Disclaimer: No part of anything Supernatural belongs to me. (Repeat as necessary)

A/N: My thanks as always to Merisha and Scotia who have had to beta some of these chapters more than once, and yet, still maintain a grasp on sanity.

A/N 2: # ... # denotes Sam's typed words. The site is stingy with the number of punctuation and diacritical marks it recognizes.

Sam shook Dean awake the next morning. When he could see enough of Dean's eyes to see green, he held a cup of coffee near his face. Dean groaned, but began pushing himself upright. Sam helped pull, then helped him swing his legs over the edge of the bed, before putting the cup in Dean's outstretched hand.

Dean looked up at him. "Loom much?"

Sam backed up and waited while Dean took a sip and closed his eyes. When they didn't immediately reopen, he retrieved the cup from his brother's relaxed hand. Dean shook his head, then opened his eyes wide.

"I'm fine. It was just tests yesterday." He reached for the coffee but Sam backed up, keeping it just out of his reach. He set it on the room's table. "You bitch." Dean got to his feet, shook himself a bit, and walked to the table. "I don't know what the hell they gave me yesterday, but I bet they sell it recreationally." He sat down with a grunt and grabbed the coffee.

Sam pushed a plate of toasted bagels and cream cheese toward him. Dean looked up at him. "Strawberry jam?" Sam shook his head. Dean pursed his lips, but he picked up a half and took a bite, then a gulp of coffee. Sam held out his hand and dropped a couple of pills in Dean's palm. Dean took a quick look and tossed them back with another gulp of coffee. "What are they?"

Sam pulled his chair up by Dean's and sat down, swinging the laptop around to face them both. He opened a text window.

# Scrips for headache, Tylenol #

"Not the same stuff they gave me yesterday?" He reached for another bagel half.

# Don't think so #

"Good. I don't remember the ride back at all." He chewed thoughtfully. "Had a pretty hot dream about hammocks."

# You in a hammock? #

"What you don't know, little brother, would fill … something. Not sure there's enough left for a book." He took a swig of coffee. "Did you get any leads when you were in the library yesterday?"

# How's headache? #

Dean thought for a minute. "Not too bad. Whatever the pill is, it's good. Any leads yesterday?"

# Got an appt this morning we should leave in a few #

Pointing at the laptop he said, "Bring that will you? It's quicker than the notes. Gonna take a shower." He pulled some clothes from his duffel and headed for the bathroom. As the water soaked through his hair and down his back, he rubbed the base of his spine, trying to work out any residual pain from the tap. Man, he hadn't been expecting that – or half the things they did to him.

As he soaped, he did his best to pretend that it didn't bother him that he couldn't hear the water, or someone coming in, or a gun shot, or Sam yelling for help. And that it didn't bother him that the wind screaming in his ears was not battering down the doors, shaking the walls, something - even fluttering the shower curtain. Scenes from Psycho started playing out in his head, forcing him to turn to watch the door as he finished his shower. He felt pretty steady on his feet, all told, after he dressed and followed Sam out to the car.

"Can I drive yet?"

Sam smiled and shook his head, and got behind the wheel. He settled for the passenger side, and as the car moved south, watched the endless small shopping centers and sand slide by the car in slow waves. He hadn't been able to decide yet if he was screwed – which was a given - or royally screwed, which he hoped was still under discussion. He was crap at interviewing when he could hear. He could hunt as long as he could see the thing he was hunting, but he couldn't track anything … he scrubbed his face. His research mojo never was as good as Sam's, but considering that the last time he was supposed to research he ended up looking at the little castle … he wasn't going to turn into a liability for Sam, so he'd better figure out what it was he could do until he got his hearing back.

He didn't know he'd gone a little fuzzy again until Sam opened the passenger door and tugged a little on his arm. He swung his legs out of the car and stood up, shaking his head and cupping his hands over his ears in a futile attempt to cut down on the baying in his head. The next thing he knew, Sam's hands were on his biceps, pulling him upright. He managed to focus on Sam's face and read the worry and concern. Sam's mouth was moving, and Dean didn't have to hear to know what he was saying.

"I'm OK, I'm fine. It's just the goddamned noise." Sam shook him and hell, he was already tired of that. "Get offa me." He broke Sam's grip and looked around. "Where are we?" He turned in a slow circle, and headed toward a large wooden sign at one end of the parking lot. 'Fort Raleigh National Historic Site' – huh. Sam came up next to him as he walked, and stood by him as he read the sign. He reached over to a rack of pamphlets and pulled out a flyer for something called the 'Lost Colony'. Sam tugged on his arm, but he waved him off. 'For chrissakes, Sam, I was reading letters before you were born.' He flipped the flyer over, and then turned to his brother.

"This is the Croatia place? No, the, um," he saw Sam start to smirk. "Oh fuck, Croatoan? That place? I thought that was in Virginia." Sam pointed at the flyer – Roanoke Island. "Do you think that demon is doing this, the storms?"

Sam was writing on his pad again. Dean wished for the laptop in the car, but patiently watched as Sam wrote, NO, then scratched it out, and wrote HOPE NOT HAVE APPT IN 10 MINS - AM INDIAN SPEC

"You found something in Greenville then?" Sam nodded and shrugged – clearly a maybe. "I'm glad something good came out of yesterday." He looked back toward the buildings. "You need me for anything?"

Sam wrote YOU COME W/ME

"Unless you need a bodyguard, what would I do? Only so many pamphlets I can read, and I'm not going to go look at a costume display", he waved at the rack, "or visit the gift shop. This place is so friggin' gay, I feel tarnished just standing here."

STAY IN CAR

He turned to look at a pole holding a variety of sign posts and pointed. "Nah, I'm OK. I'll go to the beach. Call when you're ready to go." He turned just as Sam put his hand out to feel his forehead. "Damn, I hate it that you can sneak up on me."

Sam scribbled, STAY HERE FEVER

"No shit, Sherlock." He pulled out his little bottle of Tylenol and dry swallowed a few. He held up his cell phone. "I can't get that far, it is an island. Just call – it's on vibrate."

He started down the path toward the ocean, pines towering overhead on both sides, blocking his view of the ocean, and only allowing him to see a thin rope of sky. This was old growth forest, most of these trees were probably here long before the Roanoke Colony and Croatoan. Sometimes the East Coast just gave him the heebie jeebies.

He grew up on a flat plain under a big sky. Kansas and Oklahoma and Missouri were so flat you could see miles just by climbing on a chair. Here, there were hills and mountains and more hills and trees and valleys and you couldn't see more than a couple of feet. The path turned and brought him out to the shore, with a view north over the sound. North Carolina was on his left, the Banks and the ocean to his right. The sky was a beautiful clear blue with a few scattered cirrus clouds. The breeze felt wonderfully cool on his face.

He rolled his head and stretched his shoulders. He hated having a fever, it always felt like his eyes were going to dry up and fall out of his head. But the view of the sound stretching out ahead of him was beautiful.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been watching the ocean when his attention was brought up – there were black clouds growing, billowing and rolling, mushrooming until they appeared to fill the sky. He felt the wind pick up, tugging at his clothes, until it suddenly slammed into him, making him stagger backwards.

Two things happened at once – the howl of wind in his ears cranked up in volume, and his headache was back, shooting red hot pain through his skull, making his vision white out. His legs crumbled under him. The next thing he knew, he was on his knees, holding his ears, heaving air in and out, and he could feel a rumble and vibration all through his chest and throat. Fuck, he must be screaming.

He felt something against his thigh and slapped a palm down against his leg. His cell phone. Sam.

Sam had drawn a blank on weather movers and shakers in Pamlico, Croatan, Hatteras, Cherokee, Iroquois, Oneida, and Tuscora legends and mythology at the Greenville library the day before. The Gulf of Mexico and Floridian Indian lores were rich with legends of thunderbirds and other storms gods, but he couldn't find a connection with the weather pattern here. The best thing the library helped him find was Mr. Adahy Jones, an expert on local history and lore, who worked out of the Park. To Sam's disappointment, while Jones was more than willing to talk, he had nothing that could shed light on the storms or Dean's condition.

When he stepped outside after thirty minutes, Dean was nowhere in sight. Sam checked inside the car just in case his brother had returned, but it was empty. He started toward the path to the ocean, but had taken only a few steps when a blast of wind struck him, pushing him so hard and so suddenly, that he had to step backwards to keep from falling. The sky turned an ugly purple black, thick clouds blocking the sun so thoroughly it was almost like nightfall. The wind was jerking trees back and forth, whipping up litter and a choking black cloud of pine needles. He turned his back into the wind, and dragged his cell phone out of his pocket, almost losing it to the tempest, and pushed speed dial one.

He had nothing to hold onto, and was shoved forward unmercifully, falling to his knees once, before he was back at the car, pressed into the passenger door and window. He could see tourists and a few park employees scrambling toward the buildings, pulling at unmoving doors, mouths were opening and closing, hands and arms pointing and gesticulating. The wind was pushing trash cans sideways into buildings, rocking fences and fence posts, stripping leaves off plants, whirling pamphlets and signs in a mad dance in the air, pulling everything into a funnel snaked down from the black thunderhead directly above them.

His back was being hammered with debris and rocks hurled by the wind. He let the wind push him over the hood of the Impala, but he was able to grab the driver's door handle to catch himself before he slammed into the next car in the row. He tried ducking down, letting the car block most of the wind, but it found him, slamming his feet out from under him, whirling over the car and trying to push him away from the door. He braced his legs and opened the door, still almost breaking a bone as the door slammed open faster than he could drag his arms out of the way. He dove in, using both arms to drag himself onto the seat, watching fast food wrappers, M&Ms, sunglasses, and loose change swirl in a mini cyclone inside the car.

He held his feet against the bottom of the door frame and pulled on the door handle with everything he had. He felt the muscles bunch and pull across his back and down his arms, his thighs were straining but it felt like the door was welded open. He could do this – had to do this.

Sam thought about the last time he'd done something he never believed possible. He tried not to, but, with a twist of his stomach, he remembered Gordon's neck and the razor wire. He set his teeth and heaved, feeling the tendons in his neck and jaw pop up, but he didn't stop until the door slowly started to come toward him.

When it finally slammed shut, his fingers released and he shot backwards head first toward the passenger door. He took a long shuddering breath before he checked the glove compartment, closed, check, and reached under the seat. Cassettes in box – check. He looked for his cell phone and for a moment couldn't remember where it was and wondered if it had been sucked away into the wind. He slapped at his pants until he felt the phone in his left front pocket and almost ripped the fabric hauling it out. He hit speed dial one again, bringing the phone to his ear, keeping his attention focused on the path Dean had taken to the beach.

It felt like an hour before he saw a figure stumbling down the path toward him. Dean was holding his hands over his ears, bent forward at the waist, taking uneven steps, being pushed and battered by the wind, slipping in and out of view as flying debris would momentarily surround him, then swirl away. Sam was moving before the debris parted to show Dean on his hands and knees.

He jerked up on the door handle and the wind did the rest, ripping the door out of his hands. He didn't have time to close the door, and wincing, bid a brief farewell to his young life if something happened to the cassettes. He began to struggle against the wind toward his brother. Paper was slapping into him, sand from the not so distant beach was abrading his exposed skin, then working its way up his noise and into his mouth.

Sam threw an arm up to protect his eyes and started to work his way toward his brother. He drew himself hand over hand using metal sign posts, the handicapped parking signs long since ripped off, sometimes only holding onto the next post by his fingernails. He ducked and avoided the larger jetsam thrown at him by the wind, but the smaller pieces found their mark over and over again.

Unbelievably, he heard a high pitched noise, a kind of grinding screech, over the insanely loud howl of the wind. He scanned the area as best he could, and finally identified the noise as coming from the massive wooden sign at the front of the parking lot. He ducked his head and reached the next post, cursing as he felt something hit the arm protecting his eyes. He looked toward where he'd last seen Dean, and was relieved to see him moving again. But something wasn't right.

Dean stood up and turned his back to Sam to face into the wind, almost casually. It looked as if the wind wasn't even there, or the storm was parting and passing by, leaving Dean untouched. As Sam watched through watering eyes, Dean shot both arms straight out in front of him, then up over his head, then slowly lowered and angled them out, until they were stretched straight out from his sides.

Pamphlets, pine needles, and paper bags, branches, park signs, and shutters ripped off the buildings were still swirling madly in the maelstrom between the buildings, but Dean was oblivious. Sam was only a few feet from him when the huge Park sign ripped loose, and began spinning toward them both, flipping end over end. Sam fought forward toward his brother, screaming Dean's name in warning, reflexively but uselessly.

Dean's arms dropped to his side and the world went still.

Sam watched as the huge sign hurtling toward them dropped to the pavement, skid a few more feet, and came to rest a few inches from his brother's boots. In the newly made silence, the noise of a shower of leaves, signs, and sand pattering down around them was so loud it almost made him jump. He ran forward, able finally to reach his brother, and rested his hand on Dean's shoulder. He looked up and saw blue sky overhead, the black clouds remaining were skidding westward as they evaporated.

Well, he thought, screw the psychiatrist appointment. There was no way in hell that that was psychosomatic. He was so relieved he could feel himself grinning, but so spooked out, he was shaking a little.

He squeezed Dean's shoulder, but didn't feel him react. Keeping his hand in place, Sam stepped in front of his brother, almost afraid to see what damage the flying debris may have inflicted. He was relieved to see Dean's eyes were open and quickly scanned him for injuries, but other than some scrapes and small cuts and some new rips in his jeans, he didn't see anything serious until he looked at his brother's face again.

Dean's head was tilted back and his eyes were only halfway open. Sam could see nothing but white, no iris or pupil at all. Unnerved and anxious, he shook Dean a little, tapping his shoulder, tapping his arm, and finally tapped his cheek. Dean took a deep breath and rocked his head forward, blinking furiously.

Sam tapped Dean's cheek again, and watched with relief as Dean seemed to recognize him. He smiled, then frowned, as he looked Sam over, down to his feet, then back up at Sam's face. Dean had to clear his throat a few times, but finally rasped out, "What happened to you? You're bleeding".

Before Sam could look down to check himself, Dean's eyes dropped closed, and Dean dropped just like them, collapsing so fast it was like a weight was pulling him down.