Here you go! Enjoy, and review!

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Dean stood with his hands outstretched, cupped, half-leaning from the rickety white porch, allowing the steady stream of water from the rusted rain gutters pour into his hands, overflowing onto the flowerbeds below. Green eyes watched the droplets fall from the sky with contemplation blooming in them, a smile sweet and innocent gracing lips surrounded by slight stubble.

Sam almost didn't alert his brother to his presence, so content was he to watch Dean in this rare moment of peace. He had to, though. They really had to get moving. "Dean? It's time."

A light sigh. "Now?"

"Sorry."

"Hold on a second, Sammy. Try this. Really, it's a lot more fun than it looks." The slight tone of sarcasm made Sam smile, and he stepped up to the railing a few feet from his sibling, adopting a similar pose. The rain was coming down in torrents now, no longer the light shower it had been in its infancy a few hours ago, and in only a few seconds, Sam's hands were overflowing with water too. "See?"

Sam just grinned, and flung his handfuls of water directly into his brother's face, soaking his collar and hair. Dean stepped back, eyes open wide and dancing with shock that quickly morphed into mischief. He retaliated with an equally dousing shower of water, and that was it. Sam dashed off the porch, laughing, as Dean came at him with a fistful of mud he'd scooped up from the dirt walkway. It caught the younger Winchester right in the back, the once untainted cream color of his shirt now stained beyond repair. Sam stopped running, but Dean didn't. He slung one arm around his brother's neck and dragged him down face first into the mud, which wasn't allowable, so Sam resorted to fighting back, grabbing a fistful of the muckiest mud he could see and flinging his brother into it as hard as he could.

When they were both thoroughly sullied , both Winchesters, sitting criss-cross in the sludge, leaned back on their hands. Sam laughed breathlessly, a dollop of the dark mud sliding across his forehead to his cheekbone . "You know, we were supposed to have been out of here a half an hour ago."

Dean shrugged. "Who cares?" He looked up into the cold, dark sky. "It rained for a long time. I mean, Dad can't blame us if all the roads are closed because of the storm, right?"

"Are you suggesting we play hooky to the Hunt?"

"Me? Never. I'm just pointing out we have a good thing going here, Sammy."

"Sam."

"Samantha."

"You're such a jerk."

A wild laugh, and Dean allowed himself to fall backwards until he was sprawled in the mud. The rain had finally let up, a light drizzle all that remained. Sam followed suit.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you ever find out what that chick wanted?"

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion. He sat up and looked at his brother. "What chick?"

"You know, the one who let us stay in this place? I thought you knew her."

"Dean, I really don't know what you're talking about."

"Um…Mitchell? First name sounds French."

Sam felt his blood run hotter through his veins. "Eloise?"

"Yeah, her. You ever find out what she wanted?"

Sam swallowed down the confusion. Eloise Mitchell. "No, Dean. I guess not."

Dean rose to his feet, slowly, suddenly, the pupils of his eyes contracted to the point of near-nonexistence, wavering unsteadily as though in the grip of a sickness of epic proportions. Sam cried out and grabbed him by the shoulders just as they both started to fall, scrambling in the mud for a good foothold. As the two of them sank slowly to the earth, Dean's throat once again opened, that deep, dark smell of death clinging to his hair, the elder Winchester murmured something Sam almost didn't catch.

"You're about to."

Sam woke up with sweat drenching his shirt and dousing his hair, his heart pounding audibly in his chest. His father stood across from him with furrowed brows, worry etched in every line. "You okay, son?"

Sam pushed himself up, breathing hard. His father's truck. He was in his father's truck. Checked out of the hospital. Okay. He shook his head, trying to fling the dream's aftertaste away, as though the remnants of it would fly from the slightly curly ends of his damp hair. "Yeah. Yeah, everything's fine. Just a weird dream, that's all." John clearly didn't believe him, but he stepped back. The truck door was open, parked somewhere, his father standing in the wide it created, hands on the upholstery of the front seat.

"We're lucky the doctor didn't have anymore questions. We never would have gotten you out of there so fast."

"What's the plan?"

"We put this place behind us."

"Where will we go?"

"Indiana. I rented an apartment up there yesterday over the web. We need a place to figure this out. A hotel isn't going to cut it."

"Probably not." Sam ran a trembling hand over his eyes, kneading them gently. He laid his head back against the soft seatback, stained and smelling faintly of coffee. He shot up, tense and aware all in an instant. "Where's Dean?"

"We're grabbing our stuff at the hotel. He's fine. He's loading the back. I just wanted to see if you were awake. Your brother's worried about all this, Sam. About you."

Sam snorted. "He should be worried about himself."

"You know that won't cross his mind, don't you?" His father paused. "But, are you really okay? If you want another day to rest…you and your brother…" It sounded weak, even to the oldest Winchester. He wasn't good, wasn't practiced at being a concerned father. Besides, Father-John was still battling ferociously against Hunter-John, as polar opposite as a schizophrenic's daydreams. He wanted to hunt. He wanted to get on that road, load a shotgun, and shoot something, preferably the Demon. But he also wanted Sam not to dream things that made him talk in his sleep, and he wanted Dean safe and secure somewhere. In the end, it made his attempts to say much of anything personable to his boys horrifically awkward.

"No. I'm alright. And Dean's not, but he won't admit it, so why bother asking?"

"Hey!" The door to Sam's other side opened, and Dean smiled brightly as he leaned forward. "Glad to see you're up, Sleeping Beauty."

"Dean, you scare me with how many Disney references you know."

"Yeah, whatever." He turned his attention from brother to father, tone changing noticeably from amiable affection to slightly-affectionate-roll-call-in-a-boot-camp. John's heart twinged. "That's everything. We're set."

"Good." John's eyes darkened, a shadow clouding his face as he climbed in and started the engine, revving it for emphasis. "We're putting this town as far away from us as we can get it."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The apartment was one of the nicest the Wincesters had ever lived in. Three bedrooms, a full kitchen, a large bathroom with two sinks…all in all, the Hilton compared to their former accommodations. The only downside, the building was right next to a four-lane highway, which was why the Winchesters had been able to afford it. Sam dropped his duffel bag onto the light carpet and smiled. He couldn't deny it would be nice to sleep in his own room. He loved his brother, and usually loved his father, but Dean was a sprawler and John snored. Difficult for all three to share a room, which they had been doing for months, and still be able to sleep particularly well.

John shuffled in behind him, laden with his own bags, Sam's second duffel, and also a couple of Dean's. Dean tromped in after him grumbling, "…not going to break…carry my own bags…", or something like it, under his breath.

"You boys divy up the rooms however you want." John said, settling his own load onto the floor and going back outside for another.

Dean's eyes almost lit up, because try as they all might, no emotion ever really showed in Dean's corpse, and Sam thought he caught a glimpse of the four-year-old he once had been. "Like our own rooms?"

"Our own rooms." Sam confirmed. Dean snatched one of his bags off the floor and darting down the hallway, threw open one of the doors, and disappeared into it. "I call dibs on this one!" Sam smiled. The sound of his brother's voice, though muffled by a wall, was still a signal that all this was safe. They could settle here, if only for a few months. Sam envied his brother's ability to call anything home. Four years at Stanford and it had taken nearly three for him to get attached to anything in his apartment. Dean was here for five seconds and already, he was all my room, my bed, my curtains.

Sam laughed lightly and chose the door across the hall from his brother's. Stepping in, a wave of nostalgia gripped him intensely, the fingers of memory tightening slightly around his shoulders. A room. A compilation of knick-knacks, bedspreads, and carpet. The peace felt like Stanford. This felt like Stanford. All it was missing was a blonde with a smile like July mornings and a kiss as gentle as a butterfly's flight.

Jess.

It came suddenly, every time, the longing for Jess. They'd planned on getting married, having kids in a year. Names picked out already. Jocelyn for a girl, William for a boy. He'd entertained Dean, but decided that bringing up anymore of his family's history, especially that bit, was canceling out his attempts to shut that life away forever. But he'd loved her in a way he'd never loved anyone. If Jess had wanted to know exactly how many miles away the Taj Mahal was from California, Sam would have walked it, counting every mile, there and back, just to have her content.

Sam swallowed hard and forced the sound of Jess's laughter away. The wanting settled in his chest like lead, though, and stayed there for a long, long while, even after night fell, his family went to their respective rooms, and he gave in reluctantly to that realm called sleep.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

Dean sat in his room and wondered why he couldn't sleep. When he tired of that, he made a list of all the girls he'd kissed. When he'd finished with that, he unpacked and repacked his suitcase. When he'd finished with that, he tried to do a handstand, failed, and practiced until he could.

All in all, Dean Winchester was bored out of his mind.

By three a.m., the traffic loud outside his window, Dean had decided on a course of action. His father's truck keys were on the table in the kitchen. His father's truck had a tape player. In the absence of his beloved Impala, his opportunities to blare Metallica and Blue Oyster Cult (salvage from his baby's mangled form) had diminished significantly. That, he reflected, was at least one upside to this whole 'walking corpse' thing. When you didn't need to sleep, but the rest of the world did, you could do pretty much whatever you wanted to. Silently, he slipped from his bed, grabbing his dagger just in case, and padded lightly across the kitchen floor, muffling the slight jangle his father's keys made by clenching them in a firm grip. He unbolted the front door, careful not to disturb the double layer of salt that protected it.

Then it all changed.

His vision blurred for a moment, the world bending and twisting, writhing in the confines of his vision. Dizziness warped his thought process, and for a moment, he could have sworn he was back in Lawrence. And then it came, a black haze that smelled like sulphur, moving with precise swiftness to push him out of the way. He fell back, his arm striking the table beside the sofa, crying out in surprise more than pain as he watched another bloodless gash appear on his arm. The cloud writhed on the ceiling for a moment, then darted toward the hallway, slipping under the second door on the left.

Sam.

Dean rose to his feet, his body adapting to the hunt out of pure muscle memory. His footfalls were hard and loud against the wood flooring. He jerked the doorknob to the side, cried out for his father when it didn't open. He pounded a flat palm on the solid doorframe, the resounding crack of skin against wood resonated in his ears.

"Dean, what---" John stepped quickly and grabbed Dean's shoulder, worry crinkling his eyes. Dean pulled away, raised a leg to kick the door in, wordlessly making his panic evident by the hectic sporadity of his movements.

"It's in there!" He finally said, rearing back for one powerful thrust.

"What's in---" He didn't get to finish, though, because Sam opened the door, rubbing his eye with one hand, his flannel bottoms and white t-shirt rumpled with sleep. He took in his brother, still poised to bash his door in, and his father, with a decidedly confused look on his face and frowned deeply, pushing a yawn to the back of his throat.

"Dean? What's wrong?"

Sam didn't get his answer, though, because his brother's eyes were fixed on something behind him, watching it, his eyes moving to follow its movements the way a child watches a bee in flight, quick turns of emerald orbs.

"Sam." The youngest Winchester knew that tone. It was the tone that meant I'm not kidding around here; that werewolf is right behind you. Sammy knew to listen to that tone. It always lead to trouble when Sam didn't. Silently, Dean drew his dagger from its hiding place at his hip, the quiet hiss of metal against the cotton of his pajamas making every sound come a little sharper.

"Dean?"

"Dad, get the gun."

John started. "What gun?"

Dean's eyes were completely dull, the most dead they had ever seemed. His voice was pale, weak, barely strong enough for a whisper. "The Colt."

John stood behind his oldest, peering into Sam's room, following Dean's gaze. His jaw dropped a little, surprise etching itself firmly into the corners of his eyes. He dropped his gaze to his son's face, which was rapidly losing what little color it had possessed. His own voice was quiet. He shifted his position to block the doorway from his son's view. Dean swore and started to push his father aside, dagger at the attack-ready position. John grabbed his oldest's shoulders, shook him slightly. "Dean, are you with me?"

"Dad, it's in there, I can see it! Let go of me!"

"Dean, you awake? You with me?" He paused, watched Dean's face turn to incredulity. "Dean, there's nothing in there."

Dean glanced past his father. The haze still swirled, and now there was a flare within it that Dean instinctively knew was laughter. He opened his mouth to vehemently contest his father, when without warning, it shot toward him, thrust him against the wall, slamming his head backwards. Dean heard rather than felt his teeth puncture the tip of his tongue. Weakness gripped him and he slid towards the floor, dropping to his knees, vaguely wondering why words sounded so faint now.

"Dean, stop it! What are you doing!" Sam dropped to his knees, at Dean's side in an instant, had his arm across his brother's chest, holding him pinned against the wall. "You're going to hurt yourself!" Sam's mind flew. His brother had been staring like there was someone there, someone in his room, and as a result, had just thrown himself against the wall. Of his own power. A willful forward then backward-hard motion.

"Dad, shoot it! Shoot it!" Dean was verging on hysteria, as the demon pulled him away from Sam, slammed him again, harder.

Sam had just watched his brother throw himself with all his strength against the wall and blame it on something else, and he watched in horror as Dean leaned slightly forward and jerked backwards again, with similar intent. His father was there though, a gun in hand, cocked and shot all in one motion, harmlessly into the air. At the loud snap of gunfire, Dean stopped and fell forward into his brother's arms, his form loose and relaxed. All three Winchesters sat silent for a moment, shocked into inactivity. After several fluttering heartbeats of Sam, Dean pulled away, met Sam's gaze with question flecked in the green of his own.

"What's happening to me?"

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

"You lied to me!" Sam screamed, his arms rigid with fury. The Demon cocked an eyebrow.

"I didn't lie."

"The deal was you left my brother alone if I found that woman."

"Yes, that was the deal."

"Then where do you get off making him slam himself into walls!"

"Two days, Sam, two days you've been out of that hospital, and have you found her? Even started looking? No? Then your brother's fair game. For now, only my toy. But if I don't see serious progress within the week, I'll let others in on the playtime. You got all that, Sammy?"

"Don't you touch him. Ever. Again. You got all that, Demon?"

The Demon laughed. "I hardly think you're in the position to threaten me. Right now, your brother's in his room. Your daddy's there too, but he wouldn't be a problem. What should I do next? Make Dean throw himself from the window?" The Demon felt Sam's power rise, a fierce, black wave cresting white with intent to kill. The boy healed fast. "Just do what you said you'd do. It's that simple."

"I meant what I said. About my brother."

"So did I, Samuel. So did I. There's a storm coming. You, and I, have to be prepared for it. Things have to be in order. There's a schedule to follow here. I don't want you damaged, and step one of seeing that come true is ending Eloise Mitchell."

"Of course you want me damaged. You want me dead. That's why you killed mom, and Jess. Because they stood in the way. Of me."

"If I wanted you dead you'd be dead. No, you I want safe. But your family? Completely expendable. So just do what you're told."

The Demon disappeared and left Sam's mind whirling with questions.

Sam opened his eyes to the sound of his brother and father speaking in the next room. Silently, he reached for his laptop and with practiced ease hacked into the local library's database.

He typed in "Mitchell, Eloise" and sincerely hoped she'd be easy to find.

Easy to kill.

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Thanks for reading! A longer chapter, for sure!

--Kim Who Knows