A/N: So, apologies, I know I swore you all had seen the last of the shorter chapters, but my Mom is once again in ICU. I swear, I will keep writing if you all just bear with me. This story is outlined, and I love some of the twists and turns it has taken, and everyone has been so loyal and wonderful about reviewing. I am dedicated to taking this story through to the end, just forgive the shorter chapters while I ride out the insanity in my home life.

I did fail to update yesterday, but I figure two days out of the whole month isn't too bad, right?

So, Monday, How To Fix A Winchester updated, and I continue to get some amazing prompts for that project. Tuesday's Child is set to update this coming Tuesday, just bear with me, I've been hammering out the final details on the outline. All The Pretty Monsters got a double update on Sunday, which I'm pretty proud of.

As Always,

EverReader

Prisoner of War – Chapter Twenty-Three

"Harvest Moon"

"So, what's the name of the town again?" Sam asked as he flipped once more through the case files Bobby had put together.

Sam had always known Bobby was smarter than he let on, but this was near genius. Two victims, every year, for decades, from all over the country. Always travelers, always wanderers, nothing to tie directly back to the last town they were seen in. If the disappearances didn't always take place during the October full moon, even Bobby might not have caught on to the pattern.

"Merit, Indiana." Dean replied, still yawning as the sun slowly started to rise.

They'd only managed a few hours on the road last night before Dean had decided to grab a room for the night. Though Sam hadn't said anything, he knew it had to be because of him. Used to be, if Sam was tired, he just slept in the car while Dean kept on driving, through the night if need be.

Since Sam's illness, however, Sam had noticed Dean putting more stock in sleep and food, even as Sam was finding himself less interested in those very same things.

The case, on the other hand, Sam was finding fascinating.

"I think Bobby's right. The timing on this indicates a harvest ritual, as do the choices in victims. Always one male and one female. That's old school, pagan, possibly Druid." Sam muttered, more to himself that Dean, though Dean responded anyway.

"Merit's small, according to Bobby. More a village than a town, and almost everyone's related in some way or another to every one else. It was an immigrant town, Germans, founded almost two hundred years ago." Dean said.

Sam frowned, looking through some more of Bobby's notes. "Low un-employement, zero crime. No drought, near a highway. Why hasn't the town grown, over all these years? On paper, it's ideal. Even the location is good."

Dean frowned also. "What are you thinking, that they discourage new blood from moving in?"

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe. That would mean several of the towns people are in on the sacrifices, and that's how they keep it quiet. Or whatever deity they are sacrificing to worked some mojo to keep the community secluded."

Dean snorted. "Great, so either a whole town of homicidal maniacs, or one harvest god who really likes his privacy."

"Or both." Sam murmured in agreement as he flipped back to the photo of the most recent couple who had disappeared.

Tessa Sanders had been a pretty brunette, with wide brown eyes and an upturned nose. Jesse Campbell had been tall, not as tall as Sam, but maybe 6'2. He wouldn't have gone down with a fight, but if they had grabbed Tessa first, perhaps they townspeople had used her as leverage to get him to do what they wanted.

Or they had drugged them...

Moving to put the photo back in the folder, his eyes caught on Jesse's tattoo, and with a sad realization, he realized the pattern, which appeared random at first, actually had Tessa's and his initials worked into it.

Would these two people have even been targeted by the Merit townsfolk if they hadn't been together?

Love destroys.

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Dean glanced over at his brother speculatively. Sam had been quiet on the drive this morning, but that appeared to be his new normal.

"How's the head?" He asked, careful to sound casual.

"Hmmm? Oh, it's fine." Sam replied without looking up from the case files.

Dean rolled his eyes. Fine, fine fine-fine-fine.

He was worried. He'd tried to push it down, tried to ignore it, but he couldn't.

The things that had happened lately simply wouldn't let him. Sam shooting Hope in order to save Dean's life literally made Dean's chest hurt, because he didn't want that kind of guilt for Sam, especially for simply doing what Dean and John had always taught him, which was protect the family.

Lately, everything had just seemed to be too much. Injuries, illness, freaking visions.

Sam was saying things, things Dean couldn't even wrap his mind around.

Things like 'love destroys.'

There was a time one when Sam had been the ultimate romantic, much to his older brother's chagrin. He'd liked romantic movies, romantic stories, had badgered Dean over and over again for stories of their parents back when their Mom had still been alive.

It had been a long time before Dean had understood that it wasn't just the romance for romance's sake that had attracted Sam. Sam had been trying to make sense of the fact that their father hard never gotten over their mother, had spent years tracing her killer, uprooting their lives along the way.

Sam had needed for John and Mary's romance to be an epic love story, in order for his own life to make sense. Dean had been careful not to tell him about the fights, and the times John hadn't come home. Sam hadn't needed to know that John acted as much out of remorse as love.

But somehow, it seemed, that Sam had found out, or maybe guessed.

Was Sam's life really so full of darkness that he couldn't see the value in love? Sure, Dean was as far from romantic as possible, but he believed in it, appreciated the idea of it. He seen families nearly torn apart by the darkness in the world. Love was what was left.

Was their lifestyle making Sam so disconnected from the rest of the world that he no longer got to see that aspect of things?

Dean decided he would do his best to get Sam to interact with people more. Dean liked a pretty girl better than just about anything else. But Sam, despite his bookish ways, was the true people person. He'd start a conversation with them and come away knowing the most random details, but he liked knowing them and they liked talking to him.

Had the non-stop hunts and the illness and the moving stopped Sam from getting to connect with other people? Hunting was solitary and lonely, but Sam and John and Bobby had always been enough for Dean. He understood, intellectually, that Sam might need more in order to have a better sense of perspective.

Looking at the mile marker, Dean guessed them to be about three miles from Merit.

"Dean." Sam said, a strange tone in his voice. "Stop the car here, at the gates of that orchard."

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Sam climbed out of the car slowly, trying to look everywhere at once.

The orchard was gated, but it was purely decoration, marking the boundaries of the grove more than anything else. Mist was still clinging to the ground, waiting for the sun to burn it away in a few hours. Fingers of fog caressed the trees, which Sam could see were still laden with apples, despite the late date.

"Sammy?" Dean asked again, somewhat impatiently.

"The apples." Sam replied, closing his eyes as he focused on listening to the sounds around them. He had thought, perhaps, that if the grove were tied to a pagan god the way the coin in Berryville had been, the buzzing, ringing sound in his ears might return.

He could hear nothing, and yet, a vague sense of unease drifted to him on the mist.

Dark things had happened here.

Or would.

"What about the apples?" Dean asked, coming to stand beside Sam.

Sam glanced over. "They shouldn't still be there. It's too late in the year for this climate."

Dean raised his brows. "Sounds like harvest magic to me." He said, drawing his weapon as Sam did the same.

They walked into the orchard, not sure of what to expect, but both feeling like the orchard should be investigated.

"It's all the trees." Dean commented, looking around. "They're practically falling of the branch."

Sam nodded as a chill swept over his skin, and he rubbed his arms reflexively. "One or two trees could be out of season, but a whole grove? There's no rot, they're not on the ground, no signs of frost damage. It's nearly November."

They made their way deeper into the orchard, and Sam noticed that the trees started getting older, with thicker trunks and twisted branches.

"You think this is where they do it?" Dean asked, the fog making his voice sound deeper, more resonant, as if they were in a canyon.

Sam thought for a moment. "Maybe. Would make sense to do the sacrifice close to the grove. At the least, I bet this is the deity's summer home."

Up ahead, a scarecrow had appeared, a ghostly silhouette in the fog.

"Dude, you are fugly!" Dean said with a look of disgust as they studied it.

Sam made a face himself, Dean was right, it was ugly. It's face and hands were creased and browned, almost like...leather.

"Oh man, that's gross." Dean said, coming to the same realization that Sam had at pretty much the same time.

Sam forced his hand forward, gingerly pushing back the scarecrow's shirt sleeve to reveal a wrinkled, leathery arm with the imprint of a tattoo still visible.

Tilting his head, Sam could just make out the initials 'TS'.

Love definitely hadn't saved them.