SURPRISE! So because tomorrow is a national holiday for my fellow Americans, I figured I should post a day early so y'all can spend some time with your families and set off fireworks and stuff. Me? I'll be working. Woot woot. Anyways, enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 8 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lisa stops the brothers in the hallway, glances down and sees that their boots are on.

"Hey," she says. "Was looking for you guys. Wanted to know your plan for the day. Ben and I were going to play a board game or something." She gestures to their clothes. "Guessing that's not in the cards for you."

Sam shakes his head. "Sorry, Lisa. We're gonna follow some leads, try to track down some answers. Might be a while."

Lisa shrugs. "Okay."

She looks relieved, and Sam can't blame her. He can't imagine what it must feel like to have them hovering so close to her life all this time.

Dean, silent up to now, turns to face Sam. "We can't just leave her here alone."

"She won't be alone," Sam reminds him. "Ben's here. And we've warded the house in just about every way we know how."

"First of all, Ben's a...kid," Dean argues, stuttering a little, like he'd been about to say something else. "And second, he's linked to me. He'll have to leave, too."

Lisa's face falls at that, but she still manages to sound pissed. "She will be just fine either way," she snaps.

"I'm staying," Ben says, quite literally appearing out of nowhere. All three of them jump, Dean reaching for a weapon at his back that he doesn't have. He catches himself halfway through the motion, but they all see it. Ben clears his throat.

"I can control it, I know I can." He turns to face Lisa. "I want to stay with you, Mom."

"Look, you're kind of on a different level than most of the other...ghosts we've met," Dean says, no doubt filling in the very word he'd been avoiding saying just a few moments ago. "But that doesn't mean you can just change the rules at will. I'm pretty sure you'll be dragged along, whether you want to be or not."

Ben faces Dean, arms crossed. "Try me."

"Ben, come on," Dean says, apologetic.

"Seriously. I bet you your favorite machete I can stay here if I want to. It's all about mind control," Ben insists, tapping a finger against his forehead. He smiles cheekily.

"Ben," Dean repeats, frustrated. "Don't you think my brother and I would know this stuff?"

The kid shrugs. "Only one way to prove me wrong. Get your asses on the road."

Lisa shrugs too, pride in her eyes. "Guess we'll see," she agrees. "Just put up a few more of those protection things if you're really that worried about it."

"Aren't you worried about it?" Dean asks, and then seems to stop short, as if he's come to some important realization. He stares at Lisa, and she stares back. Sam feels like he missed something vital in the span of those last few seconds, but he's not sure what it was, and there's no way he's asking.

Three minutes later, Sam's still wondering about it, but they're already flying down the road and into town.

Dean keeps an eye on the backseat the whole way, eyes darting to the rearview over and over again.

Ben never shows up.


The tavern used to be called Marshall's when Dean was last here, but apparently it's under new ownership. Now it's called Dave's. Dean doesn't mention this to Sam when they pull into the lot. It's just something he catalogues for no good reason. It just is.

The setup is different, too. It looks cleaner inside, sleek, black tables replacing the chipped wooden ones he and a few of the construction guys used to sit at a couple nights a week. He tries not to hesitate for too long in the doorway, tries to make this feel like a regular job in a no-name town he'll never remember. Sam doesn't look at him funny or anything, so he must be pulling it off. They walk up to the bar, and Sam orders them a couple beers while Dean faces outward, scanning the room.

"You wanna divide and conquer here or what?" Dean asks, snagging his beer from behind him without looking and taking a slow sip.

Sam picks up his own beer, and Dean watches him salute the barkeep from the corner of his vision. "Hey, got a question for you," he says. Dean rolls his eyes and starts to turn towards the bar.

And then turns right back around.

The bartender's pretty young, mid-thirties maybe, with hair longer than Sam's secured in a ponytail at the back of his neck. He smiles with half his mouth, showing one gold tooth. Dean recognizes him immediately. He used to work at the Auto Shop two streets over. They'd talked, once, when Dean needed a replacement part for his work truck.

Dax. That was his name.

"Shoot," Dax says, all smiles. He's a good dude, Dean remembers. Knows his cars, but his heart's always been elsewhere. He'd told Dean he wanted to open up his own brewery one day. Dean pushes off from the bar, doesn't bother to shoot a glance back at his brother. If Dax recognizes him, they're screwed.

"You know a guy named Phillip Moorhead?" Dean hears Sam ask as he walks away, pulling from one of the names on their list. Phil's story had been pretty clear-cut: Family man, late forties. Suddenly makes the right move in the stock market one day and never slows down.

"Ah, Miracle Man Moorhead?" Dax laughs. They're the last words Dean catches before he shuffles through the door of the bathroom and shuts it firmly behind him, letting out a breath. He leans against the back wall next to the hand dryer, watching himself in the mirror while he downs the rest of his beer, quick and deliberate. He washes his hands for no good reason, just watching the water slide off his fingers. He splashes a little on his face, snags a couple paper towels and douses the drops away. When he's done, he leaves the bathroom and moves to the opposite side of the bar from where Sam is standing, still talking with Dax. Dean leans against the counter and tries to be invisible. It doesn't work.

"You with that guy?" a voice asks. Dean turns to find a woman with a bandana tied in her graying brown hair. She smiles at him like they're in cahoots and clacks her gum, jabbing a finger in Sam's direction. "Y'all walked in together, right?"

"What's it to you?"

The woman shrugs, taking a swig of her own beer. Dean rolls his tongue over his teeth, wondering how beer and gum could possibly go together. "Oh nothing, just figured you're after the same thing."

"And what's that?"

"Phil Moorhead, right?" She winks at Dean's bewildered expression. "I got ears, kid. And I use 'em. Town this small, everybody's in everybody's business. And you aren't from around here."

"Look…"

"It's taxes, isn't it? Fucking idiots get rich and decide they're done paying it all back to the government. It's nuts."

Dean takes the rope she's given him, hopes to God he doesn't hang himself with it. "Damn right it's taxes," he lies. "Bastard hasn't paid 'em since he struck gold ten years ago."

"Well that's where your math is wrong, sweetie," the woman counters. "Been twelve years since Philly had his little breakthrough. I followed it from the beginning, sharp eyes to go with the ears, ya know? Something about it always stunk to me, but what the hell do I know?"

"Twelve years, huh?" Dean asks. "You sure about that uh...?" he pauses, waiting for her to fill in her name.

"Sandy," she supplies, sticking her hand out. Dean shakes it. "And hell yes, sure as the fish in the sea, my dear," Sandy nods.

"And Sandy, when was the last time you saw Phil around these parts?" Dean asks.

"Actually, rumor is he disappeared about three days ago," Sandy answers. "No one's really seen him. Last time for me was a little over a week ago at the supermarket. Didn't say hi, we're more passing acquaintances than anything, but yeah. That was the last time, I believe."

Dean raises his eyebrows in surprise. "You're positive it was him?"

"My god son, what the hell did I just say?" Sandy growls, smacking him hard on the arm. Dean makes a face at her. "It was him. And don't make that sour lemon face at me, I'm givin' you top-dollar information here and you're questioning my every damn syllable."

"Right. Sorry," Dean laments, rubbing at his arm. "Why are you telling me this?" he asks, knowing he should just cut his losses and get the hell out, but curious nonetheless. Sam is done talking to Dax now. He's searching the bar, and when his eyes land on Dean, he gives Sam a small nod. Sam starts moving in his direction.

Sandy straightens up a bit. "Well because I do believe this world's going to shit," she says, unabashedly. "And the only thing possibly standing in the way of our destruction are the kids."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand…?" says Dean, wrinkling his nose.

"Taxes, you idiot," Sandy says, slapping Dean on the arm again. Sam, just a little ways away now, sees the interaction and smirks. "What do you think funds their education?"

"Oh. Right. Obviously," Dean nods, just as Sam reaches them. Sandy catches Sam's eye and steps forward to greet the six-foot-four hunter with barely a blink.

"Hello," she says, extending her hand with a coy smile. "You must be Tweedle-Dee."

Sam takes her hand and shakes, dimples standing out. "I can understand why you'd think that after meeting my partner," he chuckles easily, eyes sliding over to Dean, whose expression sours once again. Sandy looks over her shoulder at Dean.

"I like this one," she teases, referring to Sam. "Deserves to have one of our town's little miracles happen to him, I think."

Dean's eyes narrow, and he's suddenly interested again. "What do you mean by 'little miracles'?"

"Well Phil isn't the only one with a spell of dumb luck," Sandy says. "Just last year, Tracey Lind got swept off to Hollywood to star in some big, new film. Never took an acting class a day in her life. Not very good either, if you ask me. But anyway, what do I know?"

"Huh," Sam nods. "Weird."

"Sure is," Sandy continues. She seems to relish the attention, especially Sam's. She's angled mostly towards him now, eyes bright. "And don't forget about Dana Richfield. Stage four colon cancer," she says, shaking her head sadly. Then she perks up. "Doctors said she had weeks. Maybe. And then, suddenly, poof. Cancer's gone. Like Death came to her door and she just said 'No thanks, see ya later.' It's been seven years since it was declared terminal and she's still goin' strong. Her and her daughter, Lauren, just got back from hiking the Grand Canyon. I think they're doing Peru next. Machu Picchu. You been?"

Both Sam and Dean shake their heads. Sandy's eyes linger on Dean for a moment.

"I hear it's like a whole different planet over there," she gushes at him. "Always wanted to have that feeling- like I was no longer on this same old, dim Earth for a while."

Dean thinks of Purgatory. The rot and the stink and the otherworldliness of it. How his skin felt too loose and his eyelids had gotten crusty and his insides had seemed to fold over on one another, as if his body had inherently understood that he didn't belong there.

"Yeah well, maybe it's not all it's cracked up to be," he says without thinking, voice cold.

It's Sam who smacks him this time; same damn spot on the same damn arm, but Sandy just laughs him off. "Well sheesh, you must be fun at parties."

"Sorry about my partner, he's…" Sam makes an abortive, noncommittal gesture. "Anyway, thanks for your help. We really appreciate it."

"Oh of course," Sandy grins. "I'm sure I've got more stories for ya if you want to stick around. This town's full of 'em. Guy named Edward Simmons married a Swedish model, and now they're..."

"We'd love to hear it all, but we really should be going," Sam interrupts as smoothly as he can manage. "It was wonderful to meet you," he smiles, turning the charm up a few notches and reaching for her hand again. Sandy blushes a little and pats his wrist before she lets it go. Dean makes a gagging noise and grabs Sam's sleeve, pulling him towards the back exit.

"Jesus, come on," he mutters, guiding Sam along. He's already got one foot out the door when he looks up and comes face to face with Dax, returning to the bar with a bucket of ice balanced on one shoulder. Dean freezes automatically, and Sam runs right into the back of him, sending Dean stumbling over the threshold. His elbow collides with Dax's, who has to overcompensate, sliding the bucket of ice off his shoulder and catching it smoothly in both arms. He sets it safely down on the ground outside, then spins to grab onto Dean's arm, holding him steady.

"Hey man, you alright?" he asks, friendly smile forever plastered on his face. Dean keeps his head down and nods, jerking his arm out of Dax's hold.

"Yeah, sorry," he mutters, already moving away. "I'm good."

"Sorry about that," Dean hears Sam say from behind him, no doubt apologizing on behalf of his rude companion once again. Dean doesn't turn around, just keeps walking towards the car.

"All good," Dax says easily. "Make sure he gets home okay, yeah?"

"Of course," Sam agrees.

Nicest freakin' guy on the planet, and that's the problem, Dean thinks, picking up the pace. He keeps expecting Dax to have an ah-ha moment and suddenly remember how he knows the asshole that just bumped into him, but it never happens.

Dean's so far away by this point, he barely hears the clatter of the ice bucket as Dax readjusts it on his shoulder. He does, however, hear the shifting of Sam's feet on the gravel as he rushes to catch up to his brother. A moment later, Dean feels a hand on his shoulder, a silent question. The touch is gentle, so Dean shakes it off and doesn't stop walking until he's made it to the car. He slides into the driver's seat and slumps against the leather, closing his eyes when he feels Sam climb in on the opposite side.

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean sighs, not opening his eyes.

"What's up?" is all Sam asks. Casual, like he doesn't much care about the answer. Which means Dean knows he's desperate for one.

Dean opens his eyes, shoves the keys in the ignition and starts up the Impala. "Knew that guy," he says, pulling out of the parking spot and back onto the road to Lisa's. He'd long ago memorized the route, and it's still wired into his head.

"Oh," says Sam, voice dripping in understanding. Which is funny, because Dean doubts his little brother understands shit about this situation. "But he didn't recognize you?"

"Guess not," Dean shrugs, staring at the road in front of him.

"Should he have?" Sam asks carefully.

Dean blinks hards, cracks his jaw. "Think so."

Sam nods, mostly to himself. "So Cas must've wiped everyone's..."

"Yep," Dean cuts in. There is a long pause where Dean can practically see the gears shifting in Sam's head while he figures out what to say next.

"So that's good, right?" Sam asks after a moment. Always with the questions. "Means we won't run into trouble with people remembering you."

"Yep," Dean repeats. He still hasn't looked at his brother. They're about ten minutes out from Lisa's, and Dean wishes it was more like ten seconds. He doesn't want to answer any more of Sam's questions, especially when he's not even sure what's happening inside his head right now.

Because there had been a moment back there when all Dean wanted was to be recognized.

To have Dax run after him in the parking lot and spin him around and say: "Hey man, thought that was you! What's up, too cool to say hi?" Where he'd longed for just a smidgen of proof reminding him of his existence here. Proof that his year with Lisa had actually happened. That he'd had friends, or at least co-workers. Acquaintances to nod to in the grocery store. That he'd gone to barbeques and waved to his neighbors every morning when he grabbed the paper and been capable of holding actual conversations involving mortgage instead of monsters.

That he'd been human, once. Even just for a little while.

"You okay?" Sam asks, no doubt trying to decipher Dean's expression. The older hunter presses his foot a little harder on the gas and doesn't answer.

He's especially done with that question in particular.


Yes, Dax's dream of opening up a brewery has been stolen directly from Jensen. It's fine. Thanks for sticking around this long. See you next week on the usual day!