Vacation last week. Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews!

-Caladrius

Chapter 5: "St. Anger"

May 1, 1993

Sam: 9-years-old

Dean: 14-years-old

Sam...Sam...Sam Sam Sam...

You have interesting things in here, Sam.

Who are you?

I bet you don't even know what's here. There's so much more. Did you see this? A lady on the ceiling. Fire. There's a door here I want to open.

What the fuck are you? Groping around in the darkness. I know the darkness. What is that? That voice is cold, hissy. It's not a real voice. Is it a voice? Am I just thinking this?

I think I will open it. Someone might be mad...

Where are you? What do you look like? Who will be mad? Is this me talking?

With you, Sam, it's easier and harder. Easier and harder. Every inch, every breath, every thought, every worry. Easier and harder...and I like that the best.

Are you in my head? Is this me? I'm cold. Stop thinking. Be quiet. I'm going to be quiet.

I'm going to just open it once. Once should be enough. You worry about it all the time and you don't even know...

The eye. An eye. It's you, isn't it? Leave it alone. Leave everything alone!

Smiling voice. Thoughtful voice. What is in here, Sam? I want to watch it...

Not me. It's not me. Nothing. No one. Go. Not listening. Go away. Cold here. Freezing. Dying! leave me alone. Alone. Alone! I don't want to be alone!

Don't worry. I'll take you with me...Sam.

"Sam? Sammy!"

Sam's head hurt. It was pressed against the back seat of a green bus bench. He had been out; there hadn't been the sound of children in the background, only a dull yellowish buzzing when he woke up. It could only have been a few seconds of oblivion, that's all, but apparently it had been enough to put Dean into some state. Sam could feel that his pulse was up for whatever reason, even though he was just so damn tired. Ignoring it, Sam pulled himself out of the seat and into the aisle at their stop, but if it hadn't been for his older brother's arm, he'd have fallen off the bus steps and been happy to lay on the pavement with a possible concussion. That would have meant real sleep, right?

But Dean's hand on him was solid and steadying, and eventually the bus drove away and it was just the two of them. Sam tried to get his bearings because as much as he wanted to sleep, he wanted to talk about why he was in this position even less. He said nothing to Dean's sharp demands for an explanation. He didn't complain when the rucksack switched places from his arm to Dean's. His pride dragged along with his feet.

Walking back to the motel was going to be a challenge.

Oh. Sleep deprivation was psychological torture. It was the real deal. He'd give so much right now for ten minutes of uninterrupted sleep right here, in the light of day, if it could be safe. And really...was the agony worth it? If he had just been seeing things, then what was the point of subjecting himself to the torture? None.

...And yet, he felt he was running in some kind of race. If he slowed down, if he stopped, the race would end. He wouldn't lose, it would all just end-no consolation prize. No second chances.

Something smacked the back of his head hard enough to pull him out of the marathon.

"...Are ya listening to me? Sammy. You've been totally out of it for two days. What the hell is going on?"

Sam stopped and turned completely around. "I haven't been 'out of it,' Dean. Want me to rate your chances with the cheerleader based on your lame bus conversations? I've been paying attention."

"Yeah? Well if you have, then ya know she thinks I'm adorable."

Sam gave Dean a look. "She tries to talk like those girls from Southern California. Everything 'gags' her. I'm embarrassed for you."

His brother smirked. "Don't be. You haven't seen her in gym shorts."

"Then I'm embarrassed for her. She doesn't know you live in a motel..."

Where the boogeyman is waiting to take me...

Sam felt dizzy. The horizon tilted. Dean grabbed Sam's shirt, bringing him back to the moment, and immediately Sam thought he might get pounded, public street or not, for the low comeback...but Dean only slapped a hand to Sam's forehead. In his younger brother's confusion Dean was able to hold it there for a few seconds before Sam realized he was primitively taking his temperature and pushed him off.

"Okay, Einstein, back to the motel. You're officially grounded."

"What? Grounded because I'm not sick or because..." Because I reminded you our lives suck. Sam stumbled as he put his right foot in front of his left.

"No, because you wobble like you drank a 5th of Jack."

Despite Sam's external frown, he didn't really mind Dean's hand on his arm. He didn't mind listening to Dean talk either. Dean sure liked to talk. Mostly like an idiot these days, or loaded with threats, but even so, the sound of his voice was...reassuring in its own way.

"I'm not drunk," he mumbled.

"I know that."

And the tone of Dean's voice was...worried? The younger brother bristled, but then Dean grabbed Sam's arm when he tripped over a rock. A stupid little rock. Okay, that was embarrassing.

"If ya won't tell me, you'll have to tell Dad."

Sam's stomach plummeted and suddenly he was wide awake.

Oh, God no. Please, not that.

Fifteen minutes later Sam was still pleading his case, his pride completely nonexistent. When Dean fit the key in the lock it was clear Dad wasn't back yet, thank God. There was still some time to stall, though it was fantastically hard to move his brother from a course of action once it had been decided.

"I'm telling you, I'm just tired. That's it. That's all."

"Yeah, you keep saying that." Dean stalked Sam through the room after dropping his rucksack on one of the two chairs at the particle-board laminated table that could have also passed as a night stand. "So, why aren't you sleeping? Explain it to me, Sammy."

Sam threw himself onto his cot. "I don't know. Maybe I can't sleep on this thing."

"What, is that all? Then sleep on my bed and I'll take the cot."

Sam swallowed. Despite how jerkish Dean could be, he was quick to trade places, to just shoulder another of Sam's burdens. It confused everything so much more.

"No, I'll keep the cot. Whatever." He stared at the closet. Totally closed. No eyes. "I'll take a nap and be fine." Oh ho ho. He was a good liar to himself, too. As if he'd risk it. Dean would let him nap all evening and never wake him up later, when it got dark, and then the closet would open...

Sam shivered.

"Sleep then," Dean commanded. "Whatever. If you sleep..."

Sam sat up. He turned his legs to the floor and sat there, staring at the closet, his back to his brother. That fucking stupid thing. What the hell are you? Are you really the boogeyman? What do you want from me? What do you want?

"Does this have something to do with Amber?"

Sam blinked. He turned around and stared at his brother. His tired brain, used to processing these kinds of loaded questions, was running on less than half power. What?

Dean gazed back levelly, a car magazine opened to a random page in his lap-some kind of failed attempt to be casual-except Dean's eyes were cross-calculating every line of Sam's face for a confession in reaction...and Sam had just given it to him.

"Is it girl problems, Sam? Is that it? Is that why you pay attention to my 'bus conversation?'"

And Sam missed the note of hope in Dean's question that he had figured it out. It wasn't until later that Sam realized Dean wanted his brother's affliction to be something as mundane as "girl trouble" and not anything worse. But at that moment, all Sam could feel was anger and betrayal.

"What the hell, Dean, are you spying on me?"

Dean tossed the magazine aside. "You're like a freaking zombie. You walk into walls at school, Sammy, I already have the lowdown on that. I wouldn't haveta spy if you'd just tell me what's going on yourself."

Sam jumped up, adrenaline pumping the sleep out of him. "It's none of your business." Sam was exasperated. "How did you do it? Tell me right now."

Dean threw his hand out. "See? Ya would have seen this a mile out if you could pay attention to a damn thing that's going on around you besides a girl and la la land."

Sam balled a fist. Dean's authority be damned. He had crossed a line, and they both knew it. "Leave her out of it. I asked a question."

Dean sat up. "Fine. That glasses kid on the bus with the straight across bangs," Dean zipped his fingers across his forehead. "He's in your class, brainiac."

Sam processed the description. Andrew Anderson. A really plain name for a mostly unnoticeable kid. He sat two rows behind Sam and to the right. Holy crap. His brother really had been spying on him.

"When did you..."

"Yesterday afternoon. Found him in the bus line getting roughed up while you were bringing up the rear. He has a little problem with some 5th grade dickwad named Robert, so I cut him a deal." Dean laughed mirthlessly to himself. "You really did miss that. You're more out of it than I thought."

"So, what, now, you're a mercenary?"

"Oh, hey, that sounds cool when ya say it like that, but no. It was quid pro quo. Ya know, 'you do something for me, I do-'"

"I know what it means, Dean." Usually the quiet ones like Andrew were the observant ones. Sam would know. As much as he hated to admit it, Dean had picked an unnervingly reliable source. And since this entire deal with the kid had gone down waiting for the bus yesterday and presumably this very afternoon, Dean had unwittingly made a point that Sam had to concede: The sleep deprivation was affecting him to an almost dangerous degree.

"You sharpened your pencil nine times before lunch," Dean ticked it off on his fingers, "and once after lunch. Were you just more awake? I guess you ate my Payday," his brother had the audacity to smile about it. "Good boy."

Sam gave him a withering look. "That's what your bully services bought you? A record of pencil sharpening and proof I ate your stupid lunch? Great job, Dean. You're a regular James Bond."

Dean stood up, "Bumping into walls, Sam. And giving notes to girls at lunch. Some third grader named Amber? She's a sick kid, misses a lot of school, and has no known friends. So what's the deal? Are you lovebirds? Are you doing the elementary 'talking' thing or what? Is there something wrong with her?"

Really? Really, Dean? Do you have to push all of my buttons at once?

Sam wasn't sure what pissed him off more, the knowledge that his brother had been spying on him, or the fact that he might actually know more about Amber than Sam.

"I already said it's none of your business, Dean. And don't try to change the subject. This isn't about her, it's about you-"

"Fine, Sam." Dean cut him off. "You look me straight in the eye, then, and tell me nothing's wrong. Everything is just fine. If you can do that, then I'll say sorry. Maybe. If you can."

It was issued as a challenge-one Sam knew Dean thought was sure he'd win. It was one thing to lie, but to be caught in a lie and still insist the truth of a lie was just...cowardly. And Sam was not a coward, and Dean knew that too. Either way he answered, if Sam said he was okay, he'd be calling himself a coward, and if he owned up to his issues to Dean's face, then Dean had justification for his deception.

Except Dean never realized there was a third option...

Sam took a step forward, looked right up into his brother's eyes and said, "Just because I'm dealing with something doesn't give you the right to spy on me. Sometimes I have to handle my own stuff-sometimes I want to handle my own stuff-by myself, Dean."

Sam turned away to let his brother to process that. Dean stood there without a comeback, probably for the first time in his life, while Sam crossed to the table, sat down and opened the top of his bag. Sam knew he was changing well-established but tacit rules of Sam Winchester Acceptance and Behavior, and that was bound to cause friction with Dean who worked really hard to be able to do one thing right: "Take care of Sam." Yeah, well, Dean didn't have the market cornered on the whole "changing" thing; Sam was growing up too.

In the quiet that followed, Sam began mechanically pulling books out of his rucksack. In the front pocket, as he was taking out a pencil, he saw the little red and black hair tie and the piece of colored wrapping paper with Amber's phone number on it. He allowed himself a few seconds to wonder how she was doing, and if he could ever get Dean to leave the motel for five minutes so he could call her tomorrow. Not likely.

As if reading his mind, Dean said, "Is it a girl thing, Sammy? Just tell me that much. I could help with that, ya know."

"I seriously doubt that," Sam murmured.

Dean must have taken that as an invitation to proceed to phase two, the Helping Little Brother phase, conveniently ignoring everything Sam had just said because that was another thing that Dean did expertly. He sat down at the table opposite his brother with a Coke and a bag of Doritos.

"Taking care of a sick little girl. That's like you, Sam. And it's not a bad idea because chicks dig a sensitive guy who gives them attention when no one else does. But, that sort of stuff makes them more likely to, you know, get attached."

Dean's voice trailed off leaving the rest of the sentiment unspoken: ...and we can't get "attached."

"I know." Sam said, but he was tired and he winced at how close his brother had dropped anchor. Sam could feel Dean's eyes scrutinizing him, and despite the part of his little brother brain that just wanted to think Dean was an idiot, the reality was that he wasn't. He was too damn observant when he wanted to be. "No one is getting attached."

He was only a coward if he was caught in the lie and refused to admit it. So far, Dean only suspected. If he went through Sam's stuff and found the ponytail holder and phone number, little brother would be completely sunk. Sam made a mental note to sneakily pull them out and hide them under his mattress, sleep with them under his pillow, or just flat out hang onto them all night. It wasn't like he was going to be sleeping anyway.

"Hmm. Well, that's good." Dean leaned over the table, trying to push his Women Wisdom as far as it would go. "You're in 4th grade, so if you want a little female companionship you gotta look for the girls who wear the bright fresh clothes every day. Ya know. The ones with all of that plastic neon jewelry and boy band shirts. Those are the shallow girls, and they're easy to pick up for a chat and drop later."

"Dean, do you listen to yourself? You sound creepy."

Dean actually laughed at that in a way that seemed almost smug.

"What? It's not creepy, it's just survival. I mean, ya can't live without them, but you have to know how ta let them down easy. I'm telling you, stick to the shallow girls. At least ya know you can easily be replaced next week. And they can too, for that matter. It's more humane, Sammy. Isn't that your deal?"

Sam stared a straight line through the thick green canvas to the precious little girl treasure he had received. For the first time in his life it struck him that his brother's philosophy of relationships outside of this family was...actually really sad. Survival he had called it. Well, Sam wasn't willing to sacrifice that all. He didn't want to establish relationships just so they could be wound up, tied up, and carted around like a fishing line forever. He was tired and their father's road seemed endless, hopeless.

"I don't want to talk about it." Sam said quietly, avoiding his brother's eyes. The tabletop blurred in his vision.

"Sammy," Dean's hand took a firm hold of his brother's arm. "Seriously, go take a nap. You're freaking me out."

Sam coughed the emotion out of his posture and managed to wipe his face down with his free hand to casually whisk away the moisture in his eyes. He shrugged off his brother's arm, not too hard, but not like a wimp either. "I will, later," he lied. He sounded sincere. "Right now I want to do this homework."

It worked. Perhaps a little. Sam guessed it was that enigmatic love of academics that Dean couldn't comprehend which shielded the truth and spared him any more of this inquisition. He began to carefully and neatly lay out his black and white marbled composition notebook, history book, pencil, and pencil sharpener, mentally cataloging the task at hand. He hoped his brother would get bored now and go back to reading their father's car magazine or turn on the TV, but Dean appeared to be just getting comfortable. Too comfortable. Sam opened the text book, willing the letters to stop swimming around and stay put so he could read them. Apparently completely oblivious to the tension in the room he had established, Dean proceeded to smirk at the commencement of school work the way Dean smirked at anything that seemed wholly ridiculous to him.

"Something funny?" Sam asked casually, trying to keep his temper under control and the vision of the book from swirling as he opened it up to page...364. The end of the Civil War and Reconstruction. Abraham Lincoln had destroyed his health trying to reunite the North and the South, and he died in a theater after everything was over. Was it beautiful or sad?

"Yeah, homework. The way you actually do it." Dean took a sip of his Coke and set it on the table. He expertly grabbed two sides of the Doritos bag and opened in, dipping in for a fluorescent orange wedge. "Ya know, Dad says it should only take about a couple days here, tops. Yet, you keep rolling out the books like it counts for something. Relax and take that nap, Smart Guy."

Sam felt a pang in his chest. "I can't explain it. You won't get it," Sam said softly, almost regretfully, as he pulled his composition book towards him and opened it up. He hadn't meant it to sound so...pitiful, but he was tired and sometimes it was just so frustrating to try to get anyone in this family to understand him.

"What's there to get? Honestly," the open-mouthed crunching was a bit nauseating, "a bunch of total sheep. School's a system for them, Sammy. Ya don't need it. We don't need it."

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Maybe it was that totally off-handed tone that got under Sam's skin. Maybe it was the fact that, once again, Sam had to go on the defensive. Bad timing, Dean. Bad day. "You want to know why?" Sam slapped his pencil onto the table. It hurt, but it got Dean's attention. "I'll tell you why. When you shoot seven empty beer cans off of a log without missing, Dad let's you reload. That's your equivalent of Christmas Dean. It just means a chance to show off again, and again, if you keep hitting the target, but you grin about that for days."

Sam saw that the smile had gone from Dean's face, but he couldn't stop.

"That's what it feels like for me, okay? When I get a stupid letter on a paper. When the letter happens to be an A. That's my I-killed-all-the-bad-guys moment. Don't talk about it like it's nothing, Dean." Sam could feel his heart pounding away in triple time in his chest, and his cheeks were hot. It wasn't worth getting worked up like this. He might as well have slammed his pencil down to declare "blah blah blah" for all the good any explanations would do.

Despite, that, however, there was a silence in the room, between Dean's eyes and his. And it was too heavy.

"It...It's not the same, Sammy." Dean turned in his chair, his growing legs bumping into the center support, "Dad is Dad. It's you, me, and Dad, kid. I'm saying, who gives a shit about anyone else? Seriously, you let it make ya sick. What's the point of that?"

"What's the point?" Sam shook his head slightly, quickly, once again exasperated by the complete blinker vision his brother had to life in general. "One look from Dad in the wrong way and it's like the end of the world. Seriously, Dean. Like the end. Of the World." He punctuated "end" and "world" with a beat of his hand on his history book.

"Shut up, Sam."

Sam ignored the warning tone. It was actually a little too easy to ignore. All the filters in his head that calculated specific responses and consequences was set to the "off" position, and he knew it. Part of him wondered what would actually happen if he pushed, and if it matched all of those models of nuclear fallout he had constructed in his head.

"You said it's not the same, and it's not. It's not the same because your universe revolves around Dad and the Missions and mine doesn't. But you make it. You and Dad both." Sam's hands went to his hair. When he grabbed it, it kind of woke him up a little. Made things clearer. Hurting himself made hurting Dean hurt less. "You make it, and then you tell me to suck it up and deal with it. And I do. I always do. But don't...don't treat me like the stuff that's important to me doesn't matter!"

Sam heard the chair slide back angrily. He thought maybe he would get hit and his eyes squeezed shut in anticipation. But then he heard the sound of the side of Dean's fist pounding the door. When his hands let go of his hair and he could look up, Dean was standing in front of the door, fist still resting against it, and Sam could almost feel the conflict. He wanted to go out. Dean wanted to leave the room, cool off, maybe go break something or get into trouble ...but he didn't. No, he couldn't.

Why? Because Dad told him not to leave Sam by himself. It was the Order of Orders. Babysit the 9-year-old, and he didn't even have to have an "or else," because it was Dad. And Dad would backhand Dean against the wall for disobeying if it was serious enough. He'd do it without a second thought so that next time he'd learn...

The irony of the moment wasn't lost on the younger brother. He had just trapped Dean with the truth. And it was pitiful and terrible. And suddenly all desire to see the outcome of his words went away in the silence of his big brother's hunched back and clenched hand. Who was Sam kidding? They were both trapped here- it wasn't just him. The difference was that Dean had come to love their jailer and Sam wanted to be loved by him. It really wasn't that big of a difference after all.

"P.S. I get mad a lot, it's true, but I don't mean to make other people sad."

That's what he had told Amber. He didn't mean to, or maybe he did. Maybe he wanted to push his hurt onto Dean, but he didn't, he couldn't lose him. Not if Dean was still willing to worry about him.

Sam had messed up. Lack of sleep was making it so hard to control his emotions and he felt his eyes tear up. He didn't like looking at Dean's back.

"Hey, Dean..."

Dean didn't move. Sam had to push down the irrational little panic caused because he couldn't see his brother's face. Whatever Dean was thinking, he wasn't saying it. And if he wasn't yelling it, chances were he wasn't going to say it. Ever.

He could fix this. He could fix it. He had to fix this.

"Hey, Dean. 8th grade. What's it like beyond the scary 'do not enter' sign?"

Homework could wait.

It wasn't even a little strange how his priorities suddenly shifted either. Sixty seconds ago Sam had wanted Dean to just leave him alone so he could work. Now nothing mattered but getting over this radio silence. Sam had expected yelling. He had almost wanted it so that he could throw all of his own feelings against it and watch it stick, or watch them slide down. The emptiness from Dean gave him nothing, and it worried him even more. At all costs, he had to bring this back.

"Dean? I…heard you don't get recess in middle school. What do you do when you can't show off your acrobatics on the jungle gym?"

Dean straightened, his fist unclenched slowly. Sam hoped his sigh of relief hadn't been too audible.

There was a pause.

"Are you kidding? Jungle gyms are for babies. There's no recess, but there are plenty of other things to like about it." He turned around and Dean's expression was one of pleased confidentiality. He even looked left and right as he came back to his chair, as if someone in the room would hear him, as if he was about to relate something wonderfully juicy to a trusted conspirator. All vestiges of the pain from a few seconds ago seemed gone. It was fast, but then again, Dean was unpredictable lately.

In spite of his relief, Sam gave his brother an unconvinced smile. "Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Boobs. Boobs, Sam," Dean's hands hefted the weight of imaginary mounds of glorious girl-flesh. His grin was almost criminal.

Sam rolled his eyes and thunked his forehead down on his composition book. "Seriously, Dean?" His voice was muffled by the paper.

"Sammy, you can't even believe it. You can see across to the high school field from our side of the building. P.E. is 3rd period and It's like, bye bye grade school, hellloooooo nurse. All those 'Little Suzy's' are filling out all over the place." Dean drummed out a couple of beats with his hands on the table. "And they don't hide them either. Girls. Man…girls. Legs that go up to their eyebrows. Short shorts. Sammy, wait till ya get there. Man, they will be all over you." Dean smacked Sam in the arm, and his little brother understood that he was supposed to feel very pleased by such an unwarranted compliment.

"Gross, Dean."

"What? Gross? Your little baby face and that thing you do with your eyes when you get pouty? Man, girls eat that shit up."

Sam scowled, but not seriously. Dean was actually more animated and relaxed now than he had been in weeks. The moodiness, the long showers, the clenched fists, the lengthening and repeated silences where there used to be poop jokes or experiments with swearing…yes, this was charted territory again. Everything was right with the world for this moment.

"What about the classes? What do you learn in there? Do you get to do labs in chemistry or dissect stuff?"

Dean made a face. "What, are you kidding? The labs are the only good part. Didja know that salt can be used to make an explosive?"

"Yeah, I knew that. Salt has a long history of uses. But wait, did you get to explode something with salt?" Sam sat up, excited, his eyes becoming round. But then he sat back as Dean shook his head with disappointment.

"Yeah, right. Like they'd let us do anything that might actually be dangerous and cool."

"Well, then…how did you know? You mean you actually let them teach you something?" Sam couldn't exactly hide his sarcasm.

"Hey, man. I learn what I need to learn. If it'll be useful, I'll learn it. But most of the time it's not useful, so what's the point? I'm getting the education I need from Dad and sometimes from shop. Have you seen the wooden stakes I made? You can get a really sharp-ass tip from a grinder." He raised his eyebrows before he flashed a smug grin. " "The bottom line is, I'm learning what I need, not what they want, and I don't care. But so what? If you like school so much, if you want to help a sick girl, if it means that much to you, I'll shut up about it…as best as I can IF…" Dean suddenly leaned forward, his raised finger a couple inches from Sam's face. The "if" created a space of silence that bridged a gap where once the silence had divided them.

"If?"

"If you stop worrying about whatever it is and get some sleep."

Dean's Big Brother voice was getting deeper. It was almost authoritative now.

"If you take a little siesta, get rid of the crazy dark circles, I'll give you your birthday present early. Come on, what do ya say? It's pretty cool…" Dean's voice arched up at the end, the promise of something that was worth this one little favor he was asking.

Dean wasn't telling him to go to bed. He was trying to bribe him, begging him. Dean didn't bribe and he didn't beg as a general rule which meant he was really worried, and Sam had been so caught up in his fear of losing his pride that he hadn't been paying attention to the fact that Dean was compromising his own pride by degrees just to find out what was wrong.

Ahh, Dean. I'm a shitty little brother sometimes.

Sam liked to think his brother was just a jerk. He liked to think that his brother was one of his captors. He liked to think that the reason Dean laughed off Sam's academic accomplishments was because he was jealous he wasn't as smart as Sam. He liked to think these things because then it justified all of the rage inside of him that he had to keep pushed down so tightly. But every once in awhile, Sam could see Dean as a fellow inmate who had been too young for whatever role he was shoved into, and that he was smart. Really, really smart. And, actually, as big brothers went, Dean was probably the best.

Sam had been so recently targeting him as the enemy for changes that maybe Dean couldn't control. They had never been like that when they were little, and maybe this was all hard for Dean too.

Sam's face fell. He looked at the top of the table. Maybe it had been the conversation, or the sleep deprivation, or the hint of something like a sensitive human being inside his brother's idiocy, or maybe it was Sam's own fear of alienating the last person with whom he had any real ties…

"Dean…If I tell you something, you have to promise not to laugh."

Dean sat back slowly. Thoughtfully.

"I make no such promises. Tell me anyway."

"I think…I think there is something in the closet…and it watches me at night."

What would a normal big brother do at this point? What was the litmus test for such a revelation by a 9-year-old? Sam really thought it should be a hearty bit of laughter and some condescending joke. Instead, Dean stared at him for a second and then looked up at the closet door. And then he nimbly exited his seat and crossed to his own bed, reaching his hand under his pillow to pull out the nickel-plated pearl-handled .45 his father had given him. Like something out of a movie, Sam watched as Dean checked the chamber for a bullet and then covered the closet door as he cautiously approached it.

Sam wasn't sure if his brother was being serious at this point or faking the seriousness just to get a bigger laugh later. He slid out of his seat anyway and followed behind him, heart beginning to pound. The door was closed.

"Dean."

"Sammy, move to the side of the door. When I tell you to, turn the knob and throw it open."

That voice was not a joking voice. It didn't waver. Dean was being completely serious. Sam felt the blood leave his fingers and toes and his face. Something about Dean thinking it was real danger somehow made the danger real. But that's not what Sam had wanted, was it? He had really wanted Dean to laugh at him. If he had laughed, then Sam had been imagining things, and he was just stupid and could get over it. Right? If there was something in this closet…

"Dean…"

"Do it, Sam!"

Sam shook slightly as he moved into place. He watched Dean's face as he aimed the loaded weapon. The intensity was terrifying. And then Dean nodded and Sam opened the door.

Silence. Dean's gun arm moved with his eyes like Dad had taught him. You can't shoot what you aren't looking at, and don't look unless you are ready to shoot. Dean was ready to shoot.

There was nothing in the closet but the vacuum cleaner circa 1965, and three shirts. None of which looked in the least bit suspicious. Nevertheless, Dean wasn't satisfied until he had pushed the shirts around, inspected the vacuum cleaner, and began pushing on the back of the closet.

"Tell me about it," he commanded as he worked methodically.

Sam stood stupidly next to the closet door. He was so mixed up right now. He wanted help, but he didn't. He didn't want it to be real. He wanted to feel safe, but this was just making him more scared. Sam felt faint. He was tired and he didn't want to fight and he didn't want to think he was being stalked. He wanted to think his Dad was just an angry, crazy, bitter, obsessed man. That it could be all just a circus he'd have to endure until he was able to get out. Maybe he could even convince Dean to go with him…

"Sam! Tell me."

Sam shook his head. "I saw it the first night we were here. There's always a click first; that's the door unlatching. It opens just an inch or two. I thought…I thought I saw eyes. An eye. It was…shiny, like hematite. It didn't blink that I ever saw but…but I felt like I was being watched. So I just…watched it back."

The heel of Dean's palm pressed into the top of his forehead and then slid off as he did the calculation of sleep lost. "Jesus, Sammy, that was days ago. It happens every night?" Sam looked away, embarrassed, but nodded. "Why didn't you tell me?" Dean sounded honestly dumbfounded.

"I checked it in the morning and it looked just like this. What was I supposed to tell you, that the boogeyman was in the closet?" Sam was trying to be indignant. He had felt indignant at some point. Now he just felt like an idiot.

Dean gave his little brother an incredulous look and uncocked his gun. "I don't know a damn thing about a boogeyman, but there are a lotta monsters out there that I don't know enough about yet. It's bad enough that you haven't slept in days." Dean took a deep breath. "Sammy, you know what this means..."

Sam shook his head. Oh, this isn't how it was supposed to go down. Not at all.

"Look, Dean. Please. Can we just…never talk about this again? Please, Dean." Sam's eyes were plaintive. "It's just my imagination. I'll take care of it by myself. Please, Dean, not Dad..."

Dean's shoulders dropped and he uncurled from his defensive half crouch, gun at his side. He opened his mouth to say something, but just then the front door rattled with keys and John Winchester was back with the mother of all the shittiest timings in the world.

Fuck. Oh just…just fuck.

(to be continued...)