Disclaimer: Once again, I own nothing of Supernatural. I will weep over this at another time.

I.

"You can't just make yourself move on, Dean. You can't just snap your fingers and make everything okay."

Why not? Dean doesn't ask. I've been doing it for years.

II.

Getting in to see the kid wasn't as easy as it sounded. The doctors there were extremely protective—that meant no friends, no cops, no nothing. So instead, Sam snuck in while Dean created a diversion . . .a perfect job for both brothers. Sam did his talking-bonding deal while Dean got to play practical jokes; he wished things worked out like that more often, but maybe that would be too easy. Now, Dean was languishing in the car, waiting for Sam to finish up, and singing Metallica's "Enter Sandman" under his breath.

Dean casually glanced in the rear view mirror, and jolted hard in his seat. For a second, his Dad's image had been reflected in the mirror. Dean quickly turned around but there was absolutely nothing there, and somehow Dean had already known that—the only ghost in this car was in the one in his head. He tried to steady his breathing and settle back down again, when he thought of the brunette. The one with the blood on her face. The one with the cold hands. Suddenly, he knew exactly who she was, or rather, what she was.

That's a convenient epiphany, Sam had once said. Dean couldn't remember what they had been talking about now, but he remembered his reaction. Out loud, he had made fun of same for using "fancy college words" like epiphany. In his head, Dean had simply thought, An epiphany is nothing special. You're just suddenly realizing something you should have figured out ages ago.

"She's a reaper," Dean muttered quietly to himself. "The same damn one who was coming for me."

But she didn't get him, for some reason. She should have caught him, but she didn't. He fought her back or she gave up or----or----

(Today's your lucky day, kid)

—or something.

And Dean knew it was coming together, the pieces, the fragments of his crazy dreams. Something was coming together, and when it did . . .Dean wasn't sure what would happen. But he had the feeling it was bad. He knew it was bad.

Then Sam was opening the door, and talking before he'd even sat down. "Aaron said he saw his dad with blood all over him. On his mouth, on his hands, like he'd been eating something. Aaron thinks his dad came back as a zombie or something. I mean, that is possible, right? Zombies? I know we never ran into any, but—"

"Oh, zombies are real," Dean interrupted. "Dad and I ran into some while you were at Stanford." It was hard to say 'Dad' so casually but Dean kept his face impassive, like always.

"Well, is that what we're dealing with? I mean, walking dead, eating flesh . . ."

"Yeah, but zombies aren't exactly discriminate about what body parts they gnaw on. I mean, sure, they'll eat hearts and brains like any good zombie . . . and they'll eat livers and intestines and all the little piggies—"

"Yeah, okay, I get it," Sam said. "Besides, zombies aren't supposed to be smart, are they? And this thing has been covering his tracks."

"Exactly," Dean said. "I don't think that's what we're dealing with. There's something about this whole brain and heart deal. It's very ritualistic. . .I'm just not sure exactly what it means." He thought about it for a minute, tapping the steering wheel absently with one hand. "Typically, the brain and heart are considered the residences of the life force. You know, the brain holds all the intellect and reasoning; the heart holds all the mushy, touchy feely crap."

Sam smirked for a second but then his eyes went wide. "Dude," he said. "Dad's journal. You got it?" Dean pulled it out of his jacket pocket. Lately, he'd taken to absently flipping through the pages any time he was sure that Sam wasn't looking. Sam quickly glanced through it and stopped somewhere near the middle of the book. "It's a shifter," he said. "Some kind Dad never faced, just gathered information about."

Dean took the journal from Sam and glanced at the page. There wasn't a lot of information, but what was there was, was interesting. . .Yoda-notes about skinwalkers that needed to feast on a life force to survive. They could gain dreams, memories, and fears from just tasting of a person's blood, but it was the brains and hearts they were after—the more the ate, the stronger they were.

And unlike other skinwalkers, these ones had no interest in keeping people alive because they could only shift themselves into people that were already dead. Typically, they took on the shape and form of someone they had devoured, but they could transform into anyone as long as that person was no longer among the land of the living.

"They hibernate," Dean read out loud, mostly to himself. "Sometimes for as long as forty or fifty years."

"But the sheer amount of people who die in between those forty our fifty years?" Sam shook his head. "It's just like the shtriga, man. This thing is just getting started."

"So we kill it," Dean said simply. "We just need to figure out where the hell it is."

Sam shrugged. "Well," he said, "all the victims were found outside, right? In fact, I think everyone of them were found pretty near manholes. You know what that means."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Last shifter liked the sewers too. It's always the fucking sewers. Just once, I'd like to hunt down some bitch who made his little den of death in Maui or something."

"You'd have to fly to get there, Dean."

Dean shrugged. "Nah," he said. "I'd just tie you up and use you as a raft."

"Yeah." Sam rolled his eyes. "That'd be effective."

Dean ignored him. "Blue skies, hot weather, hot girls. . .we could have a lot of fun in Hawaii. Well, I could have a lot of fun in Hawaii. You could probably find some geek volcano research thing to do."

Sam glared at him. "Can we please go find this thing now?"

". . .maybe some girl would even be attracted to your total nerd status. . .if they could see past all that freaking girly hair of yours. . ."

"Dean."

"Seriously, dude, you might as well make ringlets out of it and start calling yourself Samantha."

"Dean. People dying, being eaten, rising body count. . .any of this ringing a bell?"

Dean laughed. "Relax, dude," he said, starting the car. "We'll find it, we'll hunt it, we'll kill it. It's not like it's anything special. Certainly not half as scary as that hair. . ."

"Dean."

"Don't worry, Sammy. I promise, we'll be back in time for you to watch Gilmore Girls."

Sam swore.

III.

"Dammit, Dean. Talk to me."

"Nothing to say, Sammy."

"That's bullshit and you know it. Look, what happened in Kentucky—"

"Nothing happened in Kentucky, Sam. It was just a regular hunt and just another monster. End of fucking story."

IV.

It wasn't just another monster. Not anywhere even close.

Sam had found the trail easily once they were in the sewers. The shifter seemed to be much less careful with blood drops and body parts down where no one ventured. Even if pieces of body hadn't shown up to lead a twisted path, the brothers would have found the lair anyway. The smell only went downhill from the regular sewer stench of shit.

Dean leaned down near one jagged pipe and called out to Sam. "Think I found some of his shed skin here," Dean said. "That is just freaking gross."

Sam snorted from somewhere farther away. "Yeah, that's the only thing gross about this situation," Sam said drily. "I'm not seeing any signs of it. You think it's already out hunting for it's next victim?"

Dean was about to answer when he felt claws slicing into his lower back. "Fuck!" he cried out and span around as quickly as he could, shooting blindly behind him. A quick, dark outline scampered out of sight, and Dean scrambled backwards as Sam called out to him frantically. "Yeah, I'm thinking the shifter's down here," Dean said as Sam ran up to him.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean said. Sam gave him quick, don't-bullshit-me look, but it actually wasn't a lie. Dean could feel the blood dripping down his back, and he knew those cuts would hurt like hell tomorrow, but they didn't feel that deep. Anyway, he wasn't going to waste time checking it out. "I don't know where it went," Dean said quietly, searching the surrounding darkness.

"I'm right here," the thing said, and Dean and Sam turned. The shifter was moving too quickly in the darkness to get a good shot, and they only had so many silver bullets. "Mmmm. . .this blood. . .tastes strong, tastes goooooood. I bet other parts would be just as tasty."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, well, I ain't a TV dinner. This food comes with a little bit of a fight."

"All the better," the thing said. "Food always tastes better when it's fighting. When it's struggling and when it's screaming."

"Sorry, buddy, but that's not going to happen."

"Oh, I know how to make you scream, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's terrifying," he said. "You tasted my blood; now you know my name. Got another cute tricks up your sleeve?"

"Actually. . .I do."

And John Winchester emerged from the darkness.

TBC

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