Summary: Dad says that Sammy will come back eventually, but Dean's got good reason to believe something else is going on. Fourteen years later, the brothers find out that Yellow Eyes is only really concerned about one thing...and Sam's already met it.

Hi guys! Sorry for the hiatus. Contrary to my high school students' belief, I actually do have more homework than they do, and school is now in full swing.

Much thanks to Agelade, a professional, who reads this stuff and gives me great feedback. Even teachers need teachers! Thanks to her, the stuff I wrote three months ago looked like crap to me, hence the time I needed to add/fix it.

You want awesome SPN fic? Go read her "Lustra" season 9 AU if you haven't yet. (I happen to know she's working on episode 5.)

Thanks for reading and reviewing! THANK YOU DEAR SWEET LORD!

-Caladrius

Chapter 11: "Tea for Two"

May 6, 1993

Dean 14

Sam 10

If Dean thought about it too much, he started to lose it. It was that simple. Four days later and Sam still hadn't spoken a word, still hadn't moved to do any damn thing on his own. Including the bathroom.

God. His brother was completely potty trained by eighteen months, all right? It was a necessity back then, but kids don't always internalize necessity at eighteen months (some couldn't even walk by eighteen months). Sam did, though. He was like a genius at the toilet, actually, didn't need the Cheerios or anything. But eight hours after he went dark, Dean found out what it was like to clean up after your ten-year-old brother like an infant. And then it had to be all scheduled on the dot and Sam had to be walked to the bathroom and Dean had to take him into the stall, and yeah, you fucking pervert over there at the urinal in the rest area, I'm fucking watching you.

And Sam couldn't follow a verbal command for anything, but he seemed to at least be able to perform some actions on instinct. At least Dean didn't have to hold anything for him, Jesus, and he could sit there and do a number two on his own, thank God.

At a table he'd hold a spoon or a fork, but he couldn't go through the motions of even feeding himself. So, yes, here we go again. Flashbacks to a burbling kid haphazardly booster-seated in a cheap dinette chair with Dean's backpack and a length of rope to keep him up a little, keep him from pitching over, while Dean made faces at Sam spitting up half a mouthful onto his shirt. Wasn't like they could rent a high chair; the motels Dad picked were cheap and not exactly family-friendly, and Dean was barely out of booster seat himself. But Dean had been resourceful and careful even at going-on-six. He was careful because Dad wouldn't have accepted less. He was so careful. And isn't that why they were in this situation to begin with?

Fuck, Sam. Sammy.

What the hell was going on in there and why the hell weren't you coming out and fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck. Don't think. Shovel the damn mac and cheese. Get the kid fed because he's not gonna do it himself today. Maybe tomorrow, but not today.

Dean's hand on Sam's was steady. He was trying to teach his brother's arm how to eat again, get this motion to work. He thought maybe he was making some progress after four days, actually. Sam had taken two bites on his own but then just stopped, like a wind-up toy that had all wound down.

It wasn't working. Dean squeezed his eyes closed.

At least taking care of Sam's physical needs could keep Dean occupied. It kept him moving and thinking all over again about how to dress and bathe this totally unresponsive person-try to find out what Sam might be able to do on a kind of automatic pilot. It kept Dean focused on how to solve an immediate problem.

But then it was night and it was dark, and Dad was gone and it was just him and Sam. And Sam wasn't completely lost in a textbook or writing in a notebook, and there was a whole sound that had come with those things, somehow, and it wasn't there.

And then Dean had to look at his kid brother. Had to remember everything and think about Sam crying and his hand on that ladybug thing saying "I killed Amber." And three motel rooms in four days Dean had to look at the goddamn closet and wonder. They were 1267 miles from Sam crying inconsolably, but he might have been just standing there in that room facing the closet in Osseo wondering how and where and why the boogeyman was and how Dean had fucked up, and if he had fucked up, and was it really over?

Because Dad had said it was over that night in that first motel after Sam checked out, and Dean even thought he believed Dad when he said it, because Dean had gone out for five minutes to get soda and crackers from the vending machine and ice, and when he came back Dad was holding Sam in his lap. Just holding him, brushing the hair from his cheek. And he was saying, "It's over Sam. No sense in staying away. Come on back . It's over, I promise. It's over. I'm sorry. Come on back, son." His father's voice was soft, but a different quality of soft. Not a threat, not a command-because those were also soft-but genuinely gentle.

And Dean wanted to be sick because it was too much like Sam was gone forever. Dad's hands, his gentle voice...Dean hadn't even known it existed like that. Not for him, anyway. For mom, sometimes-though Dad didn't even talk about her, ever-and now for Sam.

That night, John hit the bottle harder than usual and three days later still hadn't crawled out of it.

So, yeah, maybe it was over, but Sam was still gone and Dad was nursing a drink or killing something somewhere else. And did it feel like Dad was running away? That the Impala was moving in a straight line to put as much distance between them and that place as possible? Or was it, like Dad said, just that they had to keep moving, keep doing what they do and Sam would come back in time.

Dinner was over. Bath time was over. Sam smelled like motel soap and he was still on the dinette chair like he was part of it. Dean's hand was halfway through his own hair as he stood in front of Sam and stared down at him.

"Sam, I know you're probably just fucking lost in that goddamn huge head of yours. See this? This is what happens when you take school seriously."

Hazel eyes gazed flat on someplace beyond Dean's kneecaps. On a whim, in desperation, Dean found Sam's bag at the bottom of the stuff they had carted in. There were a few used paperbacks in it, a couple of comic books. They were thumbed through a million times because books were heavy and Winchesters needed a crapload of space to store weapons, so Sammy always made due with what few books he could keep and reread them until their spines broke.

Dean picked one Sam had read to death, apparently: David Copperfield. Cool. A story about a magician. But when he flipped to the first page and started to read, his eyes glazed over.

"Jesus, Sam, this is what you've been reading? What the hell. It's barely English." He took a knee in front of his brother and waved the book in front of him. "Hey, you in there? You want me to read this to you? Seriously, I should be getting at least a fucking 'hello' right now for even suggesting it."

Sam stared away.

"Fine. Then guess what. No David Copperfield. You like Batman better anyway. Feel free to stop me anytime with a smartass comment." He reached down and took Sam's hand.

And there it was. Connection. Because even if Sam couldn't feed himself, he would hold on. No matter what was happening, he'd hold onto Dean's hand, and wasn't that just the fucking kicker of the year? It was like Dean's fucking reward for taking point, for somehow screwing with the boogeyman, for getting some little girl killed: Sam was holding his hand again.

Fuck.

There was no god in heaven, just some twisted creature that liked irony. And not even the nice kind. No fairy godmother for the Winchesters. No awesome, benevolent deity to take some kind of pity on him and his damn little brother whose biggest problem was just...loving the whole damn world. Nothing but all this hollowness and the false feeling of being wanted because a kid held his goddamn hand.

When Dean tugged, Sam stood up. When Dean walked, Sam followed. When Dean put him into the bed, Sam lay there like a board and gazed at the ceiling. And Dean felt actual relief getting into that bed, on the side closest to the closet because, what the hell. No chances. He slid his gun under the pillow, flopped onto his back, and then opened up the comic book. His arms raised it over his head and he kinda leaned it towards his brother so that at least he was staring at a page and not a ceiling.

"There's some suspenseful shit in this one, Sam. If it gets too scary, scream like a little girl."

Tell me to get out of the bed. That you can handle it.

"I'm serious. It can get intense. The Joker, y'know. Probably a lot more intense than David Snoringfield . You sure you can handle it?"

Come on. Push me out. I dare you. Tell me you're sick of me babying you. Tell me again how you're four years already and can sleep in your own damn bed.

Dean read the comic cover to cover. He made sound effects. He cackled like the Joker. He read all of Batman's dialogue in a quiet, serious voice that yeah, sounded like Dad's. And at the end, at the "to be continued," Dean blew air out of his mouth, wished Dad had left some whiskey in the room, and switched off the light.

Dean turned towards his brother.

"'Night, Sam."

Sam's eyes silently reflected light from the crease in a curtain. When Dean put his hand up and closed them, he shivered to the depths of his being.

"Oh, Mr. Winchester, you've been a naughty naughty boy."

"'Naughty' is my middle name, Mrs. Watson. What're you gonna do about that? Make me write the problem on the board again?"

Dean loved that line of cleavage beneath the tight white Oxford shirt When she leaned over his desk, he could almost alllmost see the top of the mountain in that tiny lacy black bra.

Damn, 8th grade math was so sexy.

Mrs. Watson had this little shocked mouth painted in red lipstick. Her blond hair was kinda all falling out of this bun on her head, and this skirt? Well. How short was this skirt? He reached a hand out and touched her knee.

Pretty damn short. Hallelujah.

"You're a hoodlum and a delinquent."

Like music.

"Yes, ma'am."

"And I'll be keeping you after school for a personal detention."

Dean took a deep breath and grinned all the way to his toes.

"Don't go easy on me, Mrs. Watson. D'you think maybe I could have some corporal punishment with that ruler too?"

"No."

"What? Hey, my dream..."

"No..."

Mrs. Watson was gone. Sam stared down at him blankly in her place

What the fuck?

"Sam? Did you just say-"

"No."

Dean woke with a start. He panted and all the heat and pressure in his 14-year-old wheelhouse quickly evaporated as he looked over at his brother's open eyes.

"Sam?"

He grabbed his shoulder and shook him. Dean swallowed his heart for seconds, minutes, hours. The silence in the room was complete.

"Fuck, Sammy. Jesus. What the-"

Was that just all a dream? It could have been because Sam's voice had been gone for days. He missed that voice!

Sam's lips moved. "No. I hate it. You're too cold. It's cold."

What the hell? What the hell! That wasn't something he dreamed.

"Sammy? Sam!" Dean shook his brother. He repeated his name over and over. "What the fuck are you saying?"

But Sam said nothing. Dean rooted around in that blank stare, climbed through it desperately, like trying to uncover a body he knew had been buried alive-time was precious, breath was ebbing away...

...But there was a cement bottom, and it entombed its secrets, and Sam was still gone.

His words, however, lingered to chill the air.

"You're too cold."

Dawn broke, and with it, the silence: The Impala's engine stopped in front of the room and Dean looked up, red-eyed from his vigil of a (sleeping?) Sam as John Winchester pushed the door open far too heavily.

"Dad!"

Dean jumped out of bed. Even without the quiet order, he was grabbing the Marine med kit and throwing it open while John tilted straight toward the bathroom. The scent of blood and sweat and whiskey was almost overpowering.

"What happened?" He grabbed a suture needle and thread and his lighter. Did there look like a lot of blood? Yes, but he'd seen worse and Dad was still a fucking tank even if he was drunk enough to put three guys under a table.

"Vampires. Thought it was one, two at max, but they did a hell of a job covering their tracks."

"How many?" Dean asked academically.

"Five."

Five? Jesus, Dad. Don't be too awesome or anything.

John sat on the covered toilet and bled obscenely from his shoulder into a mostly-pristine white towel-three deep, straight lines. No punctures. Thank God. Dad was the best hunter in the world, seriously. Dean thread the needle and crudely disinfected it with the flame of his lighter wishing he could have been there-wishing he could have helped.

"Did you get them all, then?"

"Think so. I'll make one more pass to be sure."

Dean nodded and then concentrated the fuck out of his suturing job. Dad was bleeding non-stop, and he was pale and he hadn't bothered shaving in five days, at least. When Dean pulled the thread through skin, John flipped out his wallet and placed a $20 on the sink with his uninjured arm.

"Take Sam across the street later and get what you want for 482 miles. Get me my usual."

"Yessir."

And then the bathroom was a blank canvas of silence that Dean wanted to carve into with his bowie knife-It was too flat and white and calm and empty...like his little brother. He had to bring it up even though Dad didn't like to repeat things he had already engraved in stone.

Dad was super touchy right now; killing an odd number of vamps beyond one wasn't a good thing because they tended to pair up pretty hard, and an odd number could mean stragglers. If something hadn't gone the way his father expected, then you better walk on a fucking eggshell and stow the other thing for...later.

And then Dad read his mind and said, "How's Sam?" and instead of feeling relieved, his oldest son tensed.

"What is it?"

Dean didn't tug too hard on the thread.

"Son?"

"Sam's the same, sir. But. He said something."

It was like a bucket overturned onto his father's head. Meaning, he sat up straight.

"What did he say?"

Dean told him. He told him every hollow word, as well as the fact that Sam hadn't moved in the three hours since.

John was silent as Dean finished up, tied off, and cut the thread with his knifepoint. He was silent as Dean cleaned up the blood and wrapped the wounds. It was only when Dean stood back that his father said:

"And?"

"Sir?"

"What else?"

Dean didn't make eye contact because eye contact was something for truths, and usually Dad was the keeper of them. But Dad's gaze was on on him and he couldn't move-there were still shards of broken glass all over the floor of this conversation, and Dean had to somehow get back to Sam in the other room.

So he said the one thing that was safe and true and couldn't be denied by his father or anyone or anything under heaven or in hell:

"I'm worried about Sam."

His father's hand lifted into the air and Dean braced himself-but it merely dropped onto his shoulder. It wasn't light and Dean flinched . He held his breath, but his father said nothing about that and he wondered how long until the other shoe dropped and Sam's gentle Dad of the first night turned into the Dad Dean knew when he was like this.

But his father merely said, "Makes two of us," and he exited the bathroom, clearing a path of tentative safety back to the bed for his eldest to follow.

John leaned over Sam with a penlight, checked his pupils. Sam lay there and didn't complain. Dean watched numbly nearby as the man incensed his brother's catatonic body with whiskey breath.

"Sam? Sammy?" Those shoulders were small under Dad's hands. The shake was probably rougher than he meant. Normally, they earned their bruises if they didn't respond immediately, but Sam couldn't defend himself and maybe Dad would accidentally forget that...

Dammit dammit. Get his attention. Just do it. Say it!

"Sir, you said...nothing could still...be after Sam."

There it was. The plunge into the shallow end filled with double-edged razor blades. He held his breath. But their father's hands came away from Sam and it was a relief because John was a fucking badass, greatest hunter ever, but he was drunk and not having a good night and Sam wasn't saying "yes, sir" and so...

"It's moved on. It got what it wanted." There was an exhausted sigh in his father's voice and Dean got out of the way when Dad wanted to be freed from Sam's circle of silence.

"What Sam said sounded like...a conversation," Dean nudged.

"Trauma. People say things. Might be in a dream state." He picked up the ice container and tossed it to Dean. "You're relieved for a few hours. Get ice, son."

And that was it.

"Yessir."

A few hours was more like fifteen minutes.

John was snoring deeply when Dean bent to tie Sam's shoes a couple hours later. Sam's nondescript shirt. Sam's nondescript pants. Brown hair a little mussed, but Dean swiped his fingers through it once and it was okay. It was passable for public. There was nothing weird about two brothers buying road food in a convenience store. Sammy looked too old to be hand-held, yeah, but it wasn't strange probably.

Dean's concern was warranted. Not quite two years ago, there had been an "incident" with the law and child services and thank god Sam had been too smart for his own good then. When Dean and John finally got him back, he was sitting in a PD office room with a child psychologist drinking a chocolate milkshake like he had planned his own fucking vacation. After that, John and Dean were a lot more careful about public appearances. Of course, part of the problem was that none of them knew, exactly, what was accepted as "normal" when they were three guys on the road who actively hunted monsters for a living.

On top of Dean's hyper awareness that somebody somewhere was going to be watching him was the problem that the $20 Dad gave him wasn't exactly enough for "the usuals," which meant Dean was going to padding his coat. That particular operation was a cakewalk when Sammy was on point, distracting the clerk with over-curious questions about prices for things, and how many of those came in a pack and he'd like two of those, please. Old lady clerks, young lady clerks, crotchety older clerks-they were all easy prey for Sam. Maybe it was the innocent-kid thing, or maybe he was just that charismatic. Whatever it was, his brother was a fast hand, but a sweeter talker.

Dean frowned at the $20 . He was down a man.

Shoving the money into his pocket, he tugged at Sam's hand and his brother stood up from the bed like a toy soldier coming to attention. It fucking hurt.

Dean looked over at their father, hoping he was sleeping himself sober, but completely aware that Dad's "usual" involved a bottle of Old Grand-dad. With Sam turned off and Dad keyed up, it was up to Dean to keep bailing.

He could do it. He would do it all day and all night.

The convenience store was only a couple blocks away. Twice Dean looked down at Sam, wondering how the fuck he could walk when he didn't seem to be watching anything. And then, wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, they happened to pass right in front of a small local comic book store.

The window front of a comic store was better than a fucking Christmas-lit mall-just wall to wall heroes in technicolor flying, leaping, flexing, smiting, grimacing, smiling and punching their way to justice.

"Holy shit."

Dean stopped and stared. He salivated. He put a hand on the window.

"Jesus, Sammy, look at it. Fucking beautiful. How many can I hide under your shirt? You need some new material, man. Look," he pointed, "Batman and Batman crossover, huh? Yeah? Wanna get some of tha-"

Dean's voice shut down mid stream as he caught a glimpse of Sam's face reflected in the glass. Trick of the light? Or...

"The fuck-"

He breathed.

Sam's eyes were shiny.

"I thought…I thought I saw eyes. An eye. It was…shiny, like hematite."

Dean grabbed Sam's shoulders and turned him to face him.

"Dad." Dean said it once. He said it loud and he didn't touch the man, and John Winchester was awake and sitting up from a full snore. Thank God. Thank God because fuck. He was shaking and yeah, eggshells and glass shards and whatever the fuck because he could live without his feet but not without Sam.

"Dean."

"Dad. Is it...is it possible. Just, please, sir...is it possible that the boogeyman or something is still hanging around?" He was not going to completely lose his shit in front of Dad. He was going to be calm. Tell him. "Is there any way to know for sure? Some hoo doo or something?"

John Winchester was slowly getting off the bed, and maybe he wasn't buying Dean's completely calm, rational act, and he had already addressed this twice and so there was probably a consequence here. Talk faster.

"Just now, Sam's eyes..."

John stopped.

"What about them?"

"Gunmetal shiny. Like hematite shiny."

Dad looked over at Sam standing completely still. Of course his eyes weren't doing the thing now because that would have been too simple.

"Sir, I swear."

John took a deep breath. "Dean, you need to pull yourself together, son."

"Dad." Dean raised his voice. He was throwing himself at a bear, but he was 14 and he couldn't drive legally and he didn't have Dad's contacts or know all the stuff Dad knew and Sam was gone and Dean could not do this on his own. Not yet. He clenched his fists.

"I'm askin', is it possible? Do you know everything about it? Because I fucking saw it. I looked right into Sammy's eyes and I saw it. I don't have an imagination that fucked up that I see monsters in my brother when I'm walking down a fucking street."

John's face went pale. It made Dean sick, but he felt his whole life had maybe lead to this point.

"You tell me it's completely not possible, I'll believe you, but if there is a chance..."

Silence. His father looked away. Dean expected a backhand, had been ready for it for the F-bombs alone. This reaction was somehow worse.

"If there is a chance," he went on, quieter. "Dad, if there's a chance, we gotta know. Please."

John walked around Dean and squatted in front of Sam. Maybe he was looking for what Dean saw. Maybe he could see something Dean didn't. Maybe he could see Mom there, in Sam's features. His father took a deep breath and brushed a big calloused thumb against Sam's cheek.

"Dad, can we get information? Can we do something?" Dean swallowed.

John wrapped his arms around Sam and gingerly picked him up. His brother immediately rested his head on Dad's shoulder like it was the most natural fucking thing in the world to do.

"I've got a few things I can check. Grab the bags."

Dean felt his heart start. He wasn't sure when it had stopped.

"What about the vamp nest? You were gonna do one last sweep."

"In the opposite direction from a library I need. When Sam is back on his feet again, we'll come back."

Screw you, Batman. Dad is a fucking hero. He's the only hero we need.

Dean nodded and turned to get their things. For the first time in days he felt some shred of hope.

"Son?"

"Yes, sir?" He turned around.

John nodded quietly at him over Sam's shoulder. "You may have made the right call."

Dean couldn't say "thank you" because he was holding back a flood of bitch tears. He nodded. It was hot, this feeling in his stomach. It was a chaotic mix of emotions and it fueled him as he hastily packed their things.

When the Impala was roaring down the highway and the music was turned up and Dad was watching the road, Dean put his arm around Sam's neck and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"Sammy, Dad's gonna get you out, okay? You just hang on in there and wait for us." He swallowed and continued grimly. "And if by chance there is some fucking boogeyman tuning in, listen up, because you're gonna lose, you son of a bitch. Do you hear me? I don't fucking care how sneaky you think you are-you're gonna fucking lose to the Winchesters, I swear to God."

April 7, 2007

Dean 28

Sam 23

It turned out that the trip to Philadelphia and Eastern State Penitentiary created an unforeseen little side job. Sam pointed out the tail on the turnpike and Dean swore under his breath.

A slight detour into Harrisburg drew a rust-colored Ford Escort that had been following them for about two and a half hours from Greensburg.

Four hours later, Dean smirked and shook his canteen of holy water. Fucking demon. Fucking demon stalker. Admittedly, that was a little unexpected, but Dean wasn't complaining. Eastern State was important by his brother's estimation, but it was likely not connected to the bigger picture. The hot little number who followed them into the empty warehouse was a lot more promising to the whole Yellow Eyes thing by Dean's standards, and all it took was a devil trap on the ceiling.

They never looked up. Seriously. It was a condition of being a demon, apparently. Dean might have spared some moment of sheepishness for not taking Sam's paranoia seriously just before they met with Amber's mom, but it was frankly overshadowed by a sick kind of glee.

Time for some answers.

"Man, you are one dumb bitch. How'd you end up pulling the short stick? Last in your class at demon school? Maybe a dropout?"

"Fuck you."

"An Escort? Seriously? Not exactly 'hell on wheels.'"

"Says the guy who drives a black Impala that can be tailed four miles away."

She tilted her head and blond curls fell forward. Red-painted lips smiled up at him dripping with seduction, despite the fact that her pretty ass was tied to a wooden chair and she was still smoking from her first dose of holy water.

Damn, yeah. He just loved breaking these low-level smart-ass bastards.

Dean grinned. "You think we're hiding from you black-eyed bitches?" Dean raised his arms and turned, encompassing the wide open space. "Welcome to our Q and A session. Sammy, tell the lady what's she's won."

But Sam was all business.

"Why are you following us?" he demanded and, yes, that Game Face was definitely improving. He had the height, he had the means, and he had the motive. No "good cop/bad cop" for these things anymore. Nope. Just All Bad Cop all the time.

"There's no law against keeping tabs on a guy, is there? Just making sure that an investment can live to get his chance at the Big Time, that's all. You've got me pegged all wrong, Sam."

The demon bitch kicked off her black heel and tried to sweet talk his brother, tried to snake a foot up his leg.

Sam stepped back and narrowed his eyes. "So, you do work for him. For Yellow Eyes."

She pouted up at him. "You know, if you spend all your time asking questions you already know the answer to, we'll get bored."

"Oh, man, we can't let that happen, can we Sammy?" Dean smiled broadly and hit his brother in the chest with the back of the canteen. "I mean, we need to show the lady a good time." He shook the bottle at her and the demon screamed shortly. "So, are we having fun yet?"

When he turned to his little brother the glee evaporated.

Sam's jaw was set. His expression was like the first hour after Jess died: Cold, empty, ready to take something apart with clinical efficiency, but so lost.

Dean turned to their captive. When he tilted his head down to look at her, all of the levity of the situation was gone.

"What's this 'big time' you're talkin' about? What is Yellow Eye's plan? Let's hear all about that. I've got buckets and buckets of this stuff and it just sits around in my car."

"It doesn't matter. We can have a wet T-shirt contest if you want, but I can't spoil the big finale. And it's above my pay grade anyway. My job is to keep precious Sammy baby all alive and well until the final act because he's 'daddy's favorite.'" She tipped her head. "We're on the same side, 'big brother.' Surprised?"

Dean streaked her with holy water and let her scream that out. Angry welts rose to mar that pretty face she had stolen from some other poor girl.

"Lady, you may be a lot of things, but you're not on my side. The only one on my side is me, and I'm territorial. And I can manage without a demon's help, thank you very much."

Sam shifted his weight on his feet and a muscle moved in his jaw.

"Unnnng." She lifted her face to Dean and then to Sam, clearly in pain. "Oh really? You don't know how many 'wanted' lists he's on now. It's hard work Bringing Up Baby, and you're just letting him out of the playpen whenever he makes a cute face. Admit it."

Dean's jaw twitched. "He is an adorable little tadpole, isn't he?"

"Adorable, tasty, whatever works for you. Keep digging up the past and he'll find what he's looking for. You sure you want that, 'big brother?"

Sam's expression broke. He met Dean's eyes as if he'd just been caught at something, dammit, and then his fists clenched. "I've heard enough." he said, pulling a sheet of paper from his back pocket. The exorcism ritual.

"Really? Really? You want to send me off now? I know what's after Sam. You're clueless, 'Big Brother.' Hello, best interests?" She tossed off the bravado and fairly pleaded her case directly at Dean who was squeezing the holy water in indecision.

"Wait, Sam."

Sam gestured to her. "Don't listen to her, Dean. She's clearly trying to manipulate you. Anything from this point is just a diversion, a bargain-she's not gonna tell us anything about Yellow Eyes, and that's the only reason she's still here." Sam opened the paper and began to read. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-"

"I said, wait, Sam." Dean's voice was harsh in his own ears. It was out of character for his brother to be so willing to lose this chip, and that was what was worrying about this.

Amber's mom had just exposed the possible psychic link with the boogeyman, and Yellow Eyes was connected with psychic kids. If Sam didn't want Dean to see how two and two equaled four, then there was going to be a problem.

He ignored the look on Sam's face and got back to it.

"Now, what the hell are you talkin' about? And better make it quick because we're on a short fuse and a tight schedule of our own."

"You mean like tracking down the 'boogeyman?' Like that tight schedule?"

Sam closed the paper, clenched his jaw, and took a step closer. "What do you know about that?"

Velvet red victory smile. Man, Dean wanted to punch this bitch.

"On the menu next to 'filet mignon' is a picture of your cute little face, Sam. That's what I know. You're like fine French cuisine to that freaky monster."

"Why?"

"Why? You know why. You practically project 'come eat me! I've been raised on nothing but fine grain and beer and my muscles have been massaged since birth' to anything supernatural with a taste for the human psyche. Because it's true-you've been fed the good stuff, Sam."

"Okay, whoa. What the hell are you talkin' about?" Dean felt something ominous on the horizon, and like the sun, he didn't want to look this full in the face either.

"Oh, Sam'll find out about that soon enough, I promise. Do you think you deserve a front-row seat, Dean-O? Please. Only special babies get the special treatment. You're nothing but Plan A to keep little brother alive until his big debut, and you're failing."

There was no way. No way he was failing. Failing meant Sammy died or worse. Failing meant watching his brother disappear into a freaky, shiny-eyed void. Failing meant that he couldn't stop whatever had started-that thing Dad had worried about. Failing meant having to go down that road...

"When the time comes, you'll know it's too late, and then the only way to save him is to kill him. To kill Sammy. Remember that, son."

Her jaw cracking felt kind of good. Solid. Punchable and vulnerable. And he was going to kill this cow...

"Dean."

Dean ignored Sam. He picked up the first bucket and overturned the entire thing over her head. The whole fucking thing.

"Dean!"

The demon's hoarse screams reached the rafters. They reverberated off the walls. Dean was calm as he waited, patiently. Yeah, he was patient. He could do this all fucking day. Maybe he was done talking. Maybe now it was just time for the hurting.

Yeah. He could live with that.

"So, Yellow Eyes isn't working with the boogeyman thing at all." It was a statement, and Sam was speaking fast because he probably sensed talky-time was over.

She was having a hard time responding. Her cheeks were two sizes too big now, and all puffy and red and man it probably hurt just to take a breath. Sucked to be her.

"Not...not working together, you idiot. But boy, I wish they were because you're so eager to jump into that thing's lap. Aren't you...aren't you listening to what I'm saying? Before you can be a big fish you have to be a really tasty little fish. And tasty little fish like you are so hard to keep alive in the big bad ocean of everything you blind humans don't know. And your fucking father brought you right to him. To the boogeyman, you'd be worth bumping to the top of the list. All of you tasty little fish. The boogeyman eats clever little proteges like you, sweet, delicious Sam. Sad face for my boss. "

Sam's color turned to sidewalk cement.

"Your brother gets a gold star for saving you once, but he won't get the medal until after your birthday. Just gotta make it to one more, Sam. Just one more."

Just one more...

Fuck, Sammy.

Sam picked up the thread. "How...how do I kill it?"

"What?"

She wasn't very pretty anymore, and her stupid "what" face was going to require another bucket of holy water, Dean just knew it.

"The...the boogeyman," Sam was insistent. "How do I kill it?"

The demon shook her head like he was crazy.

"How the fuck should I know? It's the boogeyman, retard. It's been preying on humanity for as long as humanity has been crawling. Primordial evil with mind powers. You let it get inside your head once, Sammy, that's all it took. You're like a Dick and Jane primer to it now. Don't you remember having tea and crumpets with it for two weeks when you were 'out of bounds' to the rest of the world?"

Dean froze.

Shit. Shit, I fucking knew it!

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam look at him.

They were both so totally compromised now. Sam's eyebrows were drawn together and the desperation for answers leaked through his voice.

"How do you know about that? What do you know about it?"

"What does it matter? Ancient history, but you better let it go if you want to live in the here and now. Stay the fuck out of it. Leave it alone."

"I thought...I thought it only went after psychic children," Sam pushed.

"I don't have a Ph.D in boogeyman psychology. I'm not narrating a monster documentary, here. All I know is what I was told. That it wants you, Sam, and that if you go looking for it, it might find you. Stay out of Osseo, Sam Winchester. It's the difference between being at the top of the food chain or at the bottom."

She had nothing but ominous warnings. In ten more minutes it was clear she was the gruntiest grunt at the bottom of the totem pole with nothing useful to give except, obviously, a boogeyman warning from a fucking Yellow Eyed demon.

Dean wasn't satisfied until he had overturned every bucket. Sam read the exorcism as fast as he could, but there was no getting around the pain. For any of them. And when her stupid demon ass liquefied into noxious smoke and was banished back to hell to give a nice, tidy little report, Dean threw the bucket at a nearby wall.

"Dean." Sam's hand was on his shoulder. "It's over."

Dean laughed. God, man, that was funny.

"Oh, it ain't over, Sammy. It's just begun."

He didn't have to preach to the choir; he could see his brother was pretty unnerved.

"We need to get some...some talismans or something to shake these demons off our trail." Sam's face was a mess of emotion, but there was a conviction rising behind it.

And why is that, Sammy? Because you're going to keep digging no matter what they say? No matter what I say?

"I say let them all come. If every demon is dead, then that's one problem down."

"Yeah, except for the fact that, without the Colt, we haven't had much success figuring out how to actually kill a demon."

"Or a boogeyman, Sam. Or that."

Sam swallowed. He saw it distinctly. Maybe the bitch had been lying about everything, but time rewound in Dean's mind and he remembered a little brother in a bed in the dark staring at the ceiling saying, "No. I hate it. You're too cold. It's cold."

Fuck, Sammy. Two weeks in his head with the boogeyman, if that was true, and then Sam came back, but he had come back changed...

Dean felt cold. Sam hadn't remembered anything about those two weeks. Nothing. As far as he knew, he still didn't.

As far as he knew.

"Sam, you were ten...two weeks, Sam."

"She didn't have to be telling the truth about anything."

Dean grabbed the front of his coat, "You said you didn't remember anything."

"I didn't! I don't." Sam retorted, pulling himself free. "Dean, I swear."

Earnest voice, yeah. Dean put a hand over his mouth, the other on his hip. He turned around because Sam shouldn't see him thinking about tying him down in the Impala and waiting this whole fucking thing out.

"One more birthday..."

Fuck. Fuck!

"Dean, this...this paranoia is just what they want. Let's get to Philadelphia, do some good," Sam pleaded.

You're birthday is in less than one fucking month, Sammy.

"Ash has his feelers out for the demon signs, Dean. Bobby is looking too."

Dean wheeled back to him. "And you're still on the boogeyman trail, right?"

"We're getting nowhere staying here." His little brother looked over at the unconscious young lady in the chair. "Let's get her out of here and drop her off at a hospital."

"Yeah, nothing to say to that, I see." Dean stalked away to get the car and his mood was murderous.

(To be continued...)

p.s. These are cannon vampires, but technically, in cannon, they aren't introduced until near the end of season 1. Go with it, please, and trust me.