Changes + Sequel [Supernatural, M, 14 + 3 parts.]

[PortlandLove]

I found this story just now and it is awesome. PLEASE continue!

[BlueRandom]

Part Nine

The night was a velvet curtain to the cemetery when Dean returned to set the bones alight, pouring salt over the grave and tossing the lighter in after it. Flames rose dancing in front of him, and he found himself thinking about Sam: about the nightmares he knew were still plaguing his sleep. It didn't take a genius to figure out the reason behind Sam's newly increased defensiveness. He slung the shovel over his shoulder, carrying it back to the Impala where he stowed it away in the trunk. The car stereo was already tuned to play an AC/DC cassette, and Dean sang along with relish; making the most of the absence of an unenthusiastic passenger. He was still cheerful when he burst in through the motel room door, slamming it shut behind him. “Winchester one, dead guy – Sam?”

Sam was sitting huddled against the far wall, knees up to his chest and back against the peeling wallpaper, his head lowered onto his arms. He looked up for a moment, eyes glazed, then groaned and got cautiously to his feet. “You're back.”

“You, uh, okay?”

“You gotta stop asking me that.” He grimaced and started coughing, continuing way too long.

“Hey.” Dean's tone was warning, but his eyes were all concern. “Hey, Sasquatch. No passing out on me.”

Sam nodded, and coughed again; easing down into a crouch position to brace one hand on the floor.

“How come you never just get a freaking cold?” Dean dropped down next to his brother, rubbing circles on his back through the grey hoodie. “Monster attacks: no problem. One crappy virus, and you're gone. Up you get, kiddo.” He kept one hand resting on Sam's shoulder: Sam was dizzy and unsteady, and nearly had them both crashing into the dresser.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, okay. Let's concentrate on walking, alright?” He waited for Sam to collapse onto the bed, then slid a hand under the bangs that were damp with sweat across his forehead. “Jesus.”

“I'm okay.” He was still coughing, deep and harsh, into his pillow.

“Uh huh.” Dean eyed him skeptically, rinsing out a washcloth in the bathroom and returning to slip it onto Sam's head. “I think we'll just leave that there anyway.”

Sam started to shift uncomfortably, his nose scrunching up in irritation. Dean pressed his hand over the washcloth, keeping it in place, as Sam rolled onto his side and sneezed openly towards the floor. “Huhr'EHSHYEw!”

“If you didn't look so pathetic, I'd have a problem with that.” Dean supposed he must be pretty out of it to be so unashamedly disgusting. Remembering something, he pulled a bottle of Nyquil from his pocket. “By the way, the woman at reception gave me this for you when I was heading out. She thinks you look like you need it.”

“You look like you need it.”

“Nice comeback. If you hadn't been wandering around like a kicked puppy in the rain ...”

“Whatever.” Sam put his own hand up to the washcloth, so Dean could remove his, and started to sit up. Dean shoved him back straight away, not particularly gently, and watched him threateningly until Sam backed down. “So are we leaving town later?”

“No, we're staying here to check that everything's squeaky clean for a few days. Besides, no offence, but you look nasty.”

“What if there's another case?”

“I guess we'll leave it to some other hunter until my snotty kid brother gets back on his feet.”

Sam looked as though he was going to protest against this level of condescension, but instead yanked the front of his hoodie up over the lower part of his face. “Huhh'KSHhoo! Hu'uh … uh'CHSHEWw!”

“Remind me not to borrow anything of yours any time soon.”

The younger guy resurfaced, kneading the heel of his hand against his watering eyes, and moaned in the way that meant sheer exasperation. For a moment, Dean wanted to ruffle his hair and scoop him up like he'd done when Sam was a kid, tell him it would be over in a few days. It was a pretty short-lived moment.

“You want to stop being so whiny?”

Sam tried to thump him with the pillow, which brought on another burst of coughing. Dean sighed and went to fetch a tumbler of water from the bathroom, setting it down on the end table beside the bed. Sam had perched on the edge of the mattress to catch his breath, feet planted on the floor and elbows supported on his thighs, noticeably flushed now.

“Looks like you're having trouble there, cupcake.”

“Give it a rest, Dean.”

“You're really not feeling great, are you?”

Reluctantly, Sam shook his head. Dean could almost feel the heat coming off him, see the buildup of sleepless nights in the dark smudges under his eyes. He was very aware that Sam would sometimes complain about things for the sake of it, and for the annoyance it afforded Dean, but was also more than capable of hiding when he was actually troubled. If he wouldn't come clean about the nightmares following his girlfriend's death, at least he was admitting to this. Dean suspected the fever had a good deal to do with it: Sam's eyes were a little too bright, angled up at him from his hunching position. It was absurd, how he could turn something as straightforward as a cold into some kind of chick flick drama.

Then again; there was nothing straightforward about Sam.

* * *

** Back to later. **

Sam had a tendency to do that, mused Dean, watching his brother flinch and massage his forehead: be more or less alright one minute, and the next, crumple. Sometimes he missed the way Sam used to be, especially at moments such as these. Dean had known how to deal with his bashful younger version.

“You know, you shouldn't be so smug.” Sam's speech sounded congested and thick, but he propped himself up on an elbow to meet Dean's eye.

“Yeah? Why not, Snuffles?”

“I wasn't the first one to get sick that year.”

* * *

Edited November 13, 2013 by BlueRandom

[Sawyer]

I've been waiting for this! I love your updates always. Poor sweet Sam with that cough and sneezing into his hoodie and feeling so crappy and looking so pathetic, and Dean poking at him and teasing him and calling him "cupcake"... you are so familiar with their characters, and like, their way of speech and everything... all of what you do just reads exactly like an episode! It's really amazing! And it makes the content that much better because I feel like it's all canon. And wow! ANOTHER flashback?? Two-in-one? With Dean this time? You're spoiling us. I'm so excited for the next part... but then again, I say that every time... even though it's always true! You're the best!

[Always-a-Ginger]

What a great update. SO well done. You truly are spoiling us

[Zwee]

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD AN UPDATE GAH!

SO adorable. I honestly can't.

I love playful season one Dean and he can't just be serious for five seconds and he's cracking so many jokes because that's EXACTLY season one Dean (and pretty much always Dean) and then Sammy is just like "Give it a rest" and Dean's like "Oh, crap, he's actually pretty sick..." And just aw aw aw aw aw feverish Sammy!! GAHHHH.

AND NOW IT'S GOING TO BE BOTH OF THEM OOOOHHHHHH

[BlueRandom]

Part Ten

** Several years before, a few weeks earlier. **

Sam looked at him, curiously. He hadn't seen Dean sick in years. Then again, he hadn't seen Dean in years, period. If it had been anyone else, he would have described him as looking slightly vulnerable: but somehow he couldn't align the description with his brother. Dean's lips were redder than usual, or his face was just paler; and his voice, rough around the edges, was a little lower and more gentle. He was humming to the radio out of tune, breaking off occasionally to wipe his nose on the sleeve of his navy blue shirt.

“Heh'TSCHhh!” The sound broke the trepid silence inside the Impala, followed by Dean clearing his throat offhandedly. “So, this no-case situation. You found anything yet?”

“Dean, we've been in the car for the past four hours. How do you expect me to be doing research?”

The older guy shrugged, then turned the dial to lower the volume on the radio. “We're coming into a town in a few minutes. I'll give Bobby a call, see if he's got wind of something in the area.” He sniffled and squinted upwards, unfocused, before bringing his fist up to his face. “Hrr'KSHSH! Damnit.”

“Can you quit spreading your germs?”

“Don't know what you mean.”

“I mean that it's like being stuck in a tin can with the swine flu.” Sam looked across at his brother, reproachful.

“Dude, I'm peachy. Or I would be if you'd give it up with all the bitching.” He concentrated once more on the steering wheel. “Hey; I see streetlights.”

They checked into the second motel they came to, as the first was too pricey for the credit card Dean was currently using. Sam thought wistfully of his life at Stanford, before checking himself: the time for nostalgia was over. He raked the pockets of his jeans for change. “You want a Coke?”

“Nah.”

When he returned from the vending machine, he found Dean sitting on the edge of the motel room bed, one hand cupped over his mouth and nose, index finger bent and eyes narrowed.

“You okay?” Sam asked, with some irony in his voice.

“Hnn.” Dean grunted, clearly preoccupied. “Uh …” His eyelashes were long; something that was more obvious, Sam noted, when his eyes were half-lidded in desperation. “H'ihh!” Dean stopped mid-sneeze, mouth open for a second before he relaxed. “Son of a … I hate that.” He stretched out a kink in his neck, and changed the subject. “So how are you liking being back on the road, Sammy?”

Sam tensed, sensing the topic of his dead girlfriend lurking behind Dean's words, and measured out his response carefully. “It's good to have some kind of direction again.”

Dean looked sideways at him, but dropped the conversation.

“You want me to get hold of Bobby?” asked Sam, after a minute.

“I'll do it.” Dean picked up the cellphone, and dialled Bobby's number. Then he held it arm's length from his face, the call tone clearly audible through the speaker, his expression contorting. “Hehh'KTCHSHh!”

“Bless you,” Sam put in; but Dean shushed him irritably, waving a hand to push him away.

“Bobby?” Some muted mumbling through the phone line. “Yeah, this is Dean. No, it's okay – we just wrapped up a hunt.”

Sam wandered over to the dresser, flicking disinterestedly through the selection of coffee packets and barely listening to the sound of Dean talking. It always made him anxious when the cell was occupied: he knew the chances of their father calling were minimal, but the slim possibility scratched at his mind nonetheless. He felt Dean punch him in the ribs and turned, annoyed, to see his brother shoving the phone blindly towards his hand. Dean was wincing at the ceiling, his mouth hanging open.

“Dean? You still there?”

“Hey, Bobby; it's me.”

“Hn'CSHhh!” The necklace bounced on Dean's chest, as he jerked forwards again. “Huh … hh'KHSHh!”They were louder than the allergy-type sneezes, and a little rougher; like he was trying to hold them back.

“Oh, Sam. I guess that's Dean exploding back there?”

“Yep. Sounding good, right?”

“Huh. I was going to ask if you boys were stopping by, but on second thought ...”

Dean had regained his composure, and was lounging against the table while he waited for Sam to wrap up the call. His nose was so goddamn itchy, and Sam was looking at him with those awful puppy dog eyes. How had college failed to knock that out of him? He gripped his shoulder with the opposite hand, bracing himself against the unsteadying rush and angling the crook of his arm up to his face. “Ehh ...”

Sam hung up and watched him, suppressing a smile as he thought how evident it was that Dean liked to have control at all times.

“Eh'HTSCHh!” Dean shook his head like a dog coming out of water, sniffled, and looked blearily up at Sam. “So nothing from Bobby.” He sounded hoarse again, another few semitones deeper.

“We'll find a case sooner or later.” Sam spotted a newspaper lying just behind the door, and went to check the date on it.

“Sure; no hurry. The monsters'll hang around until we're ready for them.”

“This paper's from a couple of days ago: you can check the obituaries. Or I can. Maybe you could do with a couple of days off from hunting.”

“If you're getting at something, spit it out.”

“I don't know why you can't just admit that you're sick.”

“Stop fussing, Sam. You always were a freaking drama queen.”

Sam scoffed, indignantly. “When we were kids and it was me, you used to practically lock me indoors.”

“That's 'cos it's obvious when you're sick. You get all limp and mopey and generally fucking useless. I can take care of myself.” Dean swiped his sleeve across his nose, and grinned at his brother. “And you.”

* * *

Edited December 4, 2013 by BlueRandom

[NorthernLady]

Sick Dean:) Me loves!

“Huh. I was going to ask if you boys were stopping by, but on second thought ...”

I can totally hear Bobby say that! Very in Character!

[ID2006]

There shall never be enough of sick Winchester boys

[BlueRandom]

Part Eleven

Dean was pissed, something Sam could remember all too well from when they were kids. He was sneezing a fair amount, which in Dean's world went hand in hand with curse words. “Huh'KTCHh! Fuck.” A short pause. “Got anything yet?”

“Just a headache from all the noise you're making.”

“Someone's freakin' bitchy.”

“Yeah, well; at least I'm quiet and bitchy.”

Dean mimicked his voice for a moment, exaggerating its petulance. Sam tried to restrain his aggravation, failed, and turned back to his brother with a retort on his tongue; only to find him with cupped hands hovering a little in front of his nose. “Hh'EHKHSChh! Goddamnit ...”

“Hah. Bless you.”

“Hah?”

Sam shrugged, smirking. Dean sounded less vocal than he himself did when he sneezed; sharper, not quite as drawn-out and urgent. He liked to notice the subtle differences between them, where their characters asserted themselves in unexpected ways: he knew Dean, on the other hand, still viewed a sick younger brother as something he was personally responsible for fixing. His family had constantly been trying to fix Sam.

“Fine. I'm going to go see that secretary.”

“The one from the local paper, claiming she saw the ghost of her old professor? There's nothing there, Dean, just another nutjob. How many of those cases turn out to be anything for us?”

“We've got nothing else to do – might as well check out a potential lead or two. Anyway,” he jingled the car keys suggestively. “She might be cute.”

“I hope she's got a pension,” Sam called after him, as he flipped the keys into his palm and left the room.

The secretary didn't have a pension; although the interview, as Sam had predicted, was a bust. Dean was starting to feel clammy and unwell – incovenient, but nothing he couldn't deal with – and by the time the front door opened, his nose was messing with him again. A large German Shepherd growled as he entered the house, and watched menacingly from a dog basket in the corner when he sat nervously on the couch opposite its owner. “Don't mind Sammy. He's very protective.”

“Sammy, huh?” Dean smiled warily, his voice congested. “You know, I've got a brother called Sam.”

“Oh, really?” She was very pretty, young and strawberry-blonde, although her expression was a little disconcerting.

“Uh, yeah. Anyway, Ms. ...”

“Please, call me Lydia.”

“Sure, Lydia. Uh,” he stopped, jammed a fist against his nose and swung to the side. “Uh'TSCHSHh!” He was on the brink of swearing, when he recollected his suit and tie. “So, I understand you've been witnessing something unusual?”

“I suppose that would depend on your definition of unusual.” She launched into a description so cliché that Dean was surprised she didn't mention a bedsheet and wailing, and his assessment after a few minutes was that he was utterly wasting his time. He fidgeted for a while, then made his excuses and left. He passed three pharmacies on the way back to the motel and pulled into the third when it came into view: aspirin, just in case.

“Nothing?” Sam barely paused in his reading of something old, heavy and boring.

“Nothing. Dead end.”

“Was she cute?”

“In a nutjob kinda way.” Dean clicked a couple of his joints, knowing it would annoy his brother. Sam didn't rise to the bait, just pursed his lips and continued to read. Dean ran the hilt of his knife back and forth along the bed's headboard to make a clawing sound, then sneezed. “Heh'KTSCHNnh! Ugh, crap. Uh'CHSHh!”

Sam smiled, he couldn't help himself, and closed the book. “If you're interested at all, I think Bobby finally came up with a case.”

“In this part of the country?” Dean tried not to sound too hopeful.

“Nah, three states over. Looks like a skinwalker, or something similar.”

“We going to leave now?”

“Bobby's doing all the preliminary stuff; we should set off in the morning. We can't really get underway until someone's checked out the witnesses, and since Bobby's there already he said he'd make a start.”

“Oh. Okay.”

The alarm clock proclaimed two a.m. in glowing red numbers when Dean's eyes snapped open, unsure why but firmly awake. He reached underneath his pillow for the knife, allowing his vision to adjust as his pulse rate rose. He couldn't see any movement or hear any disturbance, and yet something was wrong.

“Dean?” It was then that he noticed Sam sitting on the edge of bed next to his, his face anxious and marks on his lower lip from where he'd been chewing at it.

“What's happened?”

“We're never going to find him, are we?”

Dad. Dean's stomach turned over: he had been waiting for this, and would have preferred to run into a werewolf pack. He coughed low in his throat, hearing himself answer in a voice that was still scratchy. “Dad'll know what he's doing. We'll get to him soon.”

“Not if he doesn't want to be found.”

I can't have this conversation, not now. He drew in a deep breath, turned his back on Sam as he popped an aspirin from the box in his jacket and swallowed it dry. He wondered how it always worked out with himself comforting Sam: even streaming with cold, Dean was the one to unequivocally play the mindful older sibling.

So he gave in. He sat down next to his brother and rumpled his hair, confidence on his face and doubt in his heart. “We have to keep going. Just keep on, like he taught us: follow the coordinates, and ...” He broke off, rolling his eyes. “Hep'KTCHHh!”

Sam frowned, and shook his head, smiling sadly. “You know what? Sometimes it's hard to take you seriously.”

* * *

Edited January 10, 2014 by BlueRandom

[Sawyer]

“Hah. Bless you.”

“Hah?”

Sam shrugged, smirking. Dean sounded less vocal than he himself did when he sneezed; sharper, not quite as drawn-out and urgent. He liked to notice the subtle differences between them, where their characters asserted themselves in unexpected ways: he knew Dean, on the other hand, still viewed a sick younger brother as something he was personally responsible for fixing. His family had constantly been trying to fix Sam.

You... you really get me. Loved this part. You always find new ways of writing and describing them that are perfectly tuned to what I want. I didn't even know I wanted it, but here you are. Like you're inside my brain. You're the best...

[BlueRandom]

You... you really get me. Loved this part. You always find new ways of writing and describing them that are perfectly tuned to what I want. I didn't even know I wanted it, but here you are. Like you're inside my brain. You're the best...

Aww thank you! I'm so glad you liked it. Here's the next bit!

Part Twelve

** A few weeks later. **

Sam coughed awkwardly, then when the coughing didn't stop he rolled over to muffle the sound in his pillow.

Dean chuckled, cracking open a beer from the pack he had loaded into the mini fridge. “Pathetic.”

“I hate you.” Sam's breath caught and he crossed his arms in front of him, facing his head down over them. “Huh'ih … huh … hn'UHSHhEW! Hehh'KSCHhuh!”

“Why do you sweat so much? I know you got a fever, but that's an abnormal amount of sweat.”

Sam laughed, his usual high pitched exclamation, although his voice broke at the end. “I forgot you just can't help yourself.”

“Anyway,” Dean settled himself on his own bed, tugging open Sam's laptop. “Things to be done.”

“I'll know if you're looking at porn.”

“Dude, please. Get your mind out of the gutter.” He began scrolling through pages of news articles. “Is it just me, or do we spend way too much time looking for monsters to hunt? I mean, there's crazy shit everywhere; you'd think they'd show themselves up more often.”

Sam just flicked his eyes to the ceiling, comforting his aching head with a hand that was too warm to do much good.

“If it's still hurting, there's aspirin in my jacket,” Dean told him, without removing his gaze from the computer screen.

“Thanks.” Sam swallowed two of the pills with another gulp of water from the tumbler, wondering when Dean had thought to buy them. He considered getting under the covers, suddenly cold, but decided against it. His jeans were covered in mud from the graveyard, for one thing, and the sheets in this place were fresher than usual. He still hadn't quite settled back into the rhythm of being on the road, and rolling in dirt wasn't appealing to him.

“So, the guy is dead.” Dean spoke almost casually, but the atmosphere in the room densened at once.

“What?”

“Horrocks. He died yesterday: apparently he fell down a flight of stairs.”

“Shit.” Sam sat up, coughing hard as he did so. “You mean he was murdered? But you salted the bones?”

“Doesn't mean it's over – wrong guy maybe, or the spirit had unfinished busines. An accident would be quite the coincidence. You've been out of this for too long, you know.” He flexed his knuckles, preparing himself. “Well, the spirit seems to be attached to the house, which gives us a place to start.”

Sam frowned at him, and wrinkled his nose. “I knew we should have talked to him before we went to the graveyard. We should get … uhh … get over to the … uhh'ih ...”

Dean quirked an eyebrow, smirking. “You can come with me if you finish that sentence.”

His brother gave him a sour look, its effect lessened by his straining eyelids. “Huh'ihh … huh'KSHhew!”

“Awh. Too bad.”

“That's hilarious, Dean. The house is huge: you can't search it and keep a look out at the same time.”

“I'll call Bobby.”

“He's twelve hours away.”

“Ten if he steps on the gas.”

“If we leave it too long, his relatives will be there to clear out the house. Or estate agents trying to prepare it for resale.” Sam was glaring at him, the stubborn law student visible in his face. “I'm okay. In case you don't remember, you and Dad would go on hunts in way worse condition when we were younger.”

“Yeah, well: you're not me or Dad. And when it was you, he always made sure you stayed behind.”

“Which was fine, when I was eight.”

“And it's more than fine when you're sweating and shivery and can't stand without getting dizzy. Don't think I haven't noticed your teeth rattling over there.” Dean drained his beer, setting it down on the desk with a thump and a satisfied sigh. “Just shut up and behave.”

“If the alternative is you going into some haunted death-trap alone, then I'll get over it.”

“Sam, you're not coming. And that's final.”

They entered the Horrocks' house a short while later, slipping past the yellow police tape with furtive looks around. Sam was still wearing the grey hoodie, but it no longer seemed to insulate enough; despite the warmth Dean could feel radiating from his brother across the short distance between them. They scanned the ground floor with the EMF meter, until they caught a wave of activity by a door that led to the basement. It was a small and dingy cellar with crumbling, fragile walls. Dean pulled out the pickaxe.

Sam stifled a sneeze, gave a low moan as his head pounded. Eight seconds passed: another covered-up sneeze, another noise of discomfort. Dean cuffed him around the head. “Don't do that.”

Sam winced, resentfully; then jerked forward. “Huh'hh ... huh'IHSHHhew!”

“G'bless you. Damnit, Sam.” They were pressed near enough together, Dean hacking away with the pickaxe and Sam slowly shoveling the rubble clear, that Dean could feel his large form quivering. “See if anything was buried in the fallout. Could be remains, maybe some keepsake from a victim. Or anything that could be a link between the killings.”

“I know; you don't have to tell me.” Sam's body tensed, and the clinking of the shovel stopped. “Huh'ihh … hh'HSHEWw!” He half-recovered, then found himself caught in another sneeze. “Hah'CHSHHh-uh!” He lost his balance, and the shovel slipped to the ground with a ringing that echoed around them.

Swearing, Dean grabbed his arm and dragged him forcefully up the stairs, propping him against a wall. “Just keep a lookout, okay? Stay quiet and try not to hurt yourself.” Sam started to protest, but Dean cut him off. “It's fine. I just don't want to get too close to whatever the hell it is you're incubating in there.” And by fine, he meant Sam would be in for an ass-kicking as soon as he looked less likely to pass out.

* * *

Edited January 16, 2014 by BlueRandom

[Sawyer]

WOW, that was fast. I loved this part too... you have such a good way of making everything seem so, like, canon and realistic, with all of these detailed insights into their characters that I haven't seen anywhere else (and I've read literally hundreds of Supernatural fics. high hundreds). And of course I loved this entire part (I just keep loving it more and more!) but there were two sections that really really did it for me...

Sam frowned at him, and wrinkled his nose. “I knew we should have talked to him before we went to the graveyard. We should get … uhh … get over to the … uhh'ih ...”

Dean quirked an eyebrow, smirking. “You can come with me if you finish that sentence.”

His brother gave him a sour look, its effect lessened by his straining eyelids. “Huh'ihh … huh'KSHhew!”

“Awh. Too bad.”

I love Dean's knowingness and how much he teases Sam throughout his illness (and his life), especially here. And the visual of Sam trying to hold back a sneeze? Oh my god.

Sam stifled a sneeze, gave a low moan as his head pounded. Eight seconds passed: another covered-up sneeze, another noise of discomfort. Dean cuffed him around the head. “Don't do that.”

Sam winced, resentfully; then jerked forward. “Huh'hh ... huh'IHSHHhew!”

“G'bless you. Damnit, Sam.”

There's a lot of stuff, just right here. Like Sam trying to stifle his sneezes because they're on a hunt and they've snuck into a house, like it's some stealthy mov,e but it's so unnecessary and Dean knows it... and the playful/casual/protective nature of him just cuffing Sam on the head and telling him to cut it out! Even the vagueness of his statement, I don't know, it's just perfect. And then blessing him like it's a reward for letting out that third sneeze! (I've also never seen it written like that -- "g'bless you" -- with Dean saying it, and oh my god it is really really hot.)

[BlueRandom]

Part Thirteen

“Gotcha.” The book had tumbled to the ground, unlodged along with a wedge of debris and rubble. Dean crouched down to retrieve it, and shook the grey dust from the cover and pages. He skimmed its contents, lingering to read a few sections in full, then ran up the stairs to where Sam was still sitting, fever-dazed and with one hand on the EMF meter. “Hey. Check this out.”

“What is it?”

“Ruth Horrocks' diary; the mother, who used to live here. Look,” he turned to one of the last pages, “there's an entry here from nearly forty years ago. She wasn't the one having an affair – it was her husband. When he wouldn't leave her for the other woman, his girlfriend killed herself in the couple's own bedroom. Her death was reported as a tragedy; she was a friend of Ruth's and so people weren't overly suspicious.”

“I thought there was a man who died?”

“There was. It seems like her spirit got mega-vengeful, pronto; so Ruth called in a so-called local ghost expert. When he died in an attack the family moved away, after spreading the story that he'd been caught robbing the house. Of course, everyone assumed he was a lover killed by her jealous husband. I guess the spirit was dormant until our man Horrocks decided to go back to his childhood home.”

Sam blinked a few times, willing his head to clear. “Where do we go from here?”

“Well, we still have to put this thing to rest. Once they go dark side they don't go back, and all that good stuff.” He tucked the diary into his pocket. “So it's straight down Sam's alley. Research.”

As he finished the word, the EMF meter, which had been whining since they'd first neared the basement, began to wail and light up. Dean had barely had time to react before the ghost was behind him. Sam tried to yell his name, managing a hoarse cry, and he turned, slashing at the air with his knife. It was only at that moment, fumbling at his back pocket, that Sam realised he had left his gun in the Impala. The translucent form of a woman evaporated, and the two men regrouped: circling with their backs together, adrenaline giving Sam temporary strength.

“Rock salt,” called Dean, handing him his own salt-packed pistol and holding his knife higher in front of him.

With the second wave, they were less lucky. The woman's spirit appeared, bedraggled and deranged, knocking Dean's weapon from him and enclosing her hands around his neck in one swift movement. Her throat was mangled with raw wounds from a rope. Hearing his brother stumble, Sam aimed a shot that flew wide. Dean was choking, fingers scraping in vain at his neck. Sam, still sick and uncoordinated, missed another shot. On the click of the pistol, the spirit made a jabbing motion and he was thrown to the ground. Dean collapsed a moment later, striking the floor hard. Sam could see him lying still, evidently unconscious, and forced himself to raise his own head. The woman was coming towards him, inching her way, regarding him with crazed determination.

A single gunshot sounded from behind Sam. He gasped, ducking down, and the spirit ahead of him was blasted away. She rematerialised within seconds, this time aiming for the newcomer. “C'mon, Rufus,” Sam heard him growl, the voice familiar. Then the ghost screamed, her silhouette erupting. Fire, more screams, her transparent body burning – and suddenly, nothing.

Sam let his muscles relax, slumping down and breathing heavily. He started coughing: whether from the smoke or not, he wasn't sure. “Bobby?” he panted.

“Me and Rufus were passing. He's at the cemetery now, obviously found the grave alright.” Bobby leaned down and dragged Sam to his feet. “Guess you got lucky.”

“Uh, thanks. Appreciate it.” Awareness of his aching head, the fact that he couldn't breathe through his nose, hit him once more; he felt weak and drained, limbs shaking. Dean was stirring, coming round with dull groaning sounds. “Dean?”

“Mm.” He gritted his teeth, sitting up, then standing and testing his joints one by one to check nothing was broken. “That was a bust.”

“Good to see you too, Dean,” acknowledged Bobby. “You all in one piece?”

“Just about. No thanks to the lame duck over here.”

“Yeah, I figured it wasn't just the ghost that got a-hold of you.” Bobby gave Sam, whose breath had started hitching, a visual once-over.

“Ahh'KSCHShew! Huh … huhh'IHSHhuh!” Sam shrugged, apologetically. “How come you and Rufus were so close?”

“Thought you boys might not have cracked this one. I'd been doing some research after I told Dean about the case, and made a couple of calls to a close cousin of the guy who lived here twenty years ago. Couldn't reach Dean's cell, so we came down here to make sure you weren't chasing the wrong spook.”

“Wait, you gave Dean the case? He said he came up with it on his own.”

“Heh.” Dean made a face. “You'd been getting too smug. And anyway,” He started working out a knot at the base of his neck. “There's no way you're taking the high road right now.”

“Wait … huh … heh'UHShhoo! Uhh … uh'ihh ... hh'HESCHhuh!” Leaning against the wall, Sam lowered the arm he had braced across his face. “Ugh-hh. I'm done.”

“I'll say. You look beat,” remarked Bobby. He bent down to collect the diary from where Dean had dropped it. “Keep it, burn it, or at least dust your prints off it. We'll go out the back way.”

Dean let the lid of his lighter fall open, igniting the diary as Bobby held it. Sam slid downwards and pillowed his head on his arms, supporting them on his knees. Dean looked at him resignedly, before turning back to Bobby. “Thanks, Bobby; tell Rufus the same. We should hit the road.”

The older man grunted. “Find him a bed while you're at it. And riding shotgun ain't a substitute.”

* * *

Edited January 19, 2014 by BlueRandom

[Always-a-Ginger]

Great addition!

[BlueRandom]

Part Fourteen

** Back to much later **

“We didn't get much time after that case, did we?”

“Right, 'cos a few days later we got that call from Panowski. For the whole … demon-plane deal.” Dean shuddered a little.

Sam flopped forwards over the nearest arm of the sofa, the one unoccupied by Dean, and resumed coughing. Tiredly, Dean squeezed his shoulder; as Bobby reentered from outside. “Awh, Sam.”

Pulling himself upright, Sam tried to look on top of things. “Uhm, hey.”

“Hey. Dean, I need a word.” He was holding one of the old-fashioned phones, a sure sign he'd been helping a colleague out of a tough situation. He continued talking when they were at an adequate distance. “Just got a call from another hunter, wanting me to play cops again. He's investigating a situation in Iowa; nearly a Leviathan cert.”

“We're going to have to get back on this soon, right?”

“Yeah. Sam'll be better in a few days; at least enough for the two of you to take off. Am I right in thinking it's Lucifer that's worrying you?”

“Among other things.”

“You gotta trust Sam. Trust that he's got this under control.”

“I know, it's just that … hh'EHKSHh!” Dean hadn't been ready for it. He pushed the heel of his hand under his nose, unsteadily. “He's not got a lot else under his control.”

“That'd better not be what it sounds like, boy.”

“It's not, Bobby.”

“Good. 'Cos it's sounding like you should be in there with your brother right now.”

“That's probably not such a bad idea anyway, if we got to let him know we're moving on.”

“Uh huh. Make sure you look after yourself.” He clapped Dean on the back.

Sam was clutching the edge of the sofa, staring at the ground with his lips tightly together. Almost at once, Dean was next to him, hovering and apprehensive. “Okay, Sam: if you're gonna get sick we should get you to the bathroom.”

Lucifer, lolling idly against the table, spoke up. “Burns, doesn't it? Burns like fever, burns like the Cage.”

“I'm not going to get sick.” Not if I don't look at him.

“Sammy Winchester, the little engine that could.”

“You sure?”

“Repetitive, your brother.” Lucifer licked his lips and crouched down to force himself into Sam's vision. “Or your imagination's run out of fuel.”

“No. I mean, yeah, Dean, I'm -” his nostrils flared suddenly, and instinct brought his hand to his face, curling it into a fist. As his grip contracted, the wound on his palm stung with more ferocity. Pain. “Huh'UHSHhhoo!” Pain meant Dean; pain meant reality. He looked up, and the space ahead of him was empty.

“Well, bless you all over again,” offered Bobby.

“Uh, hold that thought … uhh … uhh'SHEWw! Huh'CHSHhew! God.” Fear was still coursing through him from the hallucination, but Sam sat back and pulled the blanket over his legs. “Hhn'KSHHhoo!”

“If no one's getting any more sleep tonight, I'm gonna fix a drink. You two want beer, whiskey, or OJ?” Bobby didn't bother to ask whether Dean would be going back out to the car. He had already helped himself to a beer from the stockpile on the coffee table, and removed the top from Dean's while the latter scooched over Sam's feet to make room on the couch seat. He gave Sam a coffee mug full of juice a few minutes later, telling him to drink slow and shut up. Sam complied, mind still occupied in blocking the unwanted intruder.

Only dregs of orange pulp remained in the mug the next time anyone spoke. Sam was edging into drowsiness when Dean, who was polishing his gun with a rag, addressed him. “We need to leave in a couple of days. When you're better. The Leviathans are on the move.”

Sam absorbed the information, and nodded. “We don't have to wait.”

“You know the healthier you are, the better our chances.”

“Unless we're too late.”

“I think right now I'd do better alone.”

Sam pawed at his nose, and sneezed again. “Uh'ihh … hh'CSHSHuh!” He closed his eyes, smoothing the space between them before reopening them. “I wish Cas was here.”

Dean didn't reply: his brother wasn't trying to provoke him, it was the fever talking, but he had no wish to discuss Cas. Yeah, me too. He'd fix you, and the rest of our problems while he was at it. If he hadn't been such a stupid bastard. Bobby looked between the pair of them, and tried to diffuse the moment. “Sun's almost up. We can get on with scanning the lore on those biblical nutbags. Not you,” he added, as Sam showed signs of alertness. “You're supposed to be resting.”

Dean took his gaze from the gleaming surface of the gun's barrel, seeing Sam squirm in efforts to settle. His long hair was messed up and creeping into his eyes, which were sunken with exhaustion. Flushed nose and cheeks, sweat breaking in beads across his skin. How had Dean not noticed earlier?

“Your daddy used to bring you up here sometimes as kids, when you were like this.” Bobby's words were unexpected, catching the others' attention. “You were okay,” he gestured to Sam. “Maybe kinda whiny, but at least you did as you were told. Dean was a pain in the ass: never wanted to sit still, constantly trying to check up on the hunt. John would have to leave you here with him, so as he was too busy minding you to go running off.”

“I don't remember that at all.”

“Yeah, me either.” Dean looked skeptical. “What was it, twenty years ago?”

“Something like that. Although there was one time a whole lot more recently, when the both of you ended up here, sick on a hunt. You don't remember? It was some years back ...”

The End.

Edited January 19, 2014 by BlueRandom

[Sawyer]

So sad that it's over! But with such promise of a sequel!! You're really really the best. I always look forward to new stuff from you (not to mention reading your old stuff over and over and over)...

Edited January 19, 2014 by Sen Beret

[Always-a-Ginger]

This was great. So many flashbacks - something for everyone too.

[BlueRandom]

Note: So, I wasn't going to post this (mainly because it's been such a long time!) but hey. Have a sequel-type thing. Also, I have no idea if (but doubt that) the Impala has AC.

Some years earlier … again.

Part I

The rhythmic buzzing coming from the table between the two beds dug into Sam's nerves, rousing him from sleep with a climbing sense of dread. He kept his eyes shut, listening to his brother fumble with first the bed sheets, and then the cell phone.

“'Lo?” Dean croaked into the receiver, puzzled for a moment before he checked the screen. The sequence of numbers confronting him took another moment to register. “It's coordinates.”

“From Dad?”

“No, from Santa. Of course they're from Dad, dumbass.”

Sam dismissed the jibe, dragging himself out of bed to look over Dean's shoulder. “They're north.”

“Yeah, Maine. Somewhere on the coast.” Dean was already tapping at the keys of Sam's laptop, pulling up a news search on the small town. “Okay, several missing persons reported recently: no deaths confirmed, eye-witness accounts, or other points deemed noteworthy. I guess that's our case, seeing as nothing else seems to happen around there.”

“And this doesn't bother you at all?”

“What are you yapping on about?”

“Dad doesn't want to work with us, but he's still telling us what to do. What, he thinks we can't find our own cases?”

“Three disappearances in the last month,” stated Dean, coolly. “All males, working on the fishing boats.”

“Did you even hear what I said?”

“Yeah, and I'm telling you to drop it. Dad knows what he's doing, Sam.”

“He's got us running around on his orders, again, and we don't even have -”

“That's enough.” Dean slammed the computer closed, pulling on jeans and a jacket. “If you want to keep bitching, I'll meet you in the parking lot.”

A half hour into the drive, the air conditioning in the Impala was starting to irritate Sam's nose. He resisted the prickling sensation for as long as he could stand it, and then directed the unit away from the passenger seat. Dean immediately switched it back. Sam went to move it again, and his brother slapped his hand away. “Knock it off.”

Sam sat back, huffing. After a minute or two, he wrenched to one side. “Hh'UHSHhoo!” He glared pointedly at Dean, who ignored him, and settled back with his face turned to the window.

Despite having left at dawn, the sun had already set by the time the road signs began to indicate their destination. Dean, stubborn as ever, had driven the entire way with a minimum of rest stops, and his muscles were cramping painfully.

“Inn,” Sam called, his voice abrasive from having passed the last hours in silence.

Dean pulled over without pausing to check the road, eliciting a blasting horn from the van behind them and a scowl from his brother. They had to ring the bell at the lobby desk several times before the tetchy-looking landlord came to check them in. “Not exactly overflowing with people, is it?” Dean muttered; his first words since the morning.

“Dude, it's winter in the middle of nowhere, Maine. Were you expecting Disneyland?”

The room was tiny and damp, cramped even by the twin beds - another element contributing to Dean's low mood. He kicked sourly at one of the bed posts, and tugged a local pamphlet out from a rack on the wall.

“Uh'KSHhew! Huh … hu'KChhyew!” Sam shivered and started to pull clothing from the duffle; then stopped, one of Dean's shirts still in his hand. “What makes you think there's even anything for us here?”

“Dad wouldn't have sent us if -”

“If what, Dean? If there was anything he wanted to handle himself? Or if it might give us any more information than he thinks we should have?”

“Sam, I swear to God -”

“Don't bother.” Biting the inside of his cheek, Sam pushed past him into the bathroom.

The street outside had been long silent before the restless movements from Sam's bed ceased. Dean too remained wakeful, but he lay quietly so his brother was unaware. He knew there was a high chance that Sam was coming down with something: he kept breaking into coughing fits, deep and harsh, that he tried to muffle unsuccessfully in the pillow; and he'd gone to bed wearing a hoodie, which was always an ominous sign.

Dean wished that he would quit griping about Dad. Their father had told them to trust him, and that – that was enough. Figuring he wasn't going to get any more sleep with the sun starting to peek through the mesh curtains, Dean made his way as soundlessly as possible out of the room. Sam had been still for a while, his breathing even and slow. At the front of a cafe along the same street, a woman was swiveling the 'open' sign on the door.

“Do you serve coffee?” asked Dean, relieved when she nodded and showed him to a booth. He ordered two to go, and sat flipping through a pamphlet on the shiny counter while they waited for the machine to heat.

“Are you new in town?”

“Just passing through. We're investigating the local disappearances.”

“We?” The server looked around, and Dean remembered that he was alone.

“My colleague and I; we're journalists. You don't happen to know anything about the missing persons, do you?”

“Oh, sure. How can you not, in a town this size?” She straightened a hanging picture on the wall, so that the deck of the painted boat aligned with the baseboard. “When it happened to old Shane, everyone thought he'd just wandered off and we'd see him back in a few days. But he never came – and then we lost Lukas, and Reece, too.”

“Did anyone see them before they went missing?”

“Not Shane – he lived alone, out by the shore – and Lukas was meant to be on his way home from the bar. But Reece – they say he vanished right off the boat.” She passed him the two insulated cups. “There's your coffee, sweetheart.”

Sam was up by the time Dean returned, grateful to see the coffee and apparently less argumentative than the day before. “How come you're awake so early?” He sounded early-morning congested, his vocal chords scratching like sandpaper.

“Oh, you know. Refreshing sea air; something like that.”

“Right.” Sam raised a disparaging eyebrow. “Any idea where to start?”

* * *

Edited April 5, 2015 by BlueRandom

[HPG]

You updated!!! This has been one of my favorite stories for a while now, and I'm so glad to see you're continuing with it :-)

[SexualOddity]

This is great! I'm not sure whether I read this the first time round, maybe bits of it, I dunno, but I just read the whole thing and it was the BEST way to spend a day off work. I love Dean in this, he's so gruff and snarky but there's just enough covert concern to be really adorable without causing him to lose face, and all the flashbacks and memories are great. I love all the history between them and how one event reminds them of so many others.

I'm intrigued by this latest flashback especially. I find Sam and John's relationship fascinating, especially after Jess. I feel like you really captured the tension there, and also the tension between Dean and Sam. Dean seems like he just wants to exert whatever authority he has to try to make Sam and John's whole argument just go away, which is pretty true to character I think.

Really looking forward to reading more

[sierraplaid]

Oh. My. Gosh. So. Good. I remember reading this in installments as you were posting them and thinking it was excellent. That was when I was just lurking, long before I got an account, so I hope you don’t mind if I just unload with a bunch of the things that I love about this, since I didn’t get the chance to do it piecemeal before. Your recent update was a welcome opportunity to reread and enjoy it all at once. Okay, here goes… (Apologies for the long post)

Part One.

I absolutely love how this starts “in media res.” The opening really feels like an episode teaser before the title card, and the action sequence is skillfully worded and easy to follow.

This line: ‘“I'm fine. I can handle it.’ Sam's expression was resolute and earnest.” This just… is… Sam. Without a doubt. So vivid and in-character and easy to picture.

Part Two.

There are so many wonderful images in this part as you describe the event. I especially loved “The guests were attentive and dull,” them “swilling the wine moodily in their glasses,” and the “woman with elaborately entwined hair and a fur jacket.” Also, this is beautiful: “As he had anticipated, the room on the other side was crowded with waiters and kitchen staff, a black and white sea of impatient movement.”

Part Three.

“Bless you. I think our mark is headed this way: middle-aged woman, wearing some kind of animal?” This made me laugh out loud. Oh, Dean.

“A thought struck him, and he squeezed the cut on his left hand hard; wanting to be sure it was only a headache.” Poor baby. I’m such a sucker for the hand thing.

“The streetlamps were nestled in between carefully groomed hedgerows and arching metal gates, illuminating the parts that would not be covered by the private search lights.” I love this—so evocative.

The ending of this part (yay shifter getting the gank, yay Sam sneezing!, oh no cliffhanger) and the cut to the opening of Part Four is so, so episode-like. Your pacing is absolutely spot-on throughout.

Part Four.

'"Thanks, Bobby. We owe you one.' 'One? That's a freaking joke.'" I can totally hear him saying this. You write Bobby really well. And Lucifer, too! The last sentence, with Sam "holding onto the warm reality of their words" made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

Part Five.

'“Huh'UHShhoo! Uhh … uhh'HESCHhuh!' He hesitated for a moment, staring at a point on the blank wall across the room, and inhaled sharply. 'Huhh … hehh'IHSHhoo!'” Guh. Sign me up for Sam sneezing in fits of three like this. Sign. me. up.

"Sam glanced at him, and let out a laugh that he hastily suppressed. 'You look -' 'Dashingly handsome, as always,' Dean stated, firmly." Hahahaha! You have got the Dean comedy voice down perfectly. This exchange wouldn't be at all out of place in an episode.

Part Six.

“Alright, you.” *whimpering*

"Bobby sighed, leaving the couch momentarily and returning with a scruffy blanket which he tossed to Sam. 'Get some sleep, idjit.'” *more whimpering*

"He turned to depart again, and found Dean standing in the doorway in front of him. 'Sam's sick?' *nyarghhh whimperinnngg*

Dean being worried in a low-key way and asking “You need anything?” and and... and reminiscing about the first time Sam got sick when they were hunting together….

Phew, okay, I should hit the pause button and ration this fic, it’s too good to speed through. *fans self* Will comment on the remaining parts later when I have recovered.

[BlueRandom]

@HarryPotterGeek @SexualOddity @Sierra: Wow, thanks so much for reading and commenting! Hopefully this part will be better - I accidentally deleted the first one and had to re-write it before posting, so it was kind of ... off, haha.

Part II

Dean had taken it upon himself to 'comfort the widow' – a phrase Sam couldn't help objecting to, given that the men were presumed missing, not dead. Lukas McCabe had been the youngest of the three, so Dean had extrapolated that there was a fair chance his wife would be hot, and in need of consolation. Just taking one for the team, Sammy. So now Sam was trudging along the pavement to the nearest bar, which he had been assured Reece frequented along with his co-workers. It was raining – of course it was – and Sam's nose was running. He rubbed his hand across it, and regretted the movement at once. “Uhh'HESCHh-uh! Huh … huh'TSHhew! Huh'KSChhew!”

“You sound healthy.” The girl was standing a few feet away, under a porch. “Want to come inside till the rain stops?”

“Actually,” Sam glanced at the bar sign in front of the building, “I was coming here anyway.”

“Do you usually start drinking at eleven a.m.?” she asked, pulling a dish towel from her back pocket as she led him inside. Sam couldn't help eyeing her figure in the tight jeans, nor noticing that she was undeniably attractive.

“No, I'm not here to drink. I'm looking for some guys; friends of the man who went missing last week.”

“Reece Farley, you mean? The whole group of them should be here in an hour or so. Minus him, of course.” She dusted off a pint glass and set it in front of him. He started to protest, but she pulled a Coke from the fridge and poured it. “So what brings you to Maine? You're clearly from out of state.”

“Uh, my brother and I are working on a story for our magazine. It's sort of a family thing.”

“And you had to come way out here to find something?” She sounded disbelieving, and he couldn't blame her.

“Well, we heard about the disappearances and … uhh'ih … uhh'HIHShoo!” He jerked away from her. “God, sorry.”

“Bless you. Oh, you're not done.”

“Uh'KSHhew! Huhh'EHSHhh!” Sam touched the slope of his nose, embarrassed.

“Bless you again. I didn't catch your name?”

“It's Sam.”

“Kristin.” She tossed her hair over one shoulder, and opened a Coke for herself. “Your brother always make you wander around in the rain when you're sick?”

“I'm okay.” His phone started to vibrate, Dean's name flashing on the screen. “Sorry, I should get this.” He took a few paces towards a corner of the room, and answered the call. “What's up?”

“Nothing to tell: no witnesses, strange events, cold spots, signs – nada. McCabe just didn't show up back at his house one night.”

“That didn't take long. I'm guessing she wasn't your type?”

“You could say that. I'm coming to meet you. Is your guy at the bar yet?”

Sam concluded the conversation and made to return his attention to the barmaid, but was interrupted by the entrance of four men in heavy-duty rain and work gear. They were shaking water from their hoods, clothing and boots, and smelled strongly of the ocean. Kristin handed out a round of beers at once, and looked inquiringly at Sam to see if he would join them. He decided to wait for Dean, however, and instead engaged himself with a tattered newspaper that lay on the bar.

“Wow, good progress.” Dean's voice was sceptical in his ear, causing him to jump slightly. “Any reason you're sat over here like a computer geek at a college party?”

“Look.” Sam pointed to an advertisement at the bottom of the page. “It's not a lead, but it's somewhere to start.”

“'Boat tours by Mitch.' Catchy.” Dean nudged him in the direction of the group. “Come on, man.” He ordered a beer from Kristin, while Sam tried to avoid her inquisitive eye, and approached the table. “Mind if we join you?” Perceiving hostile looks from the men, he added, “Second round's on me.”

They exited the bar twenty minutes later, having gained little by the way of facts or descriptions. Kristin had touched Sam's arm as he left. “You should take something for that cold.”

“You weren't kidding about the boat tour place, huh?” observed Dean, slowing for Sam to fall into step as he strode downhill towards the waterfront. The rain had eased up, but the ground was still slippery with precipitation.

“Nope. They're as close as you can get to the ocean without being in it, the connecting factor between the victims, and maybe they saw something. We might as well, especially since those guys had nothing useful to tell us.”

“I wouldn't say nothing. And that barmaid was informative.”

“If informative means she gave you her number and more beer than you paid for, then I guess that's the right word.”

“Right, yeah.” Dean smirked, and turned to catch Sam's reaction; but his brother was preoccupied.

“Huh'ihh … huhh … huh'CHSHhoo!” He paused as though on the verge of sneezing again, then relaxed.

“You should be careful. I hear spirits can get in and steal your soul when you do that.”

“Shut up, Dean.”

They arrived at the anticipated location, which turned out to be more a souvenir store than anything else. A bell rang as they entered, calling up an old man from out of a wooden rocking chair hidden in one corner. “How can I help you boys? You after a tour guide?”

“We're looking for information, sir.”

“Well, I have plenty of that. If you want to know about local legends, you've come to the right place.”

“Actually -” Sam wanted to intervene, but wound up coughing instead. Dean gave him a 'Seriously, now?' kind of glare; Sam attempting to reciprocate through streaming eyes.

The man didn't appear to notice, and instead shuffled over to a display of mythical sea creatures. “Sea monsters, the Kracken – we've heard them all in these parts. The most popular, of course, are these.” He directed them to a collage made from pictures of women, some illustrations, some dim photographs.

“I can see why,” said Dean, leering a little as he scanned to long torsos and naked breasts. Sam tried to kick him surreptitiously. Most of the subjects were partially concealed by the ocean, but some, and only those in the hand-drawn representations, were laying across rocks or at the base of cliffs, scaly fins visible in place of legs.

“Mer-people?” inquired Sam, squinting to catch every detail of the vague portraits.

“Mermaids, to be exact. We never had a sighting of a male, but the females … They've cropped up over the centuries. Just myths, you understand, nothing credible; but they're responsible for bringing in most of our tourists.”

“Huh ...” Sam inhaled sharply, and Dean clapped him on the back as he twisted around. “Huh'ASHhoo!”

“So, we heard about the disappearances in the town,” Dean pressed on, conscious of Sam trying to collect himself behind him. “They all vanished in this area, one definitely off-shore; you haven't seen or heard anything?”

“Not a peep.”

“Nothing strange or out of the ordinary? Any unusual sightings around the coast?”

“Only in my collection here.” The old man smiled, somewhat paternally. “They're just stories, you know. Like werewolves, or vampires: and you wouldn't believe in monsters now, would you?”

* * *

Edited April 12, 2015 by BlueRandom

[HPG]

How did I not see you had updated? Love it!

[Pyrus_Fangmon]

Holy sweet Castiel! How am I just now learning of this!?

The story, detail, character!. And those flashbacks.....~swoon~

Absolutely perfect in all shapes and forms! Well done!

[BlueRandom]

So, it's been far too long. Again! Next part is up.

Part III

Sam pitched to the side, hands cupped in front of him. “Uhh'ih … hh'UHShoo! Heh'KSHuhh! Huh'ih … huhh … huh'CHSHhuh!”

“Bless you. Bless you. God bless you.” Dean didn't bother to look up from his paper, continuing to scribble notes.

“Ha ha.”

“What's the matter with you, anyway? You're like a Sasquatch snot-fest, and you're cranky.” He reconsidered, scratching his chin with the pen. “More cranky.”

“I'm just tired.” Dean raised his eyebrows – his brother admitting any kind of physical lapse was unusual – but Sam didn't notice. He was staring at a pamphlet from the store, going over the display of lore in his mind. “It wouldn't be that weird, would it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“A mermaid, taking the victims.”

“Mermaids don't exist, Sam.”

“How do you know? There's a ton of lore on them, especially in folk stories from the south coast of England and other parts of Britain. Who's to say they couldn't migrate?”

“We've never seen them. There's nothing in Dad's journal that even comes close, and I've never heard a hunter mention anything about them.”

“Look.” Sam pulled up a web page, pointing out various paragraphs. “The females surface sometimes, and they're known to convince men to follow them underwater, where they drown.”

“This says young, handsome men. Maybe McCabe fits that description, but I wasn't getting that impression of the other two vics. 'Old Shane' doesn't sound like much of a heartbreaker.”

Sam pushed the laptop away, and frowned at Dean. “You were the one who was convinced there was a case here, and now that we've actually touched on something you're not going for it?”

“Slow down there, Peter Pan. I just think mermaids are somewhere between unicorns and Narnia. Probably in Neverneverland.”

“It's still worth checking out. Uh, God ...” Sam wrinkled his nose, eyes tilting upwards. “Uhh … hh'EHSheww!” He let his hands fall back to the table, consciously not meeting Dean's gaze.

“You don't look so hot.”

“I'm fine. Look, can we just … stake out the beach, or something?” Soulful eyes of endearment. “I'm going by your rules, Dean.”

“Yeah yeah, turn those things off already.” Dean sighed, and shrugged. “Fine. But don't blame me when it turns out to be a freakin' Black Dog.”

“Sun sets in an hour; we should get going.”

Dean wanted to say that if Sam was that eager he could go it alone, but the younger guy was coughing so hard that he was having trouble catching his breath. “That needs to stop if we're hunting.”

“Yeah, it will.” Sam's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat cautiously.

They started at the empty end of the beach, sticking to the sheltering rocks to keep out of sight of the incoming fishing boats. Dean had the EMF meter out and was holding it by his side, trying to get a reading.

“You think mermaids are going to produce EMF?” Sam asked him.

“I'm not ruling out a spirit.” He kicked up a patch of sand, musingly.

Daylight faded fast, and their scour of the beach under torchlight produced nothing. Sam insisted they stay overnight to watch out for anything suspicious, refusing to listen to Dean's assertions that they were following a dead end. Dean retaliated by telling Sam he could take first watch, setting up the duffle bag as a pillow between two rocks and lying down on the sand. The temperature had dropped significantly, and Sam edged towards the shelter of another boulder, out of the wind, to begin his lookout.

Some hours later, Dean started awake, faintly aware of the wind howling around him. He sat up, pulling his arms into his chest and blowing on his stiff hands. Squinting into the dark, he saw Sam passed out close by him, leaning against the rock. His head was resting on arms folded across his knees, bangs slick over his forehead. Dean crouched beside him and touched a palm to his skin, feeling the fever rising from it. Nice going, Sam. He was about to shake him awake when the calling came again, and he turned towards the ocean. The sound, that he had thought was the wind, was coming from a woman, naked and waist deep in the water. She swam to a rock and floated against it, her long hair swirling in tendrils around her. Dean thought her skin glimmered, like translucent scales. She called to him once more, arching her back and beckoning with coy fingers. Dean reached for his gun, shouting Sam's name; and she dived back into the waves so quickly that he could barely acknowledge the flash of a streamlined tail as it withdrew below the surface.

“Dean? What happened?” Sam was on his feet, one hand on his own gun as the other kept him steady.

“You were right. That thing was fast.”

“What thing?” Sam swept his wrist across his forehead, and coughed a little. “Mmh. It's hot.”

Dean grimaced, turning his attention back to his brother. “Yeah, that's not good. Let's get you back before you set something on fire.” Sam pressed a hand to his forehead again. “You got a headache?”

“It's okay. So did you see one? The mermaid?”

“Uh huh. She was all … shiny.”

“Shiny? Great description, man.” Sam laughed, then coughed, moving away from Dean. When he straightened up, he caught sight of something floating some way from the shore, illuminated by the moonlight amongst a clump of seaweed. “Hey.” He nudged Dean, who groaned and began to strip down to his t-shirt and boxers.

“Hold these. I hate getting sand in the wrong places.” He dumped his clothes in Sam's arms and waded out to retrieve the object. The ocean was so cold that he immediately lost feeling in his legs, panting as a wave hit almost up to his shoulders. Just get out of here. The luminous string was bobbing on top of the foam some distance in front of him, and he swam in a clumsy freestyle towards it. Seriously, this is too cold to breathe. Freakin' mermaid's gotta be cold-blooded. He grabbed it, and felt the smoothness of pearls under his fingers.

Sam was back where he'd left him, and had extracted a towel from the duffle bag which he passed to Dean. He ended up helping him to throw it round his shoulders, rubbing up and down until Dean nodded impatiently and pushed him away. He pulled on his jeans with some difficulty, swapped the towel for his jacket and directed Sam to the car.

“Crazy night,” he remarked, when they'd been in the Impala with the heater on long enough for his hands to thaw out. “Mermaids. Who knew?”

Sam didn't answer, and Dean looked over to see him facing almost into the back of the seat, ribcage rising and falling with hitching breaths. “Huh'ihh … h'ihh …”

“Woah, hey!” Dean seized his elbow, forcing Sam to sneeze against his other shoulder. “Don't go messing up my car.”

“I … uhh … uhh'HUHShoo!” Sam squinted at him reproachfully. “That's not how it works.”

“Sure it does.” Starting up the Impala's engine, Dean saw his brother building up to another sneeze, and chuckled. “Dude, I'm the one who jumped in the freezing goddamn ocean. You don't get to sneeze.”

“H'ihh … huh … huh'KSHhew! Ugh.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, tell-tale headache sign number one in Dean's book. “You don't have to keep looking at me like that.”

“Right.” Dean rolled his eyes. “I know you're sick, you know you're sick. Don't be a dick about it, okay?”

“You are such a jerk,” muttered Sam, resting his head against the seatbelt. “Uhh … uh'hih …” His eyelashes were fluttering, upper lip trembling slightly. “Huh'ih …” He stopped, scrubbed at his nose, and relaxed.

“Lose something?”

“Hilarious.”

* * *

Edited November 24, 2015 by BlueRandom