Hi all, I hope you are all well. I cannot thank you enough for the kind comments, I love getting them. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

As always, thank you to Meilean for her help and encouragement.

Chapter 3: Out of the Closet

Holding his weapon securely, berating himself for jumping at a creak from the building, Sam was suddenly distracted from his hunt. A familiar rumble filtered through the window and, dropping the wet sponge, abandoning all attempts at stealth, he ran to the glass and looked out. The sleek black familiar shape of home was pulling into a parking space. Sam eyed it hungrily and barely flinched when he felt someone approach from behind and a hand rest on his shoulder. He was too busy watching his father who was helping Dean out of the passenger seat.

As John headed to the trunk to get their gear. Sam ran towards the door to greet them. He was struck motionless at the sight of Dean. Mouth open, his wide eyes took in the blood-soaked clothes and obvious injuries that became visible as his brother moved into the light.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was small and high, reminiscent of when a five-year-old Sammy would wake from a nightmare and reach out for his big brother.

Dean swallowed. After the long drive his muscles had seized and the adrenalin was no longer pumping, masking his pain. "Don't worry." He locked it down and gave his brother a confident grin as he limped across the room. "Most of this isn't mine. I was just a bit too close when Dad ganked the sucker." He might have carried it off if he hadn't winced audibly as he collapsed onto the couch and needed several controlled breaths before he could resume his façade.

Sam's eyes roamed over the deep looking cuts on Dean's bruised face, the gory mess that seemed to cover everything, his hair, his neck, his clothes.

"Don't just stand there Sam, get the first aid kit," John ordered, entering with the bags.

While John helped Dean out of his jacket, Sam went to grab the 'first aid kit' - a washbag full of stuff they used to macgyver everything from gluing cuts, to sewing skin, to removing bullets - from the bathroom. John over-rid Dean's protests as they settled the wincing teen in a more comfortable position that also meant they could access his injuries. Then he sent Sam for a bowl of warm water while he started to check the wounds. Sam stooped to grab the wet sponge from where he'd dropped it earlier on the way, his family luckily too occupied to notice.

"Look at this Sam," Dean said as his pale little brother returned with shaking hands trying not to spill water from the bowl he carried. He pulled a claw from his jeans pocket and held it up while John wiped blood from his ankle and tested the bone.

Eyeing the large, curved, blood-stained object, Sam felt any remaining blood drop from his face. Struggling to keep his dinner down, he turned away to put the bowl of water on the table by his dad. The claw looked huge. He wanted to ask what kind of monster it had come from but at the same time wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"It's not broken but I'm going to strap it up," John said brusquely, still holding Dean's ankle which was purple and swollen. "You'll be okay in a few days."

Once the ankle was strapped, and the other injuries checked, John turned to Sam. "Finish cleaning your brother up, I've got to check in with Jim."

Sam moved beside Dean reluctantly, since the older boy was in the process of removing something that looked suspiciously like bloody brain-matter from inside his t-shirt. Swallowing hard, his eyes worked their way around the various scrapes to establish exactly what they were dealing with. Dean tried to grin at him but Sam could see his brother was masking and ignored his lame attempts at humour. There was a large, dark-stained rip in Dean's jeans and Sam cut the material carefully to get at the wound beneath.

In the other room, John refused to give in to the nausea. Leaning against the sink, he took a few deep calming breaths, his chin dropping to his chest. After a long moment, he wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead then turned and picked up the phone. He needed a calm reassuring voice before he lost it completely.

Back in the living room Dean was taunting his brother to try and stop him looking at him like he was a winged baby bird. "So, any more closet monsters?"

The next time Dean had seen him, after that night several weeks ago when his brother had nearly attacked him with a baseball bat, Sam had seemed fine but the kid was definitely hiding something.

To Dean's bemusement, Sam glanced across the room to an empty chair which he gave a quick smile. Then without responding he poured some antiseptic on a cloth and pressed it against the cuts he'd just cleaned on Dean's face.

"Ow! Easy Sammy," Dean complained, snatching the cloth and dabbing it more gently against his temple. He saw Sam glance at the chair again. Dean glanced at the empty chair too, then frowned.

Even after he'd cleaned away the blood, Sam still thought Dean looked pretty beaten up. There was a slump to the older boy's posture that Sam wasn't used to seeing.

"Are you sure you're ok?" he asked seriously. Dean looked far more uncomfortable at the question than he had at the sting of antiseptic and Sam could see him trying to adjust his position, though he was clearly in pain.

"Peachy," Dean said, almost convincingly. Then he glanced in the direction of the kitchen where their dad was still on the phone and said more quietly, "You gonna tell me what's going on?"

"What?" Sam said, looking guilty. He kept his eyes from going to the chair again but in such a fixed way Dean glanced that way anyway. "Nothing!"

"Uh huh," Dean replied with an unconvinced look. Before either could say more, their father returned. Surprising them both, he handed Dean a beer he'd already opened.

"You earned it," he said, noting Dean's expression. "I'll go grab some chow," he added, throwing on his coat and heading out. Sam frowned at his dad's back, took a deep breath and dropped his head. After a moment though, he looked reassured. He turned back to his narrow-eyed brother.

To distract Dean from asking any more questions, Sam turned the TV on, switching to a show Dean sometimes watched, and then carried the now bloodied water bowl back to the kitchen. It was hard to be sure over the sound of the TV but Dean thought his brother was whispering in the kitchen as he cleaned up.

John returned with a bag of groceries and a bucket of chicken. They ate and then he helped the fast-fading Dean to bed before returning to sit with Sam.

"You'll need to look after your brother for the next few days." Sam looked from the serious face of his father to the closed bedroom door behind which Dean was sleeping. "He'll be fine," John reassured, "but he needs to rest up." He handed Sam a small pill bottle, a warning to use with caution in his eyes.

"You're leaving," Sam accused, realising why they were having this conversation.

"I need to go see Jim," John said firmly. Sam heard the authoritarian tone but not the guilt that fuelled it. Jim had a possible lead on Mary's case. Much as he didn't want to leave his boys right now, it was more vital that he keep them far from anything to do with that thing, whatever it turned out to be. And there had been nothing new in so long.

He saw the sour look Sam was giving him. How did that boy always manage to pull every bit of guilt and doubt from inside John's deepest recesses and reflect it right back at him in accusation. "Just keep your brother off that ankle until I get back," he barked.

"How am I supposed to do that?" Sam snapped back, frowning at the bottle of pills in his hand. They both knew trying to get Dean to stay still, was like trying to reason with a drunk.

"Well if you'd been practicing your takedowns like I told you to, you'd know how."

"I'm not going to neck-crank him when he's a walking bruise."

"Good, because you'll never pull that off. You want to be able to beat him, you'd better spend more time training and less time with your head in books." John got up and headed to his room. Behind his back Sam mouthed blah blah blah, perfect Dean, blah blah. He huffed and threw himself back against the couch, arms folded.

π π π

When John returned late in the afternoon some days later, he could hear Sam laughing in the kitchen. He frowned, as Dean should still be resting, and approached quietly.

"Okay, your turn," he heard Sam say. He listened for a moment longer but only heard Sam laughing again.

He opened the door to find Sam lying on his back in the middle of the floor, arms and legs spread like a starfish, laughing hysterically while staring towards a blank wall. John's eyes narrowed and he looked around the room. There was no sign of anyone else, even when he peered behind the door he'd just opened. He looked suspiciously back at his youngest. He'd been certain there was someone in here with him.

"Oh, hey, Dad," Sam said. He was still breathless from laughing but the joy was quickly leaving his face.

"Sam," John responded, part returning the greeting, part questioning what he'd walked in on. Sam unspread himself and sat up. John's face darkened.

π π π

That evening John sat staring at his youngest son with a gaze that Sam interpreted as disapproval.

It had taken a fair bit of coaxing to get Sam to tell him about his 'friend'. Sully, it seemed, had been 'staying' with Sam for several weeks, and was here now, though John couldn't see him. John had become more and more incensed as Sam explained how they hung out and played games and Sully was his best friend, the best friend he'd ever had. The Marine's thunderous response had drawn a somewhat drugged and extremely baffled Dean from his bed.

Sam had been dragged to a chair and surrounded with a circle of salt. Then he'd watched, terrified, as his dad pulled the apartment apart, searching and scanning every inch, weapon in hand. Even though Sam could see Sully standing right there, reassuring Sam it was all cool beans and he didn't need to worry, John found nothing.

Dean, who had mostly watched Sam as Sam watched their dad, was sent to search through all of Sam's things and report back. He reluctantly returned with some notes Sam had written and John read them with blazing eyes.

Then he'd called Bobby, Pastor Jim, Caleb, Martin, and Travis. They'd all made the same, simple, suggestion but John had resisted accepting it. Instead, he'd tried their reluctantly-given recommendations to make anything that could appear, reveal itself, before he'd accepted there was no threat. Eventually he'd pulled up a chair and sat opposite his youngest. With a severe look, he declared Sam was too old for an imaginary friend and he needed to grow up.

"You get rid of it, you hear me?"

But Sam, rather than agreeing or even just staying silent, flared up in response.

"He's not an 'it', he's a he, and he's my friend."

Now they sat in uncomfortable silence eating burgers. Sam had his head ducked but Dean could see the sideways glances and suppressed smiles. He glanced nervously at his father, trying to think of a way to break the tension. After dinner he limped around, cleaning up the chaos caused by the search of the apartment, while John wrote in his journal. Sam had asked to go to his room but Dad had said whatever Sam wanted to do he could do out here where they could keep an eye on him. So he sprawled on the floor playing tic-tac-toe by himself.

It wasn't the first time his father and brother had butted heads and Dean knew the best thing to do in the short term was to separate them. The trouble was, the only way to do that would be to find another job. And if he did, Dad would expect him to go too. He was worried about Sammy and didn't want to leave him alone right now. He thought about suggesting Sam could go to Pastor Jim's, or Bobby's but the last time he'd made that suggestion Dad had accused him of coddling his little brother too much. He couldn't shake the guilty feeling that this weird phase, or whatever it was, was his fault somehow.

That night, after they were in bed, Sam whispered across the room.

"Dean."

"Hmmm?"

"Sully is real you know."

There was a long pause.

"No Sammy, he's not."

π π π

AN: Got an idea in my head – What if the thing in Sam's closet was Sully? – and decided to run with it. 😊

Just in case some people are not familiar with it - To fix something without benefit of tools or a manual is called "to MacGyver a solution," after the 80s tv show in which 'MacGyver' was known for his inventive use of common items (such as disarming nuclear bombs with paper clips).

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