Another Sunday, another chapter. Wow, thank you all for last week's reviews. Just to recap, the last time Jim and Blair worked a case together with the Winchesters was in my story "You can't run from the past", which was season 6 for SPN. However, Blair and Sam have kept in touch sporadically whenever Sam had needed Blair's skills as a researcher/anthropologist on cases.

Chapter 3

Carl Edwards, owner of the only certified antique shop in Lebanon, Kansas, was whistling as he drove back into town. It happened only rarely that he found purchases that were so valuable – and that proved to be genuine and not some fakes that people still thought he could not differentiate the real thing. Carl scowled. That was just because he wasn't a wizened old man who looked like he belonged as a for sale item in an antique shop himself. Besides, Carl wasn't as young as he looked. It wasn't his fault he was babyfaced. And that museology degree on the wall of his shop, placed strategically so it was the first thing customers saw when they walked it, that most certainly was no fake.

Still, this time, he had not been called to look at a fake, and that was all that mattered. He even got it cheap, the previous owner seemed in a hurry to get rid of it. This probably screamed "stolen goods" or, at least, shady provenance, but Carl could work with that. He wasn't the sheriff's brother-in-law for nothing. He could put up with Lois' usual nagging if it meant she'd get her sister to look the other way.

Carl pulled in front of his shop and lifted the heavy box, carrying it inside. Letty, Carl's assistant, looked up from her paranormal magazine.

"What's in there?" she asked.

Carl panted slightly as he set the box down. He did not remember the contents looking so heavy.

"Never mind," he said. "It's a confidential purchase for now, got it? I'll let you know when it's safe to put it on display."

Letty shrugged.

"Whatever you say, boss. Hey, have you heard some hikers up north saw this weird shadow in the woods? The papers are saying it might be Big Foot."

"The papers" were flashy conspiracy magazines that only desperate people bought. And people like Letty.

"You know," Carl could not help saying, even though he had this argument before and it always fell on deaf years. "You're a smart girl, Letitia. You should try to pursue interests that suit you better."

Letty rolled her eyes.

"What like going through looted art and then pretending I don't know its shady history and putting it on display?" she countered. "At least my hands are clean, boss-man."

Carl frowned.

"Watch it," he warned. "Those bloody hands help pay your rent."

Letty waved that aside.

"Barely," she pointed out. "I supplement my income, remember? Which reminds me…"

Carl shook his head. He wanted the conversation over. He wanted to focus on his purchase.

"We can't sell your hand-made jewelry here, Letty," he said, and his long-suffering tone proved this was not the first time they had this conversation. "This is an antique store. Old art. Genuine art, too, not something you'd find in a hippie joint."

Lettie rolled her eyes and sauntered back to her place behind the counter.

"Fine," she muttered. "Be like that. Hey, aren't you going to do anything about that fox?"

Carl blinked at the non-sequitur.

"The what?"

"Fox, boss," Letty replied, speaking slowly, as if she was talking to a small child. "F-O-X. You know, medium-sized animal, red fur, stinks to high heaven and shrieks like the devil himself."

Carl's hands were caressing the box. He was only paying partial attention to what Letty was telling him.

"I know what a fox is, Letitia," he snapped. "What fox are you talking about?"

"The one scrounging around outside," Letty answered quickly. "You must have seen it, it was there when you pulled in."

Was it Carl's imagination, or was the box vibrating a little? Like there was something there waiting to get out? No, that was ridiculous of course.

"I'm afraid I haven't seen any fox," he finally answered. "Are you sure you saw it?"

He had to look at what was inside. He had promised himself he wouldn't, not while Letty was still there, but he could not help himself. besides, by the way Letty was talking, he suspected she was self-medicating again.

"How about you take the day off?" he said. "You sound tired."

Letty raised her eyebrows.

"Days off don't pay rent."

Carl waved that aside. He wanted to get her out of the store, why couldn't she see that?

"Full pay," he said. "I promise."

Fortunately for him, Letty was not the one to look gift horses in the mouth. She shrugged, gathered her magazine and left with a cheerful you're the best. Carl took a deep breath. Now, now he could look at what was inside.

The cardboard box contained several items. Some weren't much to write home about. Old dresses, a candlestick, some picture frames. There was also a small wooden box and that was what held Carl's imagination. He already knew there had been three of those. No one knew what had happened to the other two.

"Probably languishing in some freak's private collection," Car muttered. "And if I can put out the word and he finds out I have the third, and the key to open all of them…he'd be desperate to have it."

He shook the box and heard a metallic sound. Something really was inside that thing. The seller had not provided Carl with a key – apparently, there hadn't been any with the box. But that was fine. Carl already knew he had the key to the boxes.

As he was working on the box, he thought he heard a noise. He looked up in time to see something green flash in the corner of his eyes. Like a lizard, he thought, then shook his head scoffing. Apparently whatever hallucinations Letty was having were contagious.

Finally, he pried the box open. He frowned at the content.

"Wait, that's not…"

He didn't get to finish. Suddenly, a terrible pain pierced his eyeballs. He covered his eyes and fell to his knees screaming. Panic took hold of him. he could not see. He could not see anything. Before slipping into unconsciousness, he thought he felt the cold touch of something scaly against his face.

xxxXXXxxxx

Sam and Dean had no objections to Blair's suggestion of driving to the warehouse that very day. Dean half-heartedly mentioned to Sam (in private, of course) that he could stay at home, but Sam's only response was to glare at him.

"Fine," Dean huffed. "Be that way. It's not as if I'm trying to help."

"Oh, like you're letting me help?" Sam snapped.

Of course, Sam was going to make it about Dean's emotional needs.

"Sam, I got betrayed," he said wearily. "And not for the first time. In fact, quite a lot of times…"

He paused and swallowed his words, realizing how they would sound. Sam was looking steadily at him.

"Quite a lot of times I was the one doing the betraying," he finished for Dean.

He did not sound angry – Dean had expected him to be furious. He only sounded resigned. Somehow, this was ten times worse.

"Sam…" he began, although he did not know what he was going to say, although no apology would make his rash words disappear.

Sam stopped him with a curt shake of his head.

"Leave it, Dean. We don't have time for this. I'll meet you at the car, ok?"

Dean watched him walk away, fighting with the overwhelming urge to call him back, because they were not the kind of people who did apologies very well. And Sam did not need apologies. Sam needed proof that Dean trusted him.

And he did, Dean thought. He could not let go of the past, he had been burned a lot of times, by Sam included. Despite this, Sam was still the only person Dean trusted. He just did not know how to say it.

xxxXXXxxxx

They drove in their separate cars to the warehouse but got there around the same time. Jim frowned as he saw police cars at the shop across the street.

"That's weird," Blair commented.

"But nothing to do with us," Dean said firmly. "Let's just go inside."

Blair fumbled with his key.

"Oh, yeah. Time we went in."

Jim waited while Blair opened the warehouse and walked in, the Winchesters following him close by. He extended his senses, concentrating on what was inside. He could not hear any stray heartbeats, not even the fast, unsteady ones of rodents. He could not see anything except dusty old objects. The air did not have any suspicious smells, no gas or chemicals or even mould. Sandburg was safe there, then.

The sudden flash of light had him wincing.

"Jesus Christ on a stick," he muttered, closing his eyes tight.

He felt Blair's steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Jim?" he asked, voice calm and casual.

Jim did not know why Blair bothered to pretend. It was not as if Jim could not hear the concern hidden behind the calm or hear Blair's heart pound with worry. And he's afraid I will be the one to have a coronary one day, he thought absurdly.

"I'm fine, Chief," he said quickly. "Just wasn't expecting you to switch on the light, that's all. I had my senses on high alert."

"I'm sorry," Blair said contritely. "I should have warned you."

Jim waved that aside and stepped further into the room, examining it critically.

"How is the electricity is still working, anyway?" Sam asked. "Do you think Aaron Sandburg kept paying to keep it running?"

Dean shrugged.

"Maybe it's like the Bunker. Something's keeping it running."

"Do you think this place is safe?" Jim asked, his voice coming sharper than he intended.

Dean frowned in his direction.

"What do you mean, safe?"

Jim waved his hand.

"Don't you have some device to detect weird stuff?" he asked. "I remember you did."

"You mean the EMF?" Sam asked. "We could use that, but there's no reason for us to do it. The place is clean."

"How do you know?" Jim challenged.

Sam took a deep breath and cleared his throat. The gesture surprised Jim, as Sam was usually the patient one. It was Dean who tended to explode whenever he imagined Jim was rubbing him the wrong way.

"There are markings on the door," he said. "Protection signs to keep bad stuff away. Trust me, this place is warded and then some. We're safe as long as we take the necessary precautions. It makes you wonder what they keep in here."

"Well, we'll have to do an inventory, won't we?" Blair said cheerfully, rubbing his hands in excitement. "Man, some of this stuff looks wild."

Jim eyed Blair critically. He was going to be in his own piece of heaven for a while and, if what Sam said was true and the place was indeed guarded from any evil freaky influences, then he was safe.

"Are you ok if I head out for a bit?" he asked. "Just to see what's going on across the road."

Blair frowned.

"You just can't help yourself, can you? We're not taking a case. We're on paid vacation, remember?"

Jim wondered if he really was that bad. He could do vacations after all. In fact, he loved vacations. It wasn't his fault crimes were committed wherever he was. It was a wonder how people weren't suspecting him of being involved in shady businesses.

"I'm not gonna take any cases," he said. "But it's too close to the warehouse. I need to se for myself if this is really just a coincidence."

Blair eyed him assessingly.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Jim could see that Sandburg needed to be in the warehouse and discover what his grandfather was involved in more than he cared about some random incident across the street. He shook his head.

"Nah, you stay right here. I'll be back before you know it." He paused and shot Dean a glare: "And if you guys know what's good for you, you'll keep him safe."

As he left, he could hear Dean complaining:

"What the hell did he mean, keep you safe? We've always been the ones trying to keep you out of trouble: you're the one not listening to us and getting yourself into messes."

"Hey excuse me," Blair protested. "The few times I got myself into messes with you, I also got you out of messes. Remember?"

Jim shook his head. This was going to be more interesting than he had expected – or wanted it to be.

xxxxXXXxxx

Blair looked around the place, feeling a mixture of excitement and trepidation. This was what his grandfather had left him – well, him and Henry Winchester's surviving relatives, he supposed. But this was mostly about him, Blair thought. Because a man who had never spoken to him, not even once in his life, had apparently trusted him enough to give him access to stuff that was quite likely big and dangerous. A legacy, as Sam had called it earlier. It sounded grand, but it puzzled Blair.

Why him? Of course, the answer could be a simple one. Aaron Sandburg had no other living relatives. Naomi's younger brother had died childless. Blair was the only one left. He felt a bitter smile tug at his lips. Bet you did not see this coming, did you grandpa? he thought. The child born out of wedlock, the one you told Naomi to get rid of, if she wanted to remain in the family home. And now here I am, in possession of your most hidden secrets. Ironic, isn't it?

Unless Blair was wrong, and Aaron had indeed known it would come to this. Why else would he have kept tabs on Blair? A bitter taste rose in his throat and he swallowed against it. For a brief time, he had entertained the thought that his grandfather had been trying to watch him from a distance in an attempt to remain in Blair's life somehow. But no – he was probably trying to determine if Blair was worthy of his damned legacy.

"You ok?" Sam asked him suddenly.

Blair looked up, noticing both Sam and Dean watching him rather concerned. He plastered a careless smile on his face and shrugs.

"Yeah," he said quickly. "Just…you know. This. It's thrown me a bit. Like I told you, I never knew the man. He watched me from afar. I did not even know he was watching me, not until I met with his lawyer."

Dean nodded sympathetically.

"Family's complicated like that."

Blair frowned, his defenses coming up. He did not like it that Dean referred to Aaron Sandburg as family.

"Maybe. I get that. But I wouldn't say he was family. See, there's family, and there's simply sharing some DNA. The two aren't always the same."

Dean's eyes grew dark and he nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "That's not too far from the truth."

Blair wondered briefly who he was referring to. It could not have been Sam, after all, Dean obviously clung to Sam and stood by his brother's side through thick and thin. But neither of the Winchesters had even mentioned any other family of any kind – of the shared DNA variety or of the other kind. Blair knew they had an angel friend – it still blew his mind to think of that – and that, at one point, there had been someone they called regularly who helped them with lore questions. The last time he had spoken to Sam, he had been curtly informed that Bobby Singer had died. The tightness in Sam's voice had told Blair that Bobby Singer had been more than a simple helper.

"So," he said, turning towards the items in the warehouse. "Wild place, huh? Not as impressive as your Bunker, true. But still, it would take us awhile to look over all of them."

"If you want to look over them," Sam said. "Most of this stuff is better off left alone."

Blair frowned. He was not the type who left stuff alone, especially when it concerned him.

"No way," he said. "Not after coming all the way to Lebanon. I want to know what's in here. I want to see what was in Aaron's head."

"Blair," Sam pointed out reasonably, "We don't know what they were keeping in this warehouse. But knowing what's kept in Hunters' warehouses, some of these items might be cursed."

Blair stared at the place in horrified disbelief.

"Cursed? You're kidding, right?"

"We don't kid about curses," Dean deadpanned.

Blair shook his head.

"Maybe this is personal," he said. "His message to me. I mean, why else would he give me a place with cursed items. If I hadn't known you, I would have barged in here and started touching things."

He felt vaguely sick at the thought and closed his eyes to take a deep breath. When he opened them, something on one of the shelves caught his attention.

"It can't be," he breathed.

He took several steps towards the shelf and reached out.

"Hey!" Dean called. "What did we just tell you about cursed things? Do you want to get castrated by something in here? Because, let me tell you, I've seen it happen."

Blair ignored him. His hand hovered over the object, a fine wooden carving of a wolf and a panther side by side.

"You don't understand," he said. "The wolf, the panther, that's us…"

"I really don't want to know what you've been smoking," Dean muttered.

Blair finally turned to him. His eyes were wide.

"Our spirit animals," he gasped. "The panther and the wolf are Jim and mine's spirit animals."

xxxXXXxxx

Jim crossed the street and approached one of the police officers. There was a sobbing girl next to him with a blanket around her. An ambulance was close by. From inside, he could hear the paramedics talking.

"Yeah, this guy's only gonna be brought back at the Second Coming," one was saying. "With wounds like these…"

"What the hell did it?" the other paramedic asked. "That girl out there was babbling something about a fox."

The first paramedic scoffed.

"Foxes don't pluck your eyes out and eat through your brain. I haven't seen anything like this."

"That girl has," the other paramedic stated. "She's saying she's read about Big Foot…"

"Yeah, right…"

"Can I help you, Sir?"

Jim flinched at the loud voice, dialing back his hearing. He turned around to see the uniformed officer standing in front of him. Jim had been so focused on listening to what was going on inside, he had not even heard his arrival.

He smiled disarmingly against the other's suspicion. In times like this, he was glad he never traveled without his badge. It gave him access to a lot of places.

"Jim Ellison from Cascade PD. What happened here?"

The officer frowned, then shrugged.

"Officer Hayles," he introduced himself. "Owner of the shop was attacked by some wacko. Or by a wild animal. Who knows? The sheriff's gonna have a coronary when she hears about this. The guy was her brother in law."

Jim gestured to the building.

"That's an antique store, right? Anything valuable inside?"

Hayles shrugged.

"Who knows? I'm not the type to notice antiques. But this was no robbery. Someone – or something – caused his eyeballs to explode and bashed him so hard half his brain is missing."

Jim's heart sank. He did not believe in coincidences. Blair had been left a warehouse full of old objects. The shop owner of an antique store had been murdered in an unexplainable way. An antique store that was right across Henry Winchester's warehouse.

"Why is the Cascade PD interested in this?" Hayles asked suspiciously. "And how come you got wind of it in the first place? It just happened."

Jim shrugged.

"I was here on a personal matter. My partner was told he was left a storage unit here."

Hayles' eyes narrowed. Jim wondered if he had said something wrong.

"Didn't you say your name was Ellison?"

Jim nodded cautiously.

"What of it?"

He extended his hearing. Hayles' heartbeat was slightly fast, but nothing outside normal range. He was probably trying to figure something out and not actually suspecting Jim of being a brutal serial killer.

"Are you related to that dead bigwig?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific. My family is old and probably well-off, yeah. I don't know if I'd necessarily call them bigwigs…"

"Carl – the store owner," Hayles said. "He got most of his stuff from this guy who died in the '50s or '60s. Arthur Ellison. That was his name."

If Jim had been hoping the murder occurring so close to the warehouse would be a simple coincidence, no matter how freaky, that last hope had just been torn to shreds.

xxxXXXxxx

One of its children had already been released back into the world. It moved through the silent forests, eager to meet its progeny. Together, they would feast. It would be just like the old times, when entire towns fell at their feet. And no one would be able to stop them now. No one would even believe in their existence.

xxxxxXXXxxx

Jim wasted no time in informing Blair and the Winchesters about the unfortunate new development. He had not expected Blair to have news of his own. Or, at least, to think that he did.

"I don't know, Chief," he said uncertainly. "This does not really need to mean anything."

He looked at the bowl with the drawing of the wolf and panther side by side – he was inspecting it from a safe distance as Dean had informed him in very graphic detail what could happen to him if the object was cursed. It looked like a normal bowl to him. The marks on it did not even seem too old. It definitely wasn't ancient.

"You're not going to tell me this is some forgotten Mayan artifact that holds the first recorded piece of information on Sentinel and Guides."

Blair huffed.

"You know it's not Mayan. No, if I gave it a guess I'd say it's from the late 1500's. probably Spanish, probably trying to imitate something found in the New World."

As a history lesson, it was probably fascinating. As concrete evidence, though…

"Just because someone might or might not have imitated a tribal pattern that might or might not have referenced a sentinel-guide relationship doesn't necessarily mean it has anything to do with us," Jim said.

Blair glared at him.

"Jim, newsflash: panthers and wolves don't usually walk side by side. They're not usually represented walking side by side. The fact that this jug found in the warehouse that used to be co-owned by my grandfather has both our spirit animals screams more than just simple coincidence to me, and it would to you, if you weren't so pigheaded about that entire aspect of your sentinel side."

Jim took a dep breath, ready to answer Blair's tirade with one of his own. In truth, he really did not know why he was objecting. Blair was probably right. But he had never been comfortable with the more "spiritual" side of his condition. When Blair took his Sentinel senses as genetic particularities that needed special honing and handling, Jim could handle it. However, when he started sprouting stuff about spirits and destinies, that was when Jim balked.

He was a control freak through and through. His destiny was his own. Who he chose to associate with was a choice of his, not that of an outside force. His careers in the military and police force were simply a result of him needing to do his bit in society and not a by-product of millennia of laws and traditions he could no longer understand. And if those things worked like this, then Jim Ellison could be happy with his life and function inside modern society – and forget what set him apart from everyone else.

Blair would never accept that, of course. And Jim had started to realize he was more often than not right. It was why he had finally agreed that Blair should take on his role as a shaman as well as Jim's Guide. Still, that did not mean he enjoyed the idea of him and Sandburg having been predestined from times immemorial to work together. He wanted Sandburg by his side because Sandburg chose to be there, not because of some imperative of a destiny Jim didn't even care to fulfill.

"I just think we should take it easy on the mysticism, that's all," Jim finally said. "Just because you see a panther and a wolf, it doesn't have to mean they're our spirit animals."

Blair's eyes were smoldering. It was a good thing they were not alone. When Sandburg got like this, the quarrels the two of them had could level a few cities.

Dean stepped forward, looking from one to the other.

"OK, not that we don't enjoy a glimpse into your life of domestic bliss and total harmony," he began and Jim swore he would punch him in the face when this was over, "But…spirit animals?"

"You don't know what a spirit animal is?" Blair asked surprised. "Considering the mileage you have with the supernatural, I would have thought spirit animals would be common knowledge for you lot."

Dean scoffed.

"Santa Claus is common knowledge," he pointed out. "That doesn't mean I take him seriously."

Blair rolled his eyes.

"You know," he told Jim, "I'm surprised you two don't get along. You have the same narrow minded view of the world around you."

"Hey," Dean protested indignantly.

"Spirit animals exist in some form or other in a lot of cultures. Now, some say they're just a manifestation of our respective personalities and a tool to help us cope with repressed desires, so there's no need to take them literary. Others say they're guardian spirits, akin to us in personality, but not really part of us. Another school of thought claims they're part of our souls but can manifest themselves outside us. A trained shaman, for example, could have his spirit travel in the form of his spirit animal while he's meditating in the comforts of his own home."

"With his favorite peace pipe, no doubt," Dean muttered sarcastically.

Sam cleared his throat warningly.

"Dean," he said.

It was funny, Jim thought amused, how one syllable could contain so much reproach. It seemed to do the trick, though, as Dean nodded, looking faintly apologetic.

"So, you're saying spirit animals are real?" he asked Blair.

Blair was never one to take ridicule personally, especially when the other person seemed to change their mind and act interested in what he had to say. He responded to Dean's question immediately.

"Jim saw his panther several times. Didn't you, Jim?" he asked pointedly.

Three pairs of eyes were now fixed on him, and Jim hated being on display, especially concerning that particular aspect of his life. He shrugged.

"I saw something."

There. That wasn't a lie and it should keep even Sandburg satisfied.

"I saw my wolf only once. And I wasn't…exactly awake back then."

Jim closed his eyes briefly. Dead. Blair had been dead back then. Or coming back from the dead. He was glad Blair did not seem willing to share the extent of his vision with Sam and Dean. That had always seemed something that concerned only Blair and him. That was why he was so annoyed that Blair now saw reminders of their spirit animals and brought everything out in the open.

"It's too wild a coincidence, though," Blair went on. "That these two specific animals should be on a bowl in a warehouse that was meant for me."

"Maybe," Sam agreed. "Maybe there is something more to it. The Men of Letters have a file on spirit animals. I found it a few days ago while I was cataloguing but didn't pay much attention to it then. We should look into it and see where it leads. You can help me with the sources. If you're interested."

Blair was bouncing on the soles of his feet, looking as if he had just been asked to the prom by the hottest girl in school and not to spend an afternoon bent over some dusty tones in the library of some secret society. Well, that was Sandburg, all contrary. Jim suppressed a smirk.

"Well, how about we lock up here and come back later?" he suggested. "Like this, while you two kids are busy with your homework project, I can look into that crime scene down the road and see what that antique shop has to do with my grandfather."

"I'll come with you," Dean announced.

Jim nearly said it was not necessary, but Dean was, more or less, local, so he might have known a thing or two that could help.

"Right," he agreed tersely. "Just as long as you accept that I'm in charge."

Dean snorted.

"I ain't starting a pissing contest with you. I know how sore you get when you lose one of those."

Dean left the warehouse with Sam in tow. Blair cast Jim a smirk and a quiet "Behave now" only loud enough for Jim to here. Jim refrained himself from rolling his eyes. He could get through the next few days without strangling Dean Winchester. Maybe.

This chapter was super fun to write. I always like to have Sam and Dean seen from an outsider's perspective. I also like Blair and Jim described from outsider's perspectives, too, which is why I enjoy those crossovers so much.