AN: The chapter is neither early or late but arrived exactly when it was intended...tricksy, tricksy muses. (Yup, I'm grossly misquoting Tolkein; my apologies to the late, great John Ronald Reuel, who is possibly my favorite author of all time. And yup, I know the chapter took way longer than it should have and I'm sorry.) Honestly, I'm dying to get reactions to a little revelation in this chapter.

Janice is a fantastic beta and friend and I'm grateful for her help!

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We always have time enough, if we will but use it aright.

Dean stared at the disaster of an engine. At first glance, the vehicle had seemed to be in good order, but once he'd started to work on it, he found problems with everything he touched. Belts and hoses were so brittle that many of them practically disintegrated when he moved or adjusted them in any way. He'd been so frustrated by the fact that he was effectively grounded all day that he hadn't been able to put a finger on what felt so familiar about parts that acted in that way.

Well, now he'd figured it out. When he was 13, Dad had been sidelined with a broken ankle, so they'd taken up a lease on an old house and stayed put for a few months. The place was in a state of disrepair and things were constantly breaking, especially the plumbing. And every time they put a wrench to a pipe, it seemed the pipe broke. Dad said that they'd grown brittle and frangible with age, meaning they were functional...until you messed with them.

That's what this felt like, too, like the parts were much older than they should be. Dean didn't know of anything environmental that could cause such a reaction, but whatever had, he was dealing with the fallout ever since the ungulus had attacked the truck.

Dean felt a little guilty that Sam had to do all of the running around (maybe even literally – the guy actually enjoyed jogging) and a lot worried about not having reliable transportation when so much was happening around them. He leaned back under the hood with a grunt, trying to see what was wrong with the wires connecting the battery. Leaning as far in as he could, he could just kind of get his flashlight pointed at the right spot –

"Woof!"

Bang! A loud barking startled Dean so much that he smacked his head on the underside of the hood.

"Dammit, dog!" he snapped, rubbing the back of his head as he straightened. Ace was jumping up and down and running in circles like he'd lost his mind. "What...where's Sam?" After waiting a few moments to see if Sam would appear following the dog, he frowned when said little brother did not show up. He looked around a bit confused and followed that up with a yelled "Sam?" which also failed to produce a response. His frown deepened as he pulled out his phone, calling his brother. It rang four times and it went to voicemail. "Where the hell is he?" he asked again, this time following Ace as fast as his injuries allowed, the dog's continued agitation escalating his own growing concern. "Hang on. Let me gear up," he said, ducking into their room.

In moments, Dean was carrying the weapons he wanted. To conceal them enough, he had to put on his coat, still bloodstained from the fight with Deputy Dumbass and his Nachzehrer harem, but he wasn't leaving behind any of his favorites – not the machete, the shotgun, not his beloved 1911, and certainly not the demon-killing knife and a container of salt. After a second's hesitation, he stuffed the warding bag in another pocket, trusting his instincts.

Though this took very little time, Ace grew more and more agitated by the wait. When Dean opened the room door again, the dog took off like a shot. Luckily, he kept running back to make sure Dean was following, because even pushing himself to the limit, Dean couldn't move faster than a jog. They went approximately forever, with Ace constantly dashing ahead and returning like this is as far as you've gotten? Dean called Sam's phone every few minutes and kept an eye out for any vehicle he could jack without being noticed. Then he heard a distant, tinny version of The Auteurs' Idiot Brother. If he hadn't been so worried, he might have appreciated the humor in the choice of ringtone.

In another minute, he caught up to Ace, who was staring down at two objects sitting alongside the road: Sam's phone and his Taurus. Dean picked up both and checked the latter's clip: full. He took a long moment to swear as he looked around for any kind of clues as to what had happened. There was nothing at all to indicate what might have happened – no blood or signs of struggle, no visible tire tracks or anything else. There were just two things that Sam would never choose to leave behind on the street and an extremely upset dog.

Dean looked closer at Sam's phone and realized that it had a recently-recorded video. He opened it and watched as an extreme close-up of a hand appeared, then moved, showing Sam crouching above the phone. The audio picked up a dog growling and the sound of an engine.

"Run!" video Sam called, and there was the clacking of nails. So he'd sent the dog away. Figured.

Very distantly, an unknown voice said, "Keep getting cute and I won't take you to the missing kid, Noah." Even at the awkward angle, Dean could see the change on Sam's face as he heard those words. No wonder he went with whoever it was.

Sam stood and stepped out of sight. "Where is Noah, sergeant?" A car door closed and the engine sounds grew louder, then gradually quieter. The rest of the video just showed the dark sky and the rare sweep of headlights. It must have gone to capacity and simply stopped.

Taking one more glance around, Dean muttered a phrase that he'd picked up from Rufus, of all people, that he was pretty sure was Swahili and involved grapefruit and used in a very unpleasant way, then pulled out his own phone.

The truck wouldn't run. He could steal a car, or he could call one of two people in town, since Sam had made sure to warn him against calling the cops. Person one, Gloria, likely thought he was on drugs and was extremely unlikely to help, so he dialed person two.

"Hey, Grant. It's Dean and I have an emergency."

To Dean's relief, Grant listened to Dean's sparse explanation, then sighed and said he'd meet Dean at the motel in 15 minutes. And yes, he would drive him where he needed to go. Dean limped as fast as he could back and only had time to duck inside and swallow a pair of their stash of good pain killers (he needed to be as mobile as possible) and grab a second canister of salt before Grant pulled up alongside the building. He climbed out of his truck and stared behind the motel, then turned to see the dog running up to him excitedly, wagging not just his tail, but the entire back half of his body. Grant crouched and rubbed the furry head, looking at him with an expression that Dean would almost term awe.

"Goethe?" he breathed. Then Grant straightened his face going serious. "Show me this proof you mentioned that Sam is truly in trouble and answer a few questions honestly, and I'll take you wherever you need to go and not call the cops," he promised.

Dean was impatient, but he quickly cued up Sam's phone to the beginning of the video. "You know that voice?" he asked when it was finished. "And can you ask your questions on the way?" Every minute Sam was gone felt like an eternity.

Grant's eyes had widened as he watched and listened to the clip. "Of course. All questions can wait except one. How the hell do you have my grandpa's truck and dog?"

Dean's brain did a full-stop record screech. "Foster is…"

"He married my grandma Betty Fleming."

"...and Marta is your mom." Dean headed for the passenger door of Grant's Silverado, his surprise not dimming his urgency. "I thought you were a teenager!"

Grant was staring at Dean as hard as he'd been staring at Ace. His eyes snagged on the blood on Dean's shirt and lingered for a moment. "I was when he died. Almost a dozen years ago."

Dean experienced the second brain record screech in as many minutes. "He...died," he repeated. His racing thoughts didn't stop him from climbing into the truck after the dog, though.

"Yes, he died. He was attacked by a bear and lost his leg and survived a couple months, but infection set in." Grant's words were terse to the point of sounding almost angry, but Dean recognized the grief and confusion fueling it. "How did you know him? And why – this can't really be his dog – are you playing some trick or something?"

"It's no trick. Sam is really in danger and we need to find him now. Start driving and head for the woods where everything's on fire." Dean gnawed his lip. "Don't punch me, but...are you absolutely sure he died?" It didn't seem like Foster's way, but more than one Hunter had faked his own death to get off the grid.

"What the hell kind of question is that?!" Grant demanded, though to Dean's relief, he started driving. "Yeah, he wasn't related by blood, but he was a good man and the closest thing I ever had to a dad. My mom was with him when he died and has the urn of his ashes. Is that enough proof for you?!"

Dean pictured the old Hunter who'd helped them out, surrounded by his hounds and dredged up a much older memory. A graveyard dog, for reasons unknown, will sometimes attach itself to one human being, living or dead, and its loyalty was undimmed if the person died after the attachment had formed. And once, he and Dad had come across a guy who'd drawn the devotion of an entire handful of the mystical beings. They were so staunch that they not only guarded his grave, but refused to let his ghost move on. And graveyard dogs bore a strong resemblance to wolfhounds.

It was wild and unlikely in the extreme, but...so were Nachzehers and demons and primordial entities and ancient curses. Dean didn't know how a dead guy could use a phone or eat or who had played at being his step-daughter or a lot of other things. But somehow, he believed it.

"Ah, hell," he muttered. He needed to focus on finding Sam and ganking whatever was causing all the shit to go down, but first he had to give Grant the talk. And convince him that his dead grandpa was not quite all the way dead.

"So, this works a lot smoother if we have some whiskey to go with it, but here goes. You saw the zombie squirrel bones. You've noticed the crazy shit going on in your town. You're not the kind of guy to bury your head in the sand, so I'm sure you've already been adding some stuff up."

Grant's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, but he didn't disagree. Ace laid his head on Grant's knee as if in support.

Damn, Dean wished Sam were here to do this. He ran his thumb over the handle of the demon killing knife like a worry stone. "All the nasty shit that goes bump in the night – well, most of it is 100% real. People don't want to believe, but yeah, demons and ghosts and whatever. It's out there, and it's bad.

"People like me and Sam do our best to take out the creepy SOB's that are eating people or cursing them or whatever." He blew out a breath. "And Foster did, too. It wasn't a bear that took his leg. Just like it was no FBI fugitive that did this." He gestured to the still-healing bruises on his face.

"You're crazy," Grant said, but the words were weak. "How did you even know Pops? Why are you trying to feed me this?"

So much for easing him into it. "I met him when I was a kid, cuz Sam and me grew up in the hunting life. He helped out our dad with some research. You might wanna pull over for this part." He dialed his phone and put it on speaker.

"How's the truck comin'?"

"Uh, yeah, about that." Dean cast a look at Grant, hoping he wasn't about to drive off the road. "You're on speaker with Grant here. Grant Fleming. Something you forgot to mention to me and Sam? Maybe a couple little somethings?" Dean's voice went hard. "I need Grant on board right damn now and I think you owe me."

The pause was long and pregnant. Goethe whined a bit as if in sympathy with his master. Finally, Foster spoke again, an odd note in his voice. "Grant. I bet you're kinda, uh, doubting whatever Dean's been saying to you." The line hissed as he drew in a breath that he didn't actually need. "So here goes...I used to call you Bugs cuz when I first got to know you, you were always catchin' 'cool' bugs and spiders to show people. I called your brother Gumby cuz he slept in the weirdest twisted up ways. The first time I took you fishing, you got so excited that you fell out of the boat. The first thing you said when I pulled you up was –"

"Did my fish get away?" Grant finished, sounding dazed. "You, uh. We, uh get you marigolds every year…" He trailed off and Dean remembered the dried up flowers under the seat in the truck. He was pretty sure that marigolds had some kind of special meaning, but he couldn't be bothered to put more thought into it at the moment.

"I know, son."

"It's...true?" Grant asked weakly. "Ghosts and the rest of it?" He swallowed hard enough that his Adam's apple bobbed and his throat made a clicking sound. "And you used to, uh, look for that kind of thing?"

"Yeah." Foster sounded weary. "Yeah. Remember the symbols on the trees around my place? How Goethe was too smart to be a regular dog? Remember, uh, the storage under the floor that you weren't allowed to look into?"

"Pull over," Dean ordered reluctantly, not really wanting to be in a moving vehicle when the driver passed out. "I'll drive."

"No...it's...I'm okay," Grant said unconvincingly though the color of his face was one shade above dead. "Dean and Sam are good at this?"

"They're better than good. They're the best, to be honest." The words were flattering but Foster didn't sound happy. In fact, he sounded borderline pissed. "So, Dean, you wanna tell me why we had to give my grandson the shock and awe treatment? Especially after I worked so hard to keep him and his brother out of the life?"

Dean's jaw ached and he made a conscious effort to relax it enough to talk. "Because the damn truck is busted to hell and Grant – who, by the why I had no way in hell of knowing is your teenage grandson -- is the only guy in town I can trust given the fact that some psycho cop took Sam. And, oh yeah, the guy that sent us on this case has been lying to us and is DEAD! AND I STILL DON'T KNOW WHAT WE'RE AFTER!"

"I didn't lie to you," Foster argued. "Not really. And hell, I didn't mean to stick around. Since I did, I just kept doin' what I could to help Hunters. I had family in the danger zone, and I never met a Hunter who'd've listened to what a spook had to say."

Dean was pissed. And worried. And more pissed that, despite Foster's disingenuousness, he believed him, understood his motivations, and still kinda liked him.

"Why did you tell us that Grant was a teenager?" Dean asked, trying to peer through the smoke and figure out where they were. "Forget that. What was actually real? The food?" He barely stopped himself from asking about Marta to spare Grant yet another shock. "I mean the dog and the truck and -- just how, Foster?"

"I dunno. It's not like my reaper gave me Being Undead: A Guide for Idiots." Foster grunted. " Listen, you can be pissed at me after you find Sam and take out the SOB that's killing people. I been reading everything I got here, and I think it's an artifact that you're after. It seems like every other site mentioned in the Dæmonium that went bad, there was mention of some kind of item found. Take that fancy bag you have. It might buy you some time."

Dean was pretty sure he could multi-task and do both, but he let Foster continue.

"Go, find your brother, and take out whatever's shitting in Milton. And Dean?"

Dean recognized what was coming, having heard a similar verbal transition from his father many, many times. "I'll keep Grant safe," he grumbled. "And we are talking about this being dead deal." He hung up as they came to a stop, wondering if everything that had happened had all finally caught up to his companion. "Where are we?" It kind of looked like a playground, if there was a playground on the edge of Hell.

A metal slide, warped by heat so that its top twisted toward them, dully reflected Grant's headlights. It looked for all the world as if it were cringing away from the woods. Other shapes crouched ominously, identifying details hidden by patchy smoke, distance, and darkness. A little farther away, the flickering light of small flames made lanky, disjointed shadow puppets out of the branches of the trees they were trying to consume. Thanks to the spots of fire, those shadows danced jerkily like a skeleton on a string. Little coils of smoke twirled up from seemingly random spots of underbrush and hissed from splits in the trees' bark. Though there was no wind to speak of, Dean could feel a hint of the heat from the dying but persistent fire.

"The only side of the woods we can get to without having to deal with cops and firefighters keeping an eye on things," Grant said, sounding a little more like himself. He twisted to flip open the heavy case behind the seat. "I do have two air tanks, but they'll last thirty minutes at best, less if we're –"

"Not we. Just me. You're gonna give me those tanks and drive away." Dean checked his weapons one last time, grabbed the tanks, and got out, hoping to end the conversation. He decided he wouldn't need the air right away, so he pulled out a bandanna and tied it over his nose and mouth.

"What? No!" Grant hastily climbed out and hurried over to Dean's side of the vehicle. The dog hopped out with him. "I'm not letting you go alone. Your partner – brother? – was already taken. You need someone to watch your back."

"Look man, I appreciate it." He did, too. "But that's a hard no, and not just cuz your gramps wants you safe. I know you're a badass, but think about it like this: You and I pull up at a warehouse fire. Would you let me slap on a helmet and go in to watch your back? No. Because it's not my expertise."

"You literally are walking into a fire," Grant argued.

Dean all but growled. "No. I'm walking into a supernatural trap that's been grabbing people and making them die in all kinds of crazy ways. Do you have a gun?"

"No, but –"

"Any weapons at all?"

"Not –"

"You ever beheaded a vamp? Toasted a ghoul? Gone mano-a-mano with a werewolf?"

"No, but I can –"

"No, you can't. And you won't." Dean was not playing. He gave Grant the look that made monsters wince and people fall into line. "This thing has claimed too many people on my watch already, and every minute we argue I ain't out there finding Sam. Get the hell out of here."

Grant blinked against the smoke and set his mouth in a mulish line that reminded Dean of a younger Sam, then he visibly deflated. "Set this gauge to between 1.8 and 2.2," he instructed Dean, tapping one of the tanks. "You might still smell the smoke a little, but it should be mild. When the air tastes sweet, you're almost at the end of your tank. Switch out before you feel light-headed."

Dean nodded that he understood. "You oughta stay here with him," he told Ace. The dog whined and looked at him balefully and maybe even a little scornfully. Dean shrugged, a clear suit yourself.

Grant wasn't done. He spoke with an authority that showed Dean exactly why he'd been made chief so young. "This is important, Dean. If you find someone who's injured or impaired in some way, the person who is healthiest keeps the air tank. You can't carry someone to safety if you pass out."

Dean nodded at that, too, though it was no promise that he'd listen if he found Sam in a bad way.

"And...I'm not leaving. I'll be here when you come out."

Officially out of patience, Dean didn't argue the point. "Fine. Stay out of trouble. And, dog, you really shouldn't come." With the tanks slung over one shoulder to keep maximum mobility, he set off toward the trees, Ace dodging a grab from Grant to follow rebelliously at his heels.

"How do you know what direction to go?!" Grant called from behind him, but Dean didn't acknowledge him or slow. Though he had to pick his way carefully through the dystopian landscape, he couldn't help but let a memory wash over him.

Sam was gone and their family was busted and Dad didn't even talk much and Dean was pretty much always drunk. He looked for hunts with a passion, and when he didn't have one, pursued women and hustling and fights almost as hard. Anything to avoid sleeping.

When his drunk ass nearly missed the approach of the shivera they were hunting, almost ending up without his head, Dad didn't even yell at him. No, he dragged him out to a miserable shack at the ass end of nowhere and dumped him with Jefferson, who tended to live like (and sort of looked like) a sixteenth century fur trapper.

Jefferson, a bear of man who spoke little, forcibly dried Dean out and made him eat real food and drink water. Couldn't make him sleep, though.

After the third day of weathering Dean's sometimes simmering sometimes volatile resentment, Jefferson abruptly spoke. "You think you two'll never be what you were again," he said without preamble or explanation.

But Dean knew exactly what he meant, because he was actually right. Nearly tied with the fear that something terrible would happen to Sam without Dean there to watch his back was the suffocating realization that their dynamic was gone forever. No more silent conversations, million and one inside jokes, seamless cooperation. No more SamandDean. It hit Dean all over again, and he thought he might be puke all over the rustic table.

"C'mere," Jefferson said when Dean couldn't answer. "Gonna show ya somethin'." He opened a cabinet that actually contained a vintage TV and VCR. Dean would have been shocked that Jefferson had such things if he'd had the capacity for such an emotion at the moment. "Watch." He fed a tape into the machine, turned it on and left.

The video was grainy and not completely steady, but Dean could easily make out that he was looking down at a combination maze and obstacle course from a high enough perch to see the entire thing at once. There was a light layer of frost on the ground and on most of the obstacles and barriers. Dean remembered being there. Dad had somehow gotten the opportunity to train at this place (not that he'd ever mentioned how), probably some kind of military training site, and had run the boys ragged for a week on some really cool courses and equipment. There had been other Hunters there doing the same kind of work: Caleb, Jefferson, Bobby, and maybe one or two more.

"This is a level four course," said Bobby's voice from off screen. "Promised them boys I'd take 'em to see that spy movie and buy KFC if they both find the center mark before 8 minutes." Someone else unseen whistled but didn't get a chance to comment. A starter pistol sounded and despite the distance, Dean could easily distinguish his 16-year-old self and his gangly 12-year-old brother at opposite ends of the rugged expanse. The former took off with confidence and strength, the latter with calculation. Both powered through and made it under the time limit, though Sam didn't make it by much. Dean had to look away from the screen as his younger form celebrated with his brother.

The screen jumped to a similar scene showing a different course, more complicated and with bigger challenges. Now there was maybe half an inch of snow too, making things even more difficult. Bobby's voice came again, this time in mid-sentence. "...told them each that the other one is in the middle without a coat and won't get one until they find 'im. This course is level 8 when the ground's dry."

It was clear even from the long distance and through the poor quality picture that the brothers were moving with a different purpose from before. And, oddly, every move they made seemed to be in the direction of the other though there was no way they could see each other. Young Sam climbed a wall twice his height. Young Dean vaulted a hazard and caught a tree branch with one hand to propel himself farther in a move that looked seriously cool.

Three minutes and eleven seconds after the gun sounded, Sam's head popped up over the edge of a natural verge just as on-screen Dean landed atop the same. Now Dean could imagine the grin that they shared so clearly that his chest ached all over again.

"Destroy this," Dean ground out, sensing Jefferson behind him.

"I have the only copy," was the calm reply. "I'll give it to you and your brother some day. You see that and you think you an' Sam won't be like you were again some day?" He scoffed. "Moron. You two'll always find each other."

Dean nodded grimly at the echo of the memory's words. "Damn straight. I'm coming, Sam."

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AN: I grew up in a really old farmhouse, and my poor dad actually had the experience of working on old, brittle plumbing in a Michigan cellar no less. That inspired Dean's memory.

Marigolds are often purchased in memory of a loved one who's passed away, sometimes on Dia de los Muertos or on a significant date like their birthday or the anniversary of their death.

A shivera is nothing but a product of my overactive imagination and possible baddy for a future story.

Christine: You're right, of course! Luckily, Dean's on the way. Hang in there, Sam...I don't put them in very nice places, do I?

muffinroo: Yes, yes I did that. I hope that's surprise and not horror! We can blame the lack of coffee, except that I had that twist planned from the very beginning. Bwahaha on wanting to be Sam's personal Uber but not necessarily being willing to let him out! Poor Grant. I had a hard time writing Dean's explanation for him because there was so much to tell.

sfaulkenberry: I believe you once said that Sam is like catnip to supernatural things and it's so true! It amuses me way too much to write people mistaking them for a couple.

sylvia37: Yeah...that's totally fair.

Colby's girl: I was tired just writing about how much walking poor Sam did! I personally prefer to refer to caffeine as My Sweet and Wonderful Friend that Makes Mornings Bearable. LOL. Thank you for your very kind words. It's lovely to hear that you want more.

Kathy: At least Dean has an ally now, though you gotta feel for poor Grant learning everything that way. Talk about shock and awe! You'll learn more about the gargoyle eventually, plus "speech ally." I put Sam through a lot, now Dean too. Sorry you had to wait so long for this chapter. Thanks for being so nice!

Spnlady: Aw, thanks! You're incredibly sweet. Sorry to leave you hanging for so long!

Timelady66: Ugh, technological issues are so irritating. I wish Dean had talked to Jack about Lucifer too. Of course, I think we've talked about how the show didn't seem to give enough credence to just how much he put Sam through. Anyway, it's so nice to have you reading!