During the drive, Dean eventually nodded off. It was so good to go to sleep without hearing Sam barfing in the background.

And so he dreamt.

He could see a girl with long, auburn hair standing with her back to him. She was clutching a stout staff in her hands. She could have only been thirteen at the most.

She was crying.

She went through her exercises anyway. "Sweep, sweep, arms out, step back, wrists fixed, dodge, lunge…" Her freckled nose was wrinkled in concentration as she trained. The hunter of the generation.

Eventually her training chant became something else. "My fault, my fault. I should have been faster, should have been quicker. Why can't I ever do anything right? I should have had him." And even though it was only a dream, Dean's heart went out to her. I know.

Gabby.

Dean blinked awake. Sam was staring at him and Alistair glancing up at him through the rear-view mirror. Both of them were looking slightly amused.

"I dinno abou' yer country, but in mine it ain't tha' good t' 'ave one of th' hunt tha' talks in his sleep."

"He doesn't normally." Sam said. "He got hit on the head a while back and hasn't been quite the same since." Dean gave him the evil eye. "He went all weird and couldn't remember anything."

"Ah, the stereotyped amnesia case. Well, if one will insist on gettin' thumped on th' noggin, one's brains are gonna end up rattlin'."

"You said her name again."

"Again?" That came as a surprise. "Whoa, stop looking at me like that. We were friends. That's it."

"Good." Alistair said. "'Cause if it's the Gabby I think it might be, y' better keep it in yer trousers, 'fore her Daddy finds y'."

Dean's eyes narrowed as Sam and Alistair laughed. "Mock me if you will, at least I dream about women that are still alive."

That wiped the smile from Sam's face. "You-"

"Boys, if yer goin' t' barney, at least get out of m' car first." Alistair said briskly, opening his door. "Come on, then!"

The town of Angus was the sort of thing that you got on those traditional Christmas cards. Or, as Sam put it-

"It's like that place from Midsomer Murders." At Dean's slightly raised eyebrow, he elaborated. "I like British crime shows."

"Whatever."

Alistair opened the back of the 4WD and began tossing their bags to the pavement. "Move it, Americans. I don' want t' be stuck 'ere all day on m' day off."

"You really are a butler, then?"

"Kinda. Sort of. I work up at t' Castle."

"What?" Sam said, but Dean knew the answer straight away.

"Glamis Castle." He said. "Yeah, I was thinking of checking it out while I'm here." He gave Sam a look. "Don't tell me you haven't heard of Glamis Castle? The most haunted castle in Scotland."

His little brother gave him a strange look. "You've done your homework."

"I like to apply myself to the case."

"Since when?"

"Yeah, we've got our spooks. Prob'ly from bein' such an old place." Alistair interrupted. "Ev'ry so often me an' th' boys get together, compare notes. Who's got what and where."

"Cool." Sam said. "I'd like to see your records some time."

"Don' see why not." Alistair said. Shouldering the two massive weapons bags, he strode across the street and through the front door of a small tavern, the vacancy sign swinging in the breeze. Dean glanced up.

"The Drunken Unicorn. Huh."

The inside was warm and cheery. It was like stepping into an old movie, only the accents were real. There was a man sitting in the corner bellowing bawdy songs, and a busty woman serving behind the bar. It was almost too good to be true.

"No warm beer here." Alistair said. "An' ye couldn't get friendlier folk anywhere. 'Specially if ye get 'em drunk. Jus' watch out for English Ned in th' corner there." He led the way through the press of bodies.

"Al!" The pretty barmaid was upon them, smiling at Alistair.

"Molly, m'dear." Alistair bent his great, shaggy head to kiss her cheek. "This is Molly McGregor. Owner of the Drunken Unicorn."

"Don' ask." Molly said. "M' grampa named th' joint."

"Really?" Dean said. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Mm. Said he saw a unicorn galopin' in th' wood, though m' brother always thought he found hisself a nice patch o' magic mushrooms instead."

Dean grinned. Well, some things had to be universal.

"An' y' must be our American friends?"

"'Tis them, t' be sure."

There was no flash of understanding to come over Molly McGregor's face, so Sam could only assume that only a few select people had been told who they were and why they were there.

"I made up th' rooms like Mister Ros wanted." She said, walking behind the bar and pulling a key off the pegboard near the whisky cabinet. "Down th' right at th' end."

"Ta, Moll."

Dean had another dream that night. Which was unusual for him, 'cause, you know, Sam was the one who was supposed to pick up all this extra sensory crap. His little brother was like some sort of freak magnet. The strays were always following him home.

Though at the moment the Force seemed to be in Dean.

He remembered having a vision before, years back before Sam died that time. It was like being repeatedly hit over the head with something big and heavy. This was what his dream was like; only it wasn't what was going to happen in the future, or even what was happening now.

It was the past.

There was a man striding up and down a great hall. There was a huge sword in his hand and a trickle of blood running down his face. As he turned to the light, Dean could see the claw marks deeply imbedded into his skin.

"Come and get me, then." He shouted. He had an accent, but it definitely wasn't Scottish. Welsh, maybe? "Come and get me."

The highlands of Scotland could be seen out the window the man passed.

"Dantalion, come and face me! No more of these games!"

"Hunter. Gatherer of the undead and scatterer of their bones." The hiss was almost too low to hear. "Will you send me back to Hell? Will you burn so I can burn? Show me how it's done."

Dean snapped awake. "Okay. I'm just not gonna sleep anymore." He sat up, and for the life of him, it felt like he had been running down a long stone corridor flanked by suits of armour. He was exhausted.

Dantalion.

While the name was still fresh in his mind, he got out of bed and flicked on Sam's computer.

"Wha're y' doin'?" Sam asked sleepily.

"Research." Dean replied. He was the first to admit that he wasn't the best with all this technogeeky stuff, but he did know how to enter a word in a search engine. I hope I spelt it right. Or I'll spend hours looking for the right dude.

Dean clicked into Wikipedia. Sometimes they had good stuff without really realising it. His eyes narrowed as he read.

"Well. Looks like its time we milked ole Alistair for information."

Sam and Dean were having breakfast of cold cereal when Dean asked an unusual question.

And to say it was unusual by a Winchester's standard meant it was pretty damn weird.

"Did you, er, have any dreams last night?" He tried for casual but didn't quite get there.

"Dreams or dream-dreams?" Sam asked cautiously, waiting for his brother to launch into another attack.

Dean, however, looked awkward, and waved his hand in a seesawing motion. "Ah, just wonderin', out of curiosity and all, whether you've picked up any creepy air from being here yet, yuppie boy."

"No." Sam said. "Nothing unusual. Why?"

"Nothin'."

"Really, what's up?"

Dean frowned. "Laugh, and I'll drop-kick your skinny arse. Okay, since we got here I…" His voice petered away.

"Yeah?"

"I dunno. I guess I've been picking up these weird vibes. It's driving me nuts."

Sam ignored the opportunity to have a go at his brother, since whatever these 'vibes' were obviously had Dean spooked. "What have you been seeing?"

"It's like the dream I had with Gabby. She was still a kid and she was blaming herself for letting somethin' get away." Dean shrugged. "Then we walked past those cliffs and I coulda sworn a woman in tartan threw herself off. And last night I had a dream…"

Sam gathered that by his pained expression that it wasn't a usual Deanish dream. But his brother had listened for hours about his dreams, the least he could do was return the favour.

"There was this kid, not much younger than us. He was in some sort of big house or castle thing, with this big, honkin' sword. He was telling something to come out and get him."

Now this was unusual. It was understandable that Dean might dream about a friend he'd made, and he could have even possibly saw a woman throw herself off the cliffs. But through years of experience, Sam knew that a real vision most likely featured people he had never seen in his life.

And Sam understood Dean's worry.

"You're not having visions." He said firmly.

Dean let out his breath in a whoosh. "Thank God. Man, it's good to hear you say that."

"-I think you might be picking up psychic imprints."

"Say what?" He looked like he'd been slapped.

"Imprints. A moment in a person's life that was so particularly emotional and raw that it was subconsciously recorded at that time, at that place, and plays back to those that happen to be sensitive."

"I'm not sensitive-"

"Tell me about it." Sam said dryly. "But, dude, you're gonna be perceptive to different things then me. Gabrielle, for example. You said she was blaming herself for letting something get away. There's your link between you and her. You were always punishing yourself for doing something wrong when there was nothing you could have done anyway."

"So since I've got messed-up vibes, I'm picking up on her messed-up vibes too? Jesus, Sam. That's just-"

"Messed up? You wanted an explanation. That's the only thing I can think of." Sam poured himself some juice. "And there's something else, yeah?" He predicted.

"A name." Dean said. "Every time. A name."

"Yeah?"

"Dantalion."

The name had no familiar ring to it, but something occurred to Sam then. "That's what you were doing last night. Jeez, I thought I must have been dreaming."

"Nah. Thought I'd look the guy up. Find out why he's turning up in my dreams."

"And?"

There was no doubt about it; his brother was starting to look uncomfortable. He pushed aside his food, pondering his answer.

"He's a demon."

"Say what?"

"The dude's a demon. I'm not kidding. Apparently he was one of the seventy something demons Solomon banished with the Lesser Key. Well, depending on which book you go by." It struck Dean as unusual that it normally wasn't him that had the information. "He's supposed to be some sort of demonic professor in Arts and Sciences."

Sam didn't say anything. One eyebrow rose sceptically.

The present Earl and his lady had opened Glamis Castle to the public, and tourists swarmed through the gates each open day. For some it was the architecture and history that interested them.

But for most it was the lure of the ghosts.

"You know, they used to brick enemies up it the walls and starve them to death." Dean said brightly as he and Sam joined the end of the column.

"Cheery." Sam said. "Dean, problem at hand."

"God, you're a dreary bastard. Put yourself into the moment."

"You weren't so eager when you thought this morning you were having visions." Sam hissed.

"And if you dare mention my one moment of weakness ever again, I'll break your legs." His brother replied archly. "Oh, look. There he is."

Alistair Crow stood head and shoulders over most of the tourists, giving a pained grimace that was supposed to be a friendly, welcoming smile. Despite the chill in the air, he was standing tall in his tartan kilt.

Englishmen chattered in their falsetto, prissy accents, an Australian spoke to his companion in a too loud, commanding tone, and there were even one or two fellow Americans among the crowd. Sam and Dean steered away from those people.

"Evening, squire." Dean said upon approaching Alistair as the last of the guests were ushered through. "What's worn under the kilt?"

"Dean." Sam said warningly.

"Lads." Alistair greeted. He seemed friendly enough, but there was an edge of steel to his tone. "If y' excuse me, I havta work."

"That's cool. We can walk and talk." Dean said. "Right, Al, old buddy? I mean, we all hang out in the same club, the Dantalion,, huh?"

Alistair gave an odd expression then, half exasperation, half satisfied. "Rodney." He shouted back over his shoulder. "I'm takin' five."