standing here like a moron.

But what if he moves and Dean can't find him?

Brushing his hair out of his face, Sam realises he doesn't have much choice here. He pushes off from the tree and takes a moment to centre himself on his feet. He quickly realises his feet are sore, possibly cut. Had he walked a long way? Crap. Could he have sleepwalked? He hasn't done that in years. Not since he was around nine or ten, starting shortly after finding out about the supernatural and Santa not being real. It had continued, off and on, for around two years before it had just stopped. Could the sleepwalking have returned? Sam doesn't know and he isn't going to get any frigging answers to his many questions until he gets his butt out of these god damn woods.

He starts walking straight ahead, doing his best to ignore the stinging over the soles of his feet. He's had much worse. Moving through the far more condensed trees than had been in the clearing, he weaves his way around them, leaning against one or two here and there to steady his shaking legs. Sam comes to an abrupt stop after what has to be only five minutes of walking and hides himself behind one of the wider trees. He peers round the tree briefly and cautiously and wants to smack his forehead against the bark.

Because of course there's a fairy-tale cottage sitting oh-so innocently with smoke curling up from its chimney right in the middle of the freaking woods.

How silly of you not to have expected this, Sam. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Now what does he do? Civilisation may very well be sitting right in front of him. Does he chance approaching and finding out that a very exceptionally boring and normal person or person's live within (and never ever tell his brother he did that). Or does he approach and pray he can fight whatever supernatural fugly lives within the innocent looking cottage before it decides to kill him? Dean would bust his butt for either option. So that leaves option number three; turning on his heel, walking in the opposite direction and risk getting further lost in the process.

That is, he'll follow option three after he's had a look in the window. Hunter, remember. The most innocuous of things is usually relevant information for later.

Sam moves sideways silently, using the trees for cover as he circles around to the small window on the front left-side of the cottage. Ducking down, he crawls his way across until he can get a look in the window without being seen from within. There is someone inside and from the long chestnut pleated hair it's a woman. She turns, he shifts back slightly. From the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes she looks to be around Cas' human age, early to mid-forties, fair skin, not overly pretty. She could genuinely be a normal person, but experience has taught Sam that most normal people don't shut themselves away in the middle of the woods. And with his abrupt awakening in these very woods, something isn't adding up. Not wanting to chance being caught, Sam crawls his way backwards until he can stand again.

Then he runs in the opposite direction.

Sam finally slows his running to a jog and then a walk when he thinks he's a good enough distance away from the cottage. He drops down onto a fallen tree trunk, keeping his back to a wide standing tree so that he can catch his breath and rub his feet. They ache. They're filthy too and he can't tell if they have cuts on them amongst the dirt and grime. But he doesn't need to see any cuts to know his brother will shove Sam's feet in a bowl filled with their horrible antiseptic liquid-soap. Sam hates that stuff. It stings like crazy against the smallest of cuts.

Sam only allows himself a minute for his breather before he pushes up again and sets off, his throat dry with thirst. How long has he been going for? It has to be nearing an hour, maybe two. He's only taken two steps when the heavens open. Oh for the love of … Sam's drenched and shivering within minutes, his arms wrapped around himself as he trudges on.

With his head angled downwards to shield his eyes from the sting of the biting rain a good while later, it takes Sam a moment to realise his surroundings have changed. There are no trees before him or to the side, only behind him. He's stepped into a field of green short-cut grass, wet beneath his feet. He can see a white and blue farmhouse a little way in the distance, and his deportment straightens a little as he cheers inwardly.

Finally. Maybe they'll have a phone.

Carrying on forwards in as straight a line as he can go, Sam does his best not to slip and slide across the wet grass on his bare feet. He isn't successful. And as he lands on his butt for the third time, sliding down a small incline before coming to a stop, he contemplates whether he should just slide his way across the wet grass on his tummy. At least then he wouldn't have to think on when the next fall's coming, and which spot of his body can say hello to a new bruise. But he knows he can't do that, so he slowly pushes himself back to his feet, his body now beyond weary.

And as Sam closes in on the farmhouse, he realises it's one of those with the wrap-around porches. A fairly large house with three floors, white slatted-wood walls and a coral-blue roof. The kind of place Sam as a child had always dreamed he and Dean could live, that idyllic normality, though not on as large a scale as this. He's since grown up to realise the house doesn't make the home.

"Son, what are you doing out in this weather dressed like that?"

The booming voice makes Sam jump, and he curses himself for his inattention. He blinks wide eyes up at the porch. A fairly tall man stands at the top of five steps that lead down from the porch and join with the paved path at which Sam now stands at the end of. The man's weathered face and salt and pepper hair places him in the mid to late sixties range but he could be older or younger. The guy's belly sticks out with a beer gut, but thick arms look to hold a decent amount of muscle in them still.

"You trying to catch your death, son? C'mon up here outta the rain." The man gestures Sam up onto the porch. Sam hesitates, wary of approaching a stranger when he still has no clue what's happened to him. "Ain't gonna hurt you, son. C'mon now."

Knowing he doesn't really have much of a choice and hoping the man is a decent guy who keeps to his word, Sam slowly moves forward, setting his foot on the first step and then the next and the next until he's covered all five and stands on the white-painted wooden porch. The man had backed away as Sam ascended the steps, allowing for Sam not to feel threatened, for which Sam's grateful for. He rubs his hands up and down his arms.

"Better yet, c'mon inside," the old man says, "I'll have Ally make you up a warm drink." Sam's eyebrow arch's in question at the name. "My wife," the old man states, pulling open the screen-door and holding it open for Sam to enter the house, the inner door already standing open. "I'm Earl Grey."

Sam finds a tired smile creasing his lips as he stands on the welcome rug. He doesn't want to move any further into the wide hall because of his wet feet as they have shiny wooden flooring. "Like the tea?"

Earl chuckles, coming in behind him and letting the screen door close. "Yeah, like that shitty tea. 'Scuse me French, son."

"S'kay," Sam says and has to stop himself from jumping once again as the man suddenly booms out his wife's name right next to Sam's ear. "I've heard worse from my brother. I'm Sam."

Earl does a double take and raises an eyebrow as he looks Sam up and down. "Well now, ain't that funny. You do look a little like a lost pup."

"Huh?" Sam questions a little suspicious now and takes a step backwards. Why's this complete stranger all of a sudden think I look like a lost pup? Where the hell could that assumption have come from?

"Easy, son. Not gonna hurt you, remember?" Earl holds up his hands in front of him. "But I had a flying visit from a man asking after his missing little brother by the name of Sam just about two hours ago now when I was out back fixing up my fence." Sam's hopes rise. It had to have been Dean or Cas; more likely Dean by what the man had said. If his brother and Cas were looking for him they would have separated to cover more ground. "And you do fit his description," Earl continues, "'about yea high, girly hair, probably look like a lost puppy.'" Sam felt his cheeks heat lightly; definitely Dean. Earl chuckles. "Course he didn't say nout 'bout a drowned lost pup."

"Was he in a big black muscle car?" Sam questions, extremely hopeful, even though he has no doubts it's Dean. He would've said Impala but he's unsure whether Earl would recognise the name. Impala's aren't all that popular and he doesn't want to insult the man.

"That'd be 'bout right, son. That your brother? Said his name was Dean."

"Yes sir," Sam nodded frantically, before realising his hair is throwing off droplets and quickly stops.

"Ally!" Earl booms again but this time Sam manages to keep from flinching or jumping at the loud sound.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming you impatient old fool." Sam's head snaps around in the direction of the voice. A woman standing at around 5'4 with grey and brown striped hair is bustling down the wide hall from what Sam thinks is the kitchen. She's wiping her hands on her apron that's coated in flour. "Oh my goodness," she stops walking as she spots Sam, briefly looks him up and down, before offering a warm smile. "What on earth has happened to you, dear?"

"Um, I think I might've been sleepwalking," Sam feels his cheeks burn lightly. Even if it turns out not to be true, it is still embarrassing standing here in front of a pair of stranger's in nothing but his pj's. Even if they seem nice enough.

"Well, let's get a warm drink into you. Earl, fetch a blanket."

"Yes ma'am," Earl tips an invisible hat to his wife, and disappears into a room off to the side.

Ally shakes her head with a muttered "honestly," but Sam can see the smile on her lips. She grasps Sam's elbow, leading him through the way she had come. It is a pretty large kitchen as Sam had suspected, large enough for both an island with breakfast bar and a dining table. Ally sits him down on one of the chairs at the table.

"You must have been walking quite a long ways, dear," she says squatting down and looking at his feet. Sam instinctively curls his toes under. "None of that, now," she chides gently upon seeing the movement, staring up at him with blue eyes. "I won't hurt you, dear. But they're definitely bleeding."

"Oh, I'm sorry… your floors," Sam apologises quickly, looking over to the way he had walked. He notices the red patches.

She waves away his worries. "These floors have survived five rambunctious boys running across them with numerous injuries over the years, dear. A little extra's not gonna hurt." She smiles up at him. "Now let's put these in some fresh water, clean the rest of the dirt away."

"Were you in the woods, son?" Earl questions as he enters, holding a forest-green blanket which he hands off to Ally before moving across to the stove and lighting a burner beneath a kettle.

"Yes sir. I woke up there."

The couple's faces suddenly turn grave, spiking Sam's hunter nature even more. Are this couple only nice to people they are about to kill? Or are they just genuinely nice people?

"You shouldn't wander in those woods, dear." Sam feels the shudder run through Ally's hands as she places the blanket over his shoulders.

Grasping the corners, he curls it around himself, and lets it warm him. "Why?"

"There's been a couple of recent deaths come out of those woods, son," Earl tells him. "Seems they came out of there, collapsed and just up and died of exhaustion." Earl eyes him with scrutiny. Sam sits up a little straighter; the same exhaustion he'd felt out there in the woods? The same exhaustion running though him right now? "Never heard the likes of young people up and dying of exhaustion without any reasoning though."

Shit. "They were young? How young?"

"One no older than fourteen," Earl shakes his head, "'Nother early twenties, and one late twenties. I know the Sheriff, son, and he likes to talk after a few beers." Earl smirks lightly as he seats himself on a chair opposite Sam at the table.

Sam rearranges his face. He'd obviously been staring in confusion for Earl to state his source. He had been wondering how Earl had come by the information – if he isn't the one doing it of course. Sam looks at Ally as she approaches with a dark green plastic bowl, puffs of steam rising from it, and sets it on the ground at his feet. Sam reaches down and rolls his sweats up enough so they won't get any wetter than they already are. He then slips his feet into the water, grimacing as the water immediately announces the presence of many cuts. But within seconds the pain ebbs away and Sam's able to sigh softly at the warmth spreading through his toes.

"Thank you," he says sincerely, offering a smile to Ally.

"You're welcome, dear," she pats his hand and bustles over to the stove as the kettle whistles.

"Here," Earl leans over to the island and grabs up a wireless landline receiver and holds it out to Sam. "You best call your brother." Sam gratefully accepts the phone. "Way he looked earlier, I'm sure he's goin' outta his mind with worry. You got his number memorised? He gave me it …"

Sam smiles tiredly, "Dean would kill me if I didn't have his number memorised."

Earl nods with a light chuckle. "Fair enough."

Sam presses his brother's main cell number into the keypad before setting the landline to his ear. It's picked up on the other end after only one ring.

"Yeah?" Dean's voice sounds worried and Sam feels guilty for being the reason that emotion's presence is there again.

"Dean."

"Sammy? Dammit, kid." Sam hears Dean breathe a sigh of relief as well as the squeal of the Impala's tyres as Dean undoubtedly slams his foot on the brakes. "Where the hell are you?"

Sam's happy to hear the gruffness back in that tone, though he blinks at the question. He still has no idea. Glancing at Earl, he opens his mouth to ask when the man beats him to it, reeling off the address, having clearly heard Dean on the other end. Sam repeats the information to his brother, surprised to find out he's about fifteen miles outside of Ebson, which is eleven miles north-east of Lebanon.

"Yeah, I know the place. Stopped by there earlier actually. I'm on my way. You keep your butt right where it is, ya hear me, Sammy? NO wandering off."

"Yes sir."

"Good boy. You hurt anywhere?"

"Just a few scrapes on my feet, I think. Mrs Grey's had me put them in some water."

"Who?" Dean's voice is sharp.

Shit. "The lady that lives here," Sam is quick to appease. "You spoke to her husband, Mr Grey, earlier, Dean."

"Right. I'll be there shortly, Sammy."

Sam can hear the Impala's engine roar through the phone as Dean presses his foot to the accelerator, speeding up just before the call disconnects. Sam makes sure he presses the button to disconnect the call on his end before setting the receiver on the table and thanking the Grey's once again. Ally smiles as she sets a mug of steaming yellowish liquid in front of Sam and another in the space to the left of Sam in front of the spare seat. A yawn overtakes Sam suddenly and he's quick to cover his mouth with his hand before scrubbing at his eyes with his fists.

"Sorry," he mumbles sheepishly.

"I'm sure you've had a tiring time of it, son," Earl says, waving off Sam's apology.

Huh, you have no idea, Sam thinks.

"Hope you like chamomile and honey, Sam," Ally says.

"I've never actually tasted that combination," Sam admits, "but I usually like teas, so I'm sure it'll be great. Thank you."

Ally smiles as she sets a large mug of coffee in front of her husband before taking the spare seat, wrapping her hands around her own cup and sipping at the brew. "Go on now, Sam, drink up while it's still hot. You must be freezing. And if it's not to your taste you just speak up now, okay?"

"Yes ma'am." Sam takes the mug into his hands, sniffing the liquid, a little wary of it being something he should absolutely not be drinking. But it smells good and he takes a tentative sip. The warmth is soothing on his dry throat and it tastes good. He takes a larger sip, smiles and nods at Ally. "So, has anything like that ever happened with the woods before?" he questions by way of making conversation, it is only polite. And he wants to know.

"Not that I'm honestly aware of, son," replies Earl. "And the missus and I have lived here coming up on forty years now."

So the couple should be more than familiar with the area, unless they keep solely to themselves, but Sam doubts they do. In this kind of area most people are pretty friendly and they are only small towns. Hell, Lebanon only has around two hundred and twenty people living in it. Sam knows Dean likes that it's such a small town – so does he, it's the perfect place for them - but his brother also hates having to go so far just to get a full load of groceries, or a decent burger in the middle of the night when Dean can't be bothered to cook one for himself.

"Then do you know the woman living in the cottage out in the woods?" Sam queries with hunter's ease and practise.

"That old place?" Ally says. "Been empty for years, dear. At least a few decades."

Sam narrows his eyes fractionally in suspicion as he sees Ally glance at her husband who shrugs one shoulder imperceptibly in return as he carries on sipping at his coffee. If no one is living in the woods, who's the woman out there? And why haven't the Grey's seen the smoke from the cottage's chimney wafting up from the trees. Sam's pretty sure the smoke would be visible from this house.

#SPN#

Dean swings the Impala onto the gravel driveway of the ordinary looking farmhouse. He really hopes this couple aren't your friendly neighbourhood sociopaths who are currently in the process of trying to murder his baby brother, or do God knows what else to Sammy. Because then Dean would have to gut them for touching his kid, and all he wants to do is get Sammy home. So they better hope they turn out to be the nice people Sammy's voice suggested they were over the phone. But then, when it comes to normal everyday folk, Sammy's not as suspicious of them as Dean is.

Dean really hadn't taken much notice of the guy he'd spoken to at the house earlier, only that he was older, mid to late sixties and had a loud booming voice when he spoke. Dean had been more interested in giving out Sammy's description and his cell number in case the guy saw Sam wandering around than getting a read from him. And then he'd hit the road again, leaving the big old farmhouse in his rear view mirror. It had barely been an encounter that lasted a minute and he'd never expected to be going back. But he was definitely now more than thankful he'd stopped. Might make for a little less awkward conversation with the couple for Sammy, especially if Sam has no clue what's happened. Dean can't remember if he told the old guy his suspicions of Sammy sleepwalking.

Dean shuts off the engine and jumps out, checking his favoured ivory-handled .45 calibre colt pistol is tucked away neatly in his back waistband whilst closing his door. Just in case it is needed. Crossing to the end of a paved path he makes his way up it and ascends the steps onto the porch. He draws to a stop in front of a closed screen door, the interior door already wide open. The old man, Mr Grey as Sammy had said, is already walking up the wide hall, gesturing with his hand for Dean to enter his home. An invitation Dean accepts, pulling the screen door open, and sparing the briefest of moments to wipe his boots on the welcome rug before he's walking down the hall to grasp the old guy's outstretched hand.

"Dean wasn't it? I'm Earl Grey."

Dean nods, shaking the firm grip once before letting go. "Where's Sam?" he asks briskly. He isn't here for the niceties, though he is grateful this couple had pulled Sammy in out of the rain.

Earl obviously realises Dean is in no mood for the niceties as well, because he gives a half grin, and gestures behind him. "Just through here, son."

Dean's immediate response is to snap at the man that he isn't his son, but he stops himself. All he's interested in is seeing Sammy. And he does so as he enters what's clearly the kitchen a moment later. Sammy's seated at the kitchen table, his bare feet in a bowl of murky water. A smile breaks across his kid's tired face at the sight of Dean, something that stirs a warmth in Dean's chest. He smiles in return, crossing over to ruffle Sam's wet hair. He's momentarily surprised when Sam slips his arms around his waist and lays that wet head against his chest, but Dean simply returns the hug without pause.

"You're all right, buddy," he says quietly, reassuringly rubbing his hand over Sammy's back in soothing circles.

"I think I got lost," Sammy mumbles against him.

Dean snorts softly, "Yeah, I think you did." Dean turns his head, remembering that he does have manners buried somewhere inside of him and brings them to the fore, introducing himself to the woman seated at the table with Sammy. Obviously Mrs Grey.

"Ally," she responds, shaking his outstretched hand once he's removed it from Sammy's back.

Dean nods and turns his attention back to his kid's trembling form, he can feel those light shivers against him, despite what the Grey's have done to warm the kid through. Only a hot shower will really warm the kid up. Pulling back, Sammy goes reluctantly and is clearly blushing lightly as he realises what he was doing in front of complete strangers. Dean gives him a reassuring smile as he re-tightens the blanket around Sammy's shoulders. Squatting down in front of Sam, Dean set his hands on the kid's knees, knowing the contact will help soothe the small cloud of fear he can see in Sam's eyes. Dean, however, freezes when he hears Earl's voice behind him.

"That a colt pistol, son?"

Dean knows in that second that his shirt has risen in the back revealing his gun. But he stares up into Sam's eyes, reading all too clearly that his brother hasn't spoken a word about Dean carrying a weapon, just as he knows Sammy wouldn't have. Kid knows how much trouble that would bring him.

"Yeah," Dean finally responds succinctly, turning enough to arch an eyebrow at Earl. "We gonna have a problem about that, Earl?" Dean quickly takes in the way Earl's casually leaning a hand on his wife's chair, while his wife calmly sips away at the drink she has in her cup.

"Course not, son. Got me a Winchester, myself." There's something in the way Earl places specific emphasis on their surname that clues Dean in very quickly that the man isn't referring to the brand of firearm.

Dean can feel Sammy's legs tense underneath his hands. He gives the knees a gentle squeeze, before he stands to face the couple, his body shielding Sam behind him and shooting both Earl and Ally a not-so friendly smile. "That meant to be hinting at something, Earl?"

Earl barks a booming laugh. "I might've been outta the game for a few years now, but I know hunters when I see 'em, boys. Hell, if it weren't for my old ticker I'd still be doing my bit where I could. Two of our boys," he inclines his head towards Ally, "went down that route. And you two made a name for yourselves amongst hunting circles. Hell the FBI, if what we've heard over the years is right. And that car of yours, course."

Dean frowns. He knows a couple of Grey's that are hunters. Al and Pat. Good guys. Bobby had introduced Dean to them once when they were in South Dakota back when Sammy was at school. Dean and Bobby had shared a few drinks, stories and a couple games of pool with them. Pat had been cut down by a nasty spirit sometime later if he remembers correctly. And Al Grey is on Dean's contact list. He'd spoken to the man not fourteen hours ago for a lead on Rowena.

"Pat and Al?" Dean questions. The Grey's nod. "Pat was a good man," Dean continues sincerely. "I'm sorry for your loss." He holds his hand out to Earl, who takes it, shakes it a little firmer, maybe with solidarity.

"As was Bobby Singer," Earl returns with a small incline of his head as he and Dean release their hands. "I know through the grapevine you boys were close with him."

Dean nods, once again squatting down in front of his baby brother whose forehead is creased in confusion.

"You guys know each other?" Sammy asks quietly obviously realising the Grey's have lost someone close to them through the hunting life.

"Not personally, Sammy. Bobby and I knew two of their sons. Good guys. Spoke to Al couple hours back actually," Dean admits, glancing over his shoulder again.

"Said he's on a vampire nest with a couple other hunters last we heard from him a couple days back now," Ally says. "We try to keep an ear out for anything strange around the area and pass it on," she continues. "Like what's going on in the woods out back."

"So you do know someone's out there," Sammy's voice holds a hint of accusation and Dean's eyebrow rises in question, watching the Grey's nod to Sam.

"We know, Sam," Ally tells the kid, her voice calm.

"And we don't go about giving out information to just no one, son," says Earl. "Needed to be sure you boys really are the Winchester's our Al's spoken highly of."

"Just seeing a colt pistol does that?" Sam grumbles, now sounding mildly irritated.

Dean shoots him a look, before asking, "What's out in the woods?"

"Your boy there was until he stumbled on us," Earl says.

Dean turns sharply to his brother. "That true, Sammy? That where you were? In the woods?"

Sam nods. "I woke up in there. Did wander into a cottage out there, right in the middle I think. Real fairy-tale like. There's a woman living inside."

"Did she see you?" Dean questions severely.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam says, "I strolled right on up to the door and asked her if she's an evil supernatural creature who likes to lure unsuspecting people into the woods."

Dean scowls at the kid, "Not appreciating the snark, Sam."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Of course she didn't see me, Dean. I'm not an idiot."

"It is more than we've known 'bout the past few weeks though," Earl speaks up. "We've seen the smoke so we know someone's out there. Al says he'll get back here to check it out as soon as he can, but he can't bail on the hunt he's already on."

Dean and Sam both nod. They understand that all too well. There's just too many hunts and hunters spread too thin.

"If there is something out there and it thinks it's getting its claws into my baby brother it's got another thing coming," Dean growls. "Tell Al we're taking it if you get hold of him."

"That'd be a big weight off Al's shoulders, dear," Ally says relieved.

"Mr and Mrs Grey say there's been deaths, Dean," Sam informs him as Dean pulls one of the kid's feet out of the bowl, grimacing lightly at the numerous cuts he sees there. "It's got to be connected. I just don't know how I factor in. If it is to do with whatever's out there."

"Be a pretty big coincidence if it isn't," Dean responds, setting Sammy's foot back in the bowl and pulls out the other, taking note of the much larger gash on the underside. "This might sting, Sammy," he warns before setting the foot on his raised knee so he can gently ease the skin open. Blood trickles out, but despite being long it isn't deep enough to require stitches. "You're in luck, kiddo, no stitches."

"Good."

"You do, however, have a date with the antiseptic soap when we get home, buddy." Sammy winces at the news before his bottom lip pulls down into a pout. Dean shakes his head, "Not taking any chances of these getting infected, Sammy. Ally's done a great job of getting them cleaned up for us, and I thank you for it, ma'am," Dean shoots a smile at the woman over his shoulder.

She smiles, "I've had plenty of practise patching injuries over the years, Dean."

Yeah, Dean bet she had. He knew Al and Pat had at least two or three younger brothers. He remembers joking around with the pair about dealing with just having the one brother - that he'd obviously been aware of at the time, but then he never knew Adam either way. And even if he had gotten to know Adam, Sammy still would've always been Dean's priority, which wouldn't have been fair to Adam. At least he knew Adam wasn't suffering in the cage – Tessa had informed Dean of that little detail after his failed reaper attempt to get Sammy's soul back. Death had been fucking with Dean when asking who Dean wanted to retrieve; Adam's soul had been released from his body the moment Cas molotov'd Michael's ass in Stoll Cemetery. Adam was never dragged down to the Cage like Sammy. Something that obviously hadn't made it into their fucking life history, cos those girls who put on that school play thought Adam was still down in the pit. Maybe Death had wanted to see if Dean would sacrifice one brother over the other. But like he said, he never would have chosen Adam over his kid. No matter how much of a fucked up bastard that made him.

"You walked a long way, Sammy," Dean comments quietly to bring his mind back from dangerous territory. He tries not to think of that time too much.

"Yeah, tell me about it," Sammy chuckles lightly before scrubbing at his eyes. "Got drenched too."

"Bet ya did. Think you can walk okay, Sammy?" Dean queries, knowing Sam wouldn't want to be carried out to the car in front of the Grey's, but Dean will still do so if Sammy can't put weight on his feet right now. "It's time we get you home and into a hot shower."

"I'll be fine, Dean," Sam tells him, pulling his feet out of the bowl. Dean accepts the hand-towel Ally drapes over his shoulder and carefully pats Sam's feet dry before binding them in the white bandages already set on the table.

"You boys have an email?" Earl questions. Sam nods, giving out the address they use specifically for other hunters and Earl records it on a notepad. "I'll forward you all the information I've managed to round up from the Sheriff about the deaths. See what you make of it."

"Thanks," Sammy offers a tired smile. "That'll be a big help in getting this done quickly. Hopefully before I wander off again."

Dean straightens up and leans his butt back against the table, starting to untie his boots so he can take his socks off for Sammy to put on.

"Goodness, here. You keep them on, Dean. I'll fetch Sam a pair of our Gavin's old house slippers. He has the biggest feet of any of our boys' so they should fit Sam."

"Oh no, we couldn't impose any more than we already have, Mrs Grey," Sam says, looking up at her from behind his eyelashes. Dean tries not to sigh, because now Ally definitely isn't going to let either Dean or Sam refuse the house slippers under that look, not that Sammy's doing it intentionally. Kid just doesn't know how lethal that look is.

"Oh shush your nonsense now, sweetheart," Ally shakes a finger at Sam, who looks mildly startled, causing Dean to chuckle lightly. "It's no trouble now. I won't be a moment," and with that she's out the room.

Dean shrugs as Sam raises his wide eyes to him. He hears Earl chuckling, it isn't difficult to miss his loud voice. Sam pulls the blanket from around his shoulders, folding it up and laying it on the table. Ally returns a moment later with a large pair of dark-blue checked house slippers. She hands them over to Dean, who peruses them quickly, making sure they won't be too tight on Sam's feet. He actually thinks they might be a little too big, but they definitely have cushioning inside. It'll ease some of the rubbing against Sammy's cuts. Hauling Sam's left foot up he slips the slipper on, making sure to be careful, but Sam shows no signs of discomfort. Dean's proven correct in his assumption of them being too big, but only by a fraction. He puts the other one on Sam's right foot, the kid grimacing only ever so slightly as this one has the larger cut.

"There," Dean pats the kid's ankle before holding out his hand to pull Sam to his feet. Sam rises with a stiff posture, stretching his back out and lifting his legs up one at a time. Dean frowns. "You sore?"

"A little. Feel more fatigued than anything."

"You'll want to keep a close eye on him, Dean," Earl spoke up. "Them people who died after being in those woods dropped dead of 'exhaustion', if you get my meaning. Bodies just shut down."

Dean frowns as they move out into the hall where he slips Sam's right arm over his shoulders, and set his own left arm around Sam's waist. He gets a good grip in case he needs to lift Sam up that way without noticeably carrying him. "Huh. Sounds like a Shtriga."

"Shtriga's go after kids," Sam observes. "But it's plausible it's an offshoot. A sister or cousin maybe."

Dean nods. They can't get down to the exact fugly until they get home. And he needs to get the full story out of his kid before anything else so that they have those facts available to them.

"Thanks again." Dean shakes both Earl and Ally's hands. "You've got my number still?" Earl pats the breast pocket of his shirt. "Call if you need anything, we owe you one."

"And we'll let you know how it goes," Sam says.

"That'll be good. You boys take care of yourselves now."

They say goodbye to the Grey's on the porch and Dean applies a little more pressure to Sam's waist to keep the kid upright as they near the Impala. Sam is definitely wavering with fatigue, much like he had after his collapse. And maybe that's connected to all of this rather than the spell like he and Cas have been thinking. Dean would be more than happy for it to be because of whatever fugly has targeted Sammy this time, because at least then they'd be able to sort it out with little difficulty. His and Cas' theory… that'll take time. Time they might not have if it is accurate.

"Front or you wanna lay out on the backseat?"

"Front," Sammy's quick to answer.

Unlocking the car, Dean helps Sammy into the front seat before going to the trunk and retrieving the blanket always kept in there. Shaking it out, he throws it over Sam's shoulders and Sam draws it tighter against his shivering body. Dean shuts the door and rounds the car to the driver's side and climbs in. Firing up the engine, he pulls off the drive and heads them in the direction for home.

"Where's Cas?" Sam asks shifting himself to rest against the door.

"You can't go to sleep, Sammy. At least until we know what this thing is, if it is anything."

"I know. Just trying to get comfortable. So where's Cas?"

"He was searching the other side of Lebanon, while I took this side. I told him to get back to the bunker after you called me. Said we'd meet him there. You remember what happened, Sammy?"

Sam shrugs one shoulder. "The last thing I can clearly remember before waking up in the woods is being in the bathroom, having my shower. Then I woke up."

"And nothing happened in between?"

Sam is slow to respond. "I was having a nightmare," he admits quietly.

#SPN#

Sam stands gingerly on his injured feet as he rushes through his shower. As much as he would like to remain underneath the hot spray, savouring its warmth, he doesn't think Dean will maintain his patience for much longer. Because after his initial announcement in the car about having had a nightmare, Sam had found it excruciatingly difficult just to keep his eyes open on the drive back to the bunker from the Grey's place. And much to Dean's annoyance it had cut any further conversation on the subject of Sam's nightmare short because Dean had been forced to turn his music to blaring just to keep Sam awake, something Sam had actually appreciated for once.

Sam is still contemplating whether or not he should actually bring up the details of his nightmare. But he also knows he needs to at least lay one of his - at present - most leading fears to rest. He needs to know what happened to him out there and only then will he know for definite if his nightmare was just that. Or whether he had actually been snatched by demons and fed their blood. And he desperately wants the reassurance of Dean and Cas telling him it hadn't happened.

Shutting off the shower, he snakes his hand out of the curtain and grabs his towel, rubbing it over his body before wrapping it around his waist. Throwing open the curtain he isn't surprised to see Dean leaning with his back against the small wall jutting out from behind the main bathroom door, one ankle crossed over the other and his arms crossed over his chest. His head is bent forwards and his eyes closed but Sam knows his brother isn't sleeping, just resting his eyes. A flash of guilt passes through him at how tired his big brother looks and Sam doesn't think Dean will be getting much sleep in the near future, at least until they can deal with whatever it is that's decided to target Sam this time. Sam sighs inwardly, resigning himself to being babysat incessantly for however long Dean deems it necessary. It's going to chafe, on all of them. They're all used to having a little alone time, especially now they have the space of the bunker. At least Dean and Cas can switch off babysitting duties with each other.

Hopefully they'll get this done quickly.

Dean had called Cas from the car after leaving the Grey's, asking the former-angel to start researching Shtriga-like creatures and anything else relevant that might feed off a human's energy, and that could cause the exhaustion in Sam and those who it had killed. Cas had surprised Sam by enveloping him in a tight hug the minute he'd stepped down from the bunker's main staircase onto the crow's nest floor upon their return. It had taken Sam a moment to respond as the last hug they'd shared Sam had had to practically coach Cas through it. But the warmth of Cas' body heat had seeped into Sam's still chilled body and he had quickly returned the hug. Until Dean had brought up the need to get Sam's feet into the icky antiseptic liquid-soap. That had not been fun.

"You good to get yourself dressed, Sammy?" Dean questions without raising his head or opening his eyes, but he does point to the fresh pile of clothing sitting on the bench nearest to him.

Sam grabs a smaller towel and scrubs it briskly over his hair, before dropping it in the laundry basket. "Yeah, I'm good," he replies picking up the t-shirt from the top of the pile and donning it, before dropping the towel from his waist and pulling on his boxer-briefs.

"Milk or cocoa?"

Sam smiles lightly at the random question – or at least it would be random to anyone else. "Coffee," he inserts instead. Dean opens one eye to level a look at him, the eyebrow arching above it. "What?" Sam shrugs one shoulder. "If I need to stay awake until we figure out if something's after me, I'm gonna need something a little stronger than milk or cocoa, Dean," Sam insists as he threads his belt into his jeans. "You know they make me sleepy."

Dean shakes his head with an insufferable sigh, pushing off from the wall and exits the bathroom leaving Sam giddily wondering if he won this round. A good dose of caffeine could be in his very near future. Pulling on his black and white plaid shirt as he exits the bathroom after Dean, he jogs to catch up with his brother.

#

Sam yawns for the millionth time in the past fifteen minutes, before he once again nibbles at the corner of a cracker as he prints out the information from Earl's email. He can feel Dean's narrowed eyes on him as his brother grabs the printouts straight off the printer, and knows it's because he's only got through half a cracker since the plate full was placed in front of him. But his tummy just can't handle it right now. Not with the way it's churning with dread at both the thought of rehashing his nightmare to Dean and Cas; and the fear that they in turn won't be able to reassure him it wasn't real. He watches Dean set the printouts on the table in three separate piles correlating to each of the three victims. Cas has actually made good work of whittling down potential creatures responsible, leaving them with a handful of books to go over. Along with Sam's printouts from Earl and whatever else he can drum up from the internet.

"Looks like it's pretty much as Earl said," Dean speaks up after a few minutes of reading over the printouts. "The three victims all died of exhaustion, and the idiot coroner's ruled them all as natural causes. Though it's good for us, means no law enforcement involvement."

Sam snorts with disgust, "You'd think someone would have investigated after figuring out they all died after coming out of the same woods."

"Probably only get 'em killed, Sammy."

"Yeah," Sam sighs. Too many law enforcement get killed for investigating 'crimes' committed by the supernatural, but as annoying as it can be to have the local cops investigating on a supernatural case at least their doing something to investigate. The victims deserve that.

Sam turns his eyes to Cas, now feeling the man's blue eyes on him. Sam arch's an eyebrow in turn. Dean sits forward in his seat, setting the printouts aside, and too turns his eyes to Sam. Sam sighs again, knowing what both men are asking of him. He starts talking, recounting how he woke up in the woods, ran across the cottage and then got out of there after peering in the cottage window. How the woman had looked normal enough. Which is the problem with most of the supernatural – they look human and most can blend in to human society efficiently. At least until something kicks them off and they prove otherwise. Sam finishes with reaching the Grey's farm.

Dean stares at him. "The nightmare, Sammy."

Sam had still been contemplating not telling them anything about that, but the minute he opens his mouth to say it was nothing, it spills out of him before he can stop himself, or before the thought again crosses his mind of wanting to stop it spilling forth.

Dean and Cas are silent when he finishes. He can't stop himself from slipping his thumb in his mouth, suckling on it as he waits for one or both to respond. To say something. To give him the reassurance he needs. Dean stands, crossing around the table and pulls Sam's chair out from the table so Dean can squat down in front of him, obviously recognising that clear need in Sam, much to Sam's chagrin. He wishes he wasn't such an open book of emotions.

"Sounds like it was just a nightmare, Sammy. Definitely a shitty one, yeah. But… Azazel is gone, Sammy. He's never coming back," Dean assures. "You don't have demon blood in you any longer, okay, that's all done and over with, you get me? Just a nightmare."

Sam's slips his thumb from his mouth. "But we don't really know that, do we?" he says quietly. "Demons could've got whatever this thing is to take me …" Sam trails off as Dean grabs his face in between his hands.

"Sam, you do not have demon blood any longer," Dean states firmly. "No bastard demon has been anywhere near you, you understand?"

Sam's not sure he agrees, but he nods anyway. "Yes, Dean."

"Good boy." Dean's draws his hands from Sam's face and sets them on his knees instead. "Now, we're gonna find whatever this thing is and put it down, right?" Sam nods again, because that he does agree with. "And when we do, you'll actually believe me." Sam drops his gaze to his lap. "Hey, it's alright, kiddo. I know it's difficult to believe something like that couldn't have been real. Hell knows our nightmares are a little more realistic than other people's. We've had to live through most of 'em." Sam frowns, the words sparking some memory in his mind before it snaps away again. "What is it, Sammy?"

Sam rubs his temples, trying to force the information to the surface of his brain. Unfortunately without knowing what the information his memory is trying to spark actually is, forcing it is pretty useless. He groans in frustration. "Something's niggling at the back of my mind about all this I just can't quite… grasp."

"Something you remember?" Cas questions. "Or might have read recently?"

Sam frown intensifies. He shakes his head. "I feel like I've read something about nightmares combined with exhaustion and-and-and… life-essence…"

"Life-essence. That's what a Shtriga feeds off right?" Dean questions, straightening up and glancing between Sam and Cas. "That spirit… thingy."

"Spiritus vitae," Sam and Cas chorus, and it triggers Sam's memory.

"That's it!" he cries, turning his chair back straight in front of his laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard, quickly finding what he's looking for. "I knew I'd read something. But it was years ago when I was looking up what a Shtriga was during that case in Fitchburg, Wisconsin. You remember, Dean?"

Dean nods, because hell yeah he remembers. It's a little hard to forget, even after all these years. That bastard Shtriga had fed off his baby brother for the second time. Dean can still remember the sound of his scared little boy's voice from the first time, when Dean had royally screwed up.

"D'dy, what goin' on?" Sam isn't talking to John, not even looking at him.

Sammy's talking to nine-year-old Dean, silently asking why John – an almost stranger to Sammy - is the one holding him and not Dean, who's stood frozen with fear at the foot of the bed, numerous scenarios racing through his head as to what could have happened to Sammy because of the Shtriga. He'd left Sammy alone and defenceless to go play a fucking video game - he'd deserved John's belt that night when Sammy was once again sleeping in Pastor Jim's guest room, and after John had returned without killing the Shtriga. Pastor Jim had stopped the licking halfway through though. The man had been furious with John for leaving Dean and Sam to begin with when he had the knowledge a Shtriga was on the prowl, stating the blame didn't solely lay with Dean. And if Dean was receiving a licking for his part, Pastor Jim would call Bobby to come dish out a licking to John too. Dean doesn't know if that actually happened, but he does know Bobby had turned up on Pastor Jim's doorstep a day later.

Dean can admit now that he wasn't solely at fault, even if he couldn't back then, or even when they faced the thing in Wisconsin. It hadn't been all on his shoulders. John shouldn't have left them; Dean shouldn't have left the room. It was both their faults that Sammy could have been killed that night.

"Dean?"

The sound of Cas' voice snaps him away from the memory and he blinks. He nods, silently indicating he's fine, before looking to Sammy, who is watching him with concern. "Well?" Dean snaps, deflecting away the concern.

Sam blinks, clearing his throat as he quickly returns his attention to his laptop screen rather than staring at his brother. "Err… there are several sister and cousin offshoots of a Shtriga. One of which is this." Sam swings his laptop around so both Cas and Dean can read it.

"An Obilyaya?" Dean's eyebrows rise. "Who the hell comes up with the names for these frigging creatures?" he snarks.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Just read it, Dean."

Dean reads over Cas' shoulder as his partner draws the laptop nearer and not for the first time recently does Dean wonder if the former-angel needs glasses. Maybe a trip to an optometrist is required once they've dealt with all this shit, Sammy is definitely due for a check-up. Dean growls with frustration at the length of the document he's staring at.

"Cliff notes version, Sam," he snaps.

"Okay, so basically an Obilaya seeks out prey by the strength of a victims nightmares, then draws in the youngest member of a household first if the nightmares of those within are all strong. And… because it seeks prey through nightmares alone, the wards around the bunker don't keep it from sensing us."

"That's why she's targeted you," Cas states. "We're all experiencing nightmares at the moment."

"That's what I figured," Sam says. It was unusual for one of them not to suffer a nightmare during sleep.

"It know who it's targeted?" Dean questions.

Sam shakes his head. "I don't think it has any idea we're hunters, unless it can actually physically read our nightmares rather than just sensing them. That would definitely give it a clue. But the lore doesn't mention an Obilaya having that kind of ability."

"How do we kill it?" Dean asks the most important question.

"Much like the Shtriga it doesn't state any vulnerabilities in the lore, but we know consecrated wrought-iron rounds kill a Shtriga," Sam states. "Do you think it could be the same deal as a Shtriga if they're part of the same family?"

"Could be. And if it is the case then it'll be vulnerable when it feeds. Which means we take the consecrated wrought-iron rounds as well as the silver just in case we're wrong."

Sam bites his lower lip knowing Dean is trying to work out a way of getting this Obilaya to feed on Dean without Sam having to be near it again. But Sam already knows it won't work. Just as Dean had known back during the Shtriga incident that one of them hiding under the covers rather than Michael wouldn't work to get the Shtriga to feed.

"Dean, it has to be me," Sam says quietly.

"No," Dean immediately replies. "We're getting this thing before it draws you out in zombie mode again."

"That won't work, Dean," Cas speaks up, drawing Dean's ire to him. Cas points to the laptop screen he'd still been reading whilst listening and adding to the discussion. "It states here that an Obilaya doesn't turn its sights to another victim until it's fully consumed the one it's already feeding from. It takes six feeds before an Obilaya completely drains its victim's life-force."

"So you're saying we don't have a choice. It has to be Sammy?"

Cas nods apologetically.

Dean rubs his hands over his face. "Okay." Dean sets his palms on the table, leaning forward close to Sam. "But me and Cas will be following behind you every step of the way. Once this thing starts feeding we'll waste it, you hear?"

Long-ingrained instinct has Sam wanting to point out that he's more than capable of looking after himself. It's on the tip of his tongue in fact. Before he remembers that in this instance, he's exposed to the Obilaya's… thrall… for lack of a better term. It will use his nightmares to draw Sam in and bring Sam to its lair without Sam being aware of his actions, not even when he wakes up again. That makes him defenceless. And after the way he felt earlier after his collapse, so vulnerable and unable to control his own frigging emotions, he hates this Obilaya for putting him in this position and making him feel that way again so shortly after feeling it before.

So Sam nods to his brother. He watches Dean leave the library with a frown before turning to Cas, who is watching Dean leave with a frown of his own. Cas gives Sam a shrug. They've been working silently for a few minutes trying to find any other weaknesses the Obilaya may have when Dean returns.

Sam arch's an eyebrow at his brother as Dean holds a half-filled shot glass out to him, the thick brown slush within less than appealing. But he can smell the espresso and is surprised Dean's actually offering it to him.

"This is a one-time offer, Sammy, and it's about to go down the drain," Dean wiggles the shot glass at him. "As soon as the Obilaya is down, you're back to being caffeine free."

Sam sighs unhappily at the news, but readily accepts the shot, bringing it to his lips and throwing it back, swallowing it down in one. "Jesus, Dean," Sam wheezes through a cough. "Did you actually put any water in that?" he coughs again, grimacing at the strong taste of coffee lingering at the back of his throat.

Sam grabs his water and chugs back several mouthfuls. He may like a good caffeine hit but it doesn't mean he actually likes the taste of coffee; it's why he almost always has it flavoured rather than going with Dean's straight black coffee. It had only been when he was in college that Sam had started chugging back coffee to get him through what had seemed like an insurmountable amount of work in his freshman year. The habit had followed him through the rest of his college years and beyond. Until his brother decided otherwise.

"Sure. Couple drops," Dean responds with an unapologetic shrug, taking the shot glass away from Sam and setting it down on the shelf with the whiskey decanter. "That should keep you going for a couple more hours."

And then they would need Sam to go to sleep for the plan to work.

#SPN#

Dean silently follows after his little brother as the kid weaves his way effortlessly through the trees in the darkened woods skirting the Grey's property several hours later, despite the glazed-over state of Sammy's eyes as the Obilaya draws the kid to its lair. He had followed Sammy all the way from the bunker on foot while Cas rolled some distance behind in the Impala and only joining them on foot when they reached the woods. Dean had momentarily contemplated not bringing the Impala. They could easily knock on the Grey's door and hit the old couple up for a ride back once they're done with the hunt but Dean doesn't want even other hunters – or former hunters - knowing they're location in Lebanon. Not all hunters are friendly to the Winchesters and for a price those who aren't would probably sell Dean, Sammy and Cas out to the highest bidder. Then Dean would be fucking pissed. So he had vetoed that idea.

Cas moves just as silently beside Dean, Sammy's backpack slung over his back, both straps sitting on Cas' shoulders. It had been the most logical bag for the weapons and ammo they didn't have sitting in their waistbands or jackets, as well as the first aid kit and water. It frees up both Dean and Cas' hands, of which one of Dean's is already occupied by his colt pistol. Cas has his angel blade tucked up his sleeve, figuring if the bullets they have do nothing to kill the Obilaya the blade is worth a shot.

Dean's skin is crawling. No matter how many times Sam has been bait in the past it still goes against every fibre of Dean's being to send his kid into an unknown situation. Because they may know what this thing is, this Obilaya, but they have no idea what they'll be walking into out here. Or what kind of things it could do to Sammy before it feeds. Or what it already did to Dean's kid whilst Sammy was in its clutches the previous night. And it's those unknown variables that Dean hates.

Dean throws out an arm to stop Cas' from taking his next step as he sees light up ahead. They quickly take cover behind two trees, ensuring they can still see Sammy's movements as the kid continues on towards the cottage. And it really is a fucking fairy-tale looking cottage just like Sammy said. Seriously. Whoever decides to build these kind of lone places in the middle of the fucking woods is just asking for some fugly to swoop in and take over the place, probably killing the owner in the process. Dean's fist curls as he watches Sammy duck under the cottages open doorway, the door closing ominously behind his brother.

Dean glances to Cas, gesturing with his hand for them both to slowly make their way nearer. They cannot see the inside of the cottage from their current vantage points and that's what they need to be able to see. Creeping slowly forwards, using the trees as cover, they reach the cottage, each taking a side. Dean ducks down at the side and slowly crawls his way underneath the window to be able to see within. A snarl wants to rip its way from his throat as he sees Sammy laid out on what looks like a dental chair, the ugly-ass Obilaya sucking out his little boy's life force. Dean curls his fingers into his palm, digging his fingernails in to curb his need to throw himself through the window at the Obilaya and get it away from Sammy.

A strong hand grips Dean's arm, and he snaps his gaze quickly to Cas who has joined him under the window. The grip steadies him, brings his anger under control, and Dean's able to slowly and carefully reach up and test the window above their heads. He feels it give slightly in the frame. Hoping it won't make a noise as it opens, Dean pushes on it. It opens and Dean snatches his hand back. He nods to Cas, the both of them rising slowly, guns cocked and aimed on the Obilaya. Dean has a clean shot of the things head, and he can automatically tell Cas does as well from his angle.

Dean gives the nod and they fire in unison, both bullets impacting the Obilaya in the head. It slumps sideways with an eerie screech and Sammy slumps down in the chair. Dean and Cas are already up and through the door, clearing the small cottage in a matter of seconds just in case another Obilaya lies in wait. It's all clear. Cas moves to Sam's side, tapping the kid's pale cheek whilst Dean stands above the Obilaya. And just as he did all those years ago with the Shtriga, Dean fires multiple rounds into the bitch, making sure the thing won't be coming after Sammy or anyone else again.

Sammy screams himself awake, choking on a shuddering breath. Cas is quick to reassure him he's safe even as Dean hurries to his kid's side. Sammy's pupils are blown wide with fear and Dean has no doubts his kid just awoke from the same nightmare as before. Dean really hopes the nightmare isn't going to stay with his kid, but the Winchester luck will most likely see Sammy suffering through it for a while yet.

"You're okay, Sammy. Was just a nightmare. There's no demons here," Dean reassures, roughly brushing back damp hair from Sam's forehead. "Just one ganked Obilaya," he points down at the corpse on the ground as he unconsciously continues to brush a hand over Sammy's hair.

"Obilaya?" Sam blinks dazedly before his eyes slowly follow the direction Dean's finger is pointing. "Right, Obilaya. Err…" Sammy blinks again, his eyes beginning to clear as he looks around their surroundings. "… Where the hell are we?"

"The cottage in the woods you told us about," Cas responds.

"And you're welcome," Dean quips.

Sammy groans. "Can I sleep for a week?" He asks, curling himself up in the chair and sticking his thumb in his mouth. He's asleep in seconds.

"Great," Dean sighs with false aggravation. "He could've at least stayed awake long enough to walk his damn butt back outta these woods."

Cas smiles at him lightly. "I think you've proven you're quite capable of carrying him, Dean."

"Really not the point, Cas," Dean points a finger at his partner which earns him a chuckle out of the other man.

"Then what is your point?" his former-angel questions.

Well… Dean doesn't really have one. They both know full well Dean would willingly carry Sammy out of here even if the kid was actually awake right now. "You know what, Cas, shut up."

Cas snorts, grasping the front of Dean's jacket in one hand and pulls him forward, meeting Dean's lips with his own. Dean quickly deepens the kiss, a release now that his kid is no longer in imminent danger, before he remembers that they're kissing over Sammy's sleeping form and he draws away. He places one last kiss to Cas' lips before stepping back. Cas grips his hand, not letting him go far.

"You know what we have to do when he wakes?"

And there goes Dean's momentary relief at getting Sammy out of danger running its way out into the woods as the fear and apprehension rolls back in. Because, yeah, he knows the conversation that's coming when Sammy wakes and Dean is not looking forward to it. He sighs, but nods to Cas. Cas nods in return, gives Dean's hand a tight squeeze before releasing his hold.

Dean clears his throat. "All right. Stay with Sammy while I deep-fry this things ass extra crispy."