A/N 1: I am posting this chapter from the Outer Banks of North Carolina. I'll be heading south soon to take some pictures for Merisha: a picture of the Croatia Place - Fort Raleigh on Roanoke Island, and other places of note from the story. The little turret from the buried castle at the golf course is swathed in netting and difficult to make out this trip, but pictures will be taken.

A/N 2: As before, # ... # denotes typed or texted words

Dean jogged back to the car. Before he could unlock it, Milanka was pulling at his arm, blocking him, her mouth moving, arms waving around her. She almost clipped him on the nose.

"Get out of my way, Milanka."

She obviously wanted something, but considering that Dean didn't give a good goddamn about anything other than Sam at this point, he wasn't going to spend the time to find out what right now. He pulled her arm off his sleeve, and growled at her in frustration. "I don't have time, Milanka." He slid into the car. "And I still can't hear you."

He started the car, reached up to shift the car into reverse, and checked behind him. He found himself with a lapful of Russian girl, her sharp knees grinding into his thighs as she tried to climb across him. If he hadn't lifted her bodily across him, he would have had one of those knees right on the package.

He put the car in Park, turned his head and hissed through his teeth. "Get out of the car, Milanka. I don't have time for this now." Her hands were still gesturing and her mouth moving. He slid over the seat toward her, reached across her to open the passenger door, and leaned forward. He was good at menacing.

"I need to get to my brother. I'll try to come back later. But if you don't get out of this car right now, the next place that get's flattened is your house. I'll bring it right to you. And I don't care about salt and axes." She clambered out and slammed the door after her. He floored it.

And the funny thing was, after this morning, he knew he was telling the god's honest truth. Aloviti really could move storms. He could move storms. And wasn't that right up there with all the other impossibly weird things that had happened in his life.

He got Sam back to the motel and into their room as quickly as he could, herding him into the bathroom, before retrieving the first aid kit. Dean gently pulled out the splinters of wood tacking Sam's clothes to his body. Once Sam was down to his boxers, Dean used a pen light to check his eyes again. "How's your head? Double vision? Concussion?"

Sam touched the bump on his head gingerly and shook his head no.

"Good. I think you dented those cars with something other than your head." Dean handed him a glass of water and a pair of Vicodin. Sam looked up at him and raised his eyebrows.

"The cuts aren't so bad, but you are going to be a mass of bruises in a few hours. And it looks like I'll have to check the stitches in your arm." Sam looked at the pills again and shook his head, only to stop suddenly and rub his forehead with one hand.

Dean said, "You want one of my headache pills? 'Cause it's one or the other."

Sam took the Vicodin grudgingly.

Dean repacked the kit, and pointed Sam at the shower. "OK, brother, into the shower. I'll finish your arm out there."

Sam stood, a little unsteadily, but negotiated himself into the shower, tossing out his sodden boxers. Dean put a clean tee and pair of boxers on the sink, then moved the first aid kit into the bedroom, and brought the covers of Sam's bed down. He set up the suturing supplies and then fidgeted while he waited for Sam to finish. He hated to interrupt, since the bathroom was just about the only place either of them could claim some privacy, but after ten minutes he finally knocked on the door, and called.

"Don't wait until you get all prunified, Sam, it's not a good look." He waited another moment, then knocked again, and stepped into the bathroom. He peeked around the curtain, and found Sam, still standing, but practically asleep, his eyes closed, and leaning against the shower tiles. Dean reached in behind the curtain to turn off the water, and then passed in a towel. "you are such a wuss with painkillers. Come on, Sleeping Beauty, dry off and come out of there."

Sam emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, damp but not dripping, and walked to the bed without too much trouble. By the time Dean had disinfected the cuts, Sam's eyes were closed. Dean helped him lie down, and picked up the needle. Sam was asleep before Dean set the first stitch in his arm.

Dean watched him sleep for a few minutes before shaking himself. That damn bitch wasn't getting another chance at his brother. He still felt good, energized, and the noise of the wind in his ears was not quiet, but bearable. He pulled Sam's duffel off the floor. He had a few things to do before Sam woke up.

Sam opened his eyes slowly. The room was dim but not bright, the sun still visible through the room window. The shower was running, and he was willing to allow that was Dean until he had confirmation otherwise. He must have slept all day. And hell, he had to take a piss. He sat up, and all at once, everything hurt. A lot. He fell back to the bed, and threw an arm over his eyes and groaned.

The shower turned off and he heard Dean moving around in the bathroom. He still couldn't bring himself to move – it was almost as if he were waiting for something. With another groan, he realized, embarrassingly enough, that he was waiting for Dean. Three years of being Dean's hunting partner, three years of taking equal risk and danger, three years of growing up, and here he was, almost twenty five, waiting for his big brother to take care of him.

He laughed to himself, 'What Would Dean Do?' He wouldn't be waiting for Sam, for one thing, like some little girl. He would get up and go straight into the bathroom, use the john, and flush. And then laugh when Sam yelped and tried to dodge away from the scalding water. His mind made up, he caught the headboard of the bed, and twisting, levered his legs off the bed and himself into a sitting position before he needed to take a break. He sat for a minute, elbows on knees, until he was brought back to himself with the warmth of a hand on the back of his neck, and the bed bouncing under him when Dean sat next to him.

"Hey, hey, you're up. You should have… hell, Sam, I'm not sure what you should have done."

Sam brought his head up in time to see his brother look at him brightly.

"How are you feeling?"

Sam opened his mouth, and then stopped, looking at Dean, who reddened.

"My fault, my fault. Yes or no questions. Do you need anything for pain?"

Sam considered and shook his head.

"Yeah, right." Dean snagged some ibuprofin off the bedside table and handed four to Sam with a glass of water. "Do you need to use the bathroom?"

Trust Dean to know that. Sam nodded. Hands reached down and steadied him until he was upright, then Dean's muscled arm was around his waist. When he stepped forward, he knew Dean would be holding him up when he needed it. In his quest to become his brother, to be the bad ass hunter, how had he forgotten, how could he have forgotten, Dean's infinite capability for compassion?

"Y'OK? Sam?"

He nodded and smiled, a genuine smile. If he was a good man, like Jess had said so many times, it was because Dean had made him that way. He was so sorry he had never told her that.

Dean got him into the bathroom, then stepped back out. "You need help, throw something … here" handing Sam a plastic cup, "throw this out the door."

Sam didn't have to throw the cup, but Dean was at his elbow, ready to help him walk to the table as soon as he stepped into the room. Sam booted up the laptop.

Dean walked to the kitchen. "Want something to eat?"

Sam nodded. He'd barely had a chance to start researching when Dean brought him a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a package of Saltines. He fell to, emptying the bowl quickly. Dean removed it to the kitchen, and came back with a two cups of coffee, one of which he dropped in front of Sam. Dean dragged the other chair in the room up next to him, and pointed at the laptop.

"Sam, we have to talk."

Sam didn't think that sounded like a good thing. He took a sip of his coffee and swallowed, then stopped and looked at the cup. It was a hazelnut latte. He opened a text box on the desktop screen, and typed: # Great coffee # He looked up at Dean, who was gazing at him intently.

"I know how to defeat this thing, Sam, and I can do it. But you have to stay here."

"What the fuck, Dean? No! I've got your back, I always have your back, and you are not going to face this thing alone!" He glared at Dean.

After a few moments, Dean waved at his ears. "Um, Sam, I don't know what you said."

Sam was so mad his eyes hurt. "Goddamn it. I won't let you face this bitch alone." He glanced down at the computer, but before he could type, Dean was holding his arm.

"I get that you don't think that's a good idea." Dean took a gulp of his coffee, and Sam echoed him. "But you need to understand, I can't let you come with me."

When Sam opened his mouth, Dean held up a finger in warning.

"Drink your coffee and listen to me. I have to do this alone. The Ala said she would use you to get me to turn. I won't let that happen." Dean took a swallow of coffee, and again, Sam followed suit.

He typed # More reason for me to come with you. She won't take me. #

"She already did, and she's not getting a second chance. And you're beat to hell. I'll move quicker if you aren't with me."

Sam furiously typed, # like I haven't made allowances for you before!! # God, he was so sick of this. He wanted Dean to hear him yelling.

Dean read the screen and grinned. "Good point. You have. But you probably wished I had stayed in bed?"

Sam nodded in reluctant agreement, and surprised himself by yawning. He stretched a little to wake up, and typed # I'm still coming. You need me there to pick up the pieces #. His fingers felt funny.

"You might be right. Finish your coffee. If you won't stay here, you'll need the caffeine to stay awake." Dean took a few steps to his bed and brought back a sheaf of papers. "I found the dispersement spell, and a ritual that should bind her. I picked up what I needed today while you were asleep."

Sam finished his coffee, blinking at the laptop. He found himself yawning again. He typed # let's go then # and stood up. The room tilted to one side, and he suddenly felt very heavy. He took a stumbling step forward but before he could fall, Dean was there, as he always was, helping him to his bed. He felt Dean's hand lift his chin, until he was looking into Dean's eyes.

"I'm going to call her to me, Sam. There's a lighthouse on the west side of the road, north of Avon." Dean tapped his check. "Sam, you following? I need you to concentrate for a minute. Can you do that?"

Sam nodded and gave himself a shake but he was couldn't hold his head up. He was really tired.

"OK, Sam, remember, lighthouse, north of Avon, sound side. Come there as soon as you wake up. You hear me, Sam, come to the lighthouse. I'll write it down for you too. Got me?"

Sam tried to nod. "Why do I haf't'go … lighthouse, Dean?" The room was getting dark. He opened his eyes a moment later and found himself laying down, Dean's hand warm on the back of his neck, and a pillow under his head.

"I'll see you in a few hours, Sammy. And, don't be mad."

Sam turned his head on the pillow and felt his awareness slip away.

The hardest part of the plan had been figuring out what to use for "Ala's herbs". That part had also taken the longest, since he'd had to spend time back on the mainland looking for weeds growing in a plowed field. Picking his way over the edge of the furrows, he breathed in the odors of moist earth and decomposing plants, and with a start, recognized the smell that had been so familiar just before the storms hit. Lore said Alas lived in the turning of the plow, so picking plants at the ends of the plowed rows was going to be the most effective. The easiest part of the preparation was finding the sleeping pills wrapped up in Sam's briefs a week ago. Dean had to laugh. What was Sam thinking? He had always known all of the places Sam hid things. When they were little, and had to move in a hurry, Dad never gave him enough time to help Sam remember all of his hiding places, so Dean had picked them out for Sam.

He scrubbed his hair. Man, this was just going to be icing on the piss-off-Sam cake. Maybe, if he was lucky, this would be one of the times Sam would get so mad he would actually be speechless for a few minutes. Dean checked his watch. He should have a clear five hour window before King Kong back at the motel was awake enough to come and find him. Dean frowned a little. He really hoped there was something to find, besides the stolen car, when Sam got there.

As he drove south, the car's headlights picked out sand skittering across the road, the wind pushing the grains off one dune and onto another. He wondered if he was like that, losing cells in drifts and heaps in all the motels, apartments, and abandoned buildings they'd stayed in. He glanced down at the upholstery. There would be a lot of him in here. Maybe that's what had been happening to him this year. Not just cells, but all of him, whittled away, grain by grain. Sometimes he felt there was so little left he was transparent.

Hell, he was doing it again – all this goddamn introspection was going to eat him alive. He needed to leave the moody, broody, and bitchy to Sam, and just hunt.

It was with a real sense of relief that he spotted the top of the lighthouse, just visible over a huge dune. It was set back about a quarter mile from the road, and in the middle of nothing but sand, water, and scrub brush. He turned into the access road and drove a short distance to the gate, and parked the stolen car near the fence. He wasn't going to let his baby any closer to the action than he was going to let Sam. Fifty miles away for both of them should be good. Tomorrow was a Sunday, he was pretty sure, so Sam should be the first person here in the morning. If this worked, he would be standing at the gate, waiting for Sam. And he'd hear the Impala coming. That would be sweet.

He collected his duffel, climbed the fence, and hiked down the rutted dirt road to the lighthouse. The night was cool and clear, the sky free of clouds, a three quarter moon providing enough light to walk steadily on the uneven access road. When he reached the lighthouse, he paced out a circle between the building and the water, marking the edges in flour and the plants he'd collected that day – limp stalks of thistle, assorted weeds, and the trailings of hay blown into the furrows in the field. He set out plates of grain, fish, meat, and fruit at the ordinal points, finally drawing a smaller interior circle with ash. He stood back, checking the lines, and cocked an eye at the sky overhead, relieved to see it still clear.

He pulled out the summoning ritual. This should bring her, and the circle would bind her. He took a breath, and began. Clouds began forming almost immediately. He spoke the ritual again, and then again, as lightening began arcing across the sky, then slammed down to the earth all around him. He saw sparks overhead, and spun, to see the top of the lighthouse in flames. Hail started to fall. He shouted the ritual a fourth and final time, and looked down to see that the symbol was untouched by the storm, the vegetation, flour, and ash stuck in formation as if with glue. As he watched, the plates emptied. She was here.

The wind wailed in his ears, warbling and frantic, grinding into his head so loudly he screamed in pain, instinctively and futilely covering his ears. A shape began to form in the inner circle, cloudy and indistinct at first, but gradually becoming clearer. The first thing he made out were slitted venomous eyes, a snake-like head, and a coiled, sinuous body.

The howling in his head dropped in intensity and twisted into words. "I thank you for the offerings. Are you now ready to serve me?"

"No. I'm ready to send your ass back to hell, you fucking bitch."

She flicked a forked tongue at him, as feminine arms formed at her sides. "You WILL serve me."

"Can the shapeshifter crap." He checked his paper one more time, and then crouched by the outside circle. "I've bound you to the earth." He shook holy water into the circle. "I bind you now with water." He lit a make shift torch, the kerosene soaked rag flaming above his head, and threw that into the inner circle with her. It dropped through her insubstantial body to burn on the ground. "I bind you now with fire." Salt followed. "With salt." He bound her with sugar, grain, milk, fish, meat, and fruit, tossing each ingredient into the inner circle. With a flick of his wrist, he doused her with vodka. "With fermented drink."

He stood up. She looked almost solid now, jerking from side to side of the circle, seeking a way out. He had a stomach turning flashback to Meg's chair, scraping across the floor at Bobby's.

"What have you done?"

He didn't answer, just began reciting the dispersement spell he'd committed to memory.

She began to laugh. "No one can bind the air. Will you fight me, again, for the life of your brother?"

She threw her head back and raised her arms over her head, screaming. Her form lost cohesion as drifts and streamers of sand and dust began swirling upward, faster and faster.

Well, crap. That didn't go like he hoped it would. Sam always did have better luck with these things, anyway. But there was one thing Sam couldn't do. Dean could deliver the dispersement spell in person.

He yelled, "Bring it on, Bitch Goddess!", threw his head back, closed his eyes, and stretched out his arms out. He followed her.