Dean's lips were dry as he searched his brother's eyes. "What are you trying to say, Sammy?"

"The mothman sightings have only occurred in Lawrence, the closer to Stull cemetery, the more prolific the sightings. Strange lights in the sky, weird noises, telephones ringing, disembodied voices on the line, even unintelligible messages daubed on walls…"

Dean cocked a brow. "You never heard of graffiti?"

"C'mon, Dean, will you let me just finish?" The younger hunter picked up the silver laptop and carried it over to where his brother still sat on his bed. "I've looked up a lot of the original reports by John Keel and it all fits. Mothman have been seen all over the world, not just in Point Pleasant. Apparently, it's a common belief that these things are like portents, warnings of disasters that we can stop. Keel believed they may even be from another plain of existence, and on odd occasions, at certain points around the globe they get a chance to cross over where there is a "weak spot" between worlds."

Dean lay back and placed his hands behind his head. "Dude, you know you could have been a teacher, right? Because you sure can spin crap and make it sound believable." Noting his brother's annoyed grimace he sighed. "Okay, so, say this Keel dude was even half right, why now, why Lawrence?"

"Stull, Dean. What if Stull cemetery is one of the "weak spots?" Let's face it the legend says evil can cross over from there at certain times of year. What if it's not just evil? What if Stull and a few other places around the world are like conduits, allowing good and evil through from other plains?" He turned the laptop. "Look, the first reported Mothman sighting back in 67 was on November 12th. What if there were unreported sightings earlier?"

"November 2nd," Dean's voice was barely audible. Sam was talking about The Day of the Dead, All Souls Day, and the day Mary and Jessica had died at the hands of the demon. The day Stull's "gateway" was said to open. "You think this is something to do with that fiery-eyed bastard that killed mom and Jess, don't you?"

Why here? Why now? Is it connected to Dad's secret..? Dean hoped to God it wasn't. He wasn't certain he could deal with that revelation right now.

Sam nodded, wishing his research and reasoning had come up with a better theory. "There's more," he tapped a key and the computer's screen flickered and changed. "Two of the mothman witnesses in Lawrence have since died. Dean, they both burned in their own homes on November 2nd. What's more, I've dug up a few details on the first victim and he had no family. The newspaper report was pretty extensive and it says the guy ironically died exactly the way his parents had when he was just six months old."

"Six months?" Dean's pallor faded to almost grey at the news. This was connected to the demon, and it was connected to John's last words. Maybe it was time to face off their nemesis already, but without their dad could they have any chance of winning?

Dean looked away from his brother, images of John filling his head until it almost hurt. John had given up his life so Dean might live and kill the thing that had destroyed their family. He had given his life so that Dean could watch Sam, protect Sam and if the time came…

No. Dean couldn't go there. He couldn't bear to hear those last rumbling tones in his ear one more time. It simply made him fear the demon more. And fear it he should, because it held all the cards.

Can I face the thing, knowing what it did to me? Knowing I should have died at its hand once already? Knowing the truth about Sammy…

But really, was their any choice? Dean cleared his throat and reached out to the small table beside his bed. Grabbing his cell, he flipped it open and hit speed dial for "Dr. Badass."

"If the demon's in Kansas, Ash should have seen the signs by now." Dean cupped a hand over the base of his cell while he waited for a ring tone. "The dude was pretty certain he could track the thing."

Sam canted his head in agreement and waited while Dean spent the next five minutes talking to their computer-savvy, if slightly eccentric friend out at the roadhouse. When his brother clipped his cell closed, Sam didn't feel any better than he had only minutes previously.

"He hasn't picked up on anything, has he?"

"Damn, you're good, Sammy. Maybe we should get you doing Tarot and maybe the odd crystal ball reading. I'm sure you'd look great in one of those gypsy gal outfits with the long ear rings…"

"Dean!"

"Okay," the elder hunter conceded. "This sucks out loud. Ash hasn't heard a thing. The program he created is showing nothing to indicate our bad guy's surfaced in Kansas, or anywhere else for that matter."

Sam clipped the laptop closed and rubbed a hand over the fresh growth of stubble he'd yet to shave away. "You know that can't be right. It's in Lawrence, Dean, I feel it. This is about the demon. About what it wants…"

The pleading look of his younger sibling was enough. The puppy dog eyes had always gotten Sammy what he wanted right from an early age, and right now Sam wanted to go home to Lawrence. Maybe if he'd known what waited he would have had second thoughts, but sometimes a little knowledge was a dangerous thing.

Be careful what you wish for. The thought bounced around in Dean's head, but he didn't voice it. He would go home with Sam, and maybe they would both die there, but at least then he wouldn't have to carry the secret anymore and there would be no more nightmares where reapers tried to take his soul.

"We'll set out first thing after breakfast." Dean suggested, hiding the dread that had already began to writhe in his belly like a viper readying to strike. "Can't whoop demon ass on an empty stomach, after all."

"Do you ever think of anything but your stomach?" Sam grabbed his rucksack and began tossing clothes in haphazardly with his usual dimpled smiled.

Dean grinned waywardly. "Well, just one other thing…"

Although Kansas was the neighboring state, the ride back to Lawrence was still a long one, and despite Dean's usual protestations, both brothers took turns to drive his beloved Impala.

After sixteen hours straight behind the wheel, Sam had finally taken over from a weary-eyed Dean and had eased off the gas somewhat. Dean wasn't usually a reckless driver, but the idea of returning to the place of his birth once again had only seemed to exacerbate his already erratic behavior.

Kill or cure? Sam couldn't get the one single phrase out of his head as he dared to look across to where his brother had finally drifted off into a fitful slumber, curled into a ball on the Chevy's passenger seat.

"Dean?" Sam softly mouthed his sibling's name as he saw the warning signs appearing for yet another nightmare Dean would never admit to. Eyes darting rapidly beneath closed lids, arms flailing as if the hunter was trying to push away an unseen foe, Sam had seen it all before, and all-too often of late.

Then came the words, slurred but still discernable as Dean fought something from his past and maybe his future too.

"I'm not going…not going with you…"

Sam's brow scrunched and he was tempted to pull over and shake his brother. Not going where? The thing was, Dean was just as likely to throw a punch his way as he was to thank his brother for releasing him from his torment. Dean just didn't do "tortured hero" very well, even if in Sam's eyes that was exactly what he was.

Sam stole another glance across the Impala, but continued to ease his foot on the gas as he guided the lumbering car around a particularly tight curve. No, he would let Dean be, it was what his brother would want, nay expect from him.

"Not going…"

Dean repeated the assertion over and over, and in his confused, terrified mind the same lucid scene re-ran until he wanted to just give in to Tessa and be free.

He was at the crossroads, confronting a demon who knew all about the deal John had made. The beautiful, but deadly creature taunted him, wanting him to know his father was trapped in some hellish place there was no escape from, and all because of Dean…

Dean had lived, John had died. A simple equation the son would never forgive himself for. An equation he was reminded of every time he closed his eyes. Every time he heard John's deep but loving voice whisper those furtive last words in his ear.

The nightmare scene shifted, and he was back at the hospital in Missouri, Tessa giving him the choice of leaving the mortal world willingly or…or…

What if he'd chosen sooner? What if he'd accepted his fate the minute he'd seen the reaper's form hovering over his dying body? Maybe then John wouldn't have had time to make any demonic deal. Maybe then John would have lived and he would have gone on to whatever place in the afterlife Tessa had alluded to.

But no, Dean had just had to fight it, hadn't he? Just like everything else in his life he'd not accepted that there wasn't an alternative, a way out, a way to make everything right.

"I'm not going with you…"

Tessa continued to fight her argument, and even though his words had suggested he didn't believe it, Dean had begun to think she was right. Right that he didn't belong in the world anymore, right that he should let go…

But then, things had changed.

As he watched, forced to view the agonizing replay for the hundredth time in his own psyche, the lights began to flicker, and the hellish black mist he associated with demons began to pour into the hospital room.

Tessa pleaded that it wasn't her doing, and he believed her. The demon was here.

Maybe it doesn't even intend letting me die in peace…

The oozing raven miasma whirled towards not Dean, but Tessa, and before the young hunter's eyes she turned into something much more than just a reaper.

A smile, an oil-like presence in her eyes, all indicated that even harbingers of death could be possessed by the thing that had taken Mary Winchester and so many others like her.

"Today's your lucky day, kid…"

Tessa -- now the demon, stretched out a hand, touching Dean's forehead, and he stumbled backwards, reeling from the same sensation he had once felt in Nebraska. He gasped, and suddenly he was awake, aware that he was choking on the pipe inserted down his airway to keep him alive.

Dean jerked upright in the Impala and clutched at his throat, the memory of the endo tube as vivid as if it had only been a day or so ago.

Today wasn't his lucky day. No day was. In his own way, he was a cursed as Sammy, maybe even more so.

Dean panted; grasping at the car's dash to convince himself he was no longer in Missouri. As his breathing steadied, he dared to look over at Sam. His brother glanced back, but instead of saying a word, simply flicked on the Impala's turn signal and pull off the highway. As the tires came to a halt on the sharp gravel, Manson's Sweet Dreams echoed ironically through the speakers.

Sweet dreams are made of these.
Who am I to disagree?
Traveled the world and the seven seas.
Everybody's looking for something.

Some of them want to use you.
Some of them want to get used by you…

"Just a dream," Dean offered stoically as he deftly switched off the tantalizingly offensive tune. "Guess you're not the only one having freaky ones lately, huh?"

"Dean…this is about Dad's secret, isn't it? What could be so bad that it gives you nightmares you can't even talk about? What is it? Your brother's a demon's plaything?" Sam's voice raised and he was tempted to climb out of the car and leave like he once had before, but then, that wouldn't solve anything, except maybe push Dean over the edge he was now precariously dangling from.

Dean's face contorted, but Sam thought he saw a glimmer of sincerity in his response. "It wasn't about you, Sammy, okay?" The elder Winchester shifted uneasily in his seat, but didn't elaborate further. "So, where are we?" He questioned with a raised brow, needing to redirect the conversation even though he'd traveled this section of road a hundred times.

Sam pursed his lips but let the redirection slide. "A few miles from the outskirts of Lawrence. I figured we'd head on over to the latest victim's apartment and check things out before we find a place to stay. I got the address while you were sleeping and figured time was of the essence."

Dean nodded, but the uncertainty in his mind still made him question what they were doing. Mothman, hell, they just freaked him out. Being a hunter he'd learned about them at an early age, some strange half man, half moth creature with glowing red eyes that seemed to haunt certain areas before a disaster hit. But could they really exist? Their dad had been convinced they were just a myth, a figment of society's imagination, but then, John had been wrong about the demise of the vampire population too.

"So," he eventually mumbled whilst delving into the glove box. "What's it to be, cops, FBI, or maybe I could whip us up a couple of fire investigator's ID's?"

Sam flicked the Impala back into gear and slipped back onto the highway. "Sounds good, just no rock surnames, okay?"

Dean's lopsided grin appeared. "Fine, Samantha…I'll just make you Sammy Love Hewitt…should fit you like a glove…"

Sam scowled but didn't respond. He knew it would be no use anyway.

Eagle Ridge Apartments

Eldridge Street, Lawrence

Dean pushed open the Impala's door and climbed out somewhat stiffly. Sam had convinced him that two Fire Department officials would not be wearing scruffy jeans and a t-shirt and that they needed to dress a little more formally – advice he was already regretting following.

"Dude, how did I let you talk me into a tie?" To prove his point, the elder hunter began tugging at the thing around his neck until it hung far looser than intended. Satisfied he stopped his ministrations and let a hand glide into his pocket to retrieve two newly made ID's.

"Just tell me you didn't?" Sam ignored the tie jibe and set his attention on the white tag being flaunted before his eyes. If that thing says Sammy Love Hewitt I'll…

Sam moved like lightning and snatched the ID from Dean's hand, quickly thumbing it over to check the "owner's" details. With an outward sigh he smiled. Maybe Dean wasn't such an ass after all. "Thanks," he offered gratefully as he clipped the badge to his top pocket. "I can live with being named after a literary great…"

Dean grinned, looking up at the apartment block they were about to enter. "Yeah, well, just so you know, I named you after Homer Simpson, not the Greek poet, dude…"

"Do'h…" Sam mimicked the character he'd been named after and slapped a hand to his head. "Now why had I already guessed that?"

"Because I'm such an awesome brother?" Dean smirked and then began swaggering towards the nearby building's entrance. As he read the name plaque he stopped. "Eldridge Street?" He raised a brow. "Gotta love the irony. Boy, that's one mystery I'd love to stick my nose into…"

"Huh?" Sam joined his brother but wasn't really paying attention. Something was dulling his senses until he couldn't concentrate on any one thing.

"You know, the "Eldridge?" The whole Philadelphia Experiment thing gone wrong? Don't tell me I know something about history geekboy doesn't?" Dean frowned, and finally spun to face his brother.

Sam had turned a deathly shade of white and was now clutching at his temple – and this time it wasn't because he was imitating Homer Simpson.

"Sam?" Dean took hold of his brother by both shoulders and tried to guide him to a bench on the sidewalk, but Sam resisted. This wasn't like an ordinary vision; it was like someone forcing their way into his skull until he couldn't think or function.

To add to the torment, his cell began to warble out its familiar tune from his pocket. He tried to fumble for it, but even his hands didn't want to function properly.

"Leave it!" Dean's timbre was so imposing he sounded like their dad on a bad day.

Still, Sam pushed away the hastily growled order and paused, struggling to slide a hand down to grab the phone. After a moment, long fingers clamped around the PDA and he tugged it free.

Looking down, Sam blinked, trying to see the caller ID, but his eyes didn't want to focus and the screen appeared as nothing but a blur. It was like a migraine of cosmic proportions. "Shit…"

The younger Winchester pulled away from Dean's worried grip and stumbled back enough to give himself some space to breath. He flipped open the cell with one brief jerk of his thumb and shakily forced it to his ear.

Somehow, even before he picked up on the garbled sounds coming down the line, he knew this was no ordinary call. The headache, the intensity of the moment all meant one thing – this message was from no mortal.

The line crackled as he listened, several abrupt screeching noises giving the illusion that he was simply picking up on a fax machine as it dialed out. Then, the high pitched electrical feedback changed until a voice leaked through the background noise.

The pronunciation was off, like he was talking to someone whose first language wasn't English – no, it was more than that; it was like hearing the sound of some robotic creature on the TV. Jeez, it's like listening to a Cylon…

The speaker didn't seem to sense Sam's thoughts and continued, its disembodied verbal style unwavering. "The firs…the firs in wals…firs in wals…"

Tbc...