PART THREE

"He can read your mind," Dean said flatly, playing with the left-over lettuce from his burger.

"No. Yes. Not exactly," Sam sputtered.

"Well? Which is it, Sammy?" He flicked a piece of tomato at Sam.

Scowling, Sam slowly explained, again, what Anderson had told him at the café.

"And his daughter's a ghost." Dean leaned back in the hotel room's easy chair and crossed his arms. "You don't see anything wrong with this picture?"

"I don't think he's the one killing the people, Dean, I think it's Stacey." Sam's chin lifted and he looked at his brother, jaw clenched as though expecting an argument.

"I don't agree, but!" Dean held up one finger. "It's a possibility and not something we should ignore."

"He's only seen her once," Sam offered.

"Then maybe it isn't her." Dean shrugged. "We can solve that question with a little salt and gasoline." He gathered up the detritus from their lunch and stuffed it into the tiny trash can under the table.

Sam wrinkled his nose. He really hated it when the corpses were…. fresh. "Yeah. But. I don't know."

"So what is it about Anderson that made you change your mind about him being the murderer? Because you were pretty open to it when we left the house this morning. Is it simply that he played all nice and sympathetic to you at lunch?"

"Maybe." Sam's gaze wandered around the room before coming back to settle on Dean.

"Huh. And what's your spidey sense tell you?"

Sam frowned. "My spidey sense is so confused it doesn't know which end is which."

"You know we have a problem if he really can read our minds," Dean said. Giving his soft drink cup a little shake he slurped at the remainder of the coke.

"He doesn't do that. There's psychic etiquette," Sam protested.

Dean snorted. "What, an Emily Post Guide to Psychic Good Manners?"

"No. Shut up." Sam slouched back in the chair and crossed his own arms.

"Sam. Shit. Look, he might be killing people, you can't…we can't just automatically trust him because he's being nice to you about your powers. He says he doesn't read minds, but how do you know he wasn't planting ideas in your head at the restaurant? That this wasn't some plan of his to get you on his side?"

"I don't," Sam mumbled. "It's just… he knows how I feel. I've never talked to anyone about this and it felt kind of good to actually have someone understand exactly what I was feeling and what it's like to be different."

There really wasn't much Dean could say to that. He certainly had no idea what it was like to have powers like Sam's that couldn't be controlled very well. He could sympathize with what his little brother was going through, try to support him and of course they always had each other's backs. But know what Sam was going through? No, Dean couldn't do that. He also couldn't let Sam go off half-cocked thinking Anderson was a good guy when there was a damn good chance he was the asshole murdering innocent people out of a skewed revenge for his daughter.

"I understand what you're saying, Sam," Dean said softly. "But I think we still need to be careful, you know that. We don't live by that innocent until proven guilty crap, believing that is what gets hunters killed. So, how many cemeteries are in this podunk town?"

Sam pulled his laptop over and started tapping away. "Two, Fostoria Fountain and Saint Wendelyn. And, quite conveniently for us they're across the street from each other. Wendelyn is the smallest, so I suggest we check that one first. In the meantime I'll do a little more research on Anderson, just for you."

"Okay. How about I drop you at the library and I'll go wander around the cemeteries and see if I can find Stacey's grave, give us a head start for tonight?"

Sam nodded as he shut down his laptop and gathered up their paperwork that was nicely and neatly stacked once again on the table, before following his brother out the door.

-o-

Dean was frustrated. He was pretty sure that tonight's salt and burn was going to be a waste of time, but if it was the only way to convince his brother that Anderson was the bad guy here, then that's the way it had to be. It bugged the hell out of him that Sam was being swayed so easily, even more so since Dean didn't really have anything to counteract what Anderson was doing. All he could do was hope the salt and burn went quietly and no angry little girl ghost popped up to complain. Then they could buckle down and look for proof of Anderson's actions. Someone had to have seen him in the vicinity of the victims at the time of their deaths.

It didn't take him long to check out Saint Wendelyn, it didn't look like anyone had been buried there for at least 50 years. The larger Fountain was the lucky cemetery then. He sighed and dashed across the street deciding to start at the right and work his way across. It shouldn't be too difficult to find a relatively recent grave.

He'd only been wondering the rows for about half an hour when he heard footsteps in the gravel behind him and he turned to find Anderson coming up the path.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean turned and kept his face no-nonsense and looked calmly at Anderson. "Hi there. Nice day for a walk."

Anderson walked casually around him, glancing off the walkway to a section of newer graves. Obviously that was where his daughter was buried. "You've met people like me before." He stopped and pointed one finger at Dean then pulled that same hand to his face and rubbed at his chin. "You interest me."

"Don't swing that way, dude."

The memory of his rifle nozzle sliding into his mouth forced its way forward in Dean's mind. Mentally shaking himself he shoved it away. Static erupted in his head but a few muffled words skipped through…want to…die…your gun…Dean stuck his hands in his pockets and bunched his fists tight for few seconds using the way his arms cramped to concentrate and keep his breathing even.

"Sam doesn't know, does he?"

"That I don't swing that way? Oh hell yeah, Sam knows."

Anderson walked around him, stopped near a newer section of graves, glancing over. Dean's own gaze was pulled in that direction. "You can't fool me, Dean." Anderson stopped and turned, facing him, head cocked to the side. "Yet, I can't really read you. Interesting."

Take your gun, put it in your mouth, you did it before. Dean shrugged and scratched at the back of his head when more static slithered through his thoughts. "I live with my very own psychic. Comes with the territory I guess."

Anderson's lips curled up in what probably was meant to be a placating smile, what it looked like instead was a lunatic grin. "Sam has no clue what to do or what he has. He's mess and doing nothing more than slipping and muddling along and you know it."

"I thought you guys had some sort of etiquette or rules or something." Dean tried ignoring how his heart was jackrabbiting in his chest and how he wanted to shoot not only himself in the mouth, but this guy as well.

Snorting, Anderson leveled a harsh glare at him. "Leave my daughter and her grave alone."

"Leave my brother alone," Dean shot back, voice raised more than he intended. More static and more disjointed words—gun…mouth…want to die.

"You have nothing here to investigate. Leave."

Take your brother and run, Dean. Static. Swallow your gun and pull the trigger. Static.

Anderson started walking away, stopped and turned far enough to look at Dean over his shoulder, chuckling. "Oh and really, Dean, there is no such thing as angels watching over you."

"That's what you think. I know better," Dean muttered and stood watching the man's back recede. In tiny increments the tension left his muscles and his body relaxed. He drew in a few deep breaths and looked around the cemetery. "Bob, now might be a good time."

Nothing answered him but a slight breeze wafting the treetops.

-o-

Sam flipped slowly through the stack of articles he'd found on Anderson. It had to be the daughter, this man had a string of nothing but good and kind acts going back to when he was in college.

Dean was wrong this time. Except that Dean was almost never wrong about these things which was completely and utterly annoying. This time he had to be wrong.

Sam shivered when for no reason an image of his brother holding a rifle to his own mouth popped into his head. Dean wants to die, you know that, always have. He needs to die.

"Huh?" Sam looked up, expecting to see someone standing there. The words had been heard so plainly and clearly. He was alone in the corner of the library he'd settled in. Half a room away and straight ahead was a children's section and there were a few small kids and accompanying adults sitting on brightly colored carpet squares. To the right was the check out counter and glancing left, Sam saw a music and video section.

Dean sat in the bushes and put the rifle nozzle in his mouth.

Sam shuddered and started gathering up the papers to return them. He'd always known that Andy's whacked out psycho of a twin had done something to Dean, threatened him somehow, but he'd never seen anything and Dean never told him.

Sat in the bushes and put the rifle nozzle in his mouth.

Could that have happened? Sam still had nightmares over what he didn't know about that night with Andy and his brother.

"Something wrong, Sam? You don't look so good."

Head jerking up, Sam pushed away from the table and off the chair, nearly tipping it and himself over backwards. "I…uh…no…I'm…" He faked a quick smile. "Headache."

"I could give you a ride back to your motel if you're not feeling well," Anderson offered with his own smile Sam was sure was equally fake. Reaching out he put two fingers on the papers Sam had been reading, twisting them around. "Checking up on me? What did you find out?"

"That you've spent a lot of time doing a lot of good things for a lot of people."

"And look how I was repaid. How my daughter was repaid."

Sat in the bushes and put the rifle nozzle in his mouth.

Sam swallowed around the dry stop forming in his throat. "There is legal action you could take." His voice sounded weak and unsteady.

Anderson nodded, crossing both arms over his chest. "There is. But who gets punished, really? The families of the people who didn't do their jobs because they're now financially ruined? Or the school children denied programs and funds for their school. That simply creates more victims."

Palms planted flat on the tabletop, Sam leaned on it heavily. He didn't feel very good all of a sudden. Thoughts would form and skitter away. The only clear thing in his head was the image of Dean putting a gun barrel into his own mouth. "I…um…I have to…my brother will be meeting me soon."

"Ah, yes, your brother. He's very important to you, isn't he? Pretty much all you have."

Feeling like a chastised five-year-old Sam stood there and nodded. "We all have choices." How he managed to get the words out, Sam had no idea.

Sat in the bushes and put the rifle nozzle in his mouth.

"Yes, we do." Anderson moved around the table placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. "You and your brother should choose to leave."

Sam wanted to twist away, slug the guy in the nose, anything to get away from him. Gaze drifting to Anderson's face, Sam drew in a slow breath. "Dean was right. You didn't have to hurt them."

"They didn't have to treat Stacey the way they did. See? Choices. Everyone has choices."

Anderson's hand slid down Sam's arm until his fingers curled around Sam's bicep. He guided Sam around the table and to the door, tightening his grip when Sam tripped over his own feet. "Get out of my head," Sam tried for a snarl, but it came out more like an anemic plea this time.

Sam wanted more than anything to get away from this man and find Dean. The harder he tried the more his brain seemed unable to function clearly. His feet followed along with Anderson against his will. The thought wormed its way through Sam's mind, he could be forced to stand in front of a train, jump off a cliff, anything and he'd be powerless to stop it.

The fear coiling inside him turned to terror when he realized he was being guided out of a car without any real knowledge of getting into the car or being driven anywhere.

"I have something that'll make you feel a lot better." Anderson nudged Sam up the few steps to his front door and pushed him inside the house.

Digging in his pocket and finding his phone, Sam fumbled with it. "I need to call Dean he'll be worried about me."

Anderson took the phone and replaced it with pills. "Take those. You'll be seeing Dean soon enough."

Gulping down the pills Sam stood rooted to that spot, watching Anderson scroll through his phone. "Did you drug them all? Is that how you got them to kill themselves?"

Grunting a short laugh, Anderson shook his head. "Hell no, those sheep didn't need drugs. You're a tough nut to crack though. So is your brother. The two of you should have chosen to leave well enough alone. I made sure Stacey's killers were brought to justice."

The room swooped in a lazy up and down motion. It took Sam a few seconds to realize it wasn't the room rocking it was him swaying on his feet. Reaching out with one hand, he stumbled toward Anderson. "Gimme me ma phone back."

Easily stepping out of Sam's reach, Anderson shook his head. "I'll just call Dean and have him come collect you. Whew, that brother of yours is even harder than you are to get through to."

Sat in the bushes and put the rifle nozzle in his mouth.

The room started darkening, first along the edges then it closed in around Sam. His final sensation as everything went black was how gravity pulled at him. His knees buckled and he felt the slow slide of his body as it folded toward the floor.

-o-

Dean searched the library which took all of a few minutes, since it wasn't a very big place. Sam wasn't in it, and no amount of searching was going to make him magically appear.

His brother should have been waiting here for him. If not he would have called. Dean yanked his phone out again. No missed calls, no messages. Growling his frustration he jogged back outside and to the Impala, peeling out of the parking lot and back to the cemetery. It was getting dark and he needed to find Sam. First, however he needed to dig up and burn a small body.

A little girl.

Dean hated that. Even if he didn't agree with her reasons or what she had done to herself, he still hated the fact he now had to salt and burn a child.

Parking the Impala a short distance from the cemetery, Dean dug in the trunk and pulled out what he needed. Stacking it all in his arms, he expertly juggled the shovel, gas can and phone while the salt was in a small duffel slung over his shoulder. He tried Sam again. It rang a few times and went to voice mail.

Something was definitely wrong.

Get the ghost kid taken care of first then get his kid taken care of. The grave was in a more secluded part of the Fountain, so the fact it wasn't completely dark didn't bother Dean. He'd spent enough time there that day to know the place wasn't well traveled. Dropping the duffel and gas can next to the grave, Dean set right in with digging, slamming the shovel into the ground and heaving up a decent sized chunk of earth. It wasn't so long ago this grave had been created, so the going was easier than most.

Flickering off to the side made him stop and look around. Opposite him on the far side of the grave stood a girl. She was skinny, pigtails and glasses, but Dean could see in a few years she'd have been gorgeous. Hooking one foot on the shovel, he crisscrossed his arms over it and leaned against it, waiting.

"I didn't hurt those people. They hurt me."

"You need to move on," Dean said. She stood staring at him. Why did this crap always work for Sam and not him?

She pointed to a spot close to some trees near the cemetery boundary. "That light? I need to go there?"

Dean nodded.

"I wanted them to hurt for what they did to me, not die. Not really."

"Then why did you show your father your diary? You had to know what he'd do."

"I didn't want him to blame himself." She turned her head, pigtails flopping against her shoulders. "If I go there, will he stop?"

"I don't know."

"You won't hurt him, my Dad, will you?"

Dean sighed and shook his head. "I don't want to and I'll do everything not to."

"You don't need to dig me up. I'll leave." She turned away from Dean, started walking to the spot she'd pointed to.

"Hey," Dean called after her. When she stopped and swiveled on one heel to look at him, he smiled. "You're very pretty. It's sort of a shame, in a few years, after you turned eighteen, I'd really have liked to take you for a drink."

She brightened. Her whole face split into a grin; Dean preened internally, heck he could even do it to the ghost chicks.

"Really?"

"Really. Me and a bunch of other guys. I bet you'd have to beat them off with sticks." He made a shooing motion with his hand. "Better get going now."

She nodded and continued on her way. When she reached the trees for a few brief seconds the area seemed to glow ever so slightly brighter than the rest of the cemetery.

"Better luck next time," Dean grumbled and repacked the dirt, gathered his supplies and headed back to the Impala.

He was replacing everything in the trunk when his phone rang. It was barely through the second ring before Dean had it fished out, saw SAM on the caller ID and answered it. "Sammy, where the hell have you been? I've been calling and—"

"Now, did you really expect Sam?"

"Anderson, so help me if you've hurt my brother you're a dead man," Dean growled into the phone.

The cackling laughter that answered him made his skin crawl. "/iYou two wouldn't leave well enough alone. You wouldn't just drive out of town. Now you both have to go. I can't have you blabbing about me to the cops."

"Look, dude, no one wanted your daughter hurt on purpose."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" Anderson shot back. "You of all people. You know what it's like to raise a child, love him with all your heart and watch him die. Don't you Dean?"

Dean closed his eyes, took a deep breath, bit down on his bottom lip as his fingers tightened around the phone. "Yeah," he croaked.

"We all have choices, Dean. You and Sam made the wrong one coming here and digging into my business."

The phone line went dead. Snapping his phone shut, Dean swore under his breath and sprinted around the car to the driver's side door.

-o-

Dean was halfway to Anderson's house when he suddenly pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. He realized he was going to have to come up with some kind of plan; rushing in half-cocked was only going to get his brother killed. He needed to take the emotion out, keep his wits about him and remember everything their dad ever taught them. Now was not the time to let his heart rule his head.

You know what it's like to raise a child, love him with all your heart and watch him die. Don't you Dean?

Dear God. Sam was his heart.

Think. He had to think. Anderson had said 'watch him die' which had to mean Sam was still alive. It had to. Dean wouldn't accept anything else.

He got out of the car and took a deep breath. Where would Anderson have taken Sam? His house? And how did that weakling manage to overpower Sam? Had to be a mind trick, somehow he'd gotten into Sam's head with enough leverage to make Sam obey. It was probably how he'd gotten the others to kill themselves. Or, in the case of the hit and run, made the driver run over the kid and then forget he or she had done anything. Anderson was no better than poor Andy's twin brother with how they used that mind whammy, so what if he'd spent most of his life helping people? He'd made a choice to kill—and even worse, he'd taken Sammy—and that made it open season on murdering assholes.

A few quick stretches and another couple of deep breaths and Dean climbed back into the car, ready for the upcoming battle. He was not going to let Anderson win this one. His revenge was going to end right here, right now, today, with no more victims. Especially no victims with the last name of Winchester.

He made sure to park the car around the corner from Anderson's house; there was no need to announce his arrival with the roar of the Impala. Grateful for the tree-lined streets in this part of town he skirted around bushes, hid behind tree trunks and carefully made his way up to the side of the house. Peering around the corner he saw the driveway was empty of the red Ford truck. Scrunching down so the façade of the porch hid him from the windows he headed towards the front porch only to come to a complete stop at the steps.

Sitting on the wooden step was a toy train.

Bastard son-of-a-bitch.

Knowing it was probably a waste of time Dean hit the stairs and reached for the knob on the front door. Not locked. He hated the thought that Sam could be elsewhere right now—yeah, elsewhere, try the train tracks—while Dean nosed around the house. He had to be sure, though. You didn't leave any stone unturned, leave anything to chance. You made sure you had your facts straight before moving on. No emotion. Use your brain, Winchester, forget it's your little brother, the baby you raised, the young man you're so proud of—not that you'd ever tell him. Chick-flick moment. Keep your emotions in check, stop thinking of Sam.

Sitting in the middle of the living room floor was a little toy caboose.