Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to Supernatural, and I am making no profit from this story.

Chapter 2

Dean slid against the side of the building, pressing his shoulder blades against the brick wall behind him. He tilted his head back, hearing the call of his name from the front doors, and firmly ignoring it. No, he wasn't hiding from a girl. He told himself as much, but that didn't make it any truer. He was definitely hiding from a girl, but there was no way he'd ever admit to doing more than loitering after hours.

He peeked out long enough to see a thick black ponytail as the girl, still dressed in the skimpy blue uniform she was wearing to cheerleading practice, all but ran down the sidewalk to the stairs of the tunnel that passed beneath the old county road and out the other side to the gym and student parking lot. No doubt, she thought she'd missed him.

"Jesus H. Christ," he muttered. "That chick's crazy."

Her name was Jerry Lynn, and the first day of class, he'd been damn pleased to meet her. For starters, she'd offered to give him a copy of all her notes as soon as she ran her eyes down him, and with a leer and a suck of her cherry-balm lip, she'd told him she'd be more than willing to help him with his homework, since he couldn't do any of the writing while his lead arm was in a cast. Dean Winchester was not a guy to pass up such a tempting offer, but by day three, when she started doodling hearts onto his cast and shooting every girl who came near him the evil eye, he started to understand why Jerry Lynn didn't have a boyfriend. The word clingy was too kind. Obsessively possessive seemed to fit the bill.

Any other time, Dean would have just said something embarrassing about her waistline or her hair in front of her friends—an easy, if cold, method for ditching someone who was getting too close—but, frankly, he was too tired, too drained, to put in the effort. Still, it might beat hiding from her after school while he waited for his geeky baby brother to finish helping out the librarian.

"Dean?"

Dean popped out from the side of the building, a crooked grin on his face. The expression was force, the way it tended to be of recent. "Mrs. Queen kick you out of the stacks already? You spend much more time volunteering to help her and she's going to think you have a crush."

Sam blushed but hid it with a raised brow. He skipped down the steps, shifting the heavy backpack across his shoulders for comfort. "Were you hiding back there?"

"Hiding?"

"From Jerry Lynn," Sam supplied, sounding a bit too pleased with himself. "She's gone now, you know. Why are you hiding from a girl anyhow—I thought you liked girls?"

And the way he said that part, with a frown, still showed he hadn't quite picked up a decent affection for the fairer sex yet. Nevertheless, he was still stuck too firmly between the "cooties" and the "peeking a look down a blouse" phases of life to commit to being completely disgusted by his brother's new conquests.

Stupid small schools—his relationship status spread like wildfire, and it wasn't just limited to the usual gossips. Dean knew as much when a girl in the sixth grade passed him a note asking him if he'd date her when he broke up with Jerry Lynn. Not that he was actually going out with Jerry Lynn. Jesus. The price of being the mysterious new guy. He should have known this was going to be a problem on his first day, when, by lunchtime, a couple of seniors he'd never spoken to were asking him questions about his dad's Impala. What, were these kids training to be spies or something?

"Shut up, squirt," Dean snapped. Not his best rebuttal. He fell in line beside his brother, wrapping his good arm around the kid's neck to roughly ruffle his hair. "You got homework?"

"Finished most of it. I need to study for my history test. You?"

Dean shrugged. This time, Sam let him get away with it. "Wanna hang out at the grill a while?"

"Nah."

But that didn't mean he wanted to head back to their current living quarters either.

It wasn't that Ed and Bernie weren't good company—Ed wasn't even home most of the afternoon to pester them about school, since, apparently, being a principal meant planning meetings and finishing paperwork, even outside of school hours. But, Bernie spent most of her day sewing quilts and visiting what she proudly called her "old hens circle" down at the local church. The Hester house itself wasn't the most exciting place, either. For starters, they didn't have a television since their two kids had moved out to college. Who the heck didn't have television?

The grill had turned into a pretty okay place—because, yeah, they had a bulky TV in one corner and always had it turned to Nickelodeon unless there was a basketball or football game taking place. But the problem with heading to the lone restaurant in the small community was that everyone else headed there too.

Everyone included his fellow classmates. With a couple acceptations, Jerry Lynn amongst them, they were nice people. That was part of said-problem. Nice people wanted to make friends. Dean didn't. The last and only time he'd really tried to, it hadn't ended well. It had ended bloody.

Dean shivered, his whole body going cold, but he covered it by nodding in the direction of the Hester home.

He and Sam trudged down the side of the road, picking up chiggers and seeds on their jeans as they shuffled through the weeds. It wasn't a particularly long walk, but they knew how to spread it out. Weariness seemed to line his boots with lead. Dean moved so slowly he finally came to stop, staring off into the woods along the side of the school. Sam took the hint and trudged past a few trees until he found the flat-topped limestone boulder he'd claimed as his favorite reading spot. It was what Dean had considered a safe enough place for disappearing, the road still visible through the trees, the school and house both a two minute run in opposite directions.

Dean plopped down onto the leafy ground beside the rock, picking at the thick moss growing up its stained, jagged side.

"Mrs. Queen let me check out this new book she just got in called The Giver—I mean, it's not all new, just new to their library, which is kind of tiny, so I guess that's why they don't get stuff in for a while, but, still, I haven't read it yet. It's supposed to be good but kinda weird, and she said I might like it."

"Cause you're kinda weird?" Dean supplied, cutting off the rambling story.

He felt a pebble drop down onto his shoulder a moment later and chuckled.

"No, jerk, because I'm at a higher reading level, and I can let her know if it's any good," Sam snapped. But he went quiet a moment later, his breathing easing as he settled down to enjoy the dull Fall sunlight while he still could. Dean heard a page flip and realized he was on his own.

"Your brother's smart."

Dean rolled his eyes, but he felt pride swell up in him. Hell, yeah, his Sammy was smarter than the other kids in his classroom—had a smart mouth, too. He didn't need to be told as much. "That's why his middle name is Geekboy."

Christopher chuckled, plopping down on the bleachers and somehow managing to stretch himself out across four, despite the fact that he was nearly a head shorter, if only a year younger, than Dean.

"So, I guess your dad decided to stay longer?"

"Yeah, well, he found work in the area."

Dean could barely say that with a straight face, but it was true enough. His dad had skipped straight from one hunt about two hours off, to one that was practically in their new backyard. If they were lucky, that would mean sticking around another few months. Sam insisted it was some kind of sign, that they'd stayed through half the summer and were starting a new school year here; the kid was sure it meant their dad was going to make sure they spent a whole year here. Dean didn't bother to disappoint him, because he was kind of wishing for the same since he'd managed to make a friend.

"That's cool." Christopher supped on his Coke. "Mom's gonna expect you to stay on then. You've got her and the other waitresses charmed over at Buckeye's."

Dean chuckled. He'd picked up the dishwashing job at the steakhouse to make sure that Sammy got to stay somewhere with a damn good AC unit. Their father had ordered them to fill the summer with his training, but he was rarely there to implement the hard stuff. Dean had plenty enough time to work for cash under the table and keep Sammy in shape, too.

Somewhere along the line, he'd also made time to hang out with Christopher—thankfully, the guy didn't think it was weird that Sam had to go with them everywhere. He must of figured it was a little brother thing, since he didn't have one of his own. Dean had thought about ditching the guy—after all, he'd known better than to get close to people in the past, but for some reason, he always went along with it when Christopher wanted to hang out.

"I don't like that your dad put you into my school."

Dean raised a brow at the statement, but he had already caught the hint of a grin on Christopher's face. He followed his gaze to the girls practicing their baton tosses out on the field; more than a few of them were shooting the pair smiles.

"Now none of the other guys'll have damn chance," Christopher lamented.

Dean raised a hand of welcome to the girls past the bleachers. Okay, so maybe he hadn't been able to attract much—read: 'any'—attention from the opposite sex in the past, but his hormones weren't going to let him play it humble now that his buddy had pointed out a couple possibilities. Maybe sophomore year wasn't going to be so bad, after all. It was the first time he could honestly say he was going into a school where someone already knew him, where he already had a friend, and now, apparently, there were chicks digging him.

He winked at the closest brunette, playing it cool. She actually blushed—score one for Winchester!

"Damn straight. But don't worry, I'll save you one, Chris."

Christopher elbowed him. "Gee, thanks."

Dean threw his head back and laughed.

"Seriously, though, I hope your dad keeps his new job."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. I think I'd like to stick around awhile."

"…Only about forty-five minutes away."

Dean blinked, rubbing the grit out of his eyes. "What?"

Sam huffed. "You're not even listening to me!" But before Dean would say anything else, Sam fell back into this comment. "I said, Florence is only about forty-five minutes away, and Bernie said she and Ed sometimes drive out that way for shopping, 'cause there's not really anything good close by. Do you think they might take us the Renaissance Faire? It's only two weeks away, fourth weekend in October."

The kid was a walking tourism pamphlet.

"You're just dying to slip on a pair of tights aren't you?"

Sam slid off the limestone, a frown set on his face. "You don't have to dress up, stupid. It would be fun. My teacher is giving everyone who goes extra points." He seemed to realize that argument wouldn't win him any favors, so he rolled his eyes. "The kids in my class said they sell giant turkey legs there."

While Dean had to admit that sounded intriguing, he couldn't draw up the enthusiasm he could usually fake for whatever was Sammy's current endeavor. "Dad'll never hand over the money."

"It's free to go to." Sam pouted, nudging Dean's thigh with the toe of his shoe to keep his attention. "And maybe Dad can take us, instead."

"He's got a hunt, Sammy."

"Yeah, but he might be done by then—and even if he's not, he could take off one day. It's just one day. Maybe not even a whole day. Maybe just a few hours, and then—"

Dean cut him off. "Dad's not going to go for it." When he saw the hurt expression on his brother's face, he sighed. "But maybe you can trick him into it… You know, there's tons of ghost lore for that area. Maybe if you mention it, he'll be okay with cruising around Florence for a day."

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly looking his age. "I don't want to look up stupid ghost lore—that's the opposite of what I want to do if we go!" His nostrils flared out almost comically. Dean was ready to point as much out when Sam opened his mouth again. "Haven't you had enough of ghosts for a while?"

Sam's eyes widened, as if he'd just heard himself, but it was too late. Dean was already at his feet, trudging off through the woods. He could hear Sam's quick footsteps as he picked up his stuff and ran to catch up with him.

"I didn't mean it that way, Dean," he called. "Slow down!"

Dean sped up, slapping away a tangle of briars that tried to cling to his cast. His fingertips stung from the move, but he wasn't acting entirely on anger, keeping adjacent to the road, instead of heading deeper into the forest—after all, Sammy was still behind him. Way behind him, he hoped.

The movement caught the corner of his eye, and Dean came to a sudden stop, staring out into the woods.

The bear stared back at him from fifteen feet away.

It was a massive creature, even still on all four legs, and it seemed to shift its weight under his examination, its brown, gray-tipped fur rippling over layers of fat. Its mouth was lax, no hint of a roar, despite the long yellow teeth peeking out from its black and pink maul, and its eyes were warm and deep, watching him with curiosity. It shook out its head, hair at its thick jaw standing on end, groaning slightly with the movement, and then strained its neck, as if pointing to its left.

Follow me, the gesture seemed to say.

Something brushed over him, warmth like summer sun against his face. It went against his training, but Dean couldn't stop himself. He took a step forward and froze again. A noise pulled him from the moment; it was the sound of Sam's feet stomping down twigs. He brother almost ran into his side in his haste.

"Dean, I said I'm—"

Whatever need he'd felt to get closer to the bear was gone in an instant, taken by the surge of protectiveness pumping through him. Fingers tightening on his brother's shirt, Dean tossed Sam behind him, ready to go for the knife he kept hidden in his boot, but by the time he glanced back up, the bear was gone, not even a shaking branch or the crunch of dead leaves announcing the direction of its departure.

"Dude, what the hell was that?" Dean let out a shallow breath. "It was huge!"

Sam pulled free from his grasp, smoothing a hand over his wrinkled shirt. "God, Dean, that hurt! You don't have to be a butthead just because you're angry with me."

Dean blinked, confused by the outburst. "Uh—I'm sorry if I was a little too distracted to be gentle with you, Samantha, but there was a goddamned bear in front of us!"

Sam wrinkled his nose; it was a sure sign he was about to go from whining to bitching. "Really, Dean? You're going to pretend you saw the Belgreen Bear? That's lame, even for you."

"The Belgreen Bear?" Dean frowned. "Then there really is a friggin' grizzly bear out here? In Alabama?"

"Very funny, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes when his brother's expression didn't change. "I heard the local legend on my second day here, too, you know. I'm not an idiot. I expect the other high schoolers to try and trick the little kids into believing there's a stupid bear around the playground or a boogieman in the woods, but did you honestly think I'd fall for it?"

"Sammy, I swear, there was a bear—"

But Sam was already shuffling past him, dragging his half-zipped bag against the ground. "I get it—you're pissed at me, but you don't have to act like a jerk about it. I said sorry." He glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed and red beneath his dark lashes. "Christopher was your friend, but I liked him, too, you know."

Then he disappeared around a patch of dying blackberry bushes, still huffing. Dean stared after him, rubbing the cast at his arm.

"What the hell?" he whispered. No one answered.

Moonlight sliced through the growth, leaving the waving branches, the tickling switches, and the looming limbs looking all the more menacing, but John Winchester was not the kind of man who noticed such imaginative details. He was on a mission, focused, undistracted by irrational fear and uncontrolled by its rational incarnation. With his pack at his side, he hunched low in the deep shadow against a rock embankment, watching for movement. It should have been easy enough to find. Even at the cheap hotel where he was staying, he heard field mice and possums, raccoons and squirrels, on an hourly basis. But here, in this spot, where nature should have been at home, it was far too quiet.

Silence was telling. This was one of the first rules he'd learned as a hunter. It was comparative to knowing when a swimmer needed rescuing. When someone was splashing about, shouting in the water, they weren't in true distress. It was the silence that gave away the drowning. What you didn't hear was just as important as what you did hear.

John kept his breathing slow, wide awake despite the late hour. Adrenalin was pumping through his veins, even if the coffee, and its welcome caffeine, had long since run out. He was almost certain he'd found the right spot tonight. And if he was wrong, he'd do this all over again tomorrow.

It wasn't that he was worried about being gone from his boys too long. At their age, he could leave for months if need be, and Dean would find a way to make it work. But, even though it had only been five days since he dropped them off with Ed, he felt a nagging need to get back to them. Partly, because he had left them with the Hesters. Last time he'd been around the couple, he'd been working a case in their actual house, trying to get rid of a poltergeist they hadn't realized they'd purchased with the property. It would have been an easy enough job if John hadn't thrown his back out when he'd smashed through the front door—damn entity was feisty. He'd healed up in their guest room, the strangers helping him deal with a cranky toddler and a second grader who'd picked just the right time, only a week into starting his new school year, to come down with the flu.

John had spent nearly a month with Ed, Bernie, and their two teens. So, why did he feel so damned regretful about leaving his boys there for a week?

Dean.

John winced, just thinking about what his eldest as seen. He wished he'd taken the boys somewhere they knew, like Blue Earth or Sioux Falls—hell, could there be a better place for Dean to heal up and Sam to cool down than with that noisy, interfering coot, Singer? But that would have meant a rather long drive, and John hadn't been able to stand being cooped up in the car with all those questions flying out of Sammy's mouth and all those broken looks from Dean.

John stomped down that instinct to cut off the hunt and head back north, naming it for what it was: guilt.

As if the world heard the declaration and realized the game was afoot once more, John spotted movement near the old cave, just a shift really, of black on black. It was enough. John pulled up his rifle. He still wasn't exactly sure what he was hunting, but he'd come prepared for nearly anything.

A couple days of research and calls to other hunters had helped him rule out a werecat. As it turned out, werecats were bound by the moon, just like werewolves, and the widow's death had occurred during a waning moon. And her heart had been in place…mostly. A good bit of her torso had been shredded. The papers had tried to cut down on that bit of news. The report said she'd taken a tumble down a steep incline, died, and then was found the next day after the animals had had their pick of her. Only, nothing about that story seemed to add up.

John had checked out the spot where she was attacked—it was the same worn path against the edge of her two acres of land she usually walked daily to keep up her health. From what he could tell, the scuffle had taken place there, and she, and the thing that had attacked her, had tumbled down the ravine together. He'd found a few tuffs of silky black fur, too.

More than enough to go on. But, he hadn't IDed the creature yet. If not a werecat, he was leaning toward a witch's familiar. He knew those bitches liked to get black dogs—didn't seem like a stretch that they'd go for black cats, too, especially considering the lore.

Of course, there was the other option, too. The cat could have just been a cat. They weren't native to this part of Alabama, but cougars and panthers lived in south Florida. Wouldn't be a huge stretch to say one got loose, or maybe some rich shit let his pet go. That theory didn't sit right with John, though, because what he'd noticed on day one was a funny kind of pattern that a wild animal wouldn't be prone to keep.

This thing hunted the Neilson and Pierce properties, had been doing so for decades without getting caught. Barely getting spotted. And then, seven years ago, it had killed a man, Donald Roden, halfway across the county. Now, it had taken the widow—who also didn't live anywhere near its hunting grounds. And the Widow Upchurch and Donald Roden both happened to have worked as loan officers with the same bank in the same town. Hell of a coincidence for a wild animal to be that picky.

Umph

It was a throaty sound, and it made every muscle in John's body tense up, because it had come from behind him, not from where he'd seen the movement. He swung his gun around, giving up the ruse and barely taking the time to register the face he saw in the moonglow, one he recognized from a zeroxed copy hanging in his motel room, before he blew its head the hell off.

It had gotten close to him. Too damn close. And it wasn't a cat, big or black. It was a woman, specifically the corpse of Widow Upchurch. The revenant was still, despite the fact that part of its cheek and jaw was still attached to its neck, as if whatever magic had been used to raise it had dispersed.

He was dealing with some kind of witch, of that he was now certain. But what kind of bitch used her own victims as pawns and then just let them drop? He felt a chill run down his back—the same kind who'd stick around to watch the show.

The night air filled with a terrifying scream, the cry of a big cat.