Summary: John Winchester has left a breadcrumb trail for Sam leading to the boogeyman, and Dean is not happy about it. He copes with alcohol. Lots and lots of it. And picking a fight.

Author's note: Aren't you spoiled, getting two huge chapters in two days? And this one is the one that brings it all around. A lot to share and care, but it's necessary, I promise. And the angst? It's here.

Thanks so much to the peeps who ALREADY reviewed chapter 13. You people are like kittens that I just want to hug and cuddle and kiss the noses of. YOU CAN REVIEW AGAIN! :'D

And if you haven't, you should go read Agelade's AU Season 9, "Lustra" already in progress because I said so. It's good. And if you review and tell her to hurry up and finish ch 3 of episode 5, she might even do that for you.

-Caladrius

Chapter 14: "Battery"

April 12, 2007

Sam - 23

Dean - 28

The three men stood over the table in Bobby's study where Sam had neatly laid out an assortment of papers of various ages, sketches, and notes in John Winchester's hand. It was their father's collection on the boogeyman, and it was all right here, seeing the light of day for the first time in over ten years. When Dean touched the carefully cut out journal pages it was like putting his hand through a time machine to reach the man, that man, who still haunted Dean in the things he said, in the music he listened to, in the leather jacket he wore, in the car he drove.

In the orders he gave before he died.

"Dean?"

Sam had the audacity to look worried about him. Right. Game face time.

He cleared his throat. "So. What am I lookin' at? Did Dad figure out the boogeyman thing? I mean, why else hole all of this up until now?"

"Yeah," Sam began, opening a couple of Bobby's books to certain pages and laying out several recent computer printouts and handwritten notes obviously from his own investigation. "He figured that out and more. And frankly, most of it is still just...just some major working theories, but he didn't stop investigating the boogeyman after May 2nd 1993 when it..." Sam's jaw worked for a second before he his explanation took a different route. "He kept researching things for almost two years afterward, but he never planned to be the one to end it. He closed the box on July 28, 1995, and the bank said that no one's touched it since."

Dean put his hand on the table and considered it.

"What're you tryin' to say, Sam? That Dad didn't think he'd live long enough to catch up with it again? That he knew he would..."

When it came to their father, it was hard to keep level. All the things he was supposed to do. The things he should have never done.

"No, not necessarily. I mean, I don't know exactly what he was thinking," Sam said quickly, "but at the very least he was passing this on to me, Dean. Me specifically."

There was that helpless urge to punch their father again.

"Look, Sam, I'm not buyin' anything until I know what's going on, so start talking or I'll take it all into my room and wipe my ass with it." Because, dammit, Sam, you were nine! You don't have to do this!

Apparently his brother took the threat seriously. He scratched his face and was too fucking calm.

"Okay." He took a deep breath, "So, I'm not even sure how to start."

"What the hell is the boogeyman, huh? Did he figure that out?"

Sam appeared grateful for the question. "Yes. Well, no. Kind of."

"Jesus."

"Okay, look, it's not something we have ever fought before. It's not in any of the usual books and, frankly, I'm not sure there's anything that we can relate to it. Basically, Dad called it a kind of 'planes walker.'"

"Planes? Of course, planes. I friggin' hate planes."

"What? No. Not that kind of plane. See, and this is where it gets complicated because it involves...supernatural physics." Sam thought a second and then shook his head back and forth a little, "But really, if you want to be technical, it's a re-imagining of quantum physics and string theory which is an actual thing you could study in college."

"Well, give me the cheat sheet version, because something about 'supernatural' and 'physics' in the same sentence doesn't seem right."

Sam raised his eyebrows and nodded in agreement. "No argument there, but that's the best way to describe it." He picked up a piece of paper and pointed to it. "Okay. Imagine that everything around you in this world that is here and solid exists with us on this plane. This...dimension. So, us, the car, this house, the table...everything that you can touch and that has mass exists with us. Following me?"

Dean shrugged his shoulders and nodded. "Okay?"

"Okay, but some of the things we deal with-like ghosts-they're made up of a spirit. A...a soul, maybe, if that's all true. Spirits don't have substance, and unless certain conditions are met, they can't actually be touched. Right?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Right?"

"Well, according to Dad's theory, that's because when we die, our body stays here in this plane, the material plane, and our soul slips into another plane entirely where we, I don't know, wait for a reaper to come usher us to the last plane we'll inhabit forever. That's why when a person dies, we don't see their spirit or the reaper, or anything else. We just see the body that was left behind."

"But we do see ghosts, Sam. So, how does the theory account for that?" Dean wasn't fully on board with this planes idea, but he had hitched a ride on the bumper and he wasn't going to let Sam slow down or stop now.

"Ghosts are the exception. I mean, people don't appear as ghosts because they just want to watch another sunset. They've bent themselves towards something unfulfilled-they weren't ready to make the leap over to the other side. Ghosts are ghosts because they've exerted their will to hold onto an attachment in the material plane, and because that spirit lived in that body for its whole life, there's a pretty understandable connection. Dad called it 'an anchor point.'"

Dean stared at the table. This was some heavy stuff for Dad to just...never mention before. Or since.

"So, ghosts come back to the...'material plane' to do their white blanket moaning and wailing shtick until we destroy the anchor points?"

"Yes and no." Sam actually seemed proud of him for keeping up. Man, someone needed to settle down and remember who had been hunting longer. It wasn't like Dean had been born yesterday. And even if Dad never told Dean about theories and supernatural physics, Dean knew how to do his damn job.

"Enlighten me."

"The ghosts are technically still locked in whatever plane they're in after they've left here, but their plane and ours brush up against each other at infinite points. You can't really think of the 'ghost plane' as an actual place because if you did, you'd have to think of it as...somewhere else. But it actually exists with us, around us, like, a molecule away from us. It's just...shifted slightly."

Sam must have noticed his brother's blank face. His eyes lit up with an idea. "It's like white light. You see the light, you think nothing of the light. It's just...light, right? But when you put a prism in front of it, it splits into its wavelengths and you can actually see the different colors. The colors were all right there, we just can't perceive them normally-we need something to interfere with it, to interrupt it, to see it. It's the same thing with the plane ghosts exist on. Our eyes are designed to see the material plane, but that doesn't mean spirits don't actually exist in a plane beyond our sight."

"So..."

"So, anchor points have a strong connection with the spirit. An anchor point can be the thing that interrupts, that allows them to manipulate the material plane. The stronger the willpower of the spirit and the anchor, the more a ghost can affect the material plane."

"Holy shit," Dean said with wonder, "It's like that friggin' Ghost movie, with that Dirty Dancing guy," he snapped his fingers. "Patrick Swayze."

Sam blinked.

"You've seen Dirty Dancing?"

Dean looked at him with disbelief.

"Dude, Jennifer Grey is smokin' hot in that movie."

His brother raised his eyebrows in that way and then shook his head.

"Okaaay. But, yeah. Patrick Swayze's character learned how to focus his connection to the..."

"Oh man, the penny scene..."

"What?"

"When he moves the penny under the door and Molly's like..."

Dean stopped.

Bobby, who had been quietly picking up papers, reading them, and listening to Sam's explanation finally intervened.

"I'll get you the tissues so you can blow your nose and dry your tears and can it so we can get through this. I love you like a son, Dean, but let the boy finish."

Dean cleared his throat again. "So burning the body removes the anchor point and the ghost can't do squat here anymore. I get that. And salt? Why does that do anything?"

It was Sam's turn to shake his head. "Dad thinks that the orderly stacked and particularly tight molecular composition of salt crystals is more material plane than a spirit can handle, and it disrupts a ghost's...disruption. Salt has been used as a purifying agent for years in dozens of cultures. Its applications have been around for a lot longer than science, but then again, so have most of the books on Bobby's shelves we use almost everyday to hunt. I mean, think of what we've learned from Dad about the supernatural without scientific journals." Sam pointed at the table. "This was...this was breakthrough stuff, Dean. Dad was..."

Dean sighed. "Obsessed?"

"A genius."

Dean balked. Ugh no. Do not want to hear, not after everything. Not when Sam was only more hell-bent on finishing this thing that Dad didn't-wouldn't- finish himself. And, wow, there were so many things that he hadn't finished, like Yellow Eyes, for example, like taking care of him and Sam. Like being an actual father and not threatening his youngest kid's life even after death. Why did Sam need this so badly? Wasn't being saved from the boogeyman once enough?

Sam was still talking and Dean had to concentrate to come back to it.

"...It's frigid around a ghost because once they get a foothold through an anchor point, they need energy to manifest, and the vacuum of the heat lost in the process makes the 'cold spots.' And EMF detectors actually pick up the electromagnetic distortion caused by the two planes colliding. It's all here, Dean. Everything fits."

Sam's voice was worshipful. Dean wanted to choke. A few days ago Sam had tearfully, drunkenly, believed their father had brought him to a known monster feeding ground to dispose of the responsibility of having to deal with his son's demon-drenched "destiny" in the future. And now he was making an altar to the guy. It was all Dean could do to not sweep up everything into his arms and burn it all.

"And the boogeyman then. He lives on that ghost plane? Is that the connection? He can go back and forth and...drag kids back to snack on?"

"Exactly. Except that according to Dad, it doesn't exist on the usual ghost plane. Since the victims' bodies weren't found, whatever plane the boogeyman took them into can hold both physical and spiritual components, and that's not the same place we think of a usual haunting coming from. It's pretty much right here in Dad's journal pages."

Found the journal pages. Happy now, Sam? Happy?

"Hold up." Dean could feel himself getting pissed off. "So, what, there's another plane bumping up against ours? And this monster lives on that one with bodies and ghosts and maybe a few purple trees and a bubblegum sky? What the hell, Sammy, this is getting ridiculous."

Sam shifted his weight. "Why? Why is it actually so hard to believe that if there is one plane like this there aren't more? It's the physics of the thing, Dean-"

"That's just it, Sam. Physics is science, it's not ghosts. We don't gaze into microscopes and play with petri dishes, and if you ask me, this is all a load of crap. All this planes talk is crap. You're either here or you're gone. That's it. End of story."

Dean was breathing hard.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, Dean, in that case, explain to me where hell is."

Sam tilted his head while Dean tried to process the question.

"Where is hell? It's a simple question. Is it underground? Is it, I don't know, in Detroit? Where is it, Dean, because it has to exist. We know it exists. We see what comes out of it."

The elder Winchester's gut knotted and he slammed his hands onto the table top.

"Why the hell are you bringin' this up? Is the boogeyman a demon?" He could barely get the words out. His chest felt ready to explode or cave in.

"Answer my question first."

"No, you answer mine first, Sammy!" He swept several papers onto the floor. Fuck all of this...the boogeyman, demons, hell. Hell.

Sam sighed.

"No. It's not."

Dean found he had been holding his breath and he exhaled. "Then why bring that up? Why?"

"Because hell is a plane too, Dean. Just like any of them. It's a plane with weak points and anchor points. Think about it. Summoning a demon is just a ritual that uses components to create an anchor point for a demon, but then that demon has to possess a body so it can manipulate the material plane. And if hell can exist like that, then why can't other situations exist like that? Dean, science and the supernatural don't have to exist exclusively, you know. It's true, there are a lot of things we still have to just...take an ancient culture's word for, but all of this helped Dad figure out what we're dealing with here."

Dean calmed a bit. Because Sam said "we," not "I." We.

"Okay, let's say I start to buy this. Where does it get us with killing it?"

Sam's eyebrows drew together.

"Don't you want to know what the boogeyman has to do with ghosts and psychics?"

"Not really, no. I'd rather get to the killing part now if it's all the same to you." Dean nodded his head impatiently at Sam's expression. "No offense, but this ain't Reading Rainbow here, Sammy. I'm not gonna feel a sudden sense of accomplishment and delight thinking that monster can lurk a molecule away from me, all right? Get to the killing."

"Speak for yourself," Bobby intervened. He had finished collecting the papers Dean had knocked down and was picking up what looked to Dean like random pages from the table to scrutinize. Bobby had his own brand of "Hunter on the scent of knowledge" energy, and was in his own way a lot harder than Sam to shut down. Mostly because Bobby once pulled a shotgun on their father, and Dean hadn't forgotten that the older man was probably not someone to mess with.

"Bobby, come on, man."

"Dean, this is a lot of work here, and who knows what we might need in the future. If there's more than one of these bastard boogeyman creatures out there, then we have to add it all to the books sooner rather than later so we can start to recognize the signs. When you call me up for answers on the Way Weird, where do you think I get 'em? It ain't the Magic 8 Ball, that's for sure-it's from intel like this."

Goddamit, Bobby, you don't know what's at stake here!

Sam looked between Bobby and Dean and then said, "I'm glad to hear that, Bobby, because Dad kept referencing a book I've never seen and that I haven't been able to find here or anywhere. His notes said you had it. The Librum Terram?"

It was Bobby's turn to blink.

"The 'Book of the Earth'? That thing?" And then his eyes opened and he nodded. "Yeah. Your Dad swung by a few times for that one. Asked to borrow it. Would spend all night with it in the panic room and then leave without explanation."

Sam laughed at that. It was an almost laugh. "Did he do that a lot?"

"So much so that it wasn't something you'd count as unusual. But the Librum Terram is an unusual book. I'll be back."

Bobby left the room and Sam took a deep breath. He turned to Dean, all calm and academic and like he expected that everyone else in the room should just feel the same. But his eyebrows said he knew Dean was pissed.

"Dean, what is it?"

"Whatever do you mean, Sammy?" Dean's jaw locked in a forced smile about to go south.

"This," Sam indicated all of Dean from head to toe. "Why're you still so mad? This is progress. I mean, I know it might be hard to swallow right away, but this stuff here, it's what we've been looking for."

"No, it's what you've been looking for," Dean pointed at his chest. His brother looked down in dismay. "You want this thing, Sam. I'm tellin' you, it's not gonna come after you because you're all grown up as everyone keeps telling me. It's done with you, it's over. It's moved on. Unless you're tryin' to make it come back to you."

Sam shook his head flabbergasted. "Are we seriously gonna have this argument again? We've gone through this a hundred times."

"Well, maybe I gotta bring it up one more time."

"Dean, you have no idea..."

"Why do I need to have an idea? If you would just stay out of it, Sammy, just let it go, we could get on with our lives on the material plane."

Sam finally bridled. "Oh, this from the guy who's so good at letting go."

Dean's blood pressure hurt the soft spots in his skull.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sam was about to respond when Bobby slammed a large and obviously ancient text on the table in front of them, startling them both.

"The Librum Terram as requested. The author was as close to a lunatic as you can get without being the Mad Arab, but there's just enough our kind of crazy that it's worth having around."

Dean squinted at the older man.

"Mad Arab?"

"Supposedly he wrote the Necronomicon," Sam supplied.

Bobby thumbed back the way he had come. "Lovecraft said he made it up, but the original is downstairs if you ever feel a need for some heavy reading. I don't suggest it."

Dean had no idea what they were talking about.

In the meantime, Sam studied the cover of the book. The style looked like a few other texts Dean had seen once or twice in this library, but as they were all written in Latin, he hadn't done much more than appreciate the colored pages of illumination before he passed it off to Sam or Bobby in search of pictures that were more his style (usually in the magazines he brought back from the gas station).

But someone was clearly turned on.

"Oh my God, Bobby. How'd you get this?" Sam breathed.

"Long story. It's one of a kind, all right. Was secretly written in the middle ages by a monk named Brother Luciano who had, among other problems, some pretty interesting dreams."

Dean didn't like the connotation of that word.

"Interesting like how? Like sitting on a toilet in the middle of Fenway Park interesting?"

Sam made a sound in the back of his throat. Bobby just stared at him.

"No, ya idjit. Like being a damn cosmic antenna and picking up the laments of people in hell and the sighs of the saved in heaven."

Sam's face went blank. "What did you just say?"

But Dean got it. "That girl. That boogeyman victim..." He snapped his finger.

"Emily," Sam supplied softly.

"That's it. Didn't you say that she-"

"Could hear the screams of the damned. Dean, this is the guy Dad's notes say first wrote about ghost physics and planes walkers..." Sam searched the table and then came up with a page covered in scrawl which he scanned. "Here it is. 'Brother Luciano hypothesized that physical movement between two planes was possible under the right conditions and between the right planes.' Dad went on to say that Luciano was always trying to reach the voices he could hear in heaven and hell, but believed those planes could not support a physical body."

"Hey, no offense, but don't schizophrenics also hear messed up voices? I mean, this guy sounds like a total nut job to begin with." Dean flipped the pages. "He could have been a decent cartoonist, though."

He could feel the Sam scowl.

Suck it, Sammy.

Sam cleared his throat. "He also accurately predicted the fire that claimed the lives of sixteen fellow monks in 893, and a flood that took out their south wall and drowned three monks in 896."

Dean stopped leafing through the book. "Lucky?"

"Dean, he wasn't lucky, he was psychic. According to Dad, he was the psychic, and he chronicled his hunts in this book."

"He was a hunter?" Now Sam had his attention.

Bobby nodded. "If you believe this stuff is real, he's one of the first to keep track of his exploits. Unfortunately, if ya read the book, he wasn't right about the monsters he chased fifty percent of the time. Probably caused a lot of harm in the process, but he was definitely tilted from the things going on in his head and what he could and couldn't discuss in his monastery or risk gettin' toasted alive himself."

Dean shook his head and squinted his eyes, "Bobby, if you've had this book all this time, how come we never got a heads up about all of this stuff before?"

Bobby took a deep breath, "Look, in case you haven't noticed, this ain't the Library of Congress. Credible isn't a word we can use most of the time with any resource we got. Plenty of people who write about monsters are half the time as crazy as you say. And they rarely give any footnotes to boot. Research in this world is more art than card catalog, if you catch my meaning. John Winchester was a right bastard in some ways, but he could do this. And so can Sam, apparently. This was just a lot of mad rambling before your daddy and Sam put it all together with this boogeyman stuff."

Sam blinked, looked taken aback by the compliment. Well, bravo for you, Sammy. More and more like Dad everyday...

Bobby went on. "Brother Luciano tried to categorize other people like him. He called them Receptores Divina, the Divine Receivers, people who were blessed with the ability to access knowledge about, and subsequently potentially affect, other planes."

Dean balked. "Let me get this straight. This guy thought he was blessed?"

Sam was visibly stung. "Look, Dean, I'll cut through it all. Brother Luciano's theory was that the more psychic a person was, the better their chance to contact and manipulate planes other than the material plane. So, remember how ghosts can bump up against the material plane from wherever they are given the right anchor and motivation?"

"Yeah, Sam, I can remember back five minutes..."

Sam's energy jumped five notches as he apparently tried to drum the importance into his skull. "Luciano thought that psychics could learn to feel that same bump from the material plan to others and even if they couldn't travel to it, they could tap into it, move things, just like the damn penny in Ghost. In fact, he claimed to be able to put a ghost to rest just with his damn mind."

Dean sighed hotly. "Okay. Fine. So what does it have to do with the boogeyman?"

Sam picked up another paper. "Well, for one thing, that particular monster doesn't have the market cornered on trying to create humans with psychic talents."

"Let me guess. Demons do too, right? But why, Sam?"

"That's what Dad was researching when he stumbled across the boogeyman. Or...the references to it. He was trying to backwards engineer what Yellow Eyes was doing, what his plan was."

"Awesome. What does he write about that?"

Sam's face fell. "Nothing."

"What?"

"Nothing, Dean. He...in all of this stuff, he avoided any mention of it. It's strictly boogeyman business." It was hard to be mad at the kid when he looked like that, his eyes still searching papers as if the missing information was close, somewhere. Here.

"Of course. Bobby, did Dad ever leave any suspicious envelopes for me?" Not that he believed it, but...

Bobby shook his head. "Sorry. No more magic keys."

Sam gently opened the Librum Terram to a page referenced on a sheet of notebook paper. "Brother Luciano investigated a noble family in Rome who kept...losing children. Every seven years. It was actually easy to track because the family had been living in mostly the same location for eight generations. Luciano had already been cataloging the names of people in the family who were Receptores Divina like him when he fell onto a pattern. The kids taken were family, servant, or visitor, no discrimination. And they didn't have the exact same birthday, but they were all born in the same month."

Bobby's face went slack. "The Giovanni incident. Holy crap...that? That thing? That's been chronicled in two other books, but I never made the connection..."

"You two seriously oughtta get a room, you know that?" Dean huffed. "So, Luciano encountered the first reported boogeyman?"

"Yeah, he described it as..." Sam stopped at a page and began doing that magical thing he did where he read something in Latin and it turned into English. "'A creature neither demonic nor angelic who fed upon the intense vapors of black bile in a child.'"

"Seriously? I need a translator for the translator." Dean looked at the ceiling.

Sam reached for the explanation. "Medieval theory of humors. Short story is that a person with a lot of 'black bile' were miserable, light sleepers prone to many fears."

"Oh, well, I'm starting to see the connection with you."

"Funny."

"You think I'm joking?" Dean waved his hand, "so, God, are we gettin' to the end here? Did Brother Luciano gank this thing or what?"

Sam nodded. "He thinks so, anyway. It took him 21 years to do it, and it's not certain whether it actually worked, but the book doesn't report anymore deaths in that household again."

"Not exactly proof. So, let's get to the million dollar question, already. How do you kill it?"

Sam took a deep breath.

"The boogeyman steps onto our plane, it's vulnerable to actions we would take to kill anything else on this plane."

Dean blinked.

"Seriously? Like. Just. Shoot it in the head?"

Holy crap. All those years ago...

"Well, maybe," Sam began. "I mean, a shot to the head would kill a human and a few other baddies, but we actually don't have any information on what, exactly, is a kill shot for this thing."

"So?"

"So, gotta burn it. Or something pretty extreme."

"Awesome."

"Okay, but it's not that easy because apparently the boogeyman has some kind of connection with the human mind. It can create your worst nightmare if it gets close enough. In fact, since it feeds on 'black bile,' chances are that stirring up a person's fear is its ultimate weapon. And since it goes after psychic kids who already have a lot going on up there, chances are it's pretty effective."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "So, that fits the one piece of lore consistent through all the tales of the boogeyman, that it feeds off of a kid's fear."

"Exactly."

Jesus, Dad. How much of this did you already know when you put that gun in Sam's hand?

Dean made an exaggerated motion of rolling his eyes and throwing his arms into the air. "So, you couldn't just skip all the ghost physics and get to this in the first place?"

Sam stared at Dean, his jaw slack.

"What?"

"Because, Dean, we're dealing with something that's been out of every hunter's league for, like, ever. I mean, literally. No one but this Brother Luciano guy has tried to fight it, and there are all kinds of holes in his narrative. Dad didn't want us to go in empty-handed, but even he could only get so far." Sam was getting worked up. His voice had a certain kind of quality when he got like this-kinda deeper. He had a big set of lungs and Dean knew when Sam was just shy of yelling, trying to hold it in.

"This isn't a werewolf or a vampire or a shapeshifter, okay? This thing has creepy mind powers and the ability to just walk right off the earth, man. Are you serious about staying safe on this job or do you wanna risk being a victim? We have to know the enemy, Dean."

Oh yeah, Sam. Throw a few more of Dad's lines out while you're at it. But Sam was saying a lot of we and not me. He said you and not me. That was a line Dean would encourage if Sam was going to keep this up-was going to insist on it.

"Okay, okay. Whatever. Fine. Okay, so. To kill it, it has to be on our...plane, and then you gotta burn it or nuke it before it can zap a crazy into your head? Is that it? Like a shootout at high noon?"

Sam let out a heavy breath. He took one in.

"Yeah, something like that."

"And this...Brother Luciano guy. He did this and it worked?"

Pause.

"Dean, I told you, I'm doing this."

Dean's eyes narrowed. Red lights in his head began to beam warnings. "Answer the question, Sam."

"That's what the book indicates, yes." Sam was emphatic.

"And you're sure that whatever he did actually killed the thing?" Dean pushed.

Suddenly Sam stopped making eye contact.

"What? What aren't you telling me?" But Dean was really good at jumping to conclusions. "Wait. Did Luciano even live after that?"

Bobby and Sam exchanged a less-than happy glance and Dean turned away, throwing his hands into the air. "Oh, come on, guys..."

"He was at least 62." Sam supplied quickly. "Pretty decent lifespan considering the time period."

"Time period nothing," Bobby interjected. "No one knows what happened to him. His best friend, Father Antonio, ended the book by saying he was just...gone."

Dean became silent after that.

Sam and Bobby conversed and debated over why the boogeyman chose Osseo, Wisconsin and May second. They theorized about the actual nature of the place the creature came from. They looked at papers and leaned over the table and pointed at things and made notations.

It required a drink.

It wasn't hard to find a bottle of whiskey in this place and Dean took up space on a chair, propped his feet on the table ledge. He listened and filled a glass.

Filled it up over and over and no one noticed and no one cared. Sammy looked like he was putting together a science fair project. A serious fucking science fair project, but Sammy always took projects seriously.

And it should have been a relief that Sam was so good at this stuff, that he was Mr. Attention-To-Detail, except what he was planning was exactly what he said he was planning: to try to take on a thing no reputable hunter really knew about and that had already been in his head for two weeks when he was a kid. Making him scream for Dean and talk about dying. And Sam swore he couldn't remember anything about that time, but that just meant that as prepared as Sam would be to fight this thing, he'd never be all the way prepared.

And it pissed Dean off.

And it scared the shit out of him.

When Sam cleaned up their father's stuff, slapped Dean's feet in a brotherly "hey, good talk" kind of way and retreated back to his room to do whatever, Dean numbly watched him go.

It required a bottle.

Make that two bottles.

By the time Dean stumbled to Sam's door an hour later, he was fully loaded for a battle of his own. This wasn't the way to cope, no, but Dean didn't know a better one at the moment with nothing he could do to stop all this, and the alcohol in the house had at least been plentiful.

And the first thing he was pissed about was this separate room crap. Never mind the fact that Bobby had plenty of rooms. Since when did they need separate bedrooms? Unless Sam was fucking hiding something. Unless he was.

Dean's boot hit the door. Accurately. It cracked and swung open. His little brother looked up sharply from his bed, hunched over a tri-folded piece of paper clutched in both hands like a life preserver.

Sam's expression went from adrenaline charged to that priceless little bitchy "what the hell are you doing?" look in about two seconds flat. He quickly refolded the paper and shoved it into his pocket.

Nope. Nothing to hide here.

"How much have you had?"

"Not enough, Sammy, not enough." He flapped his hands to the side. "Mind if I come in? You know, since you needed to have your own room."

God Sammy, aren't you all out of sad little sighs by now?

Sam stood up and Dean had to refocus. Jesus, Sam was a tall SOB.

"Dean, man. Are you mad about that? I just thought, take advantage of the opportunity. You know? A chance to spread out?"

"Like how you spread out and took a hike to California for four years?" Dean retorted.

Sam stopped in his tracks and his expression did a 180 from concerned to annoyed.

Making progress there, Sammy.

"If you're coming here to argue, then no thanks. I know what happens when we argue and you're drunk."

"Oh? What happens, Sam?"

"You break things and we get into a brawl," Sam answered as calmly as he could. "Dean, just go to bed. We can talk in the morning about it."

Dean made a face and shook his head. "Maybe I wanna break things and get into a brawl, huh? Maybe that's the point. Come on, when was the last time we had a good brawl? Why not one last one for old time's sake, huh?" Why was his vision this blurry. He ran his hand over them, to clear them, and his fingers came away wet. What the hell, had he missed his mouth when he tossed that last shot back?

Something stopped Sam, though. Dean didn't like that pitying look. Didn't like it at all. Definitely a step backward.

"Dean, I'm not going to do this to die."

"Oh, really? That's funny. You know, I tell you that the last thing Dad says to me before he buys me back with his soul is that I may have to kill you, and then he goes and gives you the 'treasure' map with X marks the spot on top of the fucking monster that almost killed you once." Dean's shoulders slumped. Why did he have to break things down into itty bitty pieces for that great big brain Sam had? "You go off and do this and there's no guarantee that you're comin' back."

Sam half smiled, and that pitying look again? Yeah, that needed to stop.

"He's not trying to kill me. Dad knew...knew that I wanted to do this. He knew it was something only I could do, and, look, he found other things besides Brother Luciano's stuff. He thought I could beat this thing, Dean." Sam's adorable little "I'm a big boy" face was too damn much.

"Yeah? He did when you were nine too. And look how well things turned out then."

Sam's expression let his brother know he had taken the first jab beneath the belt. Hey, reality was a bitch, but reality was reality.

"I'm not that kid anymore."

"I know, and you know what? That sucks." Dean nodded his head at Sam's narrowed eyes. "It sucks, Sammy, because you used to be a good kid. You used to do what you were told, stay out of things if I said 'stay out,' but then you started askin' questions..."

"Dean, are you mad at me because I grew up? Listen to yourself..."

"I'm mad because I saved you once, I took that all on, and I told you to blame me, to get past it, but fourteen years later you want to ride out into the sunset in your Big Boy pants and risk everything when you don't have to. I'm mad about that."

Sam took a deep breath and hazarded a step closer like Dean was some skittish chipmunk that might or might not want a little treat. So when his brother tried to put his hand on his shoulder, Dean pushed it off. With venom.

"Dean, you want me to blame you, but I can't and I won't. The truth is that I had a chance to stop it and I gave it up, and someone died because of it. I wanted to pass off the responsibility, and I know now that was wrong. I did too much of that. I did too much leaning on you."

That hurt. It hurt so bad and Dean didn't know why, but he wanted Sam to take the first swing. He was going to make him this time.

"Dammit, it wasn't wrong. You were nine-years-old!"

"But someone died. Someone died, Dean. And...and I think I can maybe save her."

There was a beat as Dean tried to process this new revelation. What the hell now? Save her? That girl from fourteen years ago? He had to be kidding. Had to be. But no, Sam was serious. Look at that face-the cuddly Serious-Sammy face, the hopeful serious one. Was this the bright idea had helped this stupid kid sleep at night even though, oh right, that girl's ghost was haunting him?

Dean's heart pounded. His fists clenched reflexively.

"I don't get it. Is that...is that supposed to be a point on your side of the argument or mine, Sammy, because it sounds even more ridiculous now." Every ounce of bitter sarcasm was riding in that.

Sam shook his head and turned away, and yeah, he was getting actually angry. Good.

"You know what? Forget it. I don't know what I'm doing trying to reason with you right now. I shouldn't have said anything about it at all."

"Why? Gonna start hiding stuff now? Is that the solution? Sam, that bitch has been working you over inside for fourteen years, whether she was in your closet or not. You carry around that stupid thing and all it does is drag on your soul. I should've burned it a long time ago. You knew her for two days, Sam!"

Sam took a deep breath and his eyes were alight. "It doesn't matter! You heard her mother. She believed in me. She believed in me, and I let her die. And now I have a chance to go stop it, stop this creature from causing anymore kids to almost die, to maybe free her from that other place. I have a chance to actually set it right, to follow through the way I didn't. It's not just a chance, either. This is it, and I am the only one who can do it because I'm the one that can draw it out."

Dean smacked his forehead. "Are you the dumbest kid brother on the planet? Did you hear any of your three-hour masters lecture in that room?" He pointed vaguely towards the library. Maybe. Or the kitchen. Whatever. "The boogeyman uses ghosts to almost kill people. It can do all of that fancy planes walking and bumping and interrupting and using the souls of its victims to make more victims. Your own words. That bitch is gonna get you killed, Sam."

Sam made a fist. He made two fists. That's right, little brother, the truth hurts, doesn't it?

"What about the others, Dean? If no one stops this, then more kids will die. More kids may end up like Emily, hearing the 'screams of the damned.' How...how could I possibly find a way to make myself okay with leaving them to die or worse? Think of all the children it's taken. In a few weeks another boy or girl is gonna be exactly where I was fourteen years ago-tired, terrified...and maybe there's no one to save them. Maybe, like Amber, they just disappear and leave that gaping hole for another mother? What if it had taken me, Dean?"

Nope. No. Not gonna think about it, care about them, fall into this hippy compassion loving-the-world-of-strangers crap. Not right now. Not when I drank so hard to not think about what I would've done if you had never come back. Suck it, Sammy.

"Those kids are long gone, Sam. I'm not throwing a party over it, but that's facts." Dean stepped into his brother's space, his voice low. Condescending. "This boogeyman son of a bitch is an NFL quarterback and you're still in the hometown touch-tag little league team with orange slices at half time. You couldn't take the shot then, and you can't take the shot now."

Crack.

Dean's head spun toward the wall. It didn't hurt enough, that punch, but it was a start. When he got his bearings and looked back at his brother, Sam's hair was in his face. His eyes had started to leak. His fist was still half in the air, still clenched, and Sam looked at it like it was a traitor, like it had moved on its own without any help from him. He shook his head and, damn, he looked like a sorry SOB.

"Why couldn't you, for once, back me up on something instead of pulling me away from things. Always pulling me away, making you take the burden, making you take the responsibility. You hold me out to show me something, how to be better, and before I can even prove to you that I can do it, you throw me back into the corner."

Tears streaked his cheeks. He was a crybaby. A bitch. He was such a mess. Such a suicidal little mess. And the hell was all of this crap?

Dean grabbed Sam's shirtfront. It was easy, really easy, because it looked like the fight had just gone right out of him. Was that good or bad? Would he just be an obedient kid now?

"You don't get a friggin' Honorable Mention trophy for fighting out of your weight class, Sam. You get dead. Is that your plan?"

Sam shook his head morosely and clamped onto his brother's wrist, hard. "You don't get it. I'm not just doing this for me or Amber. I'm doing this for you. For Dad. For all of us. When I beat it, when I prove that I have changed, that I can take the shot, then I won't become...that thing. I'll take another path. And you have to face the fact that Dad knew something we didn't, and that if you don't let me do this, you're gonna have to shoot me someday. You are gonna have kill me, Dean, because you promised!"

The red exploded behind Dean's eyes. Sam's face felt solid. His stomach felt soft.

And then the pain started and the fists flew. There were some headshots and gut shots, and ugh, yeah, that familiar feeling of having the wind knocked out as he slammed back into a bookshelf. It was a panicky feeling, but Dean wasn't panicking because he couldn't breathe-nope, that wasn't the problem at all. And he grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair and bounced their foreheads together. That had a strange ringing sound, and then it was a blurr and Sam had definitely gotten a bit better at the brawl part of this, maybe. Good for you, Sammy. Use that height to your advantage. It'll keep you alive someday if you didn't kill yourself with crazy crusades first. Stay alive, little brother.

And then everything was black and still.

Dean opened his eyes and sat up. Oh yeah. Bad move. Head. Head hurting. Jaw hurting.

"What time is it?"

"Tomorrow."

"What?" His eyes were drawn to the broken door as Bobby walked into the room with a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol. Dean glanced around, Sam's borrowed bed, and it was a wreck-a knock down, drag out...

What the hell happened in here?

And then he remembered.

"Sam? Sammy!" He pushed the wave of nausea down and willed his cranium not to explode as he got to his feet.

"Don't bother."

"What? Why?"

"Sam left last night after your old school WWF Monday Night Raw bout." Bobby made a noise that sounded like a mixture of dismay, disappointment, and sadness. "Do something intelligent for once. Take the pills and get yourself together."

Dean obeyed part one, but the Tylenol wasn't even down his throat before he was saying, "Gotta find him. He could be 600 miles from here by now." Dean grabbed his cell phone to call the phone company. "Let me borrow your computer."

"I said, don't bother."

"What?"

Bobby sighed and pointed at the desk where five cell phones, every single one Sam had, were neatly arranged on the desk.

"Son of a bitch," he breathed. Suddenly his head wasn't the only thing hurting. "Sammy!" He had to yell it.

Think. Would he be making a beeline for Osseo now? No. That's where he'd be in three weeks but not now. Maybe the Roadhouse? But that was an easy bet and he would be thinking whatever Dean was thinking and pointedly not do that just to be a bitch. And once upon a time Sam was possessed by a demon and ran off and Dean couldn't find him for weeks then either.

"Did he take my car?" He turned toward Bobby who was inspecting his beaten door frame.

"Still the same, you boys. Nothin' has changed in ten years except the amount of my stuff you can bust up."

"Bobby!...Forget it." Dean tried to push his way past the door, but a steady and wiry arm stopped him.

"Sam called in about five hours ago, Dean. He's comin' back eventually. Told me to lock up the liquor and keep you here."

Dean shook his head, keeping the panic at bay with some difficulty. "Sam's not comin' back. He's on this 'mission from God,' and he's gunning it alone and this scenario can only end in a smoking crater."

"And whose fault is that?" Bobby's voice was hard, but he dropped his hand. "Which one of you threw the first punch?"

Dean inhaled.

Sharp pain, left temple. Jaw bruised. And Sammy's face all covered with tears, shrouded with disbelief, with sorrow. With shame.

He let the breath out.

"I did."

Bobby peered at him seriously, made a face and then shook his head once. "I'm willin' to wait out 24 hours on Sam. He said he needed some time alone to cool his head and you needed to dry out. In the meantime, I've got wood and nails and a hammer and hangover or not, you're gonna put my room together. The work will do you good, give you something to do, and keep you from staring at my phone all damn day."

Bobby clapped a reassuring and comforting hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Sam will come back, son. Ain't nothin' you can do to figure things out until he does, so let it go."

The desk with the phones so carefully arranged from largest to smallest caught his eye again. He used to pick on his brother for that, for the OCD. Now Dean found he was starting to make bargains with that God whose name he always took in vain-the God whom he figured was just some nice character in a Sammy fantasy world.

I swear I'll never give him shit about it again if you just send him home...

"...With pie..." Sam handed Dean the bag. "And..."

"Porn?" Dean pulled the newest issue of Busty Asian Beauties from the bag.

"Um...yeah." Sam looked tired as hell, but he was actually here. He was in one piece. He was looking sad but hopeful. His hands were in his pockets, and his gaze went from Dean's boots to his face.

Searching for something to prove the fight was over.

As big brothers went, Dean knew he was an ass-Sam had a black eye, a cut lip. Dean had pushed Sam into that fight and here he was with pie and porn like it was fucking Christmas.

Dean put his hand on Sam's face, just to examine that shiner. That was all. Sam didn't flinch. He sighed. His shoulders visibly relaxed.

Dean tried to make sure his own face in no way expressed how fucking relieved he was. The scowl he projected at his prodigal brother was customary, a standard fallback. But Dean knew this last disappearance was on him. Yes, Sam was an idiot and the real root of the issue-Sam's unwavering persistence to fight the boogeyman-hadn't changed, but Dean knew better if his goal had been to keep Sam around. He had known better, once, before the desperation had really gotten a hold of him. This wouldn't be resolved between them, just managed. Managed until May 3. And then, it would be over.

Whatever happened, in a little less than three weeks, it would be over.

"Bobby, about the room. I'm sorry." Sam pursed his lips and looked at Bobby contritely.

"Cleared out and cleaned up. You know the rules-first punch, cleanup. 'Haymaker' over here can hang a door as well as clean a carburetor."

Sam's face was all confused. Jesus, so obvious. Dean cleared his throat to distract their mentor away. "Yeah, doors are easy. Door frames are a bitch. Where'd you go?"

Sam took a calm breath, tilted his head in a small nod, "Just drove...to the University."

"The University of Sioux Falls?" Dean blinked.

His brother shrugged slightly.

"Dude, that's like, eight minutes from here..." his voice trailed off in amazement.

"Fifteen minutes when I drive," Sam responded sullenly.

Dean's mouth was open. "You were fifteen minutes away...for 32 hours? You left every phone!"

"I called..."

"Dude, what in the hell?"

Sam started to say something and then shrugged again. Afraid of another fight, Dean could see it. "Uh...they had a cafe? With WiFi?"

Seriously?

"I may yet punch you," Dean mumbled, pointed a warning index finger at his brother, but it sounded more like, "I'm glad you're here." He turned around to go find a goddamn fork to eat this goddamn pie from a goddamn brother who was gonna pay for this, oh yeah. As soon as he was done with the pie he was gonna bend the door hinge he just fixed so it squeaked. Would drive Sam crazy...

"Dean," Sam's hand on his arm paused him. "Hey..."

Dean stopped. It took him a second to face his brother, but when he did, they both knew what was coming next.

"Just promise you won't go back to Osseo on your own, Sammy. Swear it."

Sam licked his bottom lip, found something on the wall with his gaze, and then turned back. "I swear I won't go back on my own."

"Good. I'm gonna eat this pie and drink a beer, and then you're gonna get to the actual killing of this thing. No more fascinating background and crazy monks, okay? I want whatever actual strategy we're pinning your life on. Got it?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. It's time for that talk."

Dean's eyebrows twitched with a dark memory.

"It's time, Sam."

Dad...

It was coming full circle.

(to be continued...OMG BACK TO THE NOWWWWWW are you EXCITED!?)