Sorry for the late update! I got caught up in some stuff and now school is coming back oh noooooooooooo! Thankfully, I have mound of Boogeyman text on deck for editing.

A million thanks and praises to Agelade, of course, because she in all ways rocks. Her enthusiasm for this story is a huge reason why it will keep going forward to the end. And yes, she's been bugging me so I better get on track because Agelade is "She who must be obeyed." And read. Three full episodes of her season 9 AU, "Lustra," are completed, so if you haven't checked that out you should because she's a hell of a lot better writer than I am.

Because we tend to cross-inspire each other, you may find some details from this story translate over to "Lustra" and vice versa. Sometimes it's intentional. Sometimes we just do it and are like, "oh man, I didn't even mean to do that, but it's perfect," so if you are reading both then know we have you protectively snuggled in our own shared "Lustra Verse" where a strong Sam and Dean bro bond is Super Important.

Many thanks especially to enthusiastic reviewers especially SPNMum and Clowns or Midgets. Seriously. I don't know how you found my fic, but I'm glad you did. It is SO worth it to know that people like this. Thanks also to Sarah, baileylovesyou0400, sylvia37, krikanalo for reviewing the last chapter. Without ALL of you guys it would be terribly lonely. Every time I get a review notification it's like Christmas. Seriously. Thanks!

For the record, this is my favorite chapter yet...

-Caladrius

Ch 8: "For Whom the Bell Tolls"

May 1, 1993

Sam 9

Dean 14

At nine o'clock that night, Sam learned an important lesson about human psychology: it's easier and nicer to exist in a world of denial. It's not actually comforting to live in denial, but it provides the illusion of comfort and sometimes it's much preferable to reality. Denial for Sam consisted of every possible way to resist the inevitable passage of time that would take him from a moment in the shower through to the moment when he would have to pull the trigger on a monster. (Surprisingly, Dean didn't give him any crap for completely hogging the shower, though he did check on him twice to make sure he wasn't "drowning in snores.")

The water on Sam's chest was hot and the sound was comforting. It was a universe of "this can all wait, right? Sure it can." But eventually hot water runs out and time marches on. Nevertheless, and much to his embarrassment, his older brother had to bodily pull him out of it and dump two towels over him, frowning at his chattering teeth.

"Really, Sam? Are you a retard? That water has been cold for five minutes. Do you want to die of hypothermia?"

Of course Dean knew about hypothermia. Dean existed in reality. Sam didn't like to admit any shortcomings between them despite their age, but it was true that he had been the one protected, sitting in motel rooms moping while Dean was out experiencing hypothermia in the real world. Or maybe he could summon up some hot anger about all of that to stop his annoying jaw.

Encased in ice...

"Y-y...yeah. Maybe I do want to die of hypothermia," he said petulantly.

The anger didn't come, but the heat from Dean's hand across his face did warm him up a little. It wasn't a hard slap, and the expression his brother wore as Sam looked up to retort flooded him with guilt.

"Jesus, Sammy. Don't say melodramatic shit like that. You're nine."

As if age had something to do with dying, with denial, with reality.

The reality was that his father had sentenced him to be the death of a boogeyman. It was complete fiction in someone else's world. Only for the Winchesters could it possibly be real. His father had said that he was a target, that it would keep stalking him until he shot it. But stalking him to what end? What did it actually want?

"Stop hitting me, Dean. And, for the record, I'm almost 10." It was a delayed reaction to the slap which, honestly, he had probably needed. Sam wrestled himself out of his terror and provided a fair facsimile of nonchalance as he pushed his brother off of trying to dry his hair for him and took control of his personal hygiene.

Dean put his hands in the air as if being robbed at gunpoint. "Stop making me, and I will." And despite how that sounded completely wrong, abusive even, Dean had no apologies and Sam expected none. They were their father's sons, after all; the ends justified the means. Dean left with a stern big-brother admonition to "be out in five, or else," and exited. Sam took all of the four minutes and fifty-nine seconds to breathe in the vaguely clean scent of the stark white towels before he obediently left the bathroom. Dean's authority notwithstanding, there was no more sense in delaying the inevitable.

"I don't need you to tuck me in."

Dean lifted the 9 millimeter to his eyes. He checked it. He checked it thoroughly.

"It's a good gun, Sammy. It's not going to jam on you."

Sam was quiet as he pulled up the cover. He stared at his brother. Forbidden to interfere. Forbidden by John "Almighty" Winchester, hunter god extraordinaire.

When Dean's eye met his, he actually saw the wall crumble. That was the scariest part.

"Sammy, you're gonna be okay. Dad wouldn't have said for you to do it unless he thought, no he knew, you could, all right? Look," he aimed at the closet door. "It's the closest shot in the universe. I've seen you practice; you're good."

Sam calmly reached up. He tugged on Dean's shirt tail and let his hand hang there. The weight was small, but he hoped it conveyed...something. His brother wasn't a complete douchebag. He forgave him for spilling the beans to Dad before because he was so clearly paying for it now; at the moment, it was hard to decide which of them was more terrified.

"I got this, Dean. Give me the gun."

Dean stared at his brother's hand. "I'm just sayin'..."

"I know what you're saying. Just give me the gun. If I kill this thing maybe Dad will take us out for cheeseburgers tomorrow or something." Because he knew that was Dean's comfort food, not his own. And Dean knew he knew. It was an olive branch. A truce. We're in this shitty reality together.

Fourteen-year-olds going through puberty develop an Adam's Apple. That's what Sam saw move. Up, then down. Swallowing. Dean took Sam's hand from his shirttail and slapped the gun into it with purpose. He bent down so he could meet his little brother's gaze on his level. Inadvertently, Sam could see how shiny his eyes were.

"You fire when you're ready. You take the shot. Don't wait another night, Sammy."

Because you won't make it another night.

It was like Sam actually heard the words from Dean's head. Something really deep was shaken by the worry in his brother's voice. When Sam started to trace it to its source, he realized why: It was Dean, not his father, who had always been the most reliable caretaker, even when he hadn't actually been reliable. To sense danger from a place of safety was worse than any dire scenario his father could have painted for him. Unconsciously his left hand tightened around a small piece of plastic in his hand. The red and black ladybug hair tie he had surreptitiously snagged from his rucksack was hot but real. Just in case. Just, maybe, for luck so that he could survive this.

Keep your mouth shut, Sam, he told himself. He said nothing more. If he kept talking, Dean was going to keep talking. Not that Dean needed to hear a word from Sam's mouth to keep talking. The fact was, there was nothing else to say. Sam nodded. An earnest nod. An "I'm actually paying attention to you" nod. For what seemed like an eternity, there was a silence as deep, vast, and dark as a quarry pool. Ambient light from a venetian blind somewhere created ripples on his brother's face as he slowly stood up, disappeared from Sam's view, and created hollow sushing sounds as he slid into his own bed.

And that was it then. The trap was primed.

Who was Sam kidding? He wasn't the trap, he was the bait. This wasn't his first mission, it was his last. Disappointing, really. He had hoped that reassuring his brother would have at least provided himself with a few minutes of confidence. Yes, he wanted to be able to show he was self-sufficient, that he was worthy of someone's faith...but not like this. He didn't want to kill, and he didn't want to die. What a sorry excuse for a kid he was.

And of course there was the niggling fact that a boogeyman had targeted him and wasn't going to stop...

There was an imprint of edges from the little hair tie in one hand. He was holding onto it so hard that it hurt. Was Amber laying in bed thinking about her father who had gone on a hunting trip and never come back? Who had missed several birthdays and would probably miss the rest?

And where is my Dad?

Oh, that's right, he's left me here with a monster...

Sam's fingers on the gun were slick, sweaty, which only increased his anxiety. When the time came, could he even get a shot off? At best he'd only have one chance-at this distance, he was just as easy prey as the creature. Nine million scenarios assaulted Sam's imagination with all of the force of a ten-story drop. In most of them he was killed in some wonderfully horrible way, and in others he succeeded and earned the right to be a monster killer. Of course, several scenarios just had him failing in different ways and having to face his father in the morning for it.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you still awake?"

Dean.

"Duh."

A pause.

"...Do you see it yet?"

Sam licked his lips. "No. Door's still closed."

"Ah. Okay. How're you doin'?"

"Fantastic."

There was no response. Sam shifted slightly, trying to uncramp his shoulder which was rapidly going numb. It appeared to be caused by the almost deathlike grip on the 9 millimeter he didn't even know he had been applying. A strange sort of cold desperation sank in. He was tired, so, so tired. And now he was completely psyching himself out.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"...When you have a...job to do, when Dad takes you out, what do you think about? You know, to keep your mind off it?"

"Honestly?"

"Yeah."

Dean's voice floated up from the darkness. "I don't think about anything. I don't think about it. Not even later if I can help it."

Sam blinked. Actually, that made a lot of sense. And not just as advice, but it explained more about how his brother operated in two sentences than Sam had managed to figure out in nine and a half years. Single-minded determination. One track mind? Yes. That was because Dean set himself on a path and let the autopilot take over. How many steps to the next obstacle? How hard was the brick wall? Walk it out, bash yourself through it, and then never look back.

Well, shit. As enlightening and almost endearing as it all was, there remained one glaring problem.

"I...don't think I can do that." He admitted quietly. "Not ever."

Silence.

Sam expected some kind of retort from his brother, something Dean would have found witty but would be, in all actuality, pathetic. But there was nothing. He winced. Dean was right, he wasn't going to make it another night...

"Fuck this."

Sam turned his head slightly, hearing sounds of movement behind him but too stiff to turn his head enough to see. But he didn't have to. The clicking of metal on metal, the creak of a motel bed unloading, and Dean's presence in front of him all came together.

"Scoot over."

Sam lay in the bed and blinked at him.

"What?"

"I said, scoot over." He leaned down and physically pushed at his little brother in the chest. "And do me a favor and don't shoot me. In fact, give me that thing." Sam felt his brother's hand on the gun and his fingers resisted.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing? Go back to bed."

"Gimme the gun, Sammy. I don't think you'd accidentally shoot me in the back. Well, maybe I do. Jesus." The reason for the last exclamation was mostly inexplicable, except that it was breathed out right about the moment that Dean managed to pry Sam's sweaty, clamped fingers from the weapon. Sam instinctively clutched his hands to his chest to soothe them, and then was handily moved out of the way. Christ. When did Dean get so strong? In thirty seconds more his brother had climbed onto the cot and lay facing the closet door with his .45.

"Dean, seriously, there's not enough room for both of us on this thing."

Did he sound relieved? He prayed he didn't sound relieved. He wanted to be angry, indignant, that his brother was, once again, taking his burden onto himself. He was indignant. Mostly.

"What're you talkin' about? You're a shrimp. There's nine feet of unused space here. Just close your eyes and sleep, Sammy."

Dean turned his head slightly over his shoulder when he addressed him. His profile was so clear despite the darkness.

"Are you kidding? You're gonna smother me if you shift three inches..."

"Shut your cake hole, Sammy. Who d'you think slept with you when you were 11 months old in every motel room, huh? And look, you're still breathing. As far as I'm concerned, you kept me up enough to owe me a little credit."

Oh. Right. That's right. Once upon a time, they had shared a bed. Until the day a four-year-old Sam insisted he was old enough to sleep by himself. But that had been different.

"Dean."

Sam's voice was serious.

His brother looked away. "Just sleep, Sammy."

A pause.

"Dean, he forbid it. Remember? Dad doesn't use words like 'forbid.' He just says 'don't' and we 'don't.'"

You don't.

There was no movement, just a loaded stone wall between him and the closet door, between himself and nine million scenarios that all sucked.

"Dean, seriously. Dad will kill you."

Sam meant it figuratively, but John Winchester had a way of making his lessons so crystal clear a monkey could understand them. Which was why Sam's fear had begun to shift directions. He'd already seen his brother tumble over his cot once because of his problems. It wasn't something he wanted to see escalate. Ever. Despite it all, Dean's voice was steady.

"I know what he said. I know."

"Then what the hell are you doing?" Sam pressed it and Dean moved slightly, as if testing the bonds of an invisible rope wrapped around his arms.

"I want the target practice."

Man, that was lame.

"Dean..."

"Shut up, Sammy, and listen to me." His voice was clipped, hushed, as if John Winchester would be arriving any moment and he had only seconds to make himself clear. "I pushed you out of the way. You can think whatever you want. Hell, you can tell Dad whatever you want. The fact is, I decided this, and I'm gonna take that thing out that has been stalking my little brother for nights. For nights. And I'm gonna make its ass sorry it ever decided to pick on a Winchester. And that's it, Sam. That's the end of the story." His face turned towards the closet. His shoulders were set, resolute.

Sam blinked.

He shut up.

What could he do? When your brother says the coolest thing ever, what are you supposed to say to follow it? This was his brother, right? Dean? Saying "piss off" to Dad's forbiddance? Was he insane? Did he actually have a death wish? There was no way he was in this for the target practice, no matter what he said, because the truth was that Dean was 14-years-old and already didn't need target practice. In Sam's sleep-soaked brain, his brother's decision to stand against their father trumped it all. It trumped everything. More than standing up to a boogeyman, it was the bravest thing either of them could ever do. It was probably irrational, familial pride, yes, but Sam was mentally, physically, and emotionally worn out.

Sam slid forward and his forehead pressed against Dean's back. It was warm, but not too warm. It was comfortable. Far too comfortable, in fact, but it was beyond Sam's ability to fight.

Tomorrow. He'd reassert his manliness tomorrow. If he was alive, this would be his problem again. Tomorrow. When his eyes had rested. When he could actually think. Maybe when he could consider holding a gun on a closet door and not imagine nine million ways it could all go wrong. And as if he had been programmed for it, as soon as he decided to give over his burden (just for one night, seriously), his body felt leaden. Swirls of violet color bloomed behind his eyelids and sleep began to drag him down. But it would be okay. As long as Dean was here, he could close his eyes, allow his vigilance to relax. So cool, sometimes. Standing up to Dad. Dean could be so cool...

"Sammy?"

"Nnn."

Dean's voice relaxed. Maybe he could hear the sleep in Sam's voice. Or maybe he knew that there would be no more coherent conversation.

"I've got a sweet birthday present for you. Just wake up tomorrow, okay?"

Against his back, Sam smiled and nodded. He pressed closer and his hand unconsciously found the shirttail. Dean's T-shirted back was warm and it was banishing the cold, keeping the ice at bay, giving Sam strength and sapping his will to stay awake at the same time. It was too late to stop now anyway. It was okay, though. It was fine. Dean was okay. He'd keep that boogeyman at bay, no matter what. He'd follow through because that's what he did. He even had a present for him. He even remembered. That was nice, to be remembered. Sometimes Sam really loved this guy. For real.

"Go to sleep. You're delirious."

His last thought before the darkness wholly consumed him was, did I say something out loud?

May 2, 1993

There were no dreams. At least, not that he remembered. It was the deepest, hardest sleep imaginable, but it was also the most restful sleep he had had in a long time. And this was all despite the fact that when he finally opened his eyes, there was an arm partially laying across his face and some terrible breath snoring at point blank range towards his nose.

"Ugh..." He recoiled from the hot breath instinctively, found an arm, and pushed at his brother's chest. "Holy crap, Dean, you're gonna kill me." Sam pulled at the right arm slouched over him, gun still attached to his grip. Wow. Okay, this wasn't safe. His brother's taller body was on the verge of total eclipse of his own, and he was completely and utterly sound asleep despite the sunlight streaming into the room from the window slats.

"Dean." He shook his shoulder. "I told you you were gonna smother me."

"Ung?" Dean woke up. Very ungraciously. He snorted and blinked as he got his bearings, finally focussing on the vaguely annoyed expression on his brother's face. "What are you talkin' about. You're fine." His brother partially lifted himself to pull his arms and legs back to a more compact position. Dean had fantastic bed hair. Really fantastic. One side of it slid straight up like a cliff over the ocean of his ear. His eyes were tired, but he grinned. Completion of a job well done or just an idiot? Maybe a little of both. "What did I tell you, huh? No problem."

Well, there was no way Dean could have shot something with a 45 in the middle of the night and Sam not hear it, so...

"Did you see it?" He asked hesitantly.

His brother shook his head in response. "I watched all night. No click. No door open. No shiny eye." He lifted himself up for a second so that Sam could verify that the closet door was, in fact, still closed. That worried Sam because something felt...off about it.

Dean let himself fall back onto the cot. It jostled a bit under their combined weight. "When the sun came up I figured the show was over."

He fell asleep at dawn then? Maybe two and a half hours ago? Three?

"How'd you sleep, Sammy?" Dean had a look of perpetual self-satisfaction on his face.

Best not to stroke that ego too hard. He shrugged slightly. "Good. I was completely unconscious, I know that much. But, Dean...do you think it's over? Won't it come back? Dad said it had me targeted."

"Jesus, Sammy. You can't just be okay with it for two minutes?" Dean frowned.

Sam sighed. "No, I mean, I'm glad. I am, okay? Happy? Thanks. I'm just thinking ahead..."

"Yeah, well, we'll cross the bridge when we come to it. That's what we always do anyway. Christ, you're gonna have an ulcer before you have pubes."

Sam gave him a wilted look. The Look. "Seriously, Dean?" But his brother was laughing, and it was kind of hard to be gloom and doom when Dean was smiling so freely and he felt so rested. Maybe he was right. Maybe, just maybe, it would be okay.

"Look, you made it to your 10th birthday in spite of yourself," Dean pounced on Sam, put him in a headlock and rubbed the top of his his head rapidly while Sam, off guard, half-complained, half-snorted because Dean was an idiot but he was alive. "Birthday noogie!" Dean announced superfluously, practically suffocating Sam in his armpit before Sam's knee found its way to his chest and pried him off.

Both of them fell back onto the cot laughing breathlessly. Man, life was good.

Dean kneeled up almost immediately. "Ready for your birthday present?"

Sam's expression betrayed his excitement even though he was trying to stay cool. It wasn't like presents were plentiful in their lives, and last night his brother had already given him the gift of sleep, of peace of mind, which was easily the best gift Dean had ever given him. It was hard to keep a straight face even though he said, "You know you aren't supposed to use Dad's money for this stuff."

"I didn't use his money. But it's still good. Like, 'outdid myself' good, and you better appreciate it." He warned.

"I promise no such thing, but give me the present anyway," Sam said, repurposing Dean's commandment of the night before. Sam cracked a smile-he couldn't help it. Dean was into this, into giving something to him. His body language was more of a gift receiver than a gift giver, which was rare when Dean was called upon to give something away.

Despite the buildup, Sam tried to keep his expectations low; it was probably a Pez dispenser from a gas station. Last year, that's what Dean had given him- a Batman Pez dispenser. Sam was actually able to keep it for six months before it ended up with Dean's stuff and that was that. Still, it had been his for a little while. Sam squeezed the early birthday present from Amber still in his fist. Ladybug hair ties and Pez dispensers. It was going to be a good birthday.

Dean half bounced, half slid off the cot. Had Dean been lifting weights? Bulking up? Was Sam really just noticing how 'grown up' his brother was looking everyday? While Sam wrestled with the clearing of the fog that had surrounded his entire waking life for four four days, Dean went back to his bed, rummaged under it for several seconds (probably hid the gift behind car magazines-a place Sam would never have gone) and came up with a brown paper bag. The top had been folded down and taped around.

The grin on Dean's face was 100 percent pure pleasure, and Sam felt himself getting excited in spite of past Pez gifts. And really, he couldn't hold Dean to a standard since Sam's last gift to Dean had been a display of his burgeoning brother-taught five-finger-discount abilities with one of those girl magazines in a plastic bag. (Sam didn't like to consider himself a criminal, so he reconciled the theft with the fact that he wasn't keeping the loot for himself-he had just witnessed Dean staring at it for ten minutes at a rest stop, aware that the clerk was watching the teenaged male with suspicion. Said clerk never suspected the nine-year-old brother, though. And when Sam presented it to Dean a few days later for his birthday, it was like he was the Second Coming or at least the greatest little brother in the history of the world. Dean spent most of his 14th birthday in the bathroom.)

"You can disregard the message on it now," Dean informed as he presented the paper-bound package and Sam took it. There was something written in black sharpie, and out of curiosity he had to read it.

"If you open this before May 2 I will really kill you."

"I already feel the love," Sam said wryly.

"Gotta take precautions for everything," Dean smiled and sat down next to him. "Well, stop staring at the bag. You aren't gonna to cry about the lack of wrapping paper, are you?"

Sam smiled and shook his head. His thoughts unconsciously travelled to his history textbook where he had, the night before, stashed the piece of colorful homemade wrapping paper that had Amber's phone number. Hiding it in any kind of textbook was Sam's precaution for a snooping older brother, and that seemed to be working too.

Which reminded him-he had to figure out a way to get Dean out of the motel for a while so he could fulfill his promise of a birthday phone call.

Dean pushed Sam's shoulder.

"Are you awake? Come on."

Obediently Sam came back to the present. He rolled up the top of the paper bag and stuck his hand inside. It felt solid, wooden by the grain, but it had strange ridges in it. Sam prepared himself to be "surprised" by a handmade wooden stake for a vampire, and mentally practised a smile of feigned thanks for yet another gift that Dean really wanted for himself...

...But what emerged from the bag was definitely not a vampire stake. It was some kind of fully finished wooden box about 8 inches long and an inch and a half by an inch in a half. It was the top of the box that arrested Sam's attention-hand carved with a swirling, circular, almost vinelike design in relief. Sam knew his brother was good with a knife, but this was, hands down, the most impressive work he had ever seen. He'd almost been willing to believe it was somehow bought, not made, but for the name SAM WINCHESTER in a carved hand that Sam knew was Dean's (his older brother had the bad habit of liking to carve his name into everything that would take a sharp point).

"Dean..." Sam was beyond impressed.

"Look," Dean took the box from him and pushed one end. It slid open to reveal a nice, long, deep cavity. "Do you know what it is? It's a pen and pencil box. You know, for school or whatever."

Sam's jaw dropped. This was not a Pez dispenser.

"Yeah, do you like it? I got this design from a catalog of old Winchester rifle stocks from the 1800's, so it's totally authentic. I thought it was cool. Made it and stained it in wood shop in the last two schools."

Sam could feel Dean scrutinizing his face, soaking up every expression like a dry rag, and Sam knew he wasn't disappointing because, damn, it was really hard to repress how impressed and moved he actually was.

His brother had just said to him the night before that academics were stupid and unnecessary. It wasn't the first time he had shared that sentiment either, but then, for weeks before, he had been working on this? It wasn't a hunter's weapon. It wasn't something that had any significance to Dean in function at all. He made it to be used everyday in school. Sam had been wrong-even if Dean didn't understand, he was trying. He was. This was beautiful proof of that. And beautiful was the only adjective that could be ascribed to this piece. There was something else about his brother to consider that he never thought about- Dean, who swore like a trucker, flirted artlessly, and bludgeoned his way through interactions with others like an ape could also appreciate something delicate and exquisite, create it, and he could pass it on with pride, not embarrassment.

Sam's eyes filled.

"Dean."

"Do you like it?"

Sam nodded.

"What the hell, are you gonna cry about it?"

Sam swallowed hard and said nothing.

"That's awesome."

Sam looked up. His brother was smiling. "It's cool, right? It suits you. It's badass but kind of pretty, too."

Sam could forgive Dean for the implication that he was somehow "pretty" since "badass" had preceded it. He wiped at his nose. "It's...too nice."

"What the hell are you saying? Ten is a big number-it deserves something special. But just remember, no matter how old you get, you'll always be my 'little brother,' got it?"

Sam nodded.

"Okay, now, say 'thank you' or some crap, and then my perfect little 'Sam receives his awesome present from Dean' fantasy will be concluded." Dean made a photographer's box with his hands and centered Sam's bewildered, wet face in the center.

Sam could do that. Yeah, Dean was a great brother after all, changes included. He deserved his big finish. He definitely did. "Thanks, Dean. Seriously. It is awesome. It's the best thing I've ever gotten."

"Ahh, annnnd...scene." Dean dropped his hands and was clearly riding high on his triumph. Sam was inclined to give him the entire day to be smug about it if he wanted. Maybe that would be okay.

Maybe it was also okay to share some secrets considering how it turned out. Maybe it really was okay to leave things to Dean every once in awhile. After all, the colors of the world were right again; he wasn't feeling jumpy or terrified. His brother had firmly placed himself on a pedestal, and there was not a monster in that closet. Whatever it was, it was gone. Probably for good.

That was the moment when the front door burst open.

In retrospect, Dean's reflexes were impressive. Like, action-star-impressive. The smile and tired left his eyes and his 45 was aimed at the trespasser with both hands. Steady. His finger was on the trigger and his sight was set. Sam's reaction was to freeze.

Almost as lightning fast as the gun was levelled, Dean dropped it.

"Dad?"

(to be continued...)