Disclaimer: Oh yeah, sure, I own the Winchesters. I keep them in my closet. But instead of taking them out and playing with them, I'm sitting here typing. Right, sure thing.

Author's Note: Beware, new characters are about to be introduced. I don't know why I felt the need to warn you of that, but there you have it. As per usual, reviews are greatly, greatly, greatly, greatly appreciated. Greatly.

A ten-hour drive. It takes ten hours, give or take, to make it to Bobby's. That's ten hours of cramped legs, cricked necks, and silent tongues. Because no one was speaking. Even after casually choosing their separate ways, Tessa with John, Dean with Sam, tension permeated the air.

The mood in the truck was more exhausted than tense, both father and daughter having had little sleep, and at least of one of them was slipped pain pills when not looking, adding to the grogginess. But even if Tessa hadn't been dozing next to him, well, John was a quiet man regardless. And his daughter was the same. Unless of course, something truly sparked their interest, either Winchester being known to prattle on endlessly about things such as the media-propagated myths regarding poltergeist or the true derivation of Bigfoot, just as an example.

But typically, if nothing needed to be said among the two, or even something did but neither felt up to voicing it, silence prevailed. And for them, that was just fine.

Sam and Dean, on the other hand, not exactly the strong silent types they so often pretended to be. Sam, ever the let's clear the air, get things out in the open kind of guy. Dean, never opposed to letting his opinion be heard, making it heard. Their car ride was a bit more tense, awkward silence bearing down on them both in a stranglehold, until, "What is your problem?" finally shoots out Sam's mouth.

Dean doesn't so much as take his eyes off the road when he answers, ever-present scowl still on his face, "Don't know what you're talking about."

Yeah right, Sam thinks, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You know, I get that you didn't like him, never did, but, come on man," he says, pent up anger filling his words.

"Come on what?" he responds casually.

"He's dead, Dean."

"So I've heard."

Sam turns in his seat, rage and annoyance crinkling his brow, slurring his words. "You didn't even know him. And you had no reason not to like him, but let's just say that you did. Don't you think whatever beef you had should die along with him? I mean, for Tessa's sake."

And that's when he finally looks Sam's way, surprise and fury outlining his features. "For Tessa's sake?" he spits, unbelieving quality to his voice.

"Uh, yeah," Sam replies with more than a hint of smart-ass. "You don't think this is tough enough on her without you… trampling all over the memory of her fiancé. The guy she loved, guy you never even knew."

"I knew enough, Sam," he says sharply before retraining his eyes on the road.

It only takes a moment for Sam to realize what he means, understand what's really going on, why Dean hated Ben so much. "You knew he was a freak," he says, slow and deep.

He doesn't respond, doesn't need to. The tightening of his fingers around the steering wheel, the click and shift of his jaw, say it all.

"He was a freak, a…a what? Supernatural…thing. Right? Something you'd hunt, not make friends with. Not make a part of your family," he finishes with a hiss. "That's it, isn't it?"

He considers remaining quiet. Considers even lying his ass off. But before he gets a chance to stall his words, or craft them into falsehoods, he hears, "Yeah," escape from his lips in a determined whisper.

"Yeah?" Sam parrots, looking for an explanation more than mere confirmation. When he receives neither he asks what's been on his mind all along, since long before this conversation ever even started. "What about me?"

"What?" Dean asks, seemingly annoyed, pretending not to understand despite knowing exactly what his brother means. "What about you?"

"I'm a freak too, right?" he says, anger boiling over. "You hate me?"

"No," he answers, hard and fast, even though, just for asking that question, yeah, he hates him a little.

"You don't think maybe I shouldn't be part of your family? Shouldn't be allowed around the people you love?"

"Sam," he warns.

"Shouldn't be allowed to love the people you love?"

"Would you stop?" he says in a huff. "Jesus, that's not what I meant."

"Bullshit."

"Hey, news flash, Sammy Boy, you're part of this family whether you like it or not."

"You mean whether you like it or not," he replies scathingly, sinking into his seat with a pout.

"You're my brother," Dean voices, words heady with pain and regret. Because he would never hurt Sam, never make him purposefully feel like less a part of the family. Like less than human. He flits his eyes over to his brother. "Sammy?" just to make sure he heard, knows.

"Yeah," comes in a near silent mumble, a weak confirmation. "But he was my friend."

"I know," he says simply.

"He helped us, all of us."

"I know."

"He was…a good guy."

And with a deep sigh, Dean repeats, "I know."

"Then why," Sam starts, confusion stunting his thoughts. "Why?"

"Because you don't take work home with you. Recipe for disaster."

A small, incredulous laugh escapes him as he says, "What? What home? You're talking about Tessa right? She's as bad as Dad. As bad as you. There is no home. Only work."

"That's the point, Sam," he says, a certain finality to his voice, all the explanation he's willing to give.

000000000000000000000000000000

By the time Sam and Dean arrive at Bobby's they're greeted by two familiar cars out front. John's truck comes as no surprise, his uncanny ability for beating others to the finish line a well-known characteristic to his sons. The other, though, an old beat up Bronco, neither had seen in years.

"Tate," Dean mumbles under his breath as they move towards the door.

Sam, face rife with confusion, does a double take before saying, seemingly to no one in particular, "I thought he was dead." Dean turns, stares unbelievingly at his brother. "What?" Sam asks innocently. "You're the one who told me he fell off a bridge in Maine."

"Pushed, actually," he corrects, recollecting the incident. Run of the mill haunted roadway, angry spirit nudging the young man over the guardrail. No big deal. "And I didn't say he died."

"I just assumed. I mean I never saw him again. No one ever mentions him." He picks up his pace, lengthening his stride just enough to close in on the door a step ahead of Dean.

"Yeah, well," Dean mutters absently just before knocking. "He's not."

"Uh, yeah, I can see that," he says softly, taking notice of the young man approaching.

"Hey," he greets, opening the door wide, smile cast first at Sam then Dean. "Long time no see." He glances at Sam once more, the young man he hadn't seen in more than five years, and says, "Heard you went away. Thought you were gonna be a lawyer or something."

Moving through the door and on into the cramped main room where everyone sits, he says, "I thought you were dead."

And just like the Tate he remembers – the one who fed him worms when he was little, telling him they had magical powers, the guy who stole Bobby's car and took a 14-year-old Dean off to his first strip club, paying no heed to the fact that he too was too young to get in – he throws back his head and laughs in devil may care fashion. "You'd be surprised how many people tell me that," he chuckles.

Bobby clears his throat from the corner, nods at both Sam and Dean before saying in his typically gruff way, "Excuse my boy, he's a jackass," causing Tate's smile to fade.

"Thanks Dad," he responds, moving past Sam.

"But," Bobby goes on, as everyone sits and settles, "He's gonna help us out a bit here."

"So you know what happened?" Dean asks, awkwardly avoiding eye contact with either Tessa or his father.

"Yep. And I was just saying how sorry I am about it. About Ben. He was a real good guy."

"Yeah," Dean mutters, "I've been hearing that."

"Good worker too. The both of you," he says, glancing at Tess, "made a good team."

She clears her throat and says, by means of explanation, "Bobby helped us out sometimes, gave us jobs."

"Exorcisms?" Sam asks.

She nods.

"And a hell of a lot, pardon the pun, have been needed lately," Bobby breaks in once more. "Don't know if you all are aware or not, but some bad shit's going down."

Dean lets out an indignant snort. "Yeah, we've noticed."

"I mean for a while now. Possessions are up, through the roof. There're more reports of demonic activity, hauntings in and around the places most thought to be pathways. All kinds of stuff."

"There're some theories," Tate interjects, "in some of the circles I've been in…some theories about some kind of war brewing, between Heaven and Hell. And we might just be caught up in the middle of it."

"Wait a minute," Dean says with a slight shake of his head. "What circles have you been in? Last I heard you were concentrating all your efforts on getting laid, not hunting."

Bobby chuckles, having been the one who informed him of his son's previous escapades. "What?" he asks upon receiving a glare from Tate. "At the time you said you were too busy to go after a poltergeist, shacking up with some cocktail waitress."

"She was a showgirl," he corrects snidely. "And I didn't refuse to go, I just did my research first – "

"And decided it was all a bust, not worth checking out," Bobby interrupts.

"Well I was right, wasn't I?"

"Not the point, son. I asked you to do something and – "

Tessa jumps up, immediately cringing at a pain in her side, but not letting that keep her from shouting, "Enough!" and causing the room to fall into silence. "Can we maybe concentrate here?"

"Yeah," Bobby says with a sigh, calming himself. "Let's concentrate." He gets up and heads over to an unkempt desk, begins rifling through dozens of papers. "Last time I heard from Ben was about a month ago. Said he needed some information about the War in Heaven, how the Fallen came to be. Seemed pretty frantic about it too. Ah ha," he exclaims, grabbing hold of a dog-eared sheet and holding it up triumphantly. "He was looking for some text, one I'd never heard of, about the oath of the Grigori." Walking over to Tessa, he holds the paper out to her. "I gave him this guy's name and number. Terrence Tavish, he's a self proclaimed expert in the field."

"He's also filthy rich, dabbles in antiquities," Tate expounds. "And a total ass."

"Yes," Bobby hisses, turning to his son, "But he is an expert." The young man throws his arms up in the air, a dramatic showing of you win, and Bobby turns back to Tess. "I don't know if he got a hold of him or not. Never heard back."

Sam, who had been resting quietly against a back wall, taking everything in, pushes himself up and says simply, "Okay. So let's find this Tavish guy."

Heads begin to shake in agreement when suddenly, "No," booms from the corner of the room. A previously silent John stands, looming only for a moment before repeating, "No," and storming out to his truck, leaving a room full of bewildered faces in his wake.