Much as Dean would like to go roaring straight up to Meg Masters's house, he decides it's safer to park at the end of the street and walk the rest of the way. The entire street is quiet but for the rustling of dry leaves in the wind. The house, when he gets there, is similarly silent. Dean is far from reassured, however. Sam is probably inside with Meg, but that doesn't mean he's safe. Anything could be hiding out here, waiting for a chance to pounce.

Ducking quickly around the side of the house, Dean draws the Colt from his waistband and bypasses a small gate into the backyard. It's all perfectly trimmed and neat. Satisfied that nothing is amiss, Dean turns his attention to the ground floor windows. He prowls slowly around the perimeter of the house, peering carefully into each window, trying to catch a glimpse of Sam. If he isn't in there, if Dean was wrong about where he was headed or if he already missed him….

Thankfully, Dean never has to imagine what he would do in that scenario, since he hears muffled voices at the next window he passes, and when he peers in he can see Sam sitting in an armchair across from a blonde woman, who must be Meg Masters. They appear to be deep in conversation.

Dean frowns and raises himself slightly on his toes to get a better look. He can't see Meg's face, but he can see Sam's. He looks tense, unsettled; his jaw is clenched and he's fiddling nervously with the end of his tie. But he's also staring at Meg with the sort of rapt fascination with which Dean has seen him read John's journal, or a new book of lore. Normally Dean finds this look endearing, if a little exasperating, but not now. Now, Dean finds himself clenching both hands around the handle of the Colt in an effort to prevent himself from reaching out and tapping on the window in order to catch Sam's attention, to make him look away from Meg.

Something about the scene in the window, though, tells Dean he should maintain his cover for as long as possible. He ducks quickly back out of sight and hurries back around to the front of the house, where he tries the door, not really surprised to find it locked. If his years in the hunting life have taught him anything, though, it's to never be without a set of lockpicks. He has the door swinging silently open in a matter of minutes, and follows the sound of voices to the room where Sam and Meg are sitting, pausing just outside the door.

"So, what are you doing chasing ghost stories in a town like this, Sam?" Meg is saying. Dean can see her face now, and he doesn't like the way her lips curl as she watches Sam.

"Oh, I'm on the road with my brother," says Sam. "He's the one who wanted to come here."

"Well, maybe you should stay," says Meg, leaning forward, staring at Sam with a look Dean can only describe as hungry. "You could probably get work through the community college."

Sam heaves a sigh. "We'll probably be leaving in a few days. Knowing my brother, headed to another backwater town." He pauses, then gives an apologetic chuckle. "No offense."

"None taken," says Meg. "I'd love to get out of here, myself." She raises her eyebrows, clearly inviting more questions. Dean could not be less interested, but Sam takes the bait, and he stays still to listen. There's something off about this chick, and he wants to find out what.

"Oh yeah?" Sam is saying. "Where do you want to go?"

"Wyoming," says Meg, her eyes never leaving Sam. She smiles, but her eyes remain hungry and watchful. "Hey, maybe you should come, too."

"To Wyoming?" Sam laughs. "What's in Wyoming?"

"Well," says Meg, her smile widening. "I'll be there."

Dean can't see Sam's expression, but he can tell from his voice that he's smiling his dimpled smile back at her.

"Maybe my brother and I will swing by sometime," he says. Dean suppresses a snort. That's certainly not very likely. In fact, Dean thinks he will be quite happy if they never go to Wyoming.

Dean's hands tighten again on the Colt's handle as Meg stands up and walks over to perch on the arm of Sam's chair.

"Who cares about your brother?" she asks softly. "Let him go his own way, and you go yours. Come with me."

Sam draws in a breath to answer, but Dean has heard enough. There's only one reason that Meg could be trying so hard to lure Sam away, and he doesn't think it has to do with his dimples. He charges into the room, Colt at the ready. He wishes he had salt rounds for it; he has a full cylinder of bullets, and one of his knives is pure silver, but none of that will do much good against Meg if she is what he thinks she is. The only real weapon he has against her kind right now is the Latin exorcism Bobby showed him and Sam back in Sioux Falls, and even that won't do much good unless he can keep her trapped while he recites it.

"Christo!" he shouts as she jumps to her feet to face him, and she falls back onto the couch with a cry.

Sam twists around in his chair to look at Dean, but before he can do more than give a startled "oh!" of recognition, Meg is back on her feet, her eyes suddenly gleaming solid black.

"Christo," Dean says again, but she's ready for it this time, and it doesn't knock her backward. Sam stands up slowly, drawing his own gun. Dean keeps the Colt trained on her.

The demon laughs, her voice sounding much harsher than it did a moment before. "That gun's just a collector's piece without the bullets."

"Oh, I've got plenty of bullets for you, sweetheart," says Dean, giving her his most arrogant grin, though he's horribly aware that she's right-without salt rounds, the Colt is basically useless. It makes him feel better to have it in his hand, but firing it will hurt the human host more than the demon.

To his surprise, a disconcerted look flashes across Meg's face before she smiles again. "No. You don't have the bullets. We took them from your dear old Dad months ago."

Dean takes an abrupt step forward so that he's standing directly in front of Meg, and presses the barrel of the gun to her forehead.

"Did you kill our dad?" he growls. He has no idea what she means about the bullets, but he knows exactly what she means about John. And suddenly, Dean doesn't care about hurting the demon's meat suit. He doesn't even care about whether or not the gun can hurt Meg. He just wants to empty every last bullet into her brain, and then stick all his knives in too for good measure. He reaches back to cock the gun.

"Did you kill our mom, too, bitch?" he asks through clenched teeth.

Meg laughs again, though it's a bit higher-pitched this time. "Well, not personally. Evisceration's not really my style," she says. Her features twist in a grin that makes Dean shiver despite the hot rage smoldering in his stomach. "Your aunt and uncle, though. Them I did myself." Her gaze shifts to Sam where he's standing behind Dean. "Saw some really cute pictures of you, Sam. I see you lost that amulet, though. Too bad. It looked good on you."

"What the hell do you want?" comes Sam's strangled voice.

"I want you," says Meg, and a wave of fear smothers the rage in Dean's stomach. He takes one of his hands off the Colt to wrap it around Meg's throat, as if he can physically contain the secret she's about to spill if he just squeezes hard enough.

"Shut up," he hisses, pressing the barrel of the gun into her head so hard that it leaves a red indent on the skin. But she wheezes out the words despite his efforts.

"Big plans for you, Sammy-boy." She bares her teeth, halfway between a snarl and a grin. "We've been looking for you a long time." Dean digs his fingers mercilessly into her throat, but she keeps speaking in a horrible, gasping rasp. "I thought we'd have you as soon as my poltergeist destroyed the amulet for us, but that brother of yours kept you far off the radar, didn't he?"

"What?" breathes Sam.

"Exorcizamus te!" Dean shouts, desperate. "Omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas—"

Before he can complete the exorcism, Meg shifts in his grasp. There's a sharp trail of pain along his left side, and he lurches back instinctively. Then Meg throws back her head, and black smoke erupts from her mouth with a deafening, unearthly howl, rushing up to the ceiling and vanishing. Empty of the demon, the body of Meg Masters collapses to the floor and lies motionless.

A hand grasps Dean's shoulder, pulling him around, and he yelps slightly as the pain in his side flares. Sam crouches down to examine the wound, gently drawing Dean's t-shirt up and out of the way. "She had a knife in her sleeve," he says, voice shaking. "It's shallow, though. Just a scratch." He lets out a breath and peers up at Dean. "You okay?"

Dean's heart constricts painfully as he looks back down at Sam. He looks so young from this angle, gazing up at Dean, just the way he used to look before he grew so tall, when he was nine and Dean was thirteen, and their mother had just been killed. Killed by demons. Demons who had plans for Sam. Plans that Sam just found out about….

Rather than answer the inevitable question, Dean jerks away to check on Meg, disarming the Colt and tucking back into his waistband. "Woulda been a lot better if I didn't have to come rescue your ass," he snaps. "What the hell did you think you were doing, Sam?"

"I was working the case, Dean," Sam says, straightening up slowly, as though bearing a great weight. "I thought I could—"

"Yeah, well, clearly you thought wrong," says Dean irritably, kneeling down beside Meg's limp form. He doesn't really want to check her throat for a pulse—there are dark bruises already rising on her neck from where he strangled her—but he does it anyway, and is relieved to find one. She'll probably live. "I mean," Dean continues, "you didn't even think to check whether she was human before you just walked into her house? When we already know there's some sort of freak running around this town?"

Sam starts to retort, but Dean cuts him off by standing up and pulling out his phone to call an ambulance, glad for the excuse not to continue the conversation. There's brief respite while they lurk in the backyard, waiting for the EMTs to leave so they can go back inside and look through Meg's research, but judging by the look on Sam's face, Dean is certain it won't last. Sure enough, as soon as they reenter the living room, Sam resumes speaking as though there's been no interruption.

"I didn't have to check whether she was human," he tells Dean quietly. "I knew she was a demon as soon as I saw her. I could see her eyes."

At this, Dean, who's been trying to busy himself with shuffling the papers Meg has spread out on the coffee table, whirls around to glare at Sam. He's standing next to the armchair, his head lowered, staring at the floor.

"You knew she was a demon and you just walked into her house anyway?" Dean demands. He sees Sam wince a bit at the harshness of his tone, but he doesn't care; he's too preoccupied with horrified imaginings of what might have happened had he been a few minutes later getting to the house. "You've gotta be kidding me. I thought you had to be smart to get into Stanford."

"Yeah," says Sam coldly. "Smart enough to know that you've been hiding this from me since the start." He raises his head abruptly, meeting Dean's gaze with narrowed eyes. "Haven't you?"

The question might be inevitable, but Dean intends to avoid the answer as long as possible. "But apparently not smart enough to know that you can't take on a demon with a law degree and some weird psychic powers," he retorts instead.

"Don't try to change the subject," Sam snaps. "And stop treating me like an idiot. It was all right for you to come charging in here with even less than that."

"That's different," mutters Dean, though he finds that it's now his turn to stare at the floor.

"Oh really? Why's that?" asks Sam, folding his arms and raising his eyebrows. "Because the demons are after me, not you?"

"Sam…."

"Tell me!" Sam shouts.

Dean sinks down into the armchair, suddenly exhausted. "All right, yes," he sighs.

He doesn't feel any better for having finally admitted to the secret. He doesn't really feel worse, either. He just feels tired.

Sam paces a few steps away, then turns back. "Why the hell didn't you say anything?"

It's a question Dean has been asking himself for months, and the answer he's been telling himself all that time spills immediately from his mouth. "I was trying to keep you safe."

"Really?" says Sam incredulously. "That's it? The same old excuse, just like Cheryl and Tommy and Dad?"

Dean rests his elbows on his knees, buries his face in his hands. Maybe Sam is right, and it is an excuse, but as far as Dean is concerned it's a damn good one. Before he can even begin to articulate this, though, Sam speaks again.

"Come on. Let's hear it," he says. His tone is suddenly different; no longer angry, more resigned. "You didn't trust me, or something? Didn't think I could handle it?"

"Don't be stup—" Dean breaks off, swallows, tries again. "That's not it," he says carefully.

"What, then?" Sam asks, and Dean doesn't have to be looking at him to know that his eyes are wide now with that sad puppy look.

He licks his lips, hesitating. "I thought," he whispers finally, "if you knew...you might freak out and leave." He chances a look at Sam, sees that he had not been wrong about the puppy look, and rushes on, stumbling over his words in his haste to justify himself. "I couldn't risk that, Dad told me to watch out for you, so I had to make sure you stayed."

For a moment, there's complete silence in the room. Then Dean hears Sam the faint rustle of Sam moving to settle slowly onto the other couch. After a few more moments of silence, Dean grits his teeth and raises his head to look at his brother.

"Dad told you?" he asks softly.

Dean feels his hand move as though a puppeteer is manipulating it with a string. He reaches into his jacket and withdraws the torn-out page from John's journal, creased and frayed now from being folded in his pocket for so many months. He hands the paper to Sam, who takes it with a frown. Dean wants to hide his face in his hands again, but he forces himself to watch Sam read John's last message. He can't see the words on the page, but he knows them as well as if his father's neat block capitals are inked directly on his brain.

DEAN,
ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, FIND SAM.
WATCH OUT FOR YOUR BROTHER.
NOTHING'S MORE IMPORTANT.

IT'S COMING FOR HIM.

When Dean first decided to join his father in the hunting life, John made him undergo a military-style training regimen to prepare him for the physical demands of the job. Dean ran miles, did drills for hours, lifted weights until his muscles were limp and rubbery—but he thinks sitting here, keeping quiet while Sam stares expressionlessly down at that little piece of paper, is the hardest test of endurance he's ever been subjected to.

After what seems like hours, Sam thrusts the paper back at Dean and stands up, his cell phone in his hand.

"Where are you going?" Dean asks, startled.

"I'm going to call Jess," Sam says.

Dean closes his eyes.

Then Sam continues, "I'm going to tell her it's over."

Dean's eyes fly open again, and he watches Sam stride out the door, kind of hating the feeling of relief flooding through him.

*S*P*N*

Sam looks pretty grim when he comes back into the living room. Dean isn't surprised; he can't imagine the conversation with Jessica could have been an easy one, for either person involved. He wants to say something, but he seems to have the equivalent of the Hoover Dam in his throat preventing him from speaking, so he just swallows and scoops up an armful of the papers from the coffee table. Then they sneak out of the house through the back, trying to look casual as they make their way down the street to the Impala for the short trip back to their room at the inn.

Dean flips the radio on during the car ride, but somehow the silence still hangs heavy between them. Dean longs to break it, but the blockage in his throat refuses to budge.

They don't talk when they get to the room, either, but immediately immerse themselves in Meg's papers, looking for some clue as to whatever has been killing people in Burkitsville. Or at least, Sam immerses himself. Dean has trouble concentrating; the cut in his side, though already closed, is aching dully. He keeps finding himself staring abstractedly at Sam, wondering what he's thinking about—besides monsters, that is. The third time Dean catches himself doing this, he gives himself a mental shake and returns his eyes firmly to the page before him; but inevitably, a few minutes later, he's back to watching Sam. He supposes it's a good thing that Sam is so busy avoiding his gaze, he hasn't noticed the staring.

It's verging on evening by the time an article about how all of the disappearances have taken place in the orchard, combined with another article about the first tree planted in the orchard by Burkitsville's first settlers, confirms Dean's suspicion that they're dealing with a pagan god. Then they don't have time to talk, as they're rushing to get to the orchard and burn the tree before sundown, when the god awakens.

To Dean's relief, Sam is the one who finally breaks the silence, as they stand in the darkening orchard watching the first tree burn.

"I told her it was for her own good," he says, his voice hoarse. "I said I was protecting her."

Dean takes a deep breath. "It was," he says firmly. "You are."

Sam shakes his head. "I'm not sure it was really for anyone's good."

"Sam, believe me, if the demons hadn't been out to get you, I would have stayed far away from Palo Alto," says Dean. "I'd have left you alone, I'd have let you become a yuppie lawyer with an SUV and a four bedroom house in the suburbs and no clue that monsters were real."

Sam glances at him with an expression he can't read, his eyes glistening in the firelight, as though with unshed tears. "But you'd have kept hunting," he says, sounding almost angry again. "You'd have gone right on killing monsters with Dad, and not talking to me."

"Damn straight," growls Dean. "But I wouldn't have dragged you into this life, no matter how much…." He trails off, not sure how to finish the sentence, and stares into the flames until the light starts to hurt his eyes. Then the clog in his throat finally seems to come loose, and the thing he's been struggling to say all afternoon flows out. "But since you are here, though...I'm glad you stayed."

He can feel Sam shift beside him, turning to look at him, but he keeps his eyes on the fire, hoping its heat excuses the flush rising in his cheeks. Just as Sam takes a breath to speak, though, the shrill ring of a cell phone cuts the air—for once coming from Dean's pocket, rather than Sam's.

"Hey Bobby," Dean answers it, after a quick glance at the caller ID.

His voice comes out gruffer than usual, and the first thing Bobby says is, "Not interrupting anything, am I?"

"No, we're fine," Dean mutters, his face burning hotter than ever. He clears his throat. "What's goin' on?" he asks, fumbling to put the phone on speaker so that Sam can hear too.

"Just checkin' to see if you boys had started on that case Sam found in Mississippi," says Bobby.

Dean shoots Sam a questioning look. Sam fiddles with his amulet, which he'd just replaced around his neck, looking a little self-conscious.

"I tried to tell you about it, before we left for Burkitsville," he says. "I think it's a crossroads demon collecting on its deals."

"What makes you so sure?" asks Dean.

"Well, the first two vics—a doctor and an architect—both made it big ten years ago, lived charmed lives ever since, and were found torn completely to shreds within two days of each other," Sam explains. "And I checked with Bobby, and he agrees with me."

"Going by the reports, it was definitely a hellhound that got 'em," Bobby confirms.

"And you put all this together yourself?" Dean asks, staring at Sam.

"Yeah," says Sam, shrugging, but sounding a little defensive.

"Huh," says Dean, impressed. Maybe he should stop teasing Sam so much about being a nerd.

"I think we should go and check it out," says Sam, relaxing slightly. "Even if it's not the demon who killed Mom, it could give us a lead."

"You boys better get down there quick if you wanna catch this one," says Bobby. "Once the thing's done collecting it'll be gone."

Dean's first impulse is to refuse, to hang up the phone, drag Sam back to the Impala, and drive as far away from Mississippi as possible. But hadn't Meg found Sam anyway, as much as Dean tried to keep him away from her? This is what Sam stayed for. He gave up the good, normal life he had to help Dean avenge their mother's death. Dean has known all along that it wasn't fair to Sam to keep him away from the fight, and he suspects that Sam would find a way to get himself to Mississippi even if Dean decided to drive them straight from Burkitsville to Barrow, Alaska.

"So what are we supposed to do, then?" asks Dean, resigned. Sam grins at him, pleased, but he can't manage more than a small smile in return. He might be persuaded to take the case, but not even Sam's dimples can charm away his misgivings.

"Get down there and keep the hellhound away from the vics until you can trap the demon and force it to call it off," says Bobby simply.

"Why should we even be trying to help people who sold their souls to demons?" grumbles Dean. "Kinda their own fault, isn't it?"

"They made a mistake ten years ago, Dean," says Sam, his eyes narrowing. "Are you gonna condemn them for that?"

"A mistake, really?" says Dean. "Seems like you'd have to have a pretty freakin' good idea what you're doing to summon a crossroads demon."

"There was probably only one person who summoned the demon," Bobby points out. "The rest of them likely didn't know quite what they were getting into. Demons are tricky, but crossroads demons are the trickiest."

"Oh, awesome," says Dean sardonically. "Should be a piece of cake to trap one, then."

"But if we can pull it off," says Sam, sounding eager now, "while it's trapped we can interrogate it, see if it knows anything about Mom."

His tone makes Dean nervous, as does the thought of Sam in the same room as another demon, but all he says is, "Okay."

And if the demon tries to touch Sam, he promises himself as he hangs up the phone, he'll rip its lungs out.

A/N: Another flashback chapter next week. We're just about halfway through, people! Please let me know your thoughts so far.