AN: Hello all, apologies this is late this week. Me and my brain have been cooperating with each other about as well as John and Sam. Anyway, here's the next chapter :)

Chapter 4: Semantics

The Hunter's Tomb, New Haven, Kentucky

Caleb would kiss a ghoul before he'd admit it but, at this moment, he'd actually prefer babysitting to hunting. Or at least he'd prefer hanging out with Deuce to reading through yet another big boring lore book.

"These books cover all known creophagies we hunt," Mac had instructed, after he complained about why he had to read what seemed like an entire wall of books.

"What's that in English?" Caleb asked.

"Flesh eaters," John explained. "Ones that kill mostly for food, like werewolves, vampires, vetala …" he waved a hand indicating 'and so on'. "Of course, that doesn't stop the sick freaks getting up to all kinds of other nasty crap."

"Got it, the guzzlers," Caleb nodded. He and Dean had reviewed the titles and some contents of the books in the Tomb pretty thoroughly and given the sections their own names. Hearing Mac's term for the section he was glad they had. This current book didn't seem to be in any language known to man, yet his father had insisted he check it for images or notes that may be of help anyway.

The teen was aware there was an undercurrent of tension between the Knight and Scholar. He could feel the looks that were carefully masked any time he lifted his head but were being exchanged like blows when he wasn't looking. He wasn't certain of the reason but he strongly suspected it was something to do with him.

For years now, the only thing he'd wanted was to be a hunter, to join the Brotherhood and get his very own ring. He'd been on several actual hunts. Although these were mostly with John, that didn't make it safe or mean that Caleb was outside of the action. Admittedly the first time he'd been thrown by a spirit had been terrifying, though not nearly as terrifying as the first time he'd seen his mentor thrown.

Caleb's face collapsed in horror as he watched the indomitable John Winchester hit a wall and slide to the floor. He blinked, barely able to take in the impossible picture before him. But John didn't get up, he didn't even move. Something ignited inside Caleb that he didn't know was there. Even years later, he never did figure out if he was driven more by anger or fear but both were present.

He'd swung his iron bar through the spirit with a fury, the vindication of seeing it disintegrate was short lived. He knew it would be back. Cold air prickled at his skin and he swiped again even though there was no sign of the ghost. He could feel eyes on him and he swung his weapon again and again. The ache in his arms, the gasps for air from both adrenaline and effort, meant nothing. All he could think was he was going to make damn sure the thing couldn't get near the fallen Marine. Until, breathless and sweaty, he'd felt a large strong hand settle on his shoulder.

"Easy there, Junior, I'm good."

Caleb had nearly dropped to his knees, relieved to know John was okay, and that he was not alone in this battle.

"Are you okay?"

John had just chuckled. "It's just a bump, nothing to worry about, comes with the job."

Then there had been the disastrous hunt last month with Sawyer, Hastings, and Fisher. It had been a harsh lesson to discover that it wasn't only the things they hunt that he had to worry about. In the aftermath, Caleb had been terrified they'd stop him hunting completely and there had been a lot of tension regarding what happened.

So, when they had entered the tomb that morning and John had first explained they needed his help on a hunt, Caleb's chest had filled with pride and relief. More than anything he wanted to prove himself. To start with he'd researched diligently, making notes and putting forth suggestions. His dad and John would ask questions and suggest checks. So far, they had discredited every theory he'd proposed, but he jumped right back in, looking for the next idea. They could hardly accuse him of slacking.

However, after hours of this, and with nothing to show but a long list of what the monster wasn't, his enthusiasm had waned. He tried to take a break, suggesting they stop for food. John had left the Tomb and Caleb was subjected to a lecture reminding him of what was riding on the work they were doing and what would happen if they couldn't stop this thing. Then John had returned with a plate of slapped-together sandwiches and the research had continued.

Caleb tried to force his brain to focus. He knew that not finding an answer or giving the wrong information could cost lives. The pressure was making his head foggy and he didn't understand how John and Mac could sit there so calmly, under the circumstances. Did they already have the answers? Was this just some sort of test?

Reading them was no good, getting through the blocks of either wasn't easy, and pretty much impossible when they were expecting it. Besides, there was absolutely no way to even attempt it without them knowing and that was unlikely to end well for him. His reflexive brush against their minds when he'd first started had earned him a disappointed frown from his father and a clip around the ear from his mentor.

"It would be easier to work out what we're dealing with if I just went there," he complained, closing the large book with a thud. "I bet I could pick up on it, or I could read suspects to see what they're hiding." He knew what the answer would be, the same one as the last four times he'd tried to make this argument.

"You want to risk a confrontation with an unknown creature?" Mac queried.

"No," Caleb said sulkily, not entirely sure this was true. "But I'm definitely more suited to the field than all this nerd stuff." Mac was looking stern; John was looking amused. "I mean, third hand reports and sketchy descriptions are hardly reliable," Caleb focused on his mentor who for once seemed the less likely of the two to start yelling.

"Third hand reports and a sketchy description are more than we usually have, Kid," John said. "This is the job. If you want to hunt, you have to learn how to identify what you're hunting and how to kill it. Especially when there isn't much to go on and one of our own is out there on the line. You're only as good as your intel, right?"

"Being part of the Brotherhood means pulling your weight and helping others with what they need, not just doing the parts you prefer," Mac added.

"So get on with it before your daddy starts another lecture that won't help Bobby kill this freak but might kill us." John tapped the next book before Caleb, redirecting his attention.

SPNBROAU

Pastor Jim's Farm, New Haven, Kentucky

Dean sat at the table scowling at his workbook. He had tried to encourage his little brother to play in the living room, but Sam had insisted that he wanted to play in the kitchen. It was hard to concentrate with his ongoing jabber drifting up. Sam had set up an 'underworld', or at least 'under-the-table-world', and was currently trying to attach WooBee and Dean's Chicago Wolves t-shirt stuffed with a tea-towel, to the collar of Atticus Finch. Apparently, he was creating his own Cerberus. The ever-patient Retriever was suffering the pulling and twisting with little more than the occasional lick of the little boy's face.

"When you have three heads you will be able to do all your favourite things at once," Sam told him.

Next to Dean's workbook was the list written out by his father. Since his teacher had said Dean was 'worryingly behind' in his reading and writing, John had been writing out a lot of lists. Lists of jobs that Dean needed to do to counteract the laziness he had developed. Top of the list was school. John hadn't even bothered to look at most of the assignments set by the teacher to 'help him catch up'.

It had been the compromise offered by Dean's teacher after John had adamantly rejected the idea of Dean joining the special group for children that needed extra help. John had insisted that Dean just needed to work harder and that he would ensure that he did.

Dean scowled at the list of words from his teacher that he was supposed to look up, write out, and then use in a sentence. His eyes then drifted miserably to his vague attempts to do so.

Enough – You can never have enough rock salt.

Sight – Focus on the front sight when shooting things.

Pressure – You need to put pressure on bleeding wounds.

Breath – Ghosts make it so cold you can see your breath.

Heart – If the heart is missing it is probably a werewolf.

Fluid - Lighter fluid is good for burning dead bodies.

People – Ghouls take the form of people they eat.

Laughter –

Sammy giggled under the table and Dean sighed. He'd need to throw it out and make a proper list. Dad would be furious if he saw it. It was never good when the school called his dad. Although Dean had the distinct impression it was the inconvenience of having to spend time dealing with whatever-it-was that bugged his dad more than whatever Dean was supposed to have done wrong. Tearing the page from his workbook, he screwed it up and pitched the balled-up paper towards the bin in the corner. It missed and Atticus broke from Sam to 'fetch'. Well, 'claim and run off with'.

"You're supposed to be a Retriever not a … a …" But Dean didn't know a word for the opposite of retrieve. He supposed that's what came of being stupid. He slammed his book closed.

Sam crawled out from under the table and looked hopefully up at his brother. "Are you done? Can we play now? What were you doing? Why did it take so long?" Dean held still for a moment, forcing down his irritation and summoning his patience. He looked at the long list of chores that were still left. Rule one was watch Sammy but he knew that wouldn't get him out of following the other instructions Dad had left.

Dean smiled for his brother. "We can play a game but it's out in the barn, so you'll need your outdoor stuff."

Sam grinned and half-ran half-danced away to get his coat and boots. Atticus was in the corner chewing on the assignment paper as Dean crawled under the table to clean up the mess Sam had left, trying desperately to think of a game that allowed him to muck out the horse stalls while keeping Sam from finding mischief.

SPNBROAU

Bloomington, Indiana

Bobby stood watching as the ambulance pulled away, then he steered Geoffrey away from the police that were now swarming over their colleague's house. The paramedics had called them. Luckily, Price had been bragging about his involvement in some big FBI case so Bobby and Geoffrey's presence hadn't raised too many questions, yet. Bobby had been quick to reassure the officers that the attack on Price was strictly the locals' jurisdiction and he wouldn't interfere. The locals were just happy the FBI were stepping back and didn't press the issue. Still Bobby figured it was best he and Geoffrey make themselves scarce before anyone started getting curious.

"Do you think he knew something and the monster went after him before he could tell us?" Geoffrey asked once they were clear of the cops.

"No," Bobby said.

Geoffrey looked a little affronted at the brusqueness.

"Firstly, it ain't knew, it's knows – the cop ain't dead. Which is why I'm pretty sure stopping him from telling us something wasn't what this was about. It would have killed him outright if it was."

"Huh, I didn't think about that." Geoffrey was getting that sappy admiration look on his face again. Bobby didn't have any sense the kid was hurt or upset, but still, he felt he should say something. He turned to look the youngster in the eye.

"I'm er … sorry, about before."

"Before?" Geoffrey looked genuinely baffled.

"Calling you Goofy, I shouldn't have done that." Based on his experiences with the other boys, he was expecting a frown, moody silence, or a smartassed response. Anything but the laughter that burst forth.

"Yeah, that was weird, I haven't heard that since my dad …" Geoffrey trailed off, nostalgia in his eyes. "He always said I was his little Goofball."

"When did you lose him?" Bobby asked, reading the expression.

Geoffrey's face turned serious. "Two years ago."

"And was it … supernatural?" Bobby asked as sensitively as he could manage.

Geoffrey shook his head. "Cancer."

"Damn, that sucks, Kid," Bobby said. Not sure what else he could say. He found himself wondering how the kid ended up hunting but now was not the time to ask.

There was an awkward pause then Bobby nodded towards the car.

"So now what?" Geoffrey asked as they got in.

"Well, I still don't know what it is, but I got a better idea of what it ain't." Geoffrey's eyes questioned him. "Whatever this thing is, it ain't a guzzler," Bobby said.

"What's a guzzler?"

"It's what the rugrats call the creophagous section of the lore library. The flesh-eaters," he added when Geoffrey looked blank.

"But it ate their tongues."

"Yeah, but not for food," Bobby said. He ran his expert eyes over the scene one last time then started the car. "Besides, that flash means this thing can teleport. Only a few things can do that and none of them kill humans for food."

"Whoa," Geoffrey said, impressed.

As Bobby made his way back to the motel they were staying in, Geoffrey was musing. Bobby assumed over the case until, predictably, he started waffling again.

"It's kinda weird thinking of kids reading about all this. When I was a kid, it was Roald Dahl."

"Witches, telekinesis, giants eating kids," Bobby smirked at him. "Not really seeing the difference, except our books are more accurate."

Bobby had been kidding but Geoffrey considered the point seriously.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. And the message is the same."

"Message?"

"Monsters can be fought, right? My dad was very much in the 'monsters don't exist' camp. He meant well but it didn't make me feel better when I was scared of them."

"My dad was the monster," Bobby huffed under his breath. Geoffrey looked at him so Bobby quickly cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Anyway, we need to update the Scholar and redirect our research. I just wish I knew what Price had been planning to tell us. But we won't get in to see him for a while and even when we do it's not like he can talk to us."

"Well," Geoffrey said, looking a little guilty.

"Well, what?"

"I did get these," he pulled out several police files from under his shirt.

"What the hell is that?"

"I saw them in a drawer when I was using the phone."

Bobby eyed them in surprise. "You're saying that while I was ass-deep in blood and gore, fighting to keep that guy alive, you were looting his joint?" Bobby wasn't sure whether to be irritated or impressed. "When you weren't too busy flinching at drops of blood, that is."

Geoffrey shrugged. "I saw the files and thought they might be useful," he said, somewhere between defensive and scared.

Bobby stared at the youngster for a moment. Geoffrey had beads of sweat on his brow and still looked slightly green. Up close was when you really appreciated how young some of these kids were, and not just in years. Bobby took a deep breath. "OK, here's the deal, lives first, everything else after that, got it?"

"OK." Geoffrey nodded enthusiastically.

"But you know what?"

"What?"

"You did OK."

Geoffrey beamed at him. "So does that mean I can keep the nickname?"

"You want me to call you Goofy?"

"Yeah. I actually thought it was a compliment," he grinned sheepishly and rubbed his head with embarrassment.

"You did?"

"Yeah. Fisher said you all had nicknames for each other, so I figured …" He shrugged.

Bobby had to chuckle. "Well, I guess that's true enough but none of 'em are what you'd call compliments."

Goofy was looking sappy again.

"Yeah, yeah, alright," Bobby groused, looking away and starting the engine. "Let's see what you got. Then I'll call Mac."

SPNBROAU

The Hunter's Tomb, New Haven, Kentucky

Mac was perched on the back of one of the solid carved wooden chairs, the phone to his ear. John picked up on a change of tone and looked up from his pile of notes. As Mac continued to speak into the receiver, something about the tension in his face told the Knight there had been a worrying change in the case.

"And he was into espionage? You're sure?" Mac said into the phone.

John watched him, listening intently.

There was a pause, then, "very well, we'll start looking. Just be careful. If you are correct, regular weapons won't work on whatever this is." There was another pause. "I understand. Keep us updated." Mac hung up the phone.

John continued to watch him, waiting to hear what Bobby had said. Caleb wandered back into the room, his mouth bursting with pie and a second slice in his hand. Seeing the shocked look on his father's face, he went into defensive mode.

"What? I needed brain food," he managed to mumble through his stuffed mouth.

Mac gave his son a chiding look then turned his attention back to John. "They went to meet the officer, but they were too late."

"Too late?"

"Whatever they're hunting got there first."

"He's dead?" John's anger was palpable. He took every loss as a personal failure, even if he wasn't on the hunt.

"No," Mac said grimly, "but he is missing his tongue."

"Damnit." John shook his head as Caleb swallowed hard to clear his mouth of pie.

"I could go there," he said instantly. "I could read him."

"No!" John and Mac said together.

"But he'll have seen it and if he can't talk –"

"I said no," John ordered.

Caleb eyed them resentfully.

"Also, this thing can teleport," Mac continued to John as if there hadn't been an interruption.

"But he doesn't think it's," John's eyes darted briefly to Caleb, "a demon?"

Caleb felt his heart drop. Since the revelation that it wasn't just any demon whose blood was supposedly in his veins, but the demon that had killed Mary Winchester, he'd been waiting for that shoe to drop. There was no way that John knew about it. If he did, he'd never have allowed Caleb near the boys. And if he found out, then what?

"It's unlikely," Mac was saying, shaking his head. "I can't see a demon stopping with just the tongue. Plus, Bobby says he saw a bright flash, the few demons we know about that can teleport just blink out."

John nodded, his mind running through what they had so far, reconsidering previous notes based on this new information.

"So that leaves us what?" Caleb huffed.

Mac kept his attention on John. "Bobby's pretty sure we're dealing with a zealot."

The 'zealots' category was things that tended to be mission oriented. For example, certain vengeful spirits, protective nymphs, and pagan gods. Anything that targeted its victims based on a particular criteria.

"Why?" John asked. Ignoring the way Caleb flopped irritatedly down at the table, throwing dark looks at both them and the now apparently useless books he'd spent all morning reading.

"The only connection from victim one to victim two was that vic two was the officer investigating vic one's case."

"So it moved on to the next target in proximity who fitted whatever profile this thing goes after," John followed the reasoning.

"Exactly. Some sort of deity perhaps," Mac said, his eyes now running over a different section of books. "There were teleporters among the old Norse, Greek and Roman gods, even the Egyptian ones – of course several were the same entity just posing as whatever would work on the people they were manipulating."

"And those freaks do tend to have weird fetishes. But does that mean someone summoned it?" Anger flashed in John's eyes.

"It is likely that it was invoked by some sort of ritual or talisman," Mac theorised pragmatically. "But most cases like this we've seen, the people had no idea that they were actually summoning anything."

"So we're looking for what draws this fucker in?"

"It turns out victim one was into some sort of corporate espionage. Bobby's following up on that now," Mac said. "Also, he mentioned roses."

They both looked back at Caleb. "Back to the books, Junior. We need to check –"

"The wackadoos, yeah, got it." Not only had he cut John off, he was looking hurt and sulky.

John knew exactly why. "Look kiddo, if you think we're letting some gomer recruit anywhere near a demon or a zealot of any kind without knowing exactly what we're up against, what it wants, and how to stop it, you're even stupider than you look. Even most ring-bearing hunters hand those off to someone more experienced."

Caleb's eyes scanned John's face for a moment. As he thought about it, he realised this was true. John just thought he was a rookie, not a … He forced the thought away with a smile at his mentor, whose armour was once again shiny to him. "Like you?" he grinned.

John shook his head; give the kid a compliment and he gets defensive, insult him and he's chuffed.

"Or like Bobby, who is already there," Mac said, feeling John's ego didn't need the boost his son's admiration tended to give it. "So get back to work before this thing eats his tongue and leaves us bereft of his colourful contributions." Even so, his follow-up glance at John was grateful. The Knight's refusal to sugarcoat things could be a blessing at times.

SPNBROAU

Pastor Jim's Farm, New Haven, Kentucky

When Jim entered the barn that afternoon, Sam was kneeling on a hay bale, proclaiming to his royal subjects, who clucked and pecked at the ground around his throne.

"Having paid all your taxes, you now get this tax return." He threw a handful of grain.

During a previous visit, Jim had kindly helped explain to the curious four-year-old what a tax return was after a rant from Mac about the amount of paperwork he had to go through had led to the question. Apparently at least some of the information had stuck, even though John had smugly declared this was exactly why he didn't pay taxes.

Though the Pastor could not see the other junior Winchester, a disgruntled voice called out from within one of the stalls. "Kings don't give tax returns, Sammy. They keep all the money for themselves until the people rise up and chop their heads off."

"My subjects won't chop my head off, they love me," Sam said confidently, throwing more grain.

From Jim's position, he caught the mumble from within the stall about 'the subjects not knowing their king ate their children'. It was said too quietly for Sam to hear. Dean would never risk his little brother actually hearing the comment. It was bad enough that the four-year-old was currently refusing to eat lamb after an insensitively accurate comment from his Uncle Robert.

Spotting the new arrival, Sam quickly stood on the bale and then launched himself at the pastor with a gleeful cry of, "Pastor Jim."

Luckily Jim's reflexes were still sharp and he caught the child with a smile.

"Hello, my boy. Are you having fun?"

Dean's head popped up into view, his eyes sharp and cautious, relaxing slightly at the familiar form.

"Look Dean, Pastor Jim is back. Did you visit all your pariahs? I'm helping Dean. What are we having for dinner? I think we should have pie. Dean loves pie."

Jim smiled at Sam.

"It's parishioners, Sammy, and I told you, I don't need pie," Dean corrected. Dad had told him he wasn't allowed any treats until his teacher said he was all caught up. "Sorry Pastor Jim," he added with a glance and grimace that suggested he expected to be reprimanded.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Jim said kindly. "Do you need a hand?"

"No, thank you, Sir," Dean said. "I'm nearly done."

"Well then, why don't I take our young King here to wash up." At the very least he could relieve the older boy of his charge for a short while. Dean threw him a grateful smile then addressed his brother.

"No pestering Pastor Jim. He just got home from work. Anything you need can wait until I get there, okay?" Sam nodded enthusiastically, the dimpled grin entirely giving him away though. "I mean it, Sammy."

"I am sure we will be fine," Jim said, carefully placing the four-year-old on his feet and taking his hand.

By the time Dean joined them in the kitchen five minutes later, Sam was sitting at the table with milk and cookies. Another setting of the same was waiting for Dean. Meanwhile Jim was starting a new pie, having found a considerable amount missing from the one he'd previously baked.

SPNBROAU

AN: Hoping everyone is well. Thank you for reading, and please do drop me a note if you have time.