There's something outside, hiding among the trees. It's late morning and Sam is pressed to the window. He can barely see it; every so often it moves and it's as if it's stepping through states of visibility.

Dean is out there catching fish in the stream. Sam panics, breath fogging up the glass. He squints, sees nothing but trees. But he doesn't need to see it, he can feel it.

He searches for his gun, but finds nothing. A kitchen knife will do, he grabs a box of salt too, and waits by the door. He checks if it's locked, it is, he checks again.

Whatever it is, it simply stands out there and watches, far enough in the distance that Sam can't make out its features. They're still sitting in the outer fragments of the storm from the other night. The trees dance in the wind, they sound like waves crashing over a sandy beach, washing against the outside of the cabin. A strong gust whistles down the chimney. Sam bunches his sweater at his middle and shudders.

It's not the cold that has his hairs standing on end.

He's being watched.

Another place, another time, Sam would be out there with salt rounds and a flask of holy water, stalking and trapping like any good hunter. He's not the same as he was, he can feel it deep inside, a rot in his gut.

He's frailer, his head constantly aches, his vision goes grey whenever he stands up too fast. Dean is right, he's not ready to return to the normal world. He already smashed a glass from all the way across the cabin this morning by accident, a fragment caught Dean on the cheek.

Sam has been so desperate to get out of this goddamn forest since they got here, but now, with whatever is out there, Sam has quickly changed his mind.

He taps his fingers against the window sill. Dean isn't back yet. He doesn't know they're not alone here. He won't be prepared.

Dean appears between the trees, he spots Sam in the window and holds up his bucket in triumph, a successful fishing trip to the stream, but Sam can't smile back. His stomach feels empty and sick with fear. A shape moves behind Dean.

Sam scrambles to the door, the lock is slippery between his fingers, and his panic only rises higher. Once he gets the door open, he stumbles out onto the deck, almost falls at the base of the steps. Dean pauses and instinctively looks behind him.

It's right there. A tall shadow only a few meters behind him. Dean pulls his gun.

"What?" he says, urgent. "Sam, what is it?"

"There!" Sam cries. "Right there!"

It steps closer and Sam grabs Dean's arm, fingernails digging into his skin through his jacket. Dean hisses and stumbles along after Sam, bucket of fish left rattling in the windy clearing.

Inside the cabin, Sam locks the door and pushes the kitchen table in front. Peering out the window, Dean frowns.

"What is it, Sammy?"

"I don't know what it is," Sam pants. "You were closer. What did it look like?"

Dean glances at Sam, eyes not quite meeting Sam's. He looks worried. "Sam, I didn't see anything."

"It's right there," Sam hisses. He inches towards the window Dean peers out of. He can still see it, it's just standing there, a shadow between shadows. "Look! Right there."

Dean squints, leans back, squints against the glass again. "I don't see anything."

"But – " Sam tries, but his adrenaline has drained, his heart sinks deeper and deeper until it's nestled between his toes. "There's something out there," he insists, but his voice is barely more than a rasp. He drops down onto the hard couch.

Dean inches closer. "So, we'll go with you see this thing and I don't, okay?" he says softly. "What was it?"

"I can't see it so well," Sam admits. "It never comes too close. It's just – I don't know. It's tall and human-like, I guess."

Dean attempts another peek out the window, but the furrow that remains in his brow means he still can't see it. "I left the bucket out there," he says, more to himself than to Sam. "I'm going to go get it."

"No!" Sam's up off the couch fast enough that the cabin melts into one big blur and he stumbles. Dean catches his elbow and gently pushes him back to sit.

"I'll take my gun, okay?" he says. "I'll be quick."

"No, don't go out there. Dean, please," Sam says, he's not afraid to start begging.

"I'll be fast," Dean promises.

"Dean, don't – " Sam scrambles to catch him but his fingertips only scrape the back of his jacket. The door opens and closes with a sudden spurt of cold air, and Sam is left clinging white-knuckled to the couch, alone. His breaths come in and out so fast it hurts. He should get up, he shouldn't let Dean be outside by himself, but Sam can't move. His brain is screaming at him to get up, but his limbs won't comply. They refuse.

The cabin door opens, and Sam scrambles into the corner, back pressed against the wall. Dean gently locks the door behind him and places the bucket of dead fish on the floor beside him.

"I didn't see anything out there," he says, and pauses once he sees Sam, folded to a third his size. "You okay? What happened?"

Sam swallows, his saliva is thick. "Nothing," he replies, his voice is hoarse like an instrument out of tune.

Dean looks at Sam in that assessing way of his. Sam knows exactly what he's thinking. "I'm not crazy," Sam tells Dean.

Dean raises his hands. "Never said you were."

"You were thinking it."

"So, what? You're a mind-reader now, too?"

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a wavering breath. It takes a few moments before he can force himself to his feet, but that's as far as he can go. His eyes drift to the window, to the endless woods beyond the glass. There's nothing there but trees and rotting leaves on the ground, animals scurrying beneath the brush and a strong wind to comb through it all.

"Sam, if there was something out there, it might be gone now," Dean says.

"It's not," Sam says with certainty. He doesn't need to see it, he can still feel it.

Dean nods at the bucket rather than Sam. Sam glares at the window, the space between them is bigger than this cabin ought to allow.

"I'll check it out," Dean says.

Sam's head snaps up. "No, don't do that. You can't go out there."

Dean sighs, scoops the bucket up and carries it over to the kitchen table. He fetches a filleting knife from the rack and slices a silver belly open. "I'll take a look tomorrow," he says, "when it's lighter out. Let's just cook dinner and we can deal with this in the morning."

Sam's eyes sting. "You don't believe me."

"I believe you think there's something out there."

"But you don't believe there's something out there."

Dean hooks his finger around intestines and pulls. "We've been here for weeks. If there was something in this forest, we would have known about it. A wendigo would have tried to eat us as soon as we moved in, it's not a ghost, because nothing shows up on EMF."

"I know this isn't a wendigo or a ghost, this is something different."

"Then what is it?" Dean asks, bloodied fingers resting on the chopping board.

"I don't know!" Sam snaps. "I just know there is something out there."

Dean wets his lips and purses them, brow furrowed. Thinking face. "Sam," he says. "You've been cooped up in here a long time, and I'm sorry. I've been a little too… protective, I guess. I think you need to eat some real food, get some sleep and some fresh air. Okay?"

He picks up his knife and directs it over the fish. It comes down in one fell swoop, severing the head. He doesn't say anything else, doesn't wait for Sam to say anything else. He doesn't even look up when Sam pulls all the curtains closed, washing them in darkness.

Sam doesn't sleep. He lies awake on the lower bunk, listening to Dean's snores above. It's so dark Sam can't see his own hand in front of his face. He wiggles his fingers around. He can feel them more than see them. Just like he can feel what's waiting outside.

Dean thinks Sam's crazy. Fine. Dean's always looked at Sam like he's a freak. Sam's used to it. When Sam had his first visions, Dean had given him the same look he's giving Sam now. Something is wrong with Sam and it scares Dean.

Maybe there is something wrong with him. Actually, Sam knows what's wrong with him. Shattering glasses and flinging books across the room with your mind when you get a little worked up isn't anywhere near the category of normal.

Aren't you worried I could turn into Max or something? Sam once said to Dean. Dean had been so sure he wouldn't.

Here we are, Dean, Sam thinks, what are you going to do with me?

Sam's own thoughts answer him. He'll lock you away in a cabin, in the middle of nowhere, far enough that you won't hurt anyone else.

Dean grunts in his sleep, the bedsprings creak as he turns over. Sam's toes peek out from his blanket and he tucks them in, curling up as tight as he can, enough so the blanket can cover every part of him. Seven-year-old Sam did this when there was a monster in the closet. Dad's not here this time to give him a .45.

Dad would believe Sam, surely, he was paranoid enough to see monsters in every shady corner. If he were here, maybe he'd see a monster in his own son. Maybe that's what Dean sees.

Sam pulls the blanket back and breathes the cool air. The cabin creaks under the pressure of the wind, and Sam shudders, every muscle in his body pulled tight and trembling.

There's a thud at the door. Sam sits up and listens to the rusted whinge of the door handle twisting. The lock holds tight and the handle rattles with impatience.

Sam reaches out blindly and feels his hand smack against the meat of Dean's arm and he wakes up mid-snore.

"Huh? What?" he asks, his voice is ragged with sleep.

"I told you," Sam hisses. "Something's trying to get in."

The bedsprings creak and Dean drops to the ground. The door handle rattles one final time. They wait in the dark.

"It's just the wind," Dean says. Sam shrinks away from sudden torch light, he can see Dean's dark silhouette behind it, peering down at him.

"The door handle was turning," Sam whispers. "Something was trying to get in."

"You saw this?" Dean asks, doubtful.

Sam pulls his quilt up to his neck and focuses on the tiny stitches rather than Dean's face. "No. It was dark, but I heard it."

Dean scrubs a hand over his sleep-crusted eyes and asks, "Have you had any sleep tonight?"

"No," Sam bites back. "I can't fucking sleep when there's something out there."

Dean lifts one shoulder. "You've spent the night in plenty of creepy places, Sam. Why are you so scared?"

Sam wraps his arms around his hollow belly. It's like someone scooped it clean. The gooseflesh on his arms won't go away, he can't stop shaking. "I don't know," he admits. "It's just a feeling."

"You're starting to worry me, Sammy."

Sam scoffs. "Starting to?"

"Fine. You're worrying me more than usual."

"Well," Sam says, licks his dry lips. "You shouldn't. Worry about whatever it is that's out there."

Dean doesn't sleep well and for the first time in a long time he wakes up late. Sam is already up and by the look of him he never went to sleep. Dean finds him hunched in a blanket, staring out the window. Dean takes a peek and sees nothing.

He decides to make coffee. Although, Sam would probably be better off with a sleeping pill. The coffee pot whistles on the stove and he fills his cup. It burns his frozen fingers, scalds his tongue but it goes down smoothly.

"It still there?" Dean ventures. Sam doesn't turn away from the window, simply nods.

It isn't until he's sitting at the table with his mug that he notices his gun in Sam's trembling hands. That wakes him up faster than the caffeine. He stands up, slowly.

"What's it doing?" he asks, inching closer.

"Just standing there," Sam says. He doesn't blink, doesn't move, not even to shake away the greasy strands of hair that have fallen into his eyes.

"What does it look like?" Dean goes on. He's not really paying attention to what Sam's saying, just the gun in his hands, and all the possible places that gun might be aimed. Sam, when he's not batshit insane, is good company. Dean misses racing down highways and cruising down backroads with Sammy by his side, music blasting. Prank wars and burgers for dinner on the side of the road.

Dean misses that. He misses Sam.

Maybe these powers have screwed with Sam's head. Like Max. Jesus.

Dean remembers what happened when Max got hold of a gun.

"It's tall. It has – " Sam's voice lowers. "It has one yellow eye."

Dean pauses. "Yellow eyes?"

Sam nods. "Just one. Like a torchlight."

Dean crouches down beside him and rests his fingers over Sam's knuckles. Sam twitches but doesn't move, doesn't let go of the gun.

"Sammy," Dean says. "You're shaking. You haven't slept and I'll bet you're seeing two of everything right now. If we need to shoot, let me do it, okay?"

"You can't see it," Sam spits, his voice sounds more accusing than anything else.

"No," Dean admits. "But I've shot invisible things plenty times before. Give me the gun, okay?"

Sam's eyes finally shift to Dean and he frowns. "I'm not going to shoot myself."

The words are hard to swallow but Dean gulps them down all the same. "No, I know. I'd just feel better if the gun was in steadier hands."

Sam rolls his eyes and hands it over, he turns his gaze back to the window. He straightens. "It's gone," he says. "Where the fuck did it go?"

Dean places the gun at the back of his belt and stands. "I guess that means you can take a break, huh? Let me make you some breakfast."

"Not hungry, Dean."

"Eggs, scrambled or fried?" Dean asks, ignoring him.

Sam feels death four more times that day. Cancer, hit and run, stabbing, old age. Each one hits him harder than the last. He wavers on his feet and his eyes keep losing focus. As soon as the vision is over, he forgets their faces. The guilt he feels is like a festering wound, there's nothing he can do to patch it up.

Dean watches Sam, he keeps the guns hidden. The knives in the kitchen have disappeared. Sam is too tired to protest. He only has energy for one thing. The fear in him is like a raging fire, the smoke clogs the cabin.

Sam wants to tell Dean he isn't crazy but he knows the exact words that would be on the tip of Dean's tongue. Crazy people always insist they aren't crazy.

Fine. Sam might be crazy but he's certainly not an idiot. There's more to Dean's anxiety than Sam's state of mind. Sam watches from his cot as Dean fries fish on the stove. Neither of them has been outside today and it's already noon. The windows rattle, another storm is on the way.

"It's going to be a bad one," Sam says.

Dean shakes the frying pan resulting in a hiss of salty steam. "Huh?" he asks, not turning around.

"The storm," Sam elaborates. "It's going to be a bad one. The worst yet."

Dean shrugs. "We've dealt with worse."

Sam shakes his head and watches the trees quiver outside. The wind whistles down the chimney and fills the cabin with chilled air. "I think maybe we should leave," he says.

Dean turns around then. "Really? You haven't gone outside in days."

Sam bites his nail and stares at the door handle, breath held as he waits for it to turn. It doesn't, only the wind comes knocking.

"With the storm and… whatever's out there, we're not safe," Sam says. His voice is a mere scratch beneath the swelling storm. "I can't stay here any longer. I can't keep being scared, Dean."

Dean doesn't say anything, simply turns around and shuts off the hob. He flips the fish onto a plate, one side charred black. "Sammy, I get it," he says.

No, you don't, Sam thinks.

"But the storm will hit soon and it's too late to leave now," Dean continues. "We'll wait until it passes and think about all this then."

Sam's fingers scrape through his hair, nails digging into his scalp. He resists the urge to tug. "We need to go," Sam grinds out. His hands are shaking, he clamps them between his knees to hold them steady. There's something new pooling in his belly, atop the fear of whatever's outside, atop the frustration of being pinned between these four walls.

The last time he felt this – this trembling grief for some unknown loss – was before he lost Jess. The words are spoken clearly in his mind.

Something terrible is going to happen.

"We have to go," Sam says again, but his words are barely there, his breaths rush in and out, more furiously than the wind beats against the cabin.

"Calm down, okay?" Dean pleads, but his voice sounds distant, like he's speaking underwater. He's in front of Sam as sudden as a match strike and Sam jolts back a step. Dean frowns at him, a greased hand reaches for Sam's shoulder.

Sam sees it out of the corner of his eye. It's there, always there. It only watches, its tall silhouette framed in the window. There's a crack of lightning so loud Sam's ears ring. Cold air rushes into the room and Sam opens his eyes to find glass smattered across the floor and Dean on the ground with his hands over his head.

Dean's gun trembles in Sam's hand. He doesn't remember pulling it from Dean's belt, or aiming, or pulling the trigger.

The window has a starburst shaped gash through the middle and there's nothing on the other side but the forest. Sam allows Dean to pull the gun from his grip, he can barely breathe let alone move. The storm tumbles into the cabin, wind sweeps Sam's hair from his face.

"What the hell was that?" Dean bellows over the din.

"It – it was…." Sam tries, but his voice whittles away to nothing. He can't look away from the window.

"We need to patch that up," Dean says, as if Sam hadn't even opened his mouth. He steps over the carpet of glass shards and keeps Sam in the corner of his eye as if he's a wolf with his lips pulled back over his canines, ready to pounce.

Thunder comes then, the low belly rumble of a god or a giant. The sky is thick with grey clouds. Sam's legs begin to work again and he stumbles forward a couple of steps. Dean watches him over his shoulder and clears his throat.

"There's a plastic sheet outside in the shed," he calls over howling wind. "I'll go get it to cover the window."

The wind pushes Dean back a step when he opens the door, Sam sees his muscles straining as he yanks it closed. Sam wants to tell him to come back, a broken window isn't worth going outside, especially when something is lurking in the shadows.

A small voice at the back of Sam's mind says, reasonably, maybe you are crazy.

A shrill beep jolts Sam out of his haze. The wind shrieks through the break in the glass and down the chimney and vibrates from Sam's head to toes. The beep comes again, from behind. A small red light flashes under Dean's cot.

Sam's hands are shaking as he crouches down and pulls the cell phone from underneath. Low Battery, it tells him with urgent flashing letters. Sam hasn't seen a cell phone in weeks, not since they arrived here. No signal, Dean said. No point in keeping them out here. They left them all in the Impala.

Or so Sam thought.

There are several voice messages in the inbox, each one from Bobby Singer. Sam's stomach twists at the sight of his name. Sam will never get the image of Bobby, dazed, blood trickling from his temple where he hit the wall. Sam was upset, he doesn't quite remember why now, and something swelled through him like an electric current. Bobby was in front of him, and then he was hitting the wall on the other side of the room.

Sam can only imagine what Bobby might have to say. He takes a breath and presses the phone to his ear.

"Dean, I hope you boys are doing okay. You left pretty sudden and I can't help but worry. I know you boys can look after yourselves but… it might do my blood pressure some good if you call me back and let me know you're both alright."

"Dean, at least tell me where you two are. I've tried calling Sam, too. Neither of you are answering. Look, there are things going on that I think you boys need to know about. Call me back."

"Ellen called. Ash has been keeping track of kids like Sam and a couple of them have turned up dead. I know it ain't no coincidence. Keep an eye on that brother of yours, you hear. Watch out for him."

"Andy Gallagher, Scott Carey and Lily Baker have all turned up dead. Ava Wilson is missing, her fiancé found dead. All these kids are like Sam. Dean, something bad is coming for him. Hunters, I think. You remember Gordon Walker? Please just – just let me know where you are, boy. I can help."

"I'm hoping you're just stupid enough not to answer your phone and you're not dead. You two better not be dead. I'll salt and burn you myself if you've gone and gotten yourselves killed… I miss you boys. Look after yourselves."

The phone beeps again and Sam lowers it. The screen has gone black. Sam's hands shake so hard he loses his grip on the cell. He drops down onto the cot. Dean comes back in wrestling a plastic sheet, his hair has been flattened by rain and wind. He offers Sam a half-smile when he comes in, slamming the door closed and pinning it with his back.

"It's a mess out there," he pants. "I think there's some duct tape under the sink. Grab it, would you?"

Sam does as he's told, moving at an aching pace. He hands the roll to Dean and watches him secure the sheet over the window frame.

"Your phone is out of battery," Sam says finally.

"Huh?" Dean pauses.

"Your phone under the bed. It's out of battery."

"Oh," Dean says. He turns around, looks up at Sam. "I just kept one for emergencies."

Sam shrugs. "I thought there's no cell service here."

"There's not."

"You got five voice messages from Bobby."

Dean rolls his eyes and pushes past Sam. He scoops up a warm beer from the sink and twists off the cap. "What is this, Sam? An interrogation?"

"Why did you lie about there being no signal?" Sam demands. He can feel that swell, that vibration through his bones, a bomb seconds from going off. He stamps it down. "Dean, why didn't you tell me about the messages?"

"It wasn't important."

Rage splits through Sam like a knife. The beer bottle in Dean's hand shatters, soaking his feet and the floor, singed with pink from Dean's cut fingers. He jolts back a step and swears. When he looks up at Sam his eyes are so wide, they're more white than green.

"Not important?" Sam bellows. "People like me are being hunted! You don't think that's important?"

"I was protecting you!" Dean yells back. "The further you are from that crap, the better. Be pissed at me all you want, but I did the right thing!"

Sam scoffs. "Because you're always right," he spits. "And I can't be trusted, yeah? I'm the freak, I'm not natural. Lock me up, keep me away from the world. Just like any monster."

"Jesus, Sam. Don't be so fucking dramatic," Dean says. He steps closer, broken glass crunching under his feet. "Look, we can deal with this later. Right now, we need to get through this storm."

"Just tell me why!" Sam demands. "Why did you keep all this from me?"

"Because Dad said – " Dean blurts, but immediately cuts himself off.

"Dad said what?"

Dean sighs, his shoulders sag as if shedding a weight, or perhaps shouldering more. "He said," Dean says, "that if I couldn't save you, I'd have to kill you."

The words sting like a slap across the face. Sam stops breathing and when he finally empties his lungs, the last two windows in the cabin shatter to pieces. Sam feels static through every nerve. He looks up at Dean, panting, and expects to see that horrified look on his face again. He realises then that he doesn't care if Dean is afraid of him.

But he doesn't have long to process this thought. Everything in him screams to get out. He turns to the door but his wrist is caught in an iron grip. Dean's fist swings towards his face and Sam registers the explosive pain in his head before everything - the raging storm and the thrumming energy under Sam's skin and Dean's face - disappears altogether.

The third and final chapter will be posted tomorrow. Reviews are always appreciated!