Thanks again to everyone following this fic. Those of you kind enough to leave reviews, if I've missed returning any it's because I've been having some email "issues" not because I didn't want to reply. Thanks again!! And thanks to hotshow, my fabulous editor.

Chapter Twenty-One

Unable to sleep any more, Sam stared up at the dark ceiling thinking things over. That was one strange dream. It felt so real. It was not quite like the Jess dreams, it did not end in fire, but it carried the same weight of guilt with it. Part of him really wanted to tell Dean about it, that was why he offered the deal. It was the other part of him that demanded his brother explain the whole kitchen outburst as part of the deal, knowing Dean would never go for it. He recognized that expression on his brother's face. Dean thought he already knew, that he was being an ass by asking his brother to spell it out.

Sam sighed, attempting to backtrack. What exactly did Dean say in the kitchen? He had been so shocked to see his brother turn on him like that, Sam had not paid full attention. Okay, Dean turned around, that nasty glint in his eye. First, his brother accused him of thinking that Dean was useless just because Dean was hurt. Then Dean went on to list the kind of injuries he routinely carried on hunts, which Sam had always suspected but rarely been able to prove. Finally Dean had demanded to know why, if he had never let Sam down before, did Sam think Dean would let him down now. That was the weird part. Why did Dean think that Sam thought his brother was going to let him down?

Sam pondered that. He had not said anything to that effect that he could recall. Maybe it was because he had refused to let Dean near any of the weapons since they trapped the imp, making Dean feel useless. Okay, fine. He could fix that. First thing in the morning.

The sun seemed to take its own sweet time coming up this morning. By first light Sam was showered, dressed and ready to let Dean know he was not useless. First he went outside. The Impala appeared untouched. Sam found a few broken down cardboard boxes in Bobby's shed. He picked two out and carried them over to his brother's car. Sam spread them on the ground before laying down on them. He used them to slide under the car. Nothing appeared to be leaking or damaged. He would probably have to do it again later, when Dean could direct him on exactly what to check out. Sam slid back out.

Out from under the car, Sam moved around to the trunk. The fleeting thought that being under something as heavy as the Impala with a gremlin around not being the brightest thing he had ever done flashed through his mind. He wondered if Dean would chew him out for it later. Just how mad was his brother? Sam retrieved the weapon's bag from the trunk, hoping this was the right thing to do. Of course, now that they had actually seen the gremlin, Sam did not know what else they could do. He shouldered the bag, heading into the house. Sam passed Bobby as he headed for the stairs.

"Good luck with that," Bobby called out behind him. Sam scowled as he ignored the comment. Sometimes Bobby acted like he knew Dean as well as Dad did, and it was starting to annoy Sam.

He made his way to Dean's room. Sam always thought of this bedroom as Dean's since Dad died, even though he slept on the other side of the same room. Maybe he should have been suspicious when Dean did not make a fuss about sharing a room after they arrived, maybe that should have tipped him off that Dean was more than just tired. Sam sighed to himself, standing just outside the bedroom door. This was it, his one shot to make things right. Sam almost laughed at how melodramatic he was being. Dean was going to call him a drama queen.

Sam threw open the door, walked into the room to a startled Dean. He dropped the weapons bag on the floor by Dean before walking out again. Well, if Dean didn't get that message, then Sam did not know his brother at all. He paused in the hall just outside the door, wondering if he should go back in and offer to carry the weapons downstairs. Dean really did not need to be doing it with his busted ribs. Sam shook his head, moving for the stairs. If Dean wanted help, he was going to have to ask. Or order. Either would work, Sam decided as he bounded downstairs.

Bobby raised a questioning eyebrow at him; Sam gave a shrug in response. Only time would tell if this worked. Sam paced anxiously, waiting for his big brother to… do something. Anything.

"Sam?" Dean's voice right behind him was startling.

Sam spun around. He didn't even hear Dean come downstairs. "Ya-yeah?"

Dean twirled a machete in his right hand. Sam swallowed a lump in his throat at the sight. "You really expect me to lug that bag downstairs, Sam?"

Sam shook his head, moving around his brother for the stairs.

"What do you think, Bobby? Taking its head off might work." Dean's voice was calm and cool from behind him as Sam sprinted up the stairs.

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Dean grinned at Bobby as Sam's heavy feet plodded upstairs. "Well?" he whispered.

Bobby threw him a wink. "Maybe he got the message." Bobby exaggerated clearing his throat. "I've been reading up on gremlins. Maybe you can give me a hand?" He held out a heavy-looking book.

Dean evaluated it. "Got anything lighter?"

Bobby chuckled as he swapped the book for one half its size. "How's that?"

Grinning, Dean accepted his assignment. He took his book back to the couch, his home for the past couple of weeks, and set the machete on the floor by his feet. As Dean flipped through the pages, searching for references to gremlins, Sam came back down the stairs toting the weapons' bag. He avoided eye contact with his little brother, pretending to be absorbed in his task. Out of the corner of his eye Dean watched the emotions crossing Sam's face. Guilt, no surprise there. Surprise. Confusion.

Sam set the weapon's bag near his feet by the couch. Dean still did not make eye contact with his little brother. "Bobby needs help with the research," he said, scanning the page in front of him. Sam's huge feet sounded heavier than usual as his brother got a book from Bobby. Sam returned to stand staring down at Dean. Dean noticed he was taking his half of the couch out of the middle. He slid over, making room for Sam.

Sam bounced next to him, sending violent vibrations through the couch. Dean clenched his teeth, riding out the painful bumps, knowing Sam would never do that intentionally. A bump to his shoulder got his attention. He turned into Sam's ever vigilant eyes.

"Here," Sam held out a bottle of water. Dean took it, watching to see what Sam would do next. Sam unbuttoned his shirt pocket and withdrew two white pills that Dean would recognize anywhere. He dropped them into Dean's other hand. Without another word, Sam opened his book to research. Dean hesitated a moment, wondering if his small victory of getting the weapons back was enough to refuse the pain pills. Knowing Sam, the weapons were contingent on him still following George's orders. Were all doctors such damned busybodies? Besides, he reflected, if the gremlin had not shown up when it did he would probably still be under house arrest.

Dean threw back the pills, knowing this lighter version would not make his head too light or fuzzy to think. He searched through his book. There were plenty of references to gremlins, but absolutely nothing about killing them. After his third book, Dean tossed it on the floor where it hit with a resounding thump.

"Dean?" Bobby asked.

Dean stood, stretching carefully. "This is a waste of time, Bobby." He motioned to the stack of books by the couch he and Sam already read through. "There's nothing in here about killing gremlins. We're just going to have to see what works."

"Dean!" Sam jumped up to face him. Oh yeah, big surprise. "We can't take this thing on unprepared." Sam pounded a fist into his open palm. "We need to have a plan!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I never said we shouldn't have a plan, Sam. I said we're going to have to see what works. For example," he sank back into the couch, "Bobby's house protections obviously work. We haven't really seen if consecrated iron works yet, because it's so fast, so we need to find a way to test that."

"Right," Bobby joined in from behind them, "and we can test the rocksalt while we're at it. You know, I've been fooling around with some holy water bullets, but I haven't gotten a chance to try them out yet."

"Yeah?" Dean glanced over his shoulder at Bobby. "How did you manage that? Doesn't the water burn off when you pour the metal into the moulds?"

"There is method in my madness. Come on," Bobby pushed off the desk, "I'll show you."

Curious, and sick of sitting around all day, Dean followed Bobby to his workshop in the back of the house. He felt Sam's eyes on his back long before he heard his brother's footsteps following. Dean carried his machete with him and Bobby had that omnipresent shotgun.

Bobby was the master of ingenuity. Bobby made tiny canisters for the holy water, small enough to fit inside a bullet. He poured the molten metal into the mold, but only on one side. Then Bobby carefully inserted a canister before pouring the rest of the metal in.

"It doesn't burn off?" Sam asked from over his shoulder as they watched.

"It can't," Bobby explained. "I'm sure the water vaporizes in there, but it's got nowhere to go. Now, the problem is whether or not it's still holy water after it condenses."

Dean nodded. "So this could be a whole lot of work for nothing?"

"It could," Bobby admitted. "But I figured it was worth trying, considering some of the stuff we've been seeing lately."

"Good point," Sam said.

Dean drew his gun out from his back waistband. "Okay, I'm game. Load me up, Bobby." He popped out his full clip.

Bobby grinned, holding out a clip ready to go. "I was hoping you'd say that."

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Sam resisted snarling at Bobby's delighted tone. So Bobby was hoping Dean would volunteer to test out his new, experimental bullets that may not do as much as consecrated iron or silver?

"I've alternated between the iron and the silver bullets in here, Dean. So if one doesn't work, just keep firing."

Sam relaxed a little. Well, at least they were made of silver and consecrated iron, so even if the holy water part was a bust, Dean wouldn't be defenseless.

"Dude," Dean hissed at him. Sam dragged his eyes from the cooling bullet moulds to his brother. "Relax, would you? It's just like a power boost."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I get it," he whispered back. "Assuming it even works."

"Then get rid of that sour look." Dean cocked an eyebrow at him. "You look like somebody just stole your favorite knife."

Sam knew Dean referred to that wicked semi-circular knife he owned but rarely had the occasion to use. When he was fifteen he saw it on display and pestered the living daylights out of Dad and Dean until he got it for Christmas that year. Come to think of it, Sam had not seen it lately. "Did you?" he asked.

Dean blew out a half-laugh, half-huff as he snapped the new clip in place. He hefted the weapon experimentally, judging the balance and weight with the new ammo. Apparently satisfied, Dean put his gun back in his waistband.

Bobby headed for the other side of his workshop, giving them a moment alone.

"How do you do it?" Sam asked, the question out before his brain really had time to process if asking it was a good idea.

"Do what?" Dean asked, giving him a puzzled look. "Load my gun?"

"Not that," Sam said dismissively. "How do you walk around all day like it doesn't hurt?"

"Not this again," Dean grumbled, moving to push past Sam.

Sam grabbed his brother by the shoulder, which was uninjured for a change. "No, seriously, Dean. How do you do it? And don't tell me it doesn't hurt, because I know it does."

Dean studied the wall just over Sam's shoulder. He watched as his brother's emotional walls slammed into place. "Fine," Sam released Dean's shoulder. "Nevermind." Dejected, he headed back for the couch and useless gremlin research. He got it now: his brother did not want to talk to him. As much as it hurt, Sam figured he probably deserved it. He dragged a toe along the bottom of Bobby's couch. Things were so wrong, so very wrong, and he knew it was his fault. But how could he fix it? And did he deserve to be the one to fix it?

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"You know," Bobby offered after watching Sam's face fall in pure dejection, "maybe you should just sit down and have a long talk with your brother."

Dean did not snort or roll his eyes or tell Bobby to shut the hell up, all of which he expected. Instead Dean studied the door his brother disappeared through. "He's having nightmares again, Bobby."

"About what?" he asked, checking on some of his herbal stores to look busy.

"He won't tell me." Dean sounded tired and weary. "Sam's being a jerk."

"I thought you were the jerk," Bobby replied, unable to hide his grin.

Dean's head snapped to the side, that intense hunting look coming over his face. "Yeah, I am." His head turned slowly back toward the door, the way Sam went. "Or maybe I haven't been enough of one lately."

Bobby shook his head as Dean left. When those boys were kids, he often thought John had been too hard on them, moved around too much. Now he wondered how the hell John managed. Bobby was about ready to take a two-by-four to both their skulls and knock some sense into those boys. Somebody needed to.

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It had an itch, right on top of its head. But if it moved, one of the hunters might see it. So it remained perfectly still, concealed in the deep shadow beside the house. It did not understand why it could not go inside, wreak the kind of havoc it wanted, but each time it tried it felt indescribable fear. The little boss was gone, which was strange. Its last orders were to focus on this house, these people, so it would. But right now, it had an itch.