Disclaimer: Refer to Chapter One.

A/N: Ah, off to see what happened after Val's spirit shows up. Glad to see there are some people still out there reading it and that it's not getting too boring yet. MAZ, thanks for your support – I hold you close to my heart, just like a good bra. And youthere, thanks for your wonderings… you make me laugh. If you guys want to check out a few great drabbles, give her a try. She tells an amazing story in 100 words.

Chapter Five: Dirty Old Town

March, 2009

There is fact that is often forgotten between the hysteria and frenzy about people who sustain mild to moderate concussions: the brain doesn't stop working. Millions and millions of neurons, which normally would be going about the day in regular lazy form suddenly come to a quivering life. Synapses fire on demand, faster and stronger than before. Fibers and axons try desperately to connect with their mate, most running through thousands of mismatches until that one connection melds. The brain will work to keep the human body in the realm of reality. It will continue to push through all the haze, through all the pain, through all the memories until it finds light again. Because the only thing that can get through the crazy maze of the mind is the mind.

And when it does, sometimes things aren't exactly what they appear to be.

Dean's eyes fluttered open. Slits of gray clouds obscured his vision when he turned his head and he was bombarded with a blur of dark and light gray speeding by. He closed his eyes just as fast and swallowed hard, willing the nausea to pass, pretending he didn't feel a rise in his throat, pretending the rain wasn't chilling him to the bone. His mind was working overtime, trying to bring him back from the black. Through the tangles and cobwebs, there was one thought that was bringing him into the now.

He was losing Sam.

I don't know when it happened.

Each morning that he woke up was just another day closer.

Maybe when I was in Hell.

Each night that he went to sleep was another day wasted.

Maybe when I was staring right at you.

The punch line, though, was Sam was losing Dean.

But the Sam I knew, he's gone.

And he thought one of them… didn't even care.

Dean blinked again. This time it was so hard that it made his already lined frown deepen over the bridge of his nose. He could hear a commotion. Sounded like a gurgle, maybe thumping. He knew he had to open his eyes back to the twirling of the world to see what was happening. His eyes pulled open, his upper lids slowly ungluing from his lower lids.

Black. Cold. A perfect fit. His sawed-off. Clutched in his hands. Dean lifted his eyes even more, looking into the distance to where the grappled, muffled sound was coming from. There was the odd apparition in his line of sight. It moved fluidly, its form gaining substance by the minute. He could see a hand wrapped around his brother's head and another smashed into his face. Dean squinted because that didn't make sense. It couldn't be right. He could see Sam – and then two of Sam – as his vision focused in and out. His brother's long body was laying on the muddy ground, soggy from the rain still falling down. His legs were tucked behind him, his arm bent, trying without success to unleash himself from the ghostly form.

Oh, God. Dean blinked again. He was losing Sam.

And without knowing it was happening, his synapses started finding their mates and began firing electricity back and forth. A perfect beat started to strum from his memory. The boom-boom of a drum, the classic southern tweak of a guitar, vocals that were smooth and bluesy and Dean gripped his gun.

"Got my pistols in my pockets," Dean breathed, taking aim at the solidifying form, "I'm Alabama bound." He pushed himself up on his elbows, the barrel trembling a bit as he squinted, "I'm not looking for no trouble but nobody dogs me 'round." He pulled the trigger. There was a short unearthly gasping sound and the figure vanished into the air.

There was a few seconds after the shotgun fired where Dean wasn't sure if he had slipped back into oblivion or not. He certainly wasn't there, wasn't himself. The pain in his brain was hot and cold at the same time and stole his breath away.

His head fell to the dirt and mud. He had to wait it out and let his forehead feel the temperature change of the cold wet ground before he could right himself again.

After that it took about every reserve of energy he had to get up. He pushed hard, even though his arms were protesting, they wobbled and shook but he pressed on. His legs moved sluggishly and his knees knocked but he sucked in a breath and made it the short distance to his brother.

Sam's body lay still, his eyes shut despite the water still falling on him. His head rolled slowly to the left, away from Dean and a childlike moan escaped his lips.

"Sam?" Dan leaned down. His hand pressed on Sam's shoulder and he shook the younger man, firm but gentle.

A long breath inhaled through a wheezy windpipe and Dean pulled away. Ambivalence was a tricky concept. Should he stay or should he go? Dean watched Sam guppy in a few more breaths and once Dean was satisfied, he looked over to the can of gasoline.

He unscrewed the cap and chugged a good amount of the accelerant over the nicely dressed bones of Valentina Mondalvo. He searched his jeans pocket for the matchbook, happy he'd put them in a plastic bag first, and he struck it against his fingernail. He walked around the gravesite, dropping in a few more matches until the fire took and roared quickly to life in a lively 'fwuump' sound. He felt the ground tilt, felt the heat on his body as the fire flickered hungrily up towards the sky. But Dean stayed steady on his feet.

And he never took his eyes off of Sam.

He waited patiently as he watched the color return to his brother's cheeks and felt his own breathing ease. He had to bite his bottom lip as Sam tried to open his eyes, tried to let the happenings around him filter in. He wondered if he was looking for his big brother, but he didn't really want to know the answer. Dean wasn't sure he could deal with that much honesty just yet.

He stopped his boot from catching Sam's side as he rolled himself up, coming close to the flames of the salt and burn. He thought it was funny that before they left the bar it was Dean who had accused Sam of wanting to do the job alone.

You're holding me back!

"Dean? You okay, man?"

I'm a better hunter than you are.

Dean glared, his face forming a question. Was he the pot or the kettle? "I'm swell, Sam."

Stronger.

Dean watched as Sam rolled over on all fours, trying to figure out the best way to get off the slippery slope he had gotten himself on. He made it to his knees and turned to look at his brother.

Smarter.

Dean swayed. Sam was really, really looking at him.

"You sure?"

One quick swallow and Dean nodded. "Yeah. Course."

Sam wrapped his hands around a smaller tomb marker and shoved himself up. He turned, his eyebrows wrinkling his forehead. "Dude," Sam said casually, "You look kind of green."

Dean tilted his head and felt his chin tremble.

Sam was pointing at him, his finger waggling in the air. "You're bleeding."

Dean's hand automatically went up to his head. Well, wasn't that the shit. His palm came back bloody. He reached down and felt the trickle of red all the way down his neck. "Damn."

Sam nodded in acknowledgement. "I'll need to stitch that up for you."

It was said harmlessly. No hidden meaning behind it. Just a suggestion. An offer. Of course, Sam's brother had better hearing these days. Not much was getting by him.

"You will?" Dean started gathering up the empty metal cans. He glanced down into the grave and watched the fire burn down. The dress was gone, the necklaces were charred, the bones were leaving behind ash. "I think I can handle a few stitches myself."

Sam's neck twitched and he turned away. Dean felt a small twinge from inside twist into a knot and he really wished he could stop putting his foot in his mouth. Verbal and nonverbal, everything was dripping from them like toxins. He heard Sam huff, blowing the recent round off and it only made Dean's blood boil all over again. They were both getting really good at walking away from their words.

"Fire's about gone," Sam began. "We should start to-"

Dean tossed a sarcastic look at his brother. "Yeah. First, you get your ass down there and close the casket back up."

He waited for Sam to make the sore trip six feet down under again. Dean noticed the pants his brother made, the way his lips pursed together and how calmly he blew breaths out. He noticed the way Sam moved, not exploding with power as before. Now he just looked… tender.

Sam slipped more than once trying to find his footing as he climbed back out of the grave and by the time he stood next to his brother, all he got was a shovel thrown at him.

Dean scooped up an ample amount of dirt and threw it over the opening. It fell in a thud against the lid of the coffin, the rain continuing to come down.

"Now what?" Sam asked as he worked his shoulders into the groove and started a silent dirt race with Dean.

Dean didn't slow down. He felt a fresh bleb of blood run duo trails along the side of his face. "Job's done."

"Yeah?" Sam sounded unconvinced.

"Salt and burned."

"Yeah."

It was never, ever a salt and burn, though, and Dean knew that. "Now we can drink."

Sam nodded. "Sure, man."

"And then we can get out of this dirty old town."

Dean's eyes dulled as he looked over the open tomb. Sam stared back at him, his right hand clutching the shovel, his hair matted to his head from the rain. His mouth was pulled into a tight bow of a grimaced smile. The tension was building again, thick like fog, making it hard to breath around the drizzle falling from the sky.

Dean tried to smile back but it died before it ever had a chance. He found himself running to his right, grabbing hold of the crumpling fence and throwing up all over little Angel's grave.

-0-

August, 1990

Valentina was still in the back bedroom, clutching Ramona. Ben had remained behind trying to calm her down. Trying to understand what had happened and why.

Dean wanted to get the hell out of the tavern and as far away as they could. They were already packed. They'd eaten lunch. They'd cleaned up. He'd kinda watched someone try to kill Sam.

But John was sitting at the bar, talking to Jeff. He was asking questions, sipping on a beer, and tapping the pad of his fingertip to the beat of the music.

Gimme three steps, gimme three steps, mister/Gimme three steps toward the door

Dean cleared his throat impatiently, trying to no avail, to get his father's attention. He was standing near the open entrance, Sam at his side, the end of his brother's coat balled tightly in his hand.

Gimme three steps, Gimme three steps, mister/And you'll never see me no more

For sure. It was time to go.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was small and scared. He sounded tired, nervous.

Or maybe that was what Dean was feeling. Dean's knees trembled. Sometime he really hated being the voice of parental reasoning. "We're leaving, Sammy," he promised. "Dad's just wrapping up."

"You don't think this is all crazy talk, do you?" Jeff was asking and John shook his head no. The longhaired guy nodded back. "I don't know how to help him," he said honestly. "He can't just kick her out. Can't let her go out there like this. She'll never survive. She needs help. Medication." Jeff hesitated. "She needs love."

Dean could see the door down the hallway being closed and Ben was rushing out into the open bar. He had a cell phone in his hand and was talking in hushed tones, asking someone to hurry as he glanced over in a controlled panic to the counter, almost startled to see the Winchesters were still there.

"I gotta go," he said clearly and snapped the phone shut. His eyes narrowed. "What're you still doing here?" He gestured in the direction of the boys. "Get your kids and go."

John swiveled on the stool and locked eyes with the man. "I was thinking maybe I'd stick around and help you."

Dean's eyes widened. His mouth opened in objection. He wanted to scream We almost lost Sam! but Ben beat him to it.

"Help me what? She just tried to snuff out your kid!"

John almost smiled at that. "I don't think she's nuts. I think something-"

"You think something killed my boy. You think something's possessing Val or driving her-" Ben stopped and looked down, his hands fisting at his sides. He let out a hot breath and looked back up. "Sometimes people are just crazy."

"Let me talk to her."

"No."

"Why?" John was challenging now, pressing for more information or pushing until the guy broke.

"Because she's not RIGHT!" he shouted, the last word bouncing off the thin walls.

John's eyes narrowed at the man. "About what?"

Everything was silent, save the music playing. John waited them out.

"About," Jeff's voice was calm and cool and Ben was glaring at him over John's shoulder, "about Angel."

"Shut-up. I swear to God or I'll shut you the fuck up-"

"What about Angel?" John's neck craned, but his body stayed square with Ben.

"She said-"

Ben shook his head.

"Angel was murdered."

Dean's eyes widened even more and he looked down at his brother. Sam was watching intently, his head rotating from left to right, following the men's conversation. He was following along without needing any explanation of what was being said.

"By what?" John moved on. It wasn't a who, he was sure of that.

Ben dropped his death glare with his brother and looked back at the hunter. "Look, she's… she's having a hard time. With this baby coming-"

"Yeah I kind of noticed. You know, you never mentioned she was pregnant again," John interrupted.

Ben shuffled his feet. His eyes were down cast; his shoulders were sagging. His entire world was resting all its crazy weight on him and his back looked like it could crack at any moment.

"Baby's not exactly a happy event," he said quietly, his eyes on this shoes. "Besides, she's insane."

"Maybe not."

"She's talking crazy. It can't be real."

"Maybe it is."

"My father died doing what you do. My mother died because of it." Ben gulped. "I know there are things out there. Spirits and ghosts. Werewolves and black dogs. I know there's evil out there. But what she thinks-"

"What does she think it was?"

Ben shook his head, his hands unfisted and now presented palms up in a desperate plea. "A demon?" He stared at John hard. "But my dad he always said they weren't real. He never saw one."

John gave a small, understanding nod. "Doesn't mean they're not real." He waited a moment for that to sink in, his eyes landing across the bar at his two boys, both waiting for their father to come back to them. Always on different sides of the room. "She say what it looked like?" he asked, not taking his eyes off his sons.

"No." Ben's answer was quick. "I don't know if she actually saw anything. But she said… he… had yellow eyes."

"Not black?" John turned his attention to the bartender again.

The man shrugged. "She said yellow. She sees yellow everywhere now."

John let out a long sigh. "A demon with yellow eyes? I'll have to look into that one. Talk to Murphy or Singer – "

"No, not the demon." Ben shut his eyes, shaking his head, trying to focus on his words. Deciphering Val's wild assessment of what she believed happened and what actually happened and no one would ever know what really happened anyways. "She thinks that a demon or a devil… changed our Angel. She found sulfur in his nursery when he was a baby."

"What?" John's voice was sharp and curt like he was just stabbed in the heart.

Dean felt his body rise to attention, his muscles became even more taught under his skin than before. His Dad's eyes were digging into the bartender's words. The older son could only watch and wonder where his Dad's memory had wandered to.

Real evil came to you. It walked this house.

"She said something had been there but she never saw anything. Just this yellow dust." Ben shrugged. "I had a guy come in and check the vents and the heating unit, but it all checked out okay. It had been cold out, the windows were up. I don't know where it came from." He paused a few seconds and then sighed, "But then Val started seeing things."

"Like what?" John held his breath.

"I guess… there were times where she'd look at Angel and his eyes would flash yellow – just for a second. Then they'd be back to normal. And he smelled. Like sulfur."

Dean thought his dad looked white. Scared, ghost white. He didn't blink. He didn't look anywhere. He just became a statue. Dean wanted to throw a rock at him and break him into a million pieces right then. What the hell was he doing? They needed to get out of there right now!

"You think Angel drowned?"

Ben nodded. "Yes. I do."

"You think it was accidental?"

Ben kept nodding. "Yeah."

"You don't think something came into the bathroom-"

Then his head was shaking. "No."

"You don't think that maybe there was a demon-"

"No." His voice was strong, steadfast, non-wavering.

"Why?"

The door cracked open then and Ramona came running down the short corridor, Valentina close behind. The Latina was indescribably beautiful, her hair swept elegantly away from her face, her skin flawless, despite the recent tears. Even her baby bump was put to good use, actuating her hips.

Through the beauty, she looked ragged, though. Like she had been washed on an old washboard and hung to dry. Her nerves were screaming as her body came to a jittery halt and she focused on Ben.

"Who'd you call?" she demanded, words clear accented with anger.

"Someone who can help."

"No."

Ben looked at her. "We need-"

"No more doctora." She stood with her hands on her hips, facing Ben when her head suddenly turned and her nasal passage breathed in heavily.

"Val-"

"He's still here."

Ben grabbed her shoulders, his hand losing the grip. "It's not Angel!" He yelled.

Val moved across the room swiftly, Ben directly behind her, John at his side.

Dean shoved his brother behind his back and clumsily backed them both away from the adults rushing towards them until they hit the wall. He felt Sam fold his arms inwards, clutching at the back of Dean's shirt, holding on.

Val's hands reached Dean and she yanked hard on his forearms, shifting his body away from the younger boy. The men's thick arms were enveloping her now and she was being pulled back, still holding on to Dean as he started to slide away from his brother. Sam's body pulled along with the shirt and it was a tug-of-war where the ones with the most muscle power were easily going to win.

Valentina took in a deep, disturbed breath, rasping down her throat and then released a cry out into the bar. She knotted the ends of Dean's shirt in her white knuckled fists and shrieked, "Conchita!"

Ramona pushed off from the table she was leaning against and ran over to the bulk of people pushing and pulling in the center of the room. She heard her uncle shout her name as she ran, her tall lanky form bringing up the back. She straddled her body behind the youngest of the growing crowd and held her hands over his nose and mouth.

John Winchester broke his hold on Ben. His eyes soaked in the horrendous sight of the awkward twelve-year-old holding a death grip on his Sam. Her face was scrunched into a mass of frowns and wrinkles as she pulled back on the young boy, holding him tight against her body.

John's large hand landed on her tiny shoulder and she looked up at the hunter, her dark eyes full of disdain glaring at him. He shook his head at her once and quietly reached his other hand around her body, removing the seal she has secured on Sam's face with an audible pop. "Conchita," he whispered firmly, "don't do that."

Ramona took in a series of quick gasps of air, her small ribcage rising and falling fast. Her eyes flew from the back of Sam's head to his father's eyes and she turned to run, only to be engulfed in the arms of her uncle. The sobs soaked through Jeff's shirt on impact.

Val was still screaming. She had released Dean and was kicking and punching at Ben. Her body coiled and bucked in his hold as she glowered at Sam.

"Go!" Ben was yelling, trying to keep his frenzied girlfriend in place, but her small body thrashed hard in his grip and it wasn't going to be long before he couldn't contain her.

Ramona peeked over at the boys and started screaming. Her arms went loose and her body bent in half as she fell to the floor, taking Jeff with her. He looked up to the men, his hand resting on her back, soothing her as she continued to cry out in pain.

And then they were in the car, Jeff yelling his apologizes out the door to the family. Ben was fighting Val who was still in hysterics, her body forcing him out the door of the tavern and into the muddy road.

"Get outta here, Winchester!" Ben was shouting.

Dean pushed Sam over and scooted in beside him as John was hollering back that he was going and that he suggested no one leave Valentina alone.

"I'm done!" Ben was saying. "I can't do it anymore! I'm done."

And Val was quieting again, her tears drying on her face as she heard Ben's words. She couldn't hear John's pleas behind the man, telling him to reconsider. That she needed him that she didn't need to be thrown out, thrown away.

"Get out!" Ben demanded to the trio as John reluctantly got into the Impala and drove down the road away from the small tavern.

The last thing Dean remembered was Sam's thin voice climbing over the roar of the Chevy. "What did I do?"

-TBC-

Translations: doctora: doctor

Playlist: Gimme Three Steps performed by Lynyrd Skynyrd

Mississippi Kid performed by Lynyrd Skynyrd, recited by Dean Winchester to help him find his beat again.

Dirty Old Town performed by the Pogues

A/N: Thanks again for reading. If you're still hanging out, I'd love to hear what you think!