CW—Chapter 4

(A/N: a dude in the early sixties was slang for a geek.)

Dean completely blamed the fact he'd sat up the entire night, while Sam slept, on the Colt brothers' journal. He'd pulled the chair between the beds and propped his feet on Sam's bed because he was more comfortable there. It had nothing to do whatsoever with the coughing and restlessness from Sam. There was no way Dean would sit up with his brother for a stupid cold.

Dropping the journal to his knees and twisting his head back and forth to ease some kinks, Dean realized Sam's eyes were open. He lay there, silently doing nothing but blinking at Dean.

Dean blinked back for a few seconds before realizing Sam was awake. "Hey. Been awake long?"

"Few minutes." Sam shook his head slightly and pushed up far enough to lean against the headboard. "You've been sitting there all night." It was a flat out statement, no question or even surprise implied.

"Uh…light's better here. This is…uh—" Yeah, Dean Winchester, winner of the smoothness award. He waved one hand at the journal, closed it, and swung his feet to the ground. "You're looking better. I think you looked better dead than you did yesterday."

That got him a smile. "You're changing the subject." Pushing out of the chair and giving his back a twist, completely ignoring how Sam watched and gave him one of those quick, knowing headshakes, Dean walked across the room.

He put on some coffee then grabbed more ibuprofen and water. Back to his brother in a few quick strides, Dean perched on the edge of Sam's bed while Sam downed the pills and bottle of water without so much as a questioning glance.

Nodding at the journal Dean left on the chair, Sam asked in a small voice, "What happened to them?"

"Apparently they had a buddy who'd done a stint in World War Two as a medic. Tracked him down, and he patched them up. That trick with the metal shavings and the compass was awesome."

"Yeah." Sam croaked. Dean pretended not to notice how he shivered and pulled the blankets closer. When the coffee was done, Dean held out a mug. Sam's fingers appeared from under the blanket and wrapped around it immediately.

Picking up the journal, Dean resettled in the chair, thumbing through. "They got the salt and burn thing down with ghosts and stocked up on more supplies for the next round. Gotta give these guys credit, they didn't give up. They had no one to teach them other than the journal they'd gotten from some old, crazy hunter named Chapman. I mean talk about on-the-job training." Dean faked a shudder and took Sam's mug, refilling it and his own. "Better?"

Sam nodded.

"The last one I read was them going after—and getting—a werewolf. They had balls, I'll give them that, and ambition. Shit, what they had to work with is the stone ages compared to the technology we can get a hold of." Dean laughed softly as he sat again in the chair. "And here I thought some of the stuff we used as kids was dark ages compared to what we have now."

"That werewolf when we were kids scared the crap out of me. It still does." Sam confessed quietly.

Dean snorted, "You were twelve. I have to say, it's the ghosts that always do me in. Werewolves, vamps, some of the other things, they're things, ya know, actual beings. But the idea something continues, thinks, acts, and it's not really something concrete, man, that's always creeped me out."

"Me too." Sam looked up at him from under his bangs, eyes earnest, face open.

It was scary, how different, and yet how much alike he and Sam were. Warm tendrils of pride shot through his chest and up his throat; closing it for a few seconds when that thought was chased by the thought that much of Sam came from Dean's influence. Dean saw their father's influence in Sam, but more so he saw himself in a more subtle way.

"That first one, it was the freakiest thing I think I've ever seen. I'm sure it wasn't nearly as bad as I remember—"

"It was worse." Sam ground out, cutting him off.

Dean nodded, reached out and patted Sam's knee. Memory of Sam and he facing their first ghost alone—not alone with each other—when Sam was maybe ten at the most made his stomach and throat burn, leaving a sourness in his mouth. How could anyone have forced that on a ten-year-old? Yet their father saw no issue with it. Sam had been so shaken, Dean too if he was being completely honest with himself, they'd not been out of each other's sight for probably a week. "You slept under my bed for nearly a month after that. You never did tell me how you found the body."

"I did so."

"You just kept saying you sniffed it out."

"Dean! I sniffed it out. He'd only been dead a few months. Buried in a box in the cellar and not embalmed. He was juicy. And stinky."

"Huh. I thought it was the septic tank." Dean snickered. "Hey, get this. Ben got himself attacked by a Woman In White. Must be a little brother thing." Dean ducked away from the hand swatting at his head. "Smart kid though, didn't need to drive that '37 Chevy of Jake's through so much as a piece of paper let alone the entire front of a house."

"I'm sure if Ben had to crash the car Jake wouldn't have cared two hoots as long as Ben was okay. I'm very sure he wouldn't have threatened any kind of bodily harm or death, being the world's greatest big brother and all." Sam's eyes met his steadily, though Sam picked at the edge of one of the blankets.

The look Sam gave him struck Dean completely speechless. He couldn't do more than sit and stare at Sam, knowing by his brother's expression and tone those words really weren't spoken in reference to Jake Colt.

"Dean? You alright?" Sam's voice was thin, and he was still pale.

Eyes dropping back to the journal, "Yeah, Sammy, I'm good." It was the truth too. "Around 1960 to '61 they, Jake and Ben, they found an increase of demon activity. It's amazing to me the details and patterns they put together with so few ways to gather the information. Dude, no Internet. No Weather Channel. No GPS. Yet they pieced together all sorts of facts on weather conditions, animal sacrifices and mutilations, crime scene accounts. Sam, these guys did shit we can't do, and we have more ways to get information."

"And more ways to get caught." Sam reminded him, giving him the look that read I know you changed the subject, dumbass.

"Well, Dad wasn't the only guy to see the patterns, but he was like them, on the job training. I don't think Jake ever got over Mary Shards' murder, or the fact her murderer wasn't caught. He mentions over and over the accounts from witnesses in crimes, arson being mentioned a lot, of a yellow-eyed man. The crimes he writes about are different, but yellow-eyes are a theme. A big time theme.

"According to this Mary's family just died off after her murder, literally. Even younger members, some were just kids. All sorts of bizarre things too. One drown, two cousins did themselves in. An aunt and uncle died of carbon monoxide poisoning it looks like from the description. Damn, accidental death when a tractor turned over on her brother and crushed him, another one hit by a car while walking home from school. The only one to live more than a few years after her was a sister. She was still alive in 1961, but it doesn't say in here when she died."

Sam was staring into his coffee mug. "Yeah. I saw something about that when I was flipping through." He said in a voice so quiet it was a miracle the mug wasn't the only one to hear him.

Now it was Dean's turn. "Hey, Sammy?"

Sam drank his coffee more slowly, barely looking up from his mug, eyebrows pulled together. "Just weird, you know?"

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Her husband was in jail when his parents and her family died, so I guess it couldn't have been him."

Holding one hand out, Sam sighed, put the coffee mug down and shifted around to a better position on the bed. Waggling his fingers in a give me motion, he looked up at Dean then away just as fast. "We need details on the sister."

Dean nodded silently and handed the journal over. He swung his feet back onto Sam's bed; letting the balls of his feet touch Sam's crossed ankles. Sam cleared his throat, thumbed through to the right entry and started reading.

June 6, 1961, Rocky River, Ohio…

Ben looked up from the map, pointed to the next side street off Detroit Avenue, "That one." He sighed and looked at his press pass, the one he hadn't used in this city for a few years now. "Think we can do this?"

"As long as she doesn't call anyone who knew us and check up on us, yeah, my badge and your press ID probably look good enough and most people aren't going to know they're a few years old. Just act like you're telling the truth. We've been doing that, no difference really."

Ben nodded.

Jake's eyes turned away from Ben, scanning the addresses of the houses on his side of the street. The car slowing and Jake turning around in a drive to park along the opposite side of the street signaled they'd arrived at their destination.

This house was smaller than the Shards' mansion on Lake Avenue. A small, neat garden ringed the house; a lush lawn sprawled in front and behind it. Crabapple trees dotted the front. Ben could see poplars and evergreens lining the back, probably along the property line. He eyed the brand new Ford sitting in the drive, dipped his head at it and laughed in earnest at the face Jake pulled.

They stopped at the front door. Jake reached out and pushed the bell.

The woman who peeked out when the door cracked open was in her forties, plump face, a neat dress that hung below her knees. Nothing at all like her socialite sister. "Can I help you?"

Jake flashed his badge and a wide, charming grin. "Patricia Reese? I'm Detective Colt, this is my brother, Ben. He's with the Press."

Ben nodded politely.

"No pictures." She hissed out.

"No, ma'am." Ben shoved his camera bag behind his back. "I'm just required to carry it at all times. Ya know, in case there's news."

"What do you want?" She was talking to Jake, Ben felt like a nonentity. "I've talked to the police, the FBI, even Dorothy Fuldheim interviewed me. What more do you want?"

"Yes, ma'am. We saw that bit on the news." Jake drew in a deep, and Ben thought a pained breath. "I was one of the detectives called that morning. Ben took the pictures. I've never stopped trying to solve your sister's murder. Ever."

Patricia's face softened, she opened the door all the way and stepped aside. "We can talk on the back patio."

They followed her obediently through the house. Ben scanned each room quickly as they passed through the living room and out the large double picture window doors at the back. Pictures of Mary, Patricia, Mary's son as a baby and others who Ben took to be her brothers and sisters, parents, in-laws, family in general, lined the wall of a hallway heading to another part of the house.

He wondered about this life: the life where he had a house, a wife, some children and a German Shepherd—and pictures on the walls. Eyes skipping to Jake's back as they followed Patricia through the house and Ben knew. He didn't want that life where his brother's presence was little more than a picture on a wall. At least in this life he knew Jake was ever present, solid and dependable beside him. It was a trade off. Ben understood that. However, it was a trade off Ben was more than happy to make. Life in the suburbs or life with the only family he knew, the only person he trusted with his life. No contest really.

There'd been Darlene, how long had he known her? Ben couldn't even remember now. He sure remembered the day she told him Jake wasn't right for their life. Ben knew right then and there, Jake might not have been right for Darlene, but he was Ben's family and that was all the right Ben needed. Jake had been thrilled when Ben's relationship with Darlene went from casual dates to more. Too bad Darlene couldn't be thrilled with Ben's only family. It'd hurt Ben, hurt a lot, the thought that someone might expect him to cut his ties with Jake because Jake was a cop. He doubted Darlene would have given up as much as Jake to raise a sibling.

Maybe Ben could have gone far, become famous. That's sure what Darlene and Jake both had in common. The problem was, Darlene thought Ben was supposed to go far and leave Jake behind.

Besides, life with Jake was never boring and Ben's ribbing aside they had one cool car.

"I'm afraid there isn't much I can tell you at this point that you probably don't already know." Patricia stepped from the house to the patio and motioned at the lawn chairs.

"I wanted to meet you, well again. You probably don't remember talking to me that day. I wanted you to know Mary's case hasn't been forgotten and if there is anything, any tiny detail, even an unimportant one…" Jake's voice trailed off when she shook her head.

"No." Patricia's fingers played along the arm of her chair. She took a deep breath and studied the two of them for several long seconds. "She was everything to me, the only family I was ever close to. When we were growing up our parents traveled for about half the year and I took care of her more than any of our other brothers and sisters. We were the last two of all the siblings and most of the time it was the two of us. The ironic thing is I should have been dead years before her. I had cancer."

"We're sorry." Ben couldn't help thinking this was a confession of sorts and had something to do with Mary's death. He also couldn't help noticing how Jake stiffened in his chair.

"I was in the hospital in July of 1944. I remember it so clearly, Independence Day. The doctor comes in and tells me I can go home, not a sign of it anywhere. Two days before the same doctor told me I wouldn't live to see Christmas. Ten years later I lose the most important person in my life to that monster she married."

Jake's lips pressed together in a thin line. His expression was an open book to Ben. She'd lost her sister to a monster all right, but not the one she'd married. Jake had known it from those first moments Ben pointed out the sulfur, even if he had tried to deny it for a while.

"I have a post office box, the department wants to pretend this one was solved, but I know it wasn't. If you ever think of anything, anything, please mail it here." Jake handed her a small slip of paper.

Patricia took it and stared down at it for a while. She didn't look up at them when she spoke. "I will. You gentlemen can just go around the house to the drive."

They nodded and mumbled their good-byes. Ben followed Jake in silence to the car. The stiffness of Jake's shoulders, the way his steps here mechanical, how his fists bunched told Ben his brother was angry and frustrated. The woman had been lying then and she'd been lying now. She knew something. Something she was likely to take to her grave.

Slipping into the car, Ben twisted and dropped his camera bag onto the backseat. Jake's hands slammed hard against the steering wheel. It didn't surprise Ben much, but he jumped and flinched nevertheless.

"Mary Shards was a nice lady. Her sister is a nice lady." Jake pushed the words past clenched teeth and hit the steering wheel again.

Ben froze. He'd never in his life feared his brother, but he'd feared for him plenty of times and this was one of those times. "Do you think she saw something, or knows what it was?"

Jake's lips twitched to a snarl. "No. Maybe. Hell, I don't know. That's not the point. They deserved better, Benny. They all did. All the ones we've seen." Jake turned to him, green eyes blazing with an inner fire that was intense and vibrant. "They deserved better. We're gonna make it better. We're gonna make it stop." Cranking the engine over, Jake stomped on the gas and drove them away from Patricia Reese's home.

Jake stopped the car in front of Rocky River High School. They had maybe another fifteen minutes before the students were released for the day. While they sat quietly waiting for the students to be released Jake did his best to ignore how Ben's gaze shifted to him every few minutes. Even though Ben never seemed to mind this life they'd adopted, Jake worried about what Ben might be missing. Whenever he brought it up to Ben his brother looked at him as if he were nuts. Ben would simply shrug him off and say the only thing he was missing was living a lie.

The truth was Jake wasn't interested in another life. Once maybe but not now. He'd met many women he was happy to spend time with, but they all wanted one thing, to settle down and have a family. By the time Jake was twenty-five he'd raised a child and put him through school. He wasn't sure he wanted to do that again, in fact he was positive. There was a lot to be said for being the mysterious guy who came through town, wasted the monster, got a kiss or two and was on his way. Girls his age seemed silly and giggly and had no sense of duty or responsibility. He got intelligent conversation and a sense of belonging from Ben. He'd come to realize a while ago he didn't need a wife. No hassles, no worries about paying bills and no small child looking to him to make a world gone wrong right again.

"Hey, that's him." Ben's hand on his shoulder pulled Jake away from his thoughts. He followed the line of Ben's other arm, pointing out a boy.

Opening the door and easing out of the car, Jake groaned. "Shit," he exhaled. "I hate this beatnik hippy crap."

Ben gave him an indulgent smile, but stayed quiet as he waited for Jake to round the front of the car. They walked across the tree lawn and into the herd of teens leaving school for the day. They made their way casually to one boy who stood off from the rest. His hair was long, blunt cut across the bottom and hung in his face. A striped shirt was pulled out of his waistband as he walked away from the school.

"Hey, you Samuel Shards?" Jake sprinted ahead, slowing when he was walking beside the boy.

The kid gave him a sidelong, suspicious look then squinted at Jake. "I know you. Who's the goofy dude?" His chin jutted toward Ben.

"I am not." Ben visibly bristled.

Jake bit back a chuckle, arched one eyebrow at him, "Yes, Benny, you are."

Ben bit his lip and literally pouted.

"This is my brother, Ben. I'm Jake Colt. I…um…" how was he exactly going to say this? "I met you the day your mom died." Jake blurted the words out, meaning more to ease into it.

Benny, the dude, rolled his eyes and sighed, muttering, "Smooth." He took a step back and leaned against a tree.

Samuel straightened and squared his shoulders. Jaw pushed out, he glared into Jake's eyes. "My dad didn't have anything to do with it. No one listened, you pigs wouldn't listen."

The weight of small Ben transformed into that of small Samuel pressed against him and large, round eyes looking up, pleading with him to set it right…They're not going to come back, are they Jake? She's not going to wake up, is she?

When Ben pushed away from the tree, Jake held one hand out behind him, keeping his brother in place. Ben found the term pig far more offensive than Jake did.

"I know your dad didn't do it. That's why we're here. I was hoping you could tell me something to prove it." Jake was surprised when the boy's face softened and all hints of hostility dropped away.

"I found her. She was so bloody."

"I know." Jake said softly.

"I heard her talking to someone, but it wasn't my dad. For a few days before that I saw some old cat hanging around, he talked to my mom one day when we went to the store. He was a freak, probably tripping or something."

"How so?" Ben asked.

Samuel waved two fingers in circles next to his eyes. "Freak had these yellow eyes. Not cool."

"No." Jake agreed.

"You gonna spring my dad from the slammer?"

Jake couldn't lie to this kid, no matter how much he wanted to assure the boy his father would be free someday. "I don't know."

"I am. I'm going to make sure everyone knows my dad isn't a killer." Samuel turned and stalked away, books held tight to his side, shoulders tense, stride long.

"Whadya think?" Ben asked when the boy was out of hearing.

Jake swiveled around and started walking back to the car. "I think this whole thing is crazy."

There wasn't much for either of them to say. Settling into the car, Jake pulled away from the school.

"Now what?" Ben asked when they'd gone a few miles.

"Not hanging around here. I don't want to get caught here." Jake headed west and cut south after a few more minutes, not stopping for a few hours and when they were well outside Cuyahoga County. "Hungry?" He asked when the sun was setting.

Ben nodded. "Thought I was going to have to wait it out till breakfast." He turned a lopsided grin to Jake.

They found a place not far outside of Elyria and stopped for dinner. "I used to bust these types." Jake mumbled. Finishing up his meal, he turned in his chair far enough to watch the pool tables.

"Yeah, and before that you used to do what they did to make sure I got fed." Ben laughed softly when Jake's gaze jerked to his. "You think I didn't know what you did when we were kids? That Del caught you picking pockets?"

"Ben—"

Ben waved him off. "I'll grab some more beers and you go get in a game." Ben stood up, looking down at Jake. He couldn't do much more than sit there and stare in shock at his brother's revelation. "Sort of proud of that, how you never thought you were too good to do what was needed. Still am." Ben tapped the table with two fingers, grinned and tipped his head at the pool tables.

Jake swallowed around the comforting lump that'd taken up residence in his throat so unexpectedly. Sauntering to the pool tables, he grinned wide and friendly at the men already playing. "Can I get in on the next game?"

He almost felt sorry for them. Almost. Poor bastards didn't have a clue and hustlers made the best cops. Or was it the other way around?

They really needed to consider where they were sitting and in what position when they started reading the journal. Dean woke up; his neck craned in an awkward bend, body and limbs half in the chair and half out of it, legs still up on Sam's bed.

Dean untangled himself from the blankets, trying to stand up and do too much too fast, the chair tilting, his leg protesting his actions the entire way with sharp jabs of pain, before he collapsed in a rather unceremonious heap on the floor between their beds, groaning. Sam's breathy laughter, unsuccessfully stifled into his sleeve, met Dean as he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, silently declaring that he was just going to take a moment right there, on the ground, and no one better have anything to say about it.

That included smart mouth little brothers.

"Smooth," Sam coughed, poking his head over the edge, looking down at him amused. "I give that one a ten. Truly original form."

"Shuddup," Dean growled, pressing the base of his palms back into his eyes, like the assault would clear away the groggy remnants of sleep with each spark that dispersed across his darkened field of vision. "You sound like a chain smoker."

Another breathy laugh rasped from the bed where Sam had ducked back out of Dean's line of sight.

"How long were you watching?" Dean asked, crossing his arms behind his head, finding little motivation to get up right now. The floor felt nice after a night in the chair and he stretched, felt his muscles and vertebrae pop and separate, spread out.

"A while. Was wondering who would win. Dean Winchester or the chair," Sam returned.

"I so won," Dean came back, good leg shooting out, kicking the chair over.

There was a laugh from Sam, followed by yet another sequence of coughing. Dean winced and silently willed it away.

Sam had gone quiet and Dean flipped a balled up sock over the bed that he'd found on the floor. "You still there?"

The mattress shifted and Dean sat up using the nightstand for support. He watched Sam put his feet down on the other side of the bed, back hunched over and shoulders sloped inward. "Yeah, just need a second. This, going back and forth thing…being someone else, losing sense of time, is messing with me a little," he said pressing fingers against the bridge of his nose.

"A little?" Dean grunted as he pulled himself up, glad Sam's back was to him as he had to shut his eyes against the pain. "I…woke up…fully expecting there to be a nice wad of pool hustling cash in my pocket." He turned out his pockets, frowning. "Nope. Still broke."

He squinted at the clock, the numbers blurring together and dancing, refusing to make sense in his head. He saw numbers, but they didn't mean anything to him. What day was it? So the clock said three…was that A.M or P.M.? He shuffled over to the window and drew back the drapes, drawing back quickly as the light hit his eyes. He heard Sam grunt his disapproval and Dean closed them.

What were they, friggin' vampires now? "We need to get out."

Sam fell back into bed. "Guh…I don't want to move…still feel crappy, Dean."

"Little fresh air might do you some good…"

"Crack the window," Sam sighed, rolling onto his side and curling up into himself.

Dean did just that and went to see if the coffee he'd made earlier was still any good. It was cold, but he drank a little anyway, the addict inside of him winning, before starting a new pot.

"Did you see anything this time, Dean?" Sam asked, muttering into his pillow before opening his eyes again.

"Did you?" Dean asked, knowing there was one thing from their 'Back to the Future' experience that he did pick up on.

"The sister…" Sam replied, eyes dropping away from Dean's.

It was the thing that had Dean curious as well. "Nineteen forty-four to nineteen fifty four, sounds like a ten year deal to me. One day her sister's pushing the veil and the next she's perfectly fine? Then ten years later, Mary ends up dead. Ten years to the date."

Dean caught Sam's wince, and he had to admit that saying the name "Mary" and talking about the yellow-eyed demon wasn't something his spirit was able to do without flinching. Between Mary and Samuel Shards, the case unfolding before them slowly, Dean was going to start developing a nervous tick. He didn't like it, but he didn't have to like it. For the first time in a long time they were close to figuring out more of the 'family curse.'

It did bother him that this had fallen into their laps, and watching Sam's reactions was making Dean second guess if continuing to use the journal was a good idea. Azazel was dead, but they couldn't move on, couldn't move past this. Were they ready for the truth if they found it?

It made Dean's next question one heavy with hesitation. The answer would have staggering implications for their family.

"You think?" Dean asked, easing down onto the edge of his bed. "You think Yellow-eyes was making deals?"

Sam blanched a little, turning onto his back, like he felt too vulnerable to be facing Dean at that moment. "There was no hound. Mar—She, didn't die like…like that…" Sam swallowed, throat bobbing as he continued to stare at the ceiling, leaving Dean wondering what it was Sam was seeing in that moment; fire and blood or his last birthday and Dean's last moment? "She didn't even die like…like Mom."

Dean didn't even realize he'd begun to inadvertently rub at his scars beneath his shirt, fingers mapping out the hidden testament of his death, mind recalling each one, until he pushed to his feet to move, as if doing so would stop where his mind was going. It had. Like breaking the water's surface to breathe, his mind cleared away before he could see it all play out again and he made the sudden shift in his actions seem purposeful, grabbing a bottle of water and a few pain-killers.

"Did Dad um…" Dean cleared his throat, gathering himself around his shattered thoughts. "Did Dad ever notice a pattern like this?"

Sam sat up weakly and looked like he was going to expel what little there had to be left in his stomach, wiping at his brow with his sleeve, moving away the soaked bangs from his forehead. How quickly they'd moved into uncomfortable territory…Dean was starting to wish that he'd never asked the question in the first place.

But it wasn't like Sam hadn't been thinking it. His brother had gone from waking up somewhat well and in good spirits to looking like he was trying to hold his viscera in, one arm draped protectively across his midsection, expression worried, scared. Sam shook his head to answer the question, eyes unfocused, everywhere but on Dean.

"Sadly, I think Dad wanted to find the demon so bad…he didn't see a lot of things…or maybe he did, but he didn't want to see them."

Did you see something you didn't want to see, Sammy? Dean's throat burned to voice the question, but he swallowed it down, felt the weight of it take up residence in his gut and sour it.

"Yeah…maybe…" Dean sighed, "The things I don't know about him…who knows?" He picked up a shirt, busying himself with something, suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. He smelled a shirt and wrinkled his nose, tossing it in the corner before grabbing another and deciding it was good enough. "I'm gonna get a shower."

"Okay," Sam had sighed, curling up again.

"You gonna be okay?" Dean asked. How much of this was Sam being sick and how much was something else, something about all this that was tearing Sam up?

"It's just a cold, Dean…"

"Bull," Dean returned. "What's eating you?"

"What if…what if I'm connected to this demon in a way I can't change? What if I'm always going to have to live with whatever made Azazel believe I belonged to him…what if…what if a part of me is…demon?"

"It's not," Dean came back fast, voice stern and solid with resolve. "Not a cell in you is demon, Sam. You hear me? Just because he called you his…no…No! I won't believe that."

Sam's throat bobbed again as he turned his eyes back down into his pillow, nodding.

"We'll get the truth, Sam. And we're in this together, right?" Dean continued. "Look, I'm scared too that we'll learn something here, reading this journal, that we don't want to know. But there's no way that—"

"Dean…" Sam started.

"Yeah?"

"Never mind…" Sam started, eyes moist. "I'm tired. Just go…"

Dean stood there, unsure if he should.

"I'm okay," Sam sighed. "I just need more sleep. Not thinking clearly."

That did nothing to quell Dean's worry about his brother, but Sam had turned to face the wall, announcing they were done, and it was decided.

What had he said? Had he said something wrong? Here he was trying to encourage Sam and he was being told to go away?

Dean tried his best to shrug it off, hating the way it clung to him regardless as he started a shower, letting the steam fill up the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the tub for a moment, clothes shed, towel gathered around his waist, breathing in the warm moisture that was blurring out the edges of his vision into anamorphous surreality. He embraced the moment of isolation, taking as deep a breath as he could, letting it fill him up, give him an iota of strength, before he pushed through the tendrils of vapor and dashed a hand across the grayed out mirror

And all at once it seemed to fall away into clearly cut, sharp lines of perception, the pinkish-gray webbing of scar tissue greeting him mockingly in the glass surface. His hand pressed against the reflection, once again tracing over the marks there. These were there because of Azazel, because of sacrifice in war, because of duty, and love, and honor, and fear, and the undeniable pit of sorrow born of loss.

Even though they'd won that battle against Yellow-eyes, Dean could still feel the echoes of their losses. He'd gone to Hell, they'd lost their father, and Sam was now caught up in something neither of them could understand, something that was eating away at his brother from the inside, and they still didn't know why. All the time spent searching, and fighting, all the things they'd survived together and been through, and they were no closer to grasping the why of their family curse.

It was why Dean wasn't going to stop reading the journal. There had to be answers somewhere. Dean feared not finding anything more than he feared using something they would have salted and burned by now. He feared getting through that book only to find that there was nothing to tell him what was happening to his brother or why or what they could do to make sure the charge their father had given him was just born of fear of the unknown. Dean gripped the sink tight, angry, frustrated…

What am I supposed to do?

Dean closed his eyes as Sam's words filled his head, replacing his own. What if…what if a part of me is…demon?

It's not!

Something sharp had rammed its way between his lungs and his heart, twisting hard, buckling his knees, and withering the breath in his lungs. He fell against the sink before he hit the ground, curling into himself against the pain. A high-pitched whine had spirited away all other sound, leaving him deaf and disoriented on the cold, tiled floor. The amulet felt heavy, and he could feel it burning against him, his own skin heating up like a flash fire was boiling through his blood. He grabbed it to get it away from his skin and the pain stopped, the weight lifting, and all sound tunneled back through his ears starting with the beating of his heart. The steady tempo bled back into other sounds, ears crackling like fire, burning away the invisible barrier until he could hear his own breathing and the staccato beat of the shower's water against glass walls.

Dean sucked in a wet gasp, focusing each breath toward recovery as his skin wept out onto the tiled floor. The sweat was cooling him rapidly pulling him back toward movement, the pain dulling with each lungful of air.

What the hell?

He rolled onto his side, panic suddenly replacing pain, something inside of him telling him to move his ass, to check on Sam. Pulling on his jeans while clambering for the door, Dean forced it open with more strength than necessary, slamming it against the wall hard enough to knock a picture from the wall.

There was glass. Everywhere. Nothing, save the windows, was left unbroken. The television was gutted; the mirrored walls were shattered, the lights blown…

And Dean's eyes fell on Sam in the middle of it all, down between the beds, covered beneath a blanket of ragged crystalline shards, unmoving.

A/N: Deep heartfelt thanks to our readers, reviewers, and betas. We're trying to post every week. We have about ten chapters planned for this story, and several already finished. Hope you stick with us, and as always, we'd love to hear from you. ;)