A/N

So how, exactly, would the Winchester Boys (and Bobby) deal with the realization that Sam is, apparently, a Witch? (Also is now a good time to admit that my original title for this story was "Evolution of a SamWitch"?) What will be Sam's reaction? What will Dean do with this knowledge? As always with the Winchesters, I thought of the safest, most rational and sane responses. And threw those right out the window….

This is a mini-case fic, so there's a bit of exposition/explanation of the hunt at the beginning (sorry) but the action picks up pretty quickly after that.

Enjoy!

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Mount Moriah Cemetery

Deadwood, SD

May 6, 2000

3:56 a.m.

Reverend Zebediah Bourke had lived and died in Deadwood, SD, killed by a rampant case of dysentery at the ripe old age of 35 in 1880, after a lifetime of preaching death, doom and damnation to all who didn't follow his Puritan ideals of chastity and self deprivation.

He'd been laid to rest in Mt. Moriah Cemetery and had been rumored to stalk the hallowed ground, for reasons the Winchesters had been unable to discover, still preaching destruction to anyone stupid enough to enter the cemetery at night.

Sam thought that perhaps the 'death by dysentery' hadn't been strictly true, as he'd uncovered some old newspapers and a couple diaries from the Reverend's day, which had pretty much indicated that old Zeb's ranting wasn't exactly popular with the townsfolk.

Dean was of the opinion that some people were just too damn mean to stay dead.

In the 120 years since his death, the good Reverend apparently scared a lot of tourists drawn to the Old West cemetery looking for the likes of Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok. Witness accounts described a tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair, wearing a dark suit and a white shirt with a thin blood-red string tie. He always came at people from behind, and the first inkling most people had they weren't alone was the sound of Zebediah's yelling.

Witness accounts — the few that the local police bother to take — indicated he was fond of calling people out as 'vandals' and 'miscreants' and 'sinners' for (ironically, Dean thought) 'disturbing the dead'. He was reported to chase them out of the cemetery, while still yelling and literally thumping on the Bible he kept in his left hand. Old Zeb generally made a nuisance of himself, but only in the three days around the new moon, and people in the area learned to steer clear of the cemetery for three days every month.

The local historical society strongly discouraged tourists from visiting the cemetery on those days but, tourists being tourists (or idiots, in Dean's mind — which he figured to be the same thing), some still went in, either ignoring the warnings, or deliberately looking to either prove or disprove the ghost's existence. The historical society played the apparition down, going so far as to actually deny there was any supernatural activity at all, but word got around, and in the late 1990's, a cable tv show that "investigated" locales that were believed to be haunted came to investigate. None of the footage the team gathered over the three nights of the new moon was usable, all of it devolving to static before it could even be viewed.

The Winchesters found out about Zeb when Dean stumbled across newspaper accounts of a couple of kids badly scared in the cemetery in March, and the death of a young man over the new moon in April.

Apparently, at some point in the last 10 or 20 years, the cemetery had become a kind of lover's lane for the local teens. On the new moon in March, a high school senior and his girlfriend ran literally screaming from the cemetery. The incident probably wouldn't have been reported at all, but the girl was the daughter of the editor of the local paper.

The "anonymous" sources reported to the paper that they had been attacked by a middle aged man, dressed in "old time clothes", who banged on a Bible and yelled at them for being "fornicators" and "defilers of sacred ground."

The account apparently wasn't taken seriously by the local police, who had no record of the incident; nor by at least one other pair of lovers, two young men who had decided to hold their secret trysts at Mt. Moriah. They'd been doing so for a while, according to the survivor of the pair, and had never seen anything to make them feel they weren't alone, so they'd gone back for their assignation, not realizing that April 5 was a new moon.

The survivor, Matt Hastings, 22, and a lifelong resident of Deadwood, told a similar story of an old man yelling at them. But this time, the good reverend had interrupted a little later in the proceedings. Matt had gotten out by leaving his pants, wallet, and ultimately his lover, behind. Matt had insisted that his boyfriend, Steven Jones, 23, had been right behind him, as they both made a mad (and bare assed) dash for their respective cars. Matt had driven away, confident that Steven would get to his own car and also drive home. It wasn't until Steven didn't return any of Matt's calls the next day that Matt began to worry. He'd tried Steven's work, but he wasn't there either, and so he went back to the cemetery.

The police blotter, quoted in the newspaper article Dean had found, indicated that the local PD had responded to a report of screaming called in by a member of the historical society around 10 am When the police arrived on scene they found Matt Hastings kneeling next to his dead boyfriend, hysterical and screaming because of "the condition of the body".

It had only taken a couple of phone calls to the police and coroner for FBI Agent Young to learn that the dead man had bled out after his "genitals were ripped clean off'n the boy".

By the time the Winchesters finished their investigation, they had found 12 deaths at Mt. Moriah Cemetery. Every 20 years since Zebediah's death, in 1900, 1920, 1940, 1960 and 1980, two people (three in both 1920 and 1980) had died of apparent heart attacks within a few yards of the last resting place of Reverend Zebediah Bourke. All had died in the three nights around the new moon. All had been, from available accounts, healthy with no known heart issues.

And here it was spring of 2000. Rev. Zeb was due, and the first victim had dropped, albeit with a very nasty escalation in violence.

Sam and Dean also realized that they had discovered the case after the new moon window was over, and they'd have to wait until the new moon in May to try to put a stop to Zebediah before he tried again.

And so, the Winchesters had driven nearly 8 hours on a Friday night to put Zebediah to rest.

Because people needed to be saved.

And things needed to be killed.

And Dean was damned if he was going to have the ghost of some uptight preacher messing with kids who were, after all, just doing what came naturally.

How all that translated to Dean standing in a grave flinging dirt and not Sammy, he still hadn't figured out. He was sure his tricky little brother had out-maneuvered him somehow, but he was still a little fuzzy on the details. So, Dean kept trying to get Sammy to help, without actually digging. It only seemed fair.

"Oh, come on, Sammy," Dean urged, trying (and mostly failing) to keep the whine out of his voice. "Just go ahead and do it," he encouraged, tossing another shovel full of soil out of the grave, deliberately aiming the dirt at his brother's legs.

Sam shot his brother a perfect bitch face, barely visible in the light of the battery powered lantern they'd brought with them. Not that Dean needed to see it; he knew it was there, could've drawn the exact expression from heart, if he could draw worth a damn.

Sam kicked each leg to knock the dirt off his boots and jeans. "No, Dean. We agreed that I wouldn't...do…anything except in emergencies," Sam reminded, dropping his voice to a near whisper, as he always did when discussing any of his...abilities. Even when he knew there was no one around to hear them.

No one living, anyway.

"This is an emergency," Dean assured him. "It's 43 degrees and I'm ass deep in a cold grave. I'm freezing my nuts off down here, dammit! Just pull the rest of the di…" he stopped when the shovel hit something hard. "Never mind," he muttered and cracked open the coffin with the pointed end of the spade. "Okay, heads up," Dean warned. "If he's coming, he's coming now. Throw me the salt and…"

A duffle bag hit him in the chest, nearly knocking him over before it dropped into the grave. Dean glared up at his brother. "Thanks."

"Any time," Sam grinned and turned a slow circle, shotgun at the ready, keeping an eye out for the angry Bible thumping spirit.

Dean pulled the 5 gallon container of salt out of the duffle bag, and began liberally sprinkling it all over the bones. "There you go, Zebediah," he muttered. "Last time you'll kill innocent kids trying to get lucky."

"How are you doing, Dean?" Sam wondered, still looking watchfully around. "I would've expected Zebediah to react by now. He was so angry about the kids getting it on near his grave, you'd think he'd be really pissed off about being dug up."

"Well, the good Reverend Bourke was a preacher," Dean observed. "Maybe it's just premarital sex he kills over."

A flicker of white flashed in front of Dean.

"SHIT!"

And just that fast, the right honorable Rev. Zebediah Bourke was in Dean's face, one ghostly gnarled hand reaching out to grab the salt, sending it sailing out of the grave, as his other hand waved a bible under Dean's nose.

"DEAN!" Sam aimed towards the ghost, but froze, realizing that at this angle hitting Zebediah meant hitting Dean as well. Salt rounds wouldn't kill him, but it would hurt like a bitch and, at this range, likely break a couple of ribs, and ruin of Dean's favorite Led Zepplin shirts.

Zebediah growled, grabbed the duffle bag before Dean could pick it up, and swung it around, smacking Dean in the side of the head, before sending it flying out of the grave after the salt.

"DEAN!" Sam watched in horror as his brother was thrown out of the grave and landed against a headstone, obviously at least dazed, if not outright unconscious.

And the Reverend's bones still without accelerant.

Zebediah appeared beside Dean and reached his ghostly hand towards Dean's chest, pressing the Bible hard against Dean's forehead. "Foul defiler! Spawn of hell! You shall not disturb this sacred ground!"

"Back off, you dead bastard!" Sam yelled and sprinted to the far side of Dean and the headstone, so he could take a shot without fear of hitting his brother, or ruining Dean's shirt.

Hey, Sam knew where Dean's priorities lay.

The salt rounds traveled straight through the snarling face and Zebediah disappeared.

"Dean!" Sam knelt at his brother's side, quickly checking for breath and heartbeat, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding when he found both. "Dean," Sam repeated, and lightly tapped Dean's cheek.

"Staaaaahhp," Dean whined and opened his eyes slowly, settling on his brother, then growing wide at something over Sam's shoulder. "SAM!"

Sam started to turn, only to find himself flying through the air, over the open grave and chest first into the top of a granite tombstone.

15 feet away, Dean could hear the sickening crack of bones breaking, and watched Sam drop to the damp grass below.

"SAMMY!" Dean struggled to his feet, looking around in the dark — and why did this asshat have to be active only on the new moon? — for the shotgun.

"Here!" Sam gasped letting his brother know he was at least alive. "De'! Be…hind…" Sam called out a warning, and Dean spun around to face the ghost again.

Cold, dead hands wrapped around his throat, and Dean tried to grab the wrists of the dead preacher, only to have his hands slide straight through as if nothing but air was before him.

That is so unfair, Dean thought as he struggled to breathe and remain conscious. If I can't touch them, they shouldn't be able to touch me, dammit!

There was a roaring in his ears and his vision was starting to get a little grey around the edges, but he could hear his brother's voice gasping out Latin behind him.

"Calor ter..renus. Aestus. Caeli. Supra," Sam forced the words out, raising his right hand painfully forward to point at the open grave. "Calor infer..ni infra! Age nunc. Uri."

Dean found himself being dragged across the ground by the throat, closer to the grave where a thin grey smoke was starting to rise.

Atta boy, Sammy. Light the mother up!

"Et suc..cende. Ossa. Male…dicta. Cape has reli…reliquias in cin…erem, " Sam panted, as the smoke grew thicker rising from the grave. "Te ad in…fer…num. Zebe…diah! Bourke!"

A glow began to flicker in the ground, and Zebediah Bourke dropped Dean, in favor of stalking towards the younger brother lying on the ground, forcing words out through lips covered with blood not entirely from his nose.

For a minute, Dean could only lie on the ground, gasping for air too long denied, and coughing against his abused throat.

"In ig…igne et fla…Flamma…" Sam ground out and slow flames began to lick around the ghost's feet, rising rapidly. "Et! Damnatione!" Sam yelled, as Zebediah disappeared with a faint scream. "Bastardis. Ardeat. Uri," Sam finished and fell back to the ground, panting shallowly.

Dean struggled up, and staggered over to Sam to kneel beside his brother. Dean pulled off his over shirt, wiping the dirt and blood from Sam's face and chin. "That list bit," Dean said hoarsely and coughed again. "It sounded…familiar. What was it?" He wondered and collapsed against the gravestone Sam had more or less bounced off of, panting himself now.

"Burn, bastard, burn," Sam admitted and gave a lopsided, slightly blood grin.

"Nice," Dean coughed a laugh and patted Sam's chest.

"Owww!" Sam laughed. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

The pair stayed where they were as the fire in the grave burned itself out, both of them slowly catching their breath.

"Thought you weren't going to do anything except in emergencies?" Dean finally said quietly, as he struggled unsteadily to his feet.

"What the hell..do you think…that was?!" Sam wondered and reached a hand up.

Dean pulled him to his feet, and patted Sammy's back gently. "Just another Friday night, brother." His eyes fell on the tombstone they'd been leaning against, barely readable in the fading firelight. "Hey!" he laughed and pointed, grinning, at the words. "Wild Bill! We were leaning against Wild Bill Hickok! That's awesome!"

Sam shook his head and staggered over to the gravestone where he'd dropped the shotgun. "Yeah," he deadpanned. "Bounced… like a…rubber ball…on…Wild Bill's…gravestone," he ground out as he gingerly leaned down to gather up the shotgun and spent shells. "That's one for...the memoirs."

Dean shook his head. "You have no appreciation for history. I got that," he added and retrieved first the shotgun and shells, then the salt canister and lighter fluid, returning them all to the duffle bag.

"I have a great…appreciation for...history," Sam assured him, and half sat on the headstone where Dean had landed, cradling his ribs with his left arm. "What I don't have…is your... obsession…with all things…Wild West. You know it's not…like in the…movies, right, Dean?"

Dean picked up a shovel and stuck into the mound of dirt beside the grave. "I don't understand your hatred for the Old West. It was filled with awesome rugged men in even more awesome gun battles, fighting to tame a bitter land!"

"I think you mean," Sam corrected, "it was filled…with people who...shat in holes in the ground... froze…to death in the winter and…died in their twenties, more often of…dysentery or…cholera than some great…gun battle."

Dean gasped theatrically. "You take that back! Wild Bill did not die from dysentery!"

"I didn't say…Never mind," Sam shrugged. "I'm sure you're...right, Dean. It was all…noble and heroic."

"Damn straight!" Dead nodded, and crossed to his brother, duffle bag over one shoulder, shotgun in his hand. He sighed as he looked at his brother. "How bad?" he asked gently.

"I'm fine," Sam said, trying to sound it and failing as the words ended with a cough that left a spot of blood on the sleeve he tried to block it with.

"Dammit, Sammy, I thought we were past this shit!"

"What shit?"

"Lying to each other about being hurt. I know, I know, okay?" Dean admitted, "We could never be honest about how bad shit hurt when Dad was around, but this is just me, Sam. And I've been helping to patch Dad up since I was five. I know the sound of breathing with broken ribs, and I know the sound of a collapsed lung, and brother, you've got both. Wanna try again?"

"Yeah," Sam sighed and winced. "5 ribs...broken, one more...cracked. Right lung...down. I'll be..okay," he assured his brother. "I can heal it...all, it just…takes a little while."

Dean nodded and looked, frowning, at the mound of dirt next to the grave. "Okay, then. Come on," he said and put an arm around Sam's waist, pulling his brother's left arm over his own shoulders. "Let's get you to the car, buddy. You can sit under a blanket out of the wind while I fill the grave. You shouldn't be in the cold with that lung."

"No, wait," Sam insisted and pushed Dean away. "We can't leave…the grave..like that. And I…I need sleep. In, like, a...bed 'n shit."

"I know," Dean agreed and reached for him again. "I'll take care of it, we'll have you in a bed in an hour or so."

Sam shook his head and stepped back from his brother again. "You're…hurt, too. I know you've…got at least a…minor concussion."

"We can't leave the grave that way," Dean protested, "even if it is 8 hours from home."

"I know," Sam told him, and raised his right hand towards the mound of dirt. "I've got it... covered," he sighed and Dean could see Sam deliberately relaxing his face and as much of his body as he could, given his injuries.

"Operuisti mortuo," Sam began, his words precise, but spoken slowly. "Donec. Seponer...entur. Ex officiis. Tuis."

Dean's eyes widened as the shovels lying on top of the dirt pile began to move, scooping up dirt and throwing it back into the grave.

"Redi ad. Locum.. Tuum. Et mort…uorum. Cineres." The dirt began flying into the grave without help as the shovels continued to move in a blur. "Cum magis. In. Aeternum!" Sam finished and closed his eyes looking a uniquely Sam-like combination of smug and exhausted, as the grave filled itself in less than 5 minutes, the shovels and loose dirt moving almost too fast to see.

"Nice, Mickey," Dean nodded in appreciation, when the shovels fell to the ground on the newly filled grave. "And you didn't even flood anything."

Sam snorted a laugh and gasped in pain. "Don't make me...laugh."

"Sorry," Dean grinned and picked up the shovels and the lantern. "Let's get you out of here," he suggested, shoving the shotgun and the lantern into the duffle and flinging it and the shovels over one shoulder, while slipping his arm around Sam's middle.

They made their way slowly back to the Impala, and Dean left Sam leaning against the hood while he returned their equipment to the trunk.

He returned to his brother's side and pulled an arm over his shoulders, again. "Front or back?"

"Front," Sam gasped. "I have the feeling that…once I'm fully...horizontal…it'll be a while before…I can...move again."

"We need a hospital?" Dean frowned as he opened the front passenger door and gently eased Sam down onto the seat, picking up his brother's legs and swinging them into the car for him.

"Too late," Sam gave a small chuckle. "Ribs're already…too healed for...us to..be able to... explain...the lung," he gasped.

"We have a couple shovels," Dean grinned and opened the back door to retrieve the blanket they kept there. "I could always break 'em again," he offered.

"No thanks," Sam smiled, adding a small "ow" when Dean closed the back door again.

"Sorry," Dean frowned and settled the blanket over his brother, tucking it over his shoulders and around the sides, forming a little cocoon of warmth. "You need me to tape you up before we hit the road?"

Sam just shook his head and closed his eyes, as Dean made sure the blanket was pulled taught across Sammy's chest, the best protection he could give his little brother's healing ribs at the moment.

Dean closed the door as gently as he could, and returned to the still open trunk, pulling out a small bottle from the medikit and a larger bottle from a specially padded compartment. He closed the trunk, again taking care to avoid shaking the car anymore than was necessary, and gave the trunk lid an affectionate pat. "Thanks, baby," he whispered. "You've always got what we need," he mused, ignoring the fact that he and Sam put them there in the first place.

His baby always took care of them.

He climbed into the driver's seat, setting the two bottles on the seat between himself and Sammy, before gently closing the door.

"Ow."

"I know, kiddo," Dean sighed, and opened the smaller bottle, shaking two small, precious pills into his palm. "Put out your hand."

Sam complied without comment, and Dean dropped the pills into his brother's palm and curled the fingers over them so Sammy didn't drop them. Dean picked up the larger bottle and twisted the cap off. "Take those with this," he urged and raised his brother's hand toward his face.

Sammy tossed the pills into his mouth, and let Dean pour a little amber liquid down his throat.

"Jesus!" Sam sputtered and coughed, flinching. "What was that?"

"Just a couple of the really good pain pills and a little Hunter's Helper," Dean said, frowning. If Sammy took pills and just drank whatever was given to him without questioning first — his little brother was in way more pain than he was letting on.

"You sure we don't need a hospital?" Dean wondered, turning the car on and pulling out onto the deserted road bordering the cemetery. "You know, we actually have legit health insurance now, through my job at Singer Salvage."

"No," Sam said quietly. "Let's just…find a motel…and stop for the...night."

"Okay," Dean agreed, and decided that the first place he came to, regardless of price, was where they were stopping.

Silence fell in the car. Sam was concentrating on convincing his right fourth rib to exit his right lung. Dean was listening to his brother's labored breathing, and wishing he could turn on the radio, but he was afraid it would distract Sammy too much from healing himself.

Ten minutes down the road, and Sammy turned his head slightly to look at his brother.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy. Whatcha need? More pain killers? There's still some whiskey."

"No. Just…have a...a question."

"Okay, shoot."

"You sure…you're okay..." Sammy began, and lacked the breath to continue the thought.

"Small knock on the head, Sammy," Dean quickly reassured his little brother. And wasn't it just like Sammy to worry about Dean instead of himself? "You know how hard headed I am, kiddo. It's all good."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Not…what I meant."

"Then what?" Dean glanced over and was relieved to see that Sammy's eyes were closed, but scrunched up like he was trying to pull them back into his head, and his jaw was no longer clenched so tightly that Dean was worried something would break. His little brother's pain was easing off, even if only a little. Thank god.

"Are you okay…with me…being…" Sam paused for a moment and Dean was unsure if it was to catch his breath or find the right word. Probably both.

"With me…being what…I am," Sam finished softly and opened his eyes to watch his brother's reaction.

Dean checked the road ahead to be sure it was straight and empty — both true — and gave his brother a long, puzzled look before returning his attention to the asphalt before them. "The hell are you talking about, what you are? What are you?! You're my little brother, of course I'm good with that," Dean answered his own question as well as Sammy's.

"No," Sam frowned. "With me being…you know…what Bobby said."

Dean blinked and shot another glance at his brother, frowning as he tried to work out what Sammy could possibly…no. Seriously?

"You mean a witch?" Dean asked, incredulously.

Sammy only nodded at him, watching him with eyes wide with pain and worry.

"Of course, I…Sammy, you're my little brother," Dean said, disgust dripping from his voice at even having to answer such a patently stupid question. "You could be…the Queen of Sheba and I'd be okay with it."

"Really?"

"Sam," Dean said firmly, and reached over to put a hand behind his brother's neck, taking his eyes off the road for a second to be sure Sammy was paying attention. "You listen to me, little brother. I don't know what's going to happen. Maybe nothing, and you go on to be the geeky lawyer you wanna be. Maybe everything horrible that's ever been said about you happens and you become the Boy King of the Demons or some such bullshit. Hell, maybe you turn out to be the fucking anti-Christ. I don't give a rat's ass. You're my baby brother, and I am always, always going to be okay with you. Got it?"

"Yeah," Sam said softly, and Dean pulled his hand back to the steering wheel, ignoring the catch in Sammy's voice that let Dean know there were tears lurking in the far end of the front seat.

Winchesters didn't do tears, after all.

"Why in the hell would you even ask me something that stupid, Sammy?" Dan wondered, mortally offended at the idea that Sam — Sammy, his kid — thought the answer could ever be anything different.

"Well, it's just…" Sam paused. "Dean, you hate…witches. You say it…every time we...hunt one."

"Well, yeah," Dean shrugged. "I mean they're tricky, and they're always power hungry or vengeful and they have no regard for basic human dignity — or life — and they're always throwing their bodily fluids everywhere," he finished with a shudder. "It's disgusting."

"Right!" Sam agreed. "And I'm…"

"Nothing like that," Dean interrupted forcefully. "You don't want power, Sammy. In fact, you have power and you actively try not to use it."

"I don't...wanna get...used to it," Sam said softly. "To…misuse it."

"Exactly!" Dean agreed. "You have power, and don't want to misuse it. You're not vengeful, or even all that angry, not at the whole world,," he continued, glancing frequently at his brother to be sure his idiot kid was absorbing the words, "and as for having a regard for life…Sammy, I'm pretty sure you are the only person on the face of the planet to ever ask a Hunter but why do all monsters have to die?"

"Well it just…doesn't make any…sense," Sammy insisted. "If we can't say…all people ...are good...how can...we say…for sure that...all monsters…are bad?"

"EXACTLY!" Dean thumped on the steering wheel, then quickly patted his baby's dashboard to make sure he didn't mean it. "Sorry, baby. And you have yet to do anything at all with your bodily fluids. Totally different thing."

Dean glanced over at his brother, who nodded his acceptance of the decree.

"Why are you asking me this now?" Dean asked suspiciously. "Don't you need to concentrate on healing?"

Sam nodded. "I'm…refereeing…between my….lung and a rib. Just…need a...little distraction...while they...work it out," he admitted.

"Oh, well! Should I turn on the radio?" Dean offered, graciously, and reached for the knob.

"I said…distraction, Dean. Not a…headache."

Dean harrumphed a little, but put his hand back on the steering wheel.

"What can I do, then?" he asked sincerely..

"I don't know," Sam admitted. "Just…talk to me."

Dean glanced at his brother, recognizing the pallor and the firmly set jaw, the deep furrow in the forehead, the clenching and unclenching of a fist on his leg — all clear signs of Sammy in pain. And not just pain. A LOT of pain. And that was after the pain killers and whiskey. "Talk to you, got it," Dean nodded. "That's good, actually, because this discussion of witches reminds me, there's something I need to talk to you about."

"Witches reminded you…" Sam looked at him incredulously. "How the...hell…."

"Bodily fluids reminded me," Dean corrected.

"Oh, god," Sam scrunched his eyes closed and shook his head. "Just…never mind. I'm...good with the...silence."

"Nope!" Dean beamed. "Gonna distract you, Sammy. For your own good."

"Aw, hell," Sam breathed. "Okay, Dean. What? What about…Jesus…bodily fluids…do we need to...talk about?"

"Well," Dean began. "For starters, I need to ask you a question."

"Ugh. Okay. Ask," Sam agreed with as close to a long-suffering sigh as he could manage with only one working lung.

"Did you mean what you said to Dad?"

"I've said...a lot of...shit to Dad," Sam admitted. "You'll need to be a…little more…specific."

"When you said…what you said," Dean began nervously. "About me and Bobby."

Sam frowned for a second, then turned to face his brother's profile as Dean stared purposefully through the windshield at the dawn beginning to lighten the road ahead. "You mean…that you're my...real Dad?" Sam asked softly, and smiled when Dean just nodded quickly. "Every fuckin' word," he assured his brother.

"Okay," Dean nodded decisively, and gave another dramatic sigh. "Okay. If that's the case, little brother, I've been doing a piss-poor job of it."

"Wha…no, you haven't!" Sam insisted. "Dean, you've been…" Sam trailed off as he thought back to the million or so times in his life that Dean had taught him, encouraged him, supported him. Patched him up, calmed him down. Fed him, played with him, punished him. Made him feel better when he was sick, made him feel better when he was depressed. Hell, some days just made him feel, at all. Just…Loved him.

"Awesome," Sam finally said softly. "You've been awesome."

Dean glanced at him, and Sam was pleased to see a little moist shine in the green eyes that he knew he could match.

"Yeah, well," Dean said and cleared his throat. "There's one area where I've fallen down."

"There's not."

"There is. You have not been spreading your…Bodily Fluids," Dean said firmly, and watched his brother out of the corner of his eye, catching the exact moment when Sammy's expression changed from confusion, to understanding, and finally — as Dean had meant it to — to disgust.

"Dean! EW!"

Dean bit hard on the inside of his left cheek, to keep a straight face. "You're 17, Sammy."

"Just!"

"17," Dean repeated sternly, "and to date, you have never exchanged any significant fluids with a girl. Have you?"

"Jesus, Dean!"

"Worse still," Dean continued in a voice full of tragedy, talking over a softly muttered nothing could be worse than this conversation, "it's two weeks to the Junior Prom, and you have nothing."

Sam blinked, confused again.

"No tux," Dean enumerated, counting off with the fingers of his right hand, "no date, no plans. You don't even have a hotel room!" Dean finished, completely indignant, pointing at Sam in frustration.

"What are…? The hell would I need a hotel room for?" Sam sputtered.

Dean checked the road again, and turned to face his brother for a moment, shaking his head sadly. "Oh, Sammy. I have so let you down," he said in a tone that would only have been appropriate for explaining how he'd run over the family dog. If they'd ever had a dog. "You not only don't have a hotel room lined up, you don't even know why you should have a hotel room lined up! For Prom! Where did I go wrong?" he wondered, shaking his head sadly as he returned his attention to the road. "I've raised a…a…Virgin!" He spat the word out and shuddered slightly.

"I'm only 17," Sam reminded him, scathingly, the full bitch face making another appearance.

"Not just a virgin," Dean continued, a catch in his voice, "but I think I raised a prude, as well. How?" he wondered, fake tears in his voice. "HOW? It's not as if I haven't given you a good example, god knows."

"Good," Sam frowned, "is not how I would describe your example. Not in this department."

"You can't even say it, can you?" Dean shook his head and heaved a deep sigh. "I have let you down."

"I can…" Sam began and then huffed out an angry breath…without wincing, Dean noticed. "Sex! Okay?" he half-yelled. "I can say it."

Dean nodded. "You can," he agreed solemnly. "I'm proud of you, Samantha."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "I think this conversation is over," he decided, and crossed his arms, looking out the passenger window.

Silence ticked by, a minute or a mile at a time.

"Sam?" Dean said softly, when he thought sufficient time had passed, and just 2 miles from what a sign said was lodging.

"What!"

"How's the lung?"

"I'M…" he started to snap, then stopped and blinked. He uncrossed his arms and turned slowly to face his brother, his eyes wide with astonishment. "It's fine," he admitted and laughed. "It's fine! Dean, you…" Sam smiled his biggest my-big-brother-is-amazing, full dimpled smile. "Just…Thank you."

"You wanted distraction," Dean shrugged and grinned. "Hey, there's the hotel," he noted and pulled into the parking lot of a Holiday Inn.

"Dean, this is…we can't…"

"I have a job, Sammy," Dean reminded. "We can. Tonight. We can," he said firmly and pulled up under the canopy. He slipped the Impala into park, and got out to get them a room.

Sam watched his brother walk into the lobby. "Awesome," he whispered.

He wasn't talking about the hotel.

========SPN=======SPN=====SPN

A/N

Mount Moriah Cemetery is a real historic cemetery in Deadwood, SD. It is the burial place of American Wild West legend, James Butler "Wild Bill" Hickok. Martha Jane "Calamity Jane" Cannary is buried next to him. (Once I found that out, I had to indulge Dean's love of all things Old West and set the cemetery scene there.) My descriptions of the Cemetery and its surrounds, as well as Zebediah Bourke and his legend, are purely fictional, however.

Again, all Latin is derived from my own English phrases, translated through an app. The Latin to burn Zebediah is translated from:

Heat of earth

Heat of heaven Above

Heat of Hell below

Come now to burn

And set alight these cursed bones

Take these remains to ashes

Take thee to hell

Zebediah Bourke

In fire and flame and damnation

Burn you bastard burn

The Latin to refill the grave is translated from:

You have covered the dead

Until you were set aside

From your duties

Return to your place

And cover the ashes of the dead

Once more forever

When he mentions flooding and calls Sam Mickey, Dean is referring to the Mickey Mouse cartoon The Sorcerer's Apprentice, part of the Disney feature film Fantasia, in which Mickey uses a spell to have a broom, mop and buckets clean for him, and things get out of hand.

For those not in the U.S., Prom is a formal (but not fancy dress, for you Brits) dance that many High Schools throw in the late spring every year. Sometimes there is one for Juniors (still have one more year to go before graduating) and Seniors (will graduate this year), but in many locations there's a combined dance for both grades (levels). I don't actually know what the High Schools in Sioux Falls do, so I just wung it.

Also, quick question for the other writers out there - do y'all read your dialog out loud, in different voices, and change the punctuation based on the way it's naturally said? Or are you not obsessive?

Also also, nobody has figured out what was gunning for Sam, I'm a little surprised, I thought I had some good clues in there! Oh, well, all will (eventually) be revealed.

Souless666 - glad I was able to surprise you! Here's more! Chapter 15 is shaping up to be either really long and hard, or super short and easy (some time jumping, and I'm not sure if each part will be a new chapter, or if I'll string them together.). Thanks SO MUCH for the encouragement and reviews!

nightrider67 - I'm very relieved that I didn't telegraph the witch thing too much (which is why I shortened the title!) I also always thought Sam was a natural witch - he seemed so much more comfortable with spells, etc than Dean, and then, of course, there's his relationship with Rowena (she was right, they had grown fond of each other!) So glad you like the way I'm handling it.

Please do comment!