Chapter 3

Sam reached up a hand and rubbed blearily at his eyes, shoving the laptop away from him. He reclined in his seat and stretched his long legs out in front of him, heaving a sigh.

Research was always tedious, and he was usually left with the brunt of it while Dean ran off to do legwork. Sam was used to that, and honestly he liked it better that way; Dean could hit the books when necessary, but he usually didn't sit still for more than a few minutes and ended up being more of a distraction than anything else. But Sam had to admit that walking around town and questioning friends and relatives of the victims sounded nice right about now.

Only in his screwed-up life was that ever a refreshing change.

After a few minutes of relaxation, he leaned forward and tugged the computer back in front of him to look at his results again. There was just no solid connection. He'd found that a few of the victims were relatives, which had initially caused him to question whether or not the malevolent creature held a personal vendetta. But he couldn't see how that worked out, not when they weren't all steadily related to each other.

He'd also researched any deaths that had occurred in October over the last fifty years. He'd gotten nearly hundreds of outcomes, ranging from heart attacks to car accidents to murder, but nothing jumped out at him. All of the victims died differently, the three most recent from being stabbed, hung, and buried alive. So it wasn't as if a ghost was using its own manner of destruction against other people.

This was shaping up to be a weird case, even for them.

A sudden, shrill ringing sliced through the air, causing Sam to jump slightly after so much stillness. Shaking his head at himself, he picked up his phone and flipped it open.

"I hope you found something, because so far I haven't—,"

"I think I did."

Sam's mouth closed with a snap, surprise momentarily rendering him speechless. "You what?"

There was a pause, a grumble and the sound of the Impala starting up. Then Dean replied, "I think I found a connection."

"That's great," Sam enthused, keen to hear an answer to the infuriatingly unsolvable puzzle. "What is it?"

"I drove by their houses," Dean replied, and there was something like hesitation in his tone; it was almost like he was stalling. "And Sam, these people were freaks. You remember David King's house? They're all like that; decorations everywhere, tombstones all over the place; ghosts, demons—,"

"Dean, can you forget that for a minute and tell me what you found?" Sam interrupted, exasperated that Dean chose now to rant about his infamous pet peeve.

"I am, asshat," Dean growled, definitely irritated. "I'm telling you, that's the connection. They all go overboard decorating for Halloween."

There was a moment of dead silence. Then a chuckle escaped Sam's lips; he could hear it echoing over Dean's cold and very silent end of the line.

"You think these people are dying because they… like Halloween?" He asked, as carefully as he could. He knew when Dean grunted that his brother had seen right through the politely phrased question.

"I know how it sounds, but—,"

"Dean, are you sure you're not projecting just a little?" Sam asked, and he couldn't quite keep the amusement out of his voice. "I doubt ghosts have the same problem you do."

"Don't use that psychiatrist crap on me, Sam," Dean said, and Sam could tell by the way the words were muffled that Dean was grinding his teeth together.

"I'm not. But Dean, just because you want to off these people, doesn't mean—,"

"You done being a smartass yet?" Dean interrupted, his voice mockingly questioning. "Because there's more if you are."

Sam bit his tongue and reeled in his sarcastic response. "Okay, fine. Keep going."

An aggrieved sigh reverberated through the line. Then, "You remember the clown statue, right?"

Sam made an affronted noise. "Don't use that against me now because you came up with a—,"

"Stabbed, Sam. King was stabbed. And you remember what your buddy was holding, don't you?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again as realization sunk in. After a moments' pause, Sam answered, "A knife."

"Exactly. And guess what? Allen Pollack had a very convincing-looking body hanging from a tree in his front yard."

"And the guy who was buried alive?" Sam questioned, working hard to keep his suddenly-piqued curiosity out of his tone.

"Looks like a body digging itself out of a grave. Or being buried in one."

Okay, so it had potential. Crazy, weird, confusing potential, but there was a definite correlation. "So…. what? We're supposed to go door-to-door and ask everyone to remove their decorations? Do we even know what's doing this?"

"Did you find anything that sounds like angry-death material?" Dean asked, skipping over Sam's first and admittedly sardonic question.

"Lots of stuff, but nothing that connects to Halloween."

"Which apparently this does," Sam smiled at the hint of defiance in his brother's tone, daring Sam to contradict it.

"Well," Sam said, slowly so as not to give in too easily. Dean was already smug enough. "I guess the evidence so far seems to be pointing that way."

"Say it, Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes, though Dean couldn't see him. "Fine, it's a valid theory."

He could pretty much hear Dean's grin through the phone. After a few seconds Dean said, "Did you find anything else?"

Sam decided to ignore the superior satisfaction that lingered around the edges of Dean's question. "A few are related. In bits and pieces, actually, and there are no solid links between the people who aren't family."

"Weird."

"You're telling me. Are you close?"

"I'll be back in a few minutes. Why?"

Sam tapped his fingers absently on the computer keys, not using enough force to depress the buttons completely. "I think we should pay another visit to Margaret King."

"How are we going to broach the subject?"

Dean glanced at Sam. "Since when do we plan these things?"

"We can't exactly walk in there and just ask about the clown. There has to be some reasoning behind it."

"We're documenting his assets; the clown is an asset." Dean grinned and stopped the car at the end of the drive. "From there, we just wing it."

"Ever notice how that strategy doesn't work out so well?" Sam grunted, but Dean had already exited the car. Sam got out and strode up the walk with Dean, straightening his clean-cut, I'm-just-an-innocent-lawyer shirt as he went.

He had raised his hand, poised to ring the doorbell, when the door unexpectedly swung inward to reveal Margaret King.

She looked older and wearier than she had just two days previously, if that was possible, but her eyes were brighter, stronger. There was a flicker of something in them, and a determined expression pulled at the edges of her face. The combination set Sam on edge.

"Hello, Margaret," He said after a moment of pause, his voice respectful and polite. "We're sorry to stop by sooner than expected, but—,"

"No, I was actually hoping you would," She said, and that same, bizarre resolve leaked into her words. "Come in."

Dean looked briefly at Sam, and Sam could read the wariness in his eyes. He responded with a similar glance of his own, and, coming to a silent agreement, the two walked into the house. The door slammed closed, a little ominously. Or maybe he was just being paranoid.

"I got a call from David's lawyer," She began immediately, accusation hidden beneath her tone, and Sam knew it wasn't paranoia. The brothers exchanged looks again, these faster and more telling than the ones before. "I asked him about the list I was supposed to be making; your instructions were a little vague." Her face was hard now, a mask of animosity. "He said that since David and I were married, a will isn't necessary; all of his assets automatically shift into my possession unless specified otherwise."

"That's why we stopped by," Dean cut in, improvising wildly, "There was a misunderstand—,"

She whirled on him, all fire and fury, and Dean actually recoiled. "That's what I assumed at first, too. Until I found out that there is neither a Samuel Hart nor Dean Malcolm at my husband's lawyer's firm. A few phone-calls later, it turns out there's no one by those names at any legal office in this area."

Screwed. Royally screwed.

"Mrs. King, it's not what you're—,"

"I think," She interrupted again, and Sam halted in his attempt to salvage the situation. "you should tell me exactly what you're doing here, and who the hell you are."

Neither of them hastened to answer. She looked back and forth, her glare impressive, fueled by grief and rage.

"Are you reporters?" She continued, harshly. "Trying to make money off of my husband's death? You come here, using your quiet, sympathetic voice like you actually care," She jabbed a finger sharply at Sam, who cringed. Demons and spirits he could handle; grieving widows were another matter entirely. "You lie to me, make me relive one of the worst experiences of my life, one I haven't even had the chance to recover from, and for what? A story?"

They were silent again. Then, unexpectedly and a little roughly, Dean said, "Yes."

She spun to face him. "Yes?"

Sam had a similar reaction, although he kept quiet.

"We're reporters," Dean replied, seemingly at ease, but Sam could see the lines that marred the space between his eyebrows.

"How dare you?" She whispered, her anger reaching a level above shouting; Sam thought that was almost worse. "How dare you come here, and—and—,"

"No," Sam said suddenly, not quailing under Dean's warning look. "We're not reporters, Mrs. King; we didn't come here to make a profit off of your loss."

There was true confusion on her face, which took away some of the dreaded anger. "Then what? What could you possibly want?"

"Believe it or not, Margaret, we want to find David's killer," Sam said, as gently as he could. He knew Dean was still glaring holes into his back as he stepped cautiously forward, but he had no intention of spilling their secret. Not entirely.

"What?" Her face blanched, and tears dusted her cheeks. "My husband's—but the police—,"

"Are doing the best they can," Sam replied quietly, "And so are we. Please, we just need to ask you a few questions. It won't take long, and then we'll get out and stay gone. Alright?"

"I… why?" She asked, now shifting from foot to foot and wringing her hands.

Dean sent Sam a look that said plainly, You got yourself into this. Deal with it.

"We're just trying to help. If you could just trust us—,"

"You've given me no reason to trust you," Margaret said, taking a step back as anger flooded her cheeks again. There was a moment of silence, and then she said, carefully and deliberately, "Tell me who you are. Really."

"I'm Dean," Dean stepped forward unexpectedly, and Sam turned toward him, surprised. Dean shot him an annoyed look but continued, "And that's my brother, Sam."

Sam's lips quirked at Dean's unexpected support, but a look at Margaret's face told him she realized what had been omitted from that statement. He wondered if she'd comment on it, demand a full name and maybe license and registration, but her anger seemed to waver just slightly.

"Brothers?"

"Yeah."

"And you're here to find David's killer?"

"That's the plan."

She took a hurried few steps backward, stumbled into a seat at the dining room table where they'd had a conversation just a few days earlier, and buried her head in her hands. Dean and Sam waited, the silence awkward and uncomfortable. Not exactly an encouraging reaction, but she wasn't dialing the police, or anything.

Her shoulder shook a little, and then all at once she seemed to come back to herself. She sat up, mopped at her cheeks, and then faced them.

"What do you need to know?"

"That went well."

"Better than if she'd thought we were there to exploit her."

Dean grunted noncommittally and turned on the car, roaring out of the neighborhood in a mass of acceleration and exhaust fumes.

"Great going with our cover story, by the way," Dean commented, tone mocking and lips quirked. "You didn't know all that mumbo-jumbo about marriages? Did you even pay attention at Stanford?"

"I knew it, Dean," He replied, affronted. "I just didn't think she would. And I wanted something inconspicuous; I don't think impersonating FBI agents or local law enforcement is exactly a smart choice at this point."

"Don't kid yourself, Sammy. Just admit you fell asleep during Marriages and Wills Lecture Day."

Sam glowered at him, eyebrows furrowed so low that they shielded his eyes. "Shut up."

"Nice comeback," Dean replied promptly, his grin widening. Then he tapped his fingers on the worn steering wheel in an impatient way, his thoughts shifting. "She didn't tell us much."

"What she could," Sam defended fairly. At Dean's pointed look, he conceded, "Which isn't much."

"If she's not even sure where this thing came from, how are we supposed to find out?"

"She said King bought the clown from a man a few years ago," Sam countered, relaying what little information Margaret had been able to bestow upon them.

"Right, and that narrows it down so much."

Sam ignored Dean's sarcasm. "If it is a cursed or haunted object," he began, although he realized that theory didn't quite fit, at least not totally. The phrase "grasping at straws" came to mind. "Destroying it won't do the trick. With the painting in New York, the spirit was attached to it, used it to pick her victims. But destroying it didn't get rid of her."

"Which is why we'd need the original owner," Dean concluded, as if he'd already thought all of this out. Sam wouldn't be surprised; Dean was a lot quicker than he liked people to think. "Which could be a wild goose chase if that's not what's causing this."

"Back at square one." Sam sighed in agreement.

"I'm starting to think we never left square one."

The tone of his voice caused Sam to pause. His brother had always leaned more towards impatience, but lately it seemed to be more than that; there was a sense of edginess that almost bordered on desperation. Even now he looked tense, his fingers still drumming on the wheel and his back rigid.

"Dean?" Sam questioned. When Dean glanced at him, he said, "You okay?"

Dean looked startled. "Yeah, of course."

Sam narrowed his eyes and turned in his seat to face his brother fully. "Really? 'Cause you're acting kind of—,"

"What, Sam? How am I acting?" Dean posed the question warningly, even slightly aggressively, and it was this above all else that let Sam know something was going on; he had hit a nerve.

"Like you can't stand taking this long on a case," Sam replied cautiously, his voice casual. Asking Dean to admit his feelings was a little like coaxing a grizzly bear to hold your hand.

"We're going in circles," Dean said, still more belligerent and testy than the situation called for.

Sam hesitated again, trying to calculate the probability of this entire thing blowing up in his face. The likelihood seemed pretty high at this point. "And wasting time?"

At this Dean's eyes darted to Sam. Then they returned to the road, and he shook his head. "That's not what's bugging me."

Ah, to hell with it. "Really? Because if that is what's bothering you, it means that you're starting to worry about time now that yours is limited," He saw the storm building inside Dean, harsh and frenzied and dangerous, but Sam pressed on relentlessly. "And if you're worrying about that, it means that you're actually afraid of what's coming, and that you haven't accepted it like you keep saying."

Dean gave no reaction for a few moments. Then suddenly the car swerved out of its lane and bouncing roughly along the side of the road. It rumbled to a halt and shuddered into silence as Dean yanked the keys out of the ignition. Sam saw him reach out and seize the door-handle, and for a wild moment he thought Dean would just get out and leave the conversation entirely. The next second, however, Dean looked back at him, breathing heavily.

"I'm going to say this once." His voice was deadly quiet and serious in a way that had Sam listening to every word. "I sold my soul. I'm going to hell next year. I get that—I knew it the second I agreed to the terms—and I have accepted it. I don't care that you haven't. There is no out; there is no loophole that I can twist through. It's done."

"Dean," Sam protested, feeling panic pull at the edges of his consciousness. "You don't know that. You can't just—,"

"Listen to me!" Dean bellowed, and Sam was rendered speechless at the amount of rage behind his tone. "We won't go looking for a way out, you got that? I refuse to."

"What the hell is up with you?" Sam said, voice rising enough to rival Dean's. "Why won't you even consider it? Time is slipping away, and you've done nothing to protect yourself! How can you just sit back and let this happen? How, Dean?"

Dean looked at him then, and their gazes clashed. Sam recognized the stubborn set to Dean's jaw and the defiance stretched tight across his expression, but something else glinted from beneath all that. He could practically read it on Dean's face—there was something Dean hadn't told him. And whatever it was, Dean was warring with himself about whether or not to enlighten him now.

Sam saw the expression break, caught the grim acceptance that took its place. He waited, heart hammering, both dreading and anticipating Dean's answer.

"If I try to get myself out of this," Dean began, slowly and clearly, "If I try to weasel my way out or escape in any way…You die."

Sam blinked. The words gradually sunk into his head, settling there like some dark, disgusting insect. It was worse than he possibly could have imagined—why did Dean always have to carry such weighty secrets? And why was Sam always the last to know?

The answer to both questions was obvious.

"What?" Sam uttered, still absorbing the major emotional bombshell.

"You drop dead." Dean restated, just as bluntly as before. "And I'll be damned if I let that happen. Didn't enjoy it much the first time."

Sam flinched. The fact that he had died was difficult to swallow; the fact that Dean had lived through his death was worse. Sam swung his gaze toward the window under the guise of examining the landscape, suddenly unable to even look at Dean.

Making the Deal was Dean's choice, and a selfish one at that. Dean knew that better than anyone, knew the pain and spiraling anger that came from having someone he loved die for him. But the guilt still weighed on Sam's shoulders like a physical burden; how could it not, when his brother was due to spend a lifetime in Hell for him?

Sam hated this new revelation. He could feel the hope that he'd so desperately clung to after finding out about Dean's deal slipping through his fingers like sand. Besides what Dean had said, one dark, gaping blockade stopped Sam from continuing forward anyway, no matter what the Crossroad Demon had warned. He didn't want to die.

He was a coward, he knew. The shame of it settled beside the guilt until he felt like his back would curve from the combined weight. Dean would give everything, had given everything, and Sam was already running scared? Dean had sacrificed his soul, albeit for reasons that had mattered more to himself than to the unresponsive, corpse Sam had been, and Sam couldn't do the same?

"Stop."

Sam glanced up, yanked from his dismal thoughts. He was sure the remorse and shame were displayed openly on his face, and he looked hurriedly away again before Dean could see.

"I know what you're thinking." Dean said. "Stop it."

"But Dean—," Sammy began, words just itching to burst from his lips—accusations and apologies and everything in between—but Dean cut him off again.

"I don't want you dead, period," He said, his voice firm and unwavering. "Which means I definitely don't want you dead for me."

Sam swallowed past the painful lump in his throat and forced the onslaught of emotions to lessen a little. He wouldn't argue; what was the point? It hadn't worked when he was twelve and had wanted his big brother to let him fight his own battles and just leave him alone, and it wouldn't work now. Dean was programmed to believe that older brothers protected younger brothers—at any cost. There was no changing that.

"I can't…" Sam drifted off, unsure of how to voice what he was feeling. He shook his head grimly and stared unblinkingly at Dean. "I can't."

I can't give up. I can't quit. I can't let you die.

"Yeah," Dean said after awhile, his voice softer and less abrasive than it had been throughout the conversation so far. "Me neither."

Silence settled over them after that, and it was neither uncomfortable nor contented. Or maybe it was both, or neither, or perhaps it was just saddened. No matter what kind, it felt like they had reached an agreement, or at the very least a truce. Nothing was solved, not really, but the rough, uncompromising barrier between them had crumbled a little.

Eventually Dean stuck the keys back into the ignition and started the car. He pulled back into the flow of traffic and for awhile the only sounds were the scratchy hum of the radio and the wind whistling past Impala.

"What's that sign say?"

Sam nearly jolted in surprise. He looked over at Dean, who was staring at something off in the distance. Sam followed his brother's gaze and noticed a large, stone sign with a name engraved onto its immaculate surface. He squinted and could just make out the words.

"Crossways Cemetery?" He read, and then let his gaze wander toward the dozens and dozens of solid, slate-grey headstones. "Is this important somehow?"

"Allen Pollack was buried there two weeks ago," Dean replied, pulling a small slip of paper from his pocket and waving it at Sam. Indeed, the victim's name and the address of the cemetery were scribbled on the paper in loopy, feminine handwriting.

Dean slowed the Impala and flicked on the turn-signal.

"And what, exactly will we gain from this?" Sam asked, slightly weary. It still rankled that Dean was always in control of the car, and therefore the destination.

"Sometimes evil leaves signs around gravesites, you know that," Dean said, shooting Sam an annoyed glance. "And it's possible that the other guys were buried here, too."

"True enough, but I doubt we have another zombie case," Sam protested, returning Dean's look with an impressive one of his own. "There'd have to be someone who knew the rituals, for one."

"I'm not saying that's what this is," Dean replied, the aggravation now creeping into his tone. "I'm just saying, it can't hurt to look. We don't have much else to go on, and it might be useful to know our way around the cemetery."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, paused for a second and then closed it again, grinning ruefully instead.

"What?" Dean asked, sounding bemused and a little distrustful.

"Only us, man," He replied, shaking his head now and chuckling a little. "Fine, we can take a look around."

Long, I know, but hopefully you enjoyed it! More soon.