Title: Ghosts in the Fog

Author: Black_Wingedbird

Beta: Amy
Muse: Sassy

Rating: R (Language and Violence)

Author's Notes: This story was started on December 15th, after I received an email from Sassy. Herself, Amy and I tossed this idea around and I've been working on it ever since, occasionally calling upon the girls for help and inspiration. After it was completed in the beginning of July, Amy worked her masterful Beta skills and 'sharpened the edges'. And now, seven months and 67 pages later, I present to you my first multi-chaptered Supernatural story.
Enjoy,
emily

'Step out the front door like a ghost into the fog
Where no one notices the contrast of white on white
And in between the moon and you the angels get a better view
Of the crumbling difference between wrong and right'
-'Round Here', Counting Crows

Darkness.

Pain.

Cold.

A frustrated cry escaped his lips as he curled in on himself. One arm wrapped around his aching chest and the other bent against his belly. He drew up his knees tightly, pressing his arms against his abdomen completing the tight ball as violent shivers racked his body. Warmth eluded him, though, as did the sanctuary of oblivion; blown away like a leaf upon the wind. 
 
It was raining, he finally realized. The cold, fat drops of water splashed upon his skin over and over, relentless in their assault. He shivered harder. His clothes were soaking wet and heavy with the coldness that seeped into his bones. The earth beneath him was melting into mud, and it splashed into his eyes, lips and hair. He was sinking in it.
 
With unconsciousness only a fading memory, he faced the fact that it was time to act- to move.
 
He uncurled his arms, planting his hands in the cold, thick mud, and pushed himself into a sitting position. Coldness attacked his torso as his ribs exploded in pain, and his lower vertebrae felt like they were twisting out of his spine. Another cry escaped him, louder this time, but there was no one around to respond. A violent shiver ripped through him as his bones turned to ice.
 
His eye lids were heavy and it took a long minute of panting and self-control before he could focus on his
surroundings. How did he get outside? The sound of rain echoed all around him. Deciduous trees towered above him on all sides, their leaves twitching and jumping as the raindrops splattered upon them. It was night, but a full, heavy moon shone brilliantly through the tightly woven spider web of tree limbs. Dark shadows lay draped over the forest floor, as black as the holes of open graves. What was he doing here?

A wild fear flared within him. There was something here, and it was after him. He had to get out of here.

His fingers sunk into the cold, slimy mud as he pushed himself to his feet. The heavy denim clung to his legs and hips, weighing him down and making him sluggish and awkward. The mud made a sucking noise as he pulled his hands free, then he straightened and took his first tentative step.

Another shiver tore through him, and he lost his balance.

He reached out and gripped the scabrous bark of the nearest tree. He looked down, searching himself for a clue as to his identity, but only found himself dressed in nondescript clothes. His sneakers were untied and caked with mud. His light blue jacket was glistening in the moonlight, pregnant with rain water that dripped in excess onto the ground around his feet.

He felt empty. He reached up and raked a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes as he pressed it against his skull. His head hurt from within, and he felt a large, swollen, tender knot near the base of his skull.

Questions forced their way through his pain, demanding attention with the gripping, paralytic force of a mouse before a rattle snake.

Who was he? Where was he going? What was he running from? What had happened?

Behind him, braches snapped and he jumped. A low growl echoed through the trees and his blood ran cold. He had to get moving; something was still after him. Something was after him, and it meant to kill.

He stepped forward, pushing off from the tree in order to gain momentum. Water squished in his shoes, pressing through the material like sweat through skin.

He had barely taken two steps when he tripped over something and stumbled. A tree caught his fall. He looked down at the object, knitting his brows as he struggled to bring it into focus.

It was a camouflage backpack, its straps tangled and pressed into the mud.

*Take it.*

He obeyed. Never slowing, he bent and plucked the pack from the mud as smoothly as a hawk snatching a rabbit. He paid for the act when he became dizzy and cross-eyed, and the next several steps were spent regaining his composure.

The objects inside the bag were odd-shaped and clumsy and the banged against his back as he ran. The leaves were slick and they hid branches and holes on the forest floor. Several times he tripped and crashed into an unforgiving tree, his body screaming in agony. His head pounded and his limbs were too heavy. His chest burned.

Panic spurred him on. There was no time to think or feel- he simply had to escape.

His life depended on it.

Fifteen minutes later, what little strength he had was depleted. Hot sweat was dripping down his spine, mingling with the cold rivulets of rainwater. Goose bumps littered his flesh and he was unable to stop shivering. His teeth clacked together as even his jaw clenched. His breath turned to fog as he panted, and the steam raised upwards through the rain and limp leaves. His eyelids were heavy, unable to open more than half-mast, and he was no longer walking as much as he was stumbling.

He stopped, leaning his shoulder against the unforgiving tree next to him, and swallowed the thick saliva in the back of his mouth. His heart was beating so hard he could hear the rhythm in his ears. He couldn't go any further. His head was threatening to explode and the pain in his ribs forced him to take shallow breaths.

But then, up ahead, glowing like the fire of hope itself, he saw a light.

Instinctually, like a moth to a flame, he began to move towards it. It was coming from a large building, situated neatly in the center of a manicured grass field. He moved towards it. The woods gave way to the open lawn, and while he was grateful for the flatter terrain, there was nothing to grab onto when his vertigo got the best of him. He fell to the ground with a bone-jarring thud, and simply lay still as the world spun and he gasped for air. His muscles ached, his lungs burned, his throat felt raw- he didn't want to get up. His head was throbbing and before he knew what was happening, his body was wracked with pain as dry heaves stole even more strength. 

But he needed to move, now! The feeling was strong; it consumed him and dulled his misery, driving him once more to his feet. Something of unimaginable evil was after him, igniting the most basic of all instincts: Survival.

And he ran, shakily, the remaining distance towards the house.

He stood, panting and gasping, before the last obstacle to his haven. Three rather daunting concrete steps that led to the wooden front door.

His lungs burned and his muscles were leaden with fatigue. He was staring his salvation in the face, yet was unable to push his weary body any further. So close, yet so far. A cold raindrop slithered down his face, and a hot tear followed closely in its wake.

At the edge of the woods, a blood-curdling growl- like that of a large cat- filled the air and he stopped breathing, paralyzed in fear. The sound was neither human nor animal, but something from the depths of Hell itself. He glanced over his shoulder- morbid curiosity getting the better of him- and saw the long black shadow of an over-sized panther racing towards him, its nails and teeth glinting in the moonlight. The eyes glowed fire-red.

He lurched forwards, announcing his arrival rather ungracefully as he tripped and collapsed against the house's thick door. The hair on the back of his neck stood up- the evil was closing in fast.

It would not stop until it had him.

He raised a hand and pounded on the door, splatters of blood staining the wood where his hands made contact. "Help!" he yelled against the doorframe, his voice hoarse and foreign in his ears. His pounding grew more intense as a sick feeling of despondency twisted in his belly.

It was getting closer.

More lights were turned on from within the house, and a shadow appeared behind the thin white curtain covering the front window. Pressing himself to the door, his desperation blossoming every second he was left unprotected out here unprotected, he continued to beat against the wood. His strength was waning.

The cat- if that's what it really was- was sliding through the darkness with frightening speed.

He was going to die.

Suddenly, his support fell away and he collapsed inside the house at the feet of an unfamiliar woman. "What on earth are you doing outside on a night like this?" she asked, instantly kneeling at his side. Her voice sounded like bells and he wanted to cry with relief. "Are you all right?"

"After me," he panted, clawing at the carpet in an attempt to pull himself completely inside the house. The thing wouldn't cross the threshold, somehow he was sure of it.

"After you? Who's after you?" The stranger helped him sit up. "You're bleeding!"

He winced, leaning back against the wall just inside the front door. She was worried about the wrong thing. He wanted her to be afraid of was lurking outside. He would be fine as long as he stayed inside, in her company. The light from the overhead chandelier was bright and it made his eyes ache and water, so he kept them pinched shut as he struggled to catch his breath. She moved about him, her voice full of concern as she murmured.

The door clicked shut and he was enveloped in warm, peach-scented air. He relaxed, feeling inexplicably safer now, and fought a tickle in his throat as warm, soft female hands traveled over his face and down his arms.

"Where all are you hurt? Oh look at you, I should get you to a hospital! You poor thing-"

"No," he grunted, struggling to sit up, "No hospital." He cracked open his eyes, finding a middle-aged woman standing before him in her nightgown, wearing a distraught, concerned look on her face.

"But-"

A thunderous bang shook the door as if something had slammed into it from the outside. He jumped and the woman screamed, raising a hand to her face and backing towards the center of the room. Brilliant orange light pushed through the miniscule space between the door and its frame.

Flames licked at him from under the door.

He pushed himself away, dragging the sodden backpack as he moved.

"What's going on?" she cried, looking from the door to the stranger and back. Tears glistened in her eyes.

No sooner had she finished the question then a horrible screeching cut through the air, loud and piercing enough to send his hands to his ears.

It was the sound of pure anger and hate, and he was afraid.

The door began shaking as the creature threw itself against it relentlessly. A single silver claw splintered the wood and the woman screamed. He knew that unless he acted, they would become the evil's next victims.

His heart beat wildly in his chest. What was he supposed to do? How could he ever hope to defend them? He didn't even know who he was-

His eyes fell upon the backpack at his side. Had it been an omen?

He snatched it and pulled it towards him, wincing as the screeching became louder without his hands muting the noise. The woman was becoming hysterical so he ignored her; he couldn't allow her helplessness to overtake him as well. With bloody, trembling fingers, he ripped open the bag's zipper and dumped out its contents.

A plastic flask of water, a wooden cross, a leather-bound journal, and a small leather pouch fell to the floor- but it was the sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun that captured his attention.

Without any further thought, acting on an instinct he didn't understand, he grabbed the weapon and pushed himself to his feet.

"What are you doing?" the woman screamed, tear tracks glistening upon her cheeks.

He didn't answer because he didn't know. But he placed himself defensively between the woman and the door, the gun held tightly in his white-knuckled grip as he prepared to face his attacker. He couldn't stand by while an innocent person was dealt the same fate as his own. If he was going to die tonight, he would go down fighting.

He was holding his ground, feet spread wide and shoulders tense, when the noise died away. The light grew fainter and disappeared, and the door remained still and intact. The house was deathly quiet save for the hitching breaths of the woman behind him.

He dared to breathe. Where did it go?

He took a small step forward, raising the shotgun towards the door in paranoid precaution. Goose bumps raced over his skin as the temperature seemed to drop.

Moonlight filtered through the cracks in the door's once beautiful finish. His eyes strained to see outside.

Off in the distance, a long, lanky shadow stopped just inside the tree line. It was blacker than the night surrounding it, as if the thing weren't simply *colored* black, but was made up of darkness itself.

It wailed, the sound of frustration and hunger and vengeance, then it disappeared into the trees.

He shivered as the ice in his veins was- at last- warmed by relief. They were safe, for now, and the gun clattered to the floor, dropped from nerveless fingers.

Unable to stand any longer, he dropped to his knees and sat on his heels. Hands were on his shoulders, and he jerked at the touch.

The woman looked down at him, concern and pity written in her eyes. "Who are you?"

Emptiness swirled within him, where all his memories were supposed to be. He closed his eyes once more and ignored the tear of helplessness that burned down his cheek. He wanted to be strong, but his voice came out in a broken whisper.

"I don't know."

At last, unconsciousness returned to him.

~o0O0o~

Nine hundred miles away, Missouri Mosley bolted upright in bed, her heart racing as it ached for the young hunter.

~o0O0o~

Dean Winchester collapsed upon the worn leather seat of the small diner booth. The cushion gave way with a quiet hiss and his leather jacket creaked as he folded his arms over the wooden table. He let out a heavy sigh , then dropped his head onto his forearms and closed his eyes in the relative darkness.

His shoulders were tense and painful. He rolled them, fighting the hindrance of his jacket, and buried his face deeper into his arms so that his nose hit the coolness of the table.

He sighed wearily. His feet hurt from the endless days of searching, never resting, never giving up. The same determination left his eyes hurting as well. It felt good to rest them for a moment. Hell, it felt good to rest *period*.

"You okay, hon?"

A gentle hand on his shoulder prompted Dean to raise his head. He squinted in the bright lights of the small diner. "Sorry," he murmured, blinking to bring her shape into focus. "Just resting my eyes."

Her name tag pronounced her as 'Sara', and the middle-aged waitress smiled. "Sweetie, you look like you need to rest more than just your eyes." She rested the tip of a pen on the tablet in her other hand and asked, "What can I get for ya?"

Dean hadn't had much of an appetite for a while. Not since Sammy had vanished. "Just some coffee, please. Black."

"Sure thing sweetie." Sara didn't even write it down, just shoved the tablet into the large pocket on her pink apron. "You don't fall asleep in the meantime, ya hear?"

Dean offered her a smile for her efforts but let it fall as soon as she turned away. He hadn't truly smiled in a long time.

Six months. Six months ago, he turned his baby brother loose. Sent him back to college, back to the protected, social life he deserved. Dean couldn't watch the light fade from Sam's eyes any longer. It was the longest talk Dean had ever initiated with his brother, and in the end, the pain he suffered in private was just as bad as when Sam had left all those years before. Except this time, there were no harsh words. No exiling. No making Sam feel like he was betraying Dean. They kept in touch. They saw each other, whenever Sam's schedule allowed. Sam was making friends, making excellent grades, making an honest living at a movie rental store close to campus. Sam joined Dean for the hunts close to Stanford- they were even planning on meeting in Georgia at the start of summer break for a poltergeist job. Sam didn't seem to mind the hunting- as long as it was on *his* terms. Dean watched the light steadily return to his brother's eyes and he knew in his heart he had made the right decision.

What was the saying? If you love something, set it free?

True to their bond, Sam had come back, but it was the in-between time that left Dean in misery. Their father hadn't contacted him in months, and Dean was beginning to move past the point of worry and more towards despise. He had been raised under a strict hand, and approval was hard-won, but Dean had never experienced an absence of authority. He had no one to tell him what to do now, and no one to do it with. Dean was depressingly alone.

And it really, really sucked.

"Here ya go, hon," Sara announced as she placed a steaming cup on the table before him. A cinnamon roll on a small round plate followed. "This is on the house. You look like you could use it."

Dean's hands wrapped around the warm cup and some of his tension melted. "Thank you," he replied, glancing up at her with pure gratitude. He hadn't been looking for handouts, but he wasn't one to turn them down.

"Sure thing," she replied easily. "You just look like someone who lost their best friend."

He must have grimaced, because she smiled apologetically, gently patted his arm and whispered, "Sorry," then retreated to the counter.

Two weeks ago, Sam disappeared. Dean was in Sacramento, having just completed a simple poltergeist case, and he headed east to wait for Sam in Georgia. He'd even stopped at mall along the way and bought Sam a CD. Dean had been thrilled at the idea of the two of them spending a couple months together- and Sam had sounded excited as well. Sam had already received his plane tickets and relayed the flight information to Dean.

Dean was there when Southwest flight 1028 touched down at gate C-22 of the Georgia airport.

Sam was not.

He had just talked to Sam a week prior, and it was nothing short of sheer panic when Dean discovered that his brother had gone AWOL. Dean was in a frenzy- he remained at the gate for three more hours, searching the crowds of people until the security guards began closing in. He called Sam's cell phone, but no one answered. He called the Stanford's administration office, but it was closed. With no other options left, Dean got in the Impala and drove to California.

He had already met most of Sam's friends and finding them wasn't extremely difficult. Some had already left town on vacations of their own, but the ones that remained he questioned at least twice, including the teachers. He'd scoured the school grounds, the movie rental shop, local hospitals… everywhere that he and Sam had gone together.

It was as if Sam had simply dropped off the face of the earth.

Nobody saw or heard anything, nobody knew anything. After a week of mind-numbing searching, Dean realized it was time to change tactics. So he got in the Impala, Sam's gift still on the passenger seat, and drove away from sunny Stanford. He hadn't known where he was going, and now, another week later, he still didn't.

Dean's fingers sunk into the soft, warm, icing-covered dough as he uncoiled the cinnamon roll. Specks of cinnamon mixed with the smooth white icing as he worked. He tore the dough into 12 bite-size chunks, but only one actually entered his mouth. He chewed and swallowed on reflex, never really tasting it.

Without his realizing it, the hunt for Sam had replaced the hunt for his father. Dean's concern for John Winchester had mutated into anger some time ago. Dean had done everything right, obeyed every order to a fault- and still, Dad abandoned him. It wasn't just the abandonment, either. John never responded to any of Dean's pleas for help. Even when Dean had called, late at night and a little tipsy, all-out *begging* for John to return- or at least let Dean know where he was- he'd gotten nothing. Not even an acknowledgement that yes, John received the call but no, he couldn't come and help. What was going on in his father's life that was more important than his own sons? Was something keeping him away? Was he being held prisoner somewhere? Was he sick, or injured, or… dead? Did he *want* Dean to give up the search? Dean idolized his father. He was a strong, smart man who always had the right answers.

Sam, on the other hand, would always be Dean's little brother- always need protecting. There was a stronger sense of urgency when it came to finding Sam. A drive more powerful than the one to follow his father's cold trail.

A bell jingled as the glass door was pulled open and a breeze of warm summer air blew inside. A family of three entered and they smiled as Sara approached to escort them to a table. Dean watched them follow her. The parents were holding hands as they walked amongst the tables and the little boy- no more than ten- followed closely behind. His sneakers were untied and his hair grew over his ears and into his eyes. A Gameboy was holstered in the back pocket of his jean shorts.

As the family took their seats, Dean and the boy made eye contact. Dean smiled disarmingly, trying to ignore the surge of longing as the boy offered a tiny, lopsided smile in return.

God, he missed Sam so much it hurt.

Dean let his gaze fall back to his plate and rubbed a hand over his face, scratching over the stubble on his jaw. His stomach cramped at the sight of the food in front of him, and he pushed the plate away. He needed to eat, he knew, but his heart was leaden and the emptiness inside him made him sick. He hadn't hunted anything since Sam had disappeared, other than Sam himself. The weapons sat unused and untouched in the trunk of the Impala. He'd sold a few, when money had been tight and hustling wasn't an option. Dean was aware that he was letting himself go, but he couldn't seem to stop it. The need to find his brother kept spurring him on, and the hope that he'd one day find Sam dangled before him like a carrot before a horse.

Funny how time dragged to a stand-still when you were incomplete.

"Well, I can see my efforts have been wasted here," Sara sighed as she looked between the plate and Dean. There was no edge to the words, only concern and sadness. "Can I get you anything else?"

Dean shook his head and straightened, trying to look not so pathetic. "Just the check please."

"Oh honey, it's on the house," she replied with a wave of her hand. "I can give you the name of a decent motel though, if you're staying the night."

Dean was shocked by her generosity. "I hadn't really thought about it," he said, then blinked and regained his composure. "Are you sure about the bill? I have money-"

"Nonsense. Just promise me you'll take care of yourself." Sara shifted her weight and put her tablet and pen in her apron. She smoothed out the light pink uniform her smile melted, and lines of pain formed around her mouth and from the corners of her blue eyes. "I had a son about your age," she started, focusing on some point across the room. "He was such a good boy growing up. Always so helpful, so kind to everyone. Made friends real easily, ya know. He was just one of those special people."

Dean knew from the way she talked about him in the past tense that her son was dead. He propped his elbows on the table and listened quietly.

"His best friend, Matt, was one of those shy boys, you know, always alone even in a room full of people. But my Shawn, he seemed to bring that boy out of his shell. They were inseparable. Even on the same baseball team in high school."

The silence was unnatural, so Dean swallowed and asked, "What happened?"

"Matt was killed in his freshman year of college. Hit by a car. Shawn saw the whole thing."

"I'm sorry," Dean replied, and found that he genuinely was. "That must have been hard." He winced as his words came back to him. *Hard* was an understatement. If Dean ever had to watch Sam die…

"Shawn was killed in a car wreck four months later. He wasn't wearing a seatbelt." Sara sighed and shifted her weight again, regaining her composure. "But in those four months, Shawn was never happy. He had been devastated by Matt's death. Nobody could fix what had been done." She paused, catching Dean's gaze.

He knew what she was insinuating and quickly countered. "My brother's missing, he's not dead."

Sara smiled sadly, ducking her head. "I see."

Denial burned hot inside Dean. Sam *was* alive, he *had* to be. "Thanks for the coffee," he said curtly, "But I think I'll be going now."

Sara backed out of the way as Dean stood. "Where are you going?"

"To keep looking." There were only 50 states… It wasn't impossible.

Sara remained where she was, watching as Dean headed for the door. "I hope you find what your looking for," she said, her voice carrying in the relative quiet of the small diner.

Dean paused, his hand on the cool metal door handle. He stared numbly at his own reflection in the glass. "Me too."

Then, with a sigh of determination, he pushed open the door, heedless of the bell overhead. He squared his shoulders, determination fueling his heavy heart, and stepped into the Texas night.

He had a brother to find.

~o0O0o~

Linda Silvey finished pouring the sun tea into the tall glass, smiling softly at the tinkling of ice cubes as they swirled inside the drink. Almost instantly, the cold liquid formed condensation against the heat of the mid-summer afternoon. She set the pitcher down upon the red and white checkered table cloth and, satisfied the table was ready, went to the screen door.

Outside, her mystery charge was tending the grounds of her moderately sized bed and breakfast. His shirt was off and sweat glistened on his back as he knelt on all fours, pulling dandelions from the mulch in her rose garden. His jeans were spotted with dirt and grass stains, and Linda could see how damp his shirt was even as it hung through his belt loop, swaying in the breeze. His oversized leather gloves were stained green at the finger tips. His bicep tightened as he yanked on the small weed, then he shook the mulch from the tuberous root and tossed it into the white, five gallon paint bucket at his side. His hair was limp and wet and it fell into his eyes every time he swiped the back of his wrist across his forehead.

Something wet nudged Linda's palm and she looked down. "Hey there boy," she greeted softly as the old Golden Retriever wagged his tail slowly. "Why don't you go get Jake and tell him lunch is ready?" Linda pushed open the screen door and the dog trotted outside, the sunlight instantly reflecting off its graying coat.

She eased the light wooden door shut and watched as the dog made its way across the neatly cut lawn, the fingers of her left hand playing with the fine silver chain that lay around her neck. The boy had come to her nearly two weeks ago, in the dead of the night. He'd literally shown up on her doorstep, bleeding and scared and without any idea who he was, or what was after him. Linda had taken him in, unable to see any evil intentions behind his clear green eyes, and had fostered him as she did any other orphaned animal that came to her. The helplessness of the boy had awaken her maternal instincts, which had grown faint and unused in the deepest part of her soul. She couldn't help but treat him as her own child, and he in turn responded as such. Her own children were grown and living lives of their own, and she missed them as any good mother did. They'd call every so often, when birthdays or holidays were near, but other than those brief conversations her world was quiet. Or it had been, until he'd shown up.

Linda's husband was dead and her only other means of constant companionship was Bear, her arthritic, 12 year-old dog. She'd lived in and operated the bed and breakfast for the past twenty years, and had seen the comings and goings of many kind, wonderful people. The house was situated on five acres of fertile, southern Georgia real estate. The Black Hills Forest sat to the east, sprawling farm land to the south and west, and Turner county was just a few miles to the north. Linda had grown up here. She knew most of the folk in town, and they knew her, and she'd never met a traveler she didn't like. She had only enough money to keep the place running; there was no reason for Linda to fear strangers. She led a calm, peaceful life where her only source of stress came from a tractor that wouldn't start, or a burnt out light bulb too high for her to reach.

Which is where Jake filled in perfectly.

Unhappy with calling him 'child', Linda asked if he liked the name Jake, because he looked like a 'Jake' with that shaggy hair and soul-piercing gaze. He'd shrugged, and she'd called him Jake ever since. He'd had no identification and the odds of Jake actually being the boy's name were next to nothing, it just seemed to fit.

After he'd protected her from a still undetermined species of wild animal (because there were no black panthers in Georgia, right? Only the occasional cougar…), Linda had taken the young man into the kitchen and tended his wounds. He'd sat stock-still as she disinfected the cuts and wrapped them. He'd allowed her to clean the mud from his face. She'd tried asking him again who he was, or what kind of danger he was in, but a large knot on his head only suggested that his amnesia was real. So Linda had helped him change into some of her son's old clothes and she put the stranger to bed before he could pass out from obvious exhaustion.

That had been fifteen days ago. Since that night, he'd recovered no more of his memory, at least none that he'd told her about. Once his wounds had healed and she'd put a few good meals into him, he'd started doing chores around the house, unbidden. It started with the light bulbs in the attic, then her screen door stopped squeaking, the barn stopped leaking, and then the weeds started disappearing.

Linda blinked, clearing the memories from her eyes, and saw the object of her thoughts allowing himself to be dragged along by Bear's gentle jaws. As they approached the step, the dog's tail waved high, announcing his successfully completed task. Jake came to a stop and Bear released his wrist, remaining at the young man's side.

"You know, you could've just called me," Jake said, grinning shyly. "I was just right over there." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the garden. A drop of sweat rolled down his temple and off his jaw, landing on his bare chest.

Linda fought back a grimace and forced a smile instead. "You know how important it is that we make Bear feel useful," she replied, opening the screen door. Bear jumped up the steps and trotted inside, going straight to the kitchen's cool hardwood floor where he plopped down with a groan. Jake started inside as well, but Linda grabbed his elbow, pulling him off-course from the table. "Go get a shower first. I won't have you sweating all over my delicious food."

Jake smiled more brightly and his seldom-seen dimples dotted his cheeks. "Yes ma'm," he replied, then he disappeared up the stairs.

Linda's smile faded as she turned back towards the kitchen. Her heart ached for the young man. He couldn't be more than 25, and in fact his vulnerability and politeness made him seem even younger. He was very quiet and she often worried that he was depressed, but he turned down all of her offers to take him into town. So Linda had let the matter drop, and they'd eased into a comfortable routine of daily chores and small talk. He was welcome to stay for as long as he needed. She rather enjoyed the company.

Linda sighed as she walked around Bear's still form. "What are we going to do with him, Bear?" she asked herself, although the dog's tail thumped the floor in response. "I wish he'd let us help him."

Bear whined in agreement.

The muted sound of running water started above their heads, signaling that Jake had started his shower. Linda opened the oven door, breathing in deeply as the flavorful aroma of casserole wafted out on the hot swell of air. She studied the surface of the dish, decided it needed a few more minutes to cook, then shut the door and reset the timer. She was about to pull the dessert from the refrigerator when the phone rang.

She stepped over Bear, who was still sprawled out on his side, and grabbed the phone from the wall mount. "Sunnyside Bed and Breakfast," she answered before the third ring.

"Hello," replied a light, kindly, woman's voice. "I'm afraid this might sound a little strange- My name is Missouri Mosley, and I'm looking for a friend of mine."

Linda propped a hand on her hip and turned to watch Bear twitching in his sleep. "I'm afraid I can't disclose any of my guest's names," she replied. The woman sounded nice enough, but Linda had to protect her customers.

"Oh, I wouldn't ask you to do that," Missouri said. "I just need to know if a boy came to you recently. Tall thing, thin as a bean pole, dark hair and eyes that look like they've seen the devil himself?"

Linda moved her hand from her hip and brought it up to cover her gaping mouth. "Jake… I- who are you?"

Missouri's voice was still as smooth as honey. "I'm just a concerned friend, Linda, looking for my boy."

Linda sank into the kitchen chair at the head of the table, the coiled phone cord stretching taught behind her. "How… How'd you know my name?" Her heart was racing.

"It's all right, sugar. I'll explain everything when I get there."

Linda ran a hand through her thinning hair. "No, I don't think-"

"That boy has a family who loves him dearly. His disappearance has caused enough people a lot of unneeded pain. It's time for it to stop."

The woman's southern voice was soothing and calm, but Linda's heart was pounding with fear. It didn't make sense- how did this woman know Jake was here? Who was she? "What do you want with him?" The water shut off and Linda glanced at the ceiling.

"To bring him back where he belongs."

The next thing Linda knew, she was listening to the dial tone. Bear raised his head, setting his chin on his shoulder as he looked at her with cloudy amber eyes. She sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart.

"Don't worry, boy" she murmured, setting the phone in her lap. "We won't let anything happen to him."

~o0O0o~

Missouri pushed the 'talk' button and set the phone on the table.

At last, she'd found him.

It had started with a phone call two weeks ago. A distraught young man, searching for his missing brother. She'd been confused at first, but as he rambled in distress, she knew exactly who she was talking to and what he was looking for.

Missouri Mosley remembered the Winchester brothers very well. She'd sensed Sam's power from the moment he walked in her door, all those months ago. He'd been an emotional wreck- still grieving for the loss of his girlfriend and still unsure of his role in the pursuit for John Winchester, and ultimately, his mother's killer. Missouri felt a strong pull of empathy for the boy. It'd broken her heart to feel his pain- too much pain for such a young person to be carrying. She wanted to help him, to take him under her wing and serve as the mother he'd been robbed of- but it was not her place. They'd come to her for help in ridding their childhood home of a poltergeist, and that would be the extent of her services.

And it had been, until now.

The small, broken Winchester family had been in and out of her life for over two decades, appearing and disappearing like the fog on a summer's night. Not long after the death of his wife, John Winchester had come to her, seeking Missouri's help in his quest to find Mary's killer. He was still in grieving, and his pain had been palpable.

Missouri smiled as she remembered that day. She'd just finished with a customer and was still standing in the doorway as a large black sedan rumbled to a stop in front of her apartment. A baby seat was strapped securely in the back seat and a small round face peered through the front passenger window, wide green eyes searching her as she watched the driver get out.

//The man stood, studying the brass numbers attached to the post she was leaning on, then looked down the small piece of yellow paper in his hand. He looked up with dark, haunted eyes. "You Missouri Mosley?"

She'd replied in the affirmative, still a little off-balance by the newcomers. Most of her clients were young, and stupid. She was a joke to most people- just something to do for fun. Most of her clients didn't look like the world had collapsed around them, and they certainly didn't tote around young children.

"You're psychic?" the man asked.

Missouri couldn't help but notice the hopeful look in his empty eyes. Again, she nodded her head. The little boy in the front seat continued to stare at her, somehow unnerving the experienced woman.

The man shoved the paper in his jacket pocket. "I need your help."//

And so Missouri's first encounter with the Winchesters had begun. They'd sat in her small living room, the child and the infant parked on the floor in the corner, and John had told her in hushed words about the evil that had come to them. Tears came to the man's eyes as he spoke of finding his wife pinned to the ceiling, burning to death. By the time he was done, Missouri's own throat was constricted and her gaze had settled on the two young children.

The older child, Dean… he was still looking at her as if he were still trying to determine if she were a threat. He'd placed the infant behind him, blocking her from getting a good glimpse of the baby. Missouri smiled softly, hoping to ease the child's worry- but he turned his back to her, redirecting his attention back to the infant.

Missouri felt her heart bleed for them and from that moment on, she vowed to help this family in whatever way she could.

The clock in the hallway chimed and Missouri blinked the memories away. Dwelling in the past wouldn't reunite this family any faster. She had work to do, miles to travel, and it had to be done quickly. Something evil was lying in wait.

With determination, Missouri picked up the phone and dialed the number of the one person who could help her make everything right again.

~o0O0o~

He knew it was a dream, yet he couldn't stop it.

He was running through a stone tunnel. Dim lighting reflected off walls made slick with water and accumulated slime, and the shallow puddles on the ground drenched his shoes and socks and the legs of his jeans. But still, he ran forward, breathing in the warm, stagnant air and barely registering the putrid smell. His gun was drawn and held securely in his iron fist.

Up ahead was Sammy, cornered by something dark and evil. He was scared and bleeding and backed into a corner as the black shape closed in. Dean shouted, hoping to distract the creature. Instead, the tunnel grew even longer, placing him even further away from his little brother.

The creature was blacker than night itself. Its features were indistinguishable- it was as if it were a shape cut into the fabric of time, a demon-shaped hole in the sewer-like setting. The edges of the shape were wispy and smoky- the thing was clearly non-corporeal. On the ground, Sam looked terrified. The creature was rising up, making itself large and looming, and Sammy seemed to be shrinking before it.

Dean ran faster than he ever had before, and it still wasn't good enough. His legs burned and his chest ached. He felt the weight of fatigue beginning to numb his limbs, but still he pushed on. He had to save his brother- there just was no other option. He would not let Sammy fall into the claws of evil.

Suddenly the creature shrieked and burst into flame. Dean pushed himself harder and the creature shrieked a second time, yet it was unmoving as it hovered above Sam. The bright orange flames reached upwards, licking at the wet, grimy ceiling and Sam looked petrified.

Then piece by piece, the sewer system fell away and was replaced by white bed sheets and ugly cream-colored walls. Still, something shrieked. Dean sat up, his chest heaving as he panted for breath, and realized his cell phone was ringing.

He swallowed hard, glancing around for any traces that his dream hadn't been just a dream, and grabbed the small phone off the nightstand. "Hello?" he breathed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as he struggled to calm his racing heart.

"Dean? Are you okay?"

He straightened, recognizing the woman's smooth voice. "Missouri?"

There was a pause on the line, then, "Dean, I've found him."

Dean went numb. Emotion bubbled up in his throat, demanding to be released after all this time of worrying and searching. A smile broke over his face, yet at the same time, tears blurred his vision. "What? Where? Is he alright?" His voice was high and cracking but he didn't care. He was already reaching for his jeans.

"He's safe, for the moment," Missouri replied calmly. "He's at a bed and breakfast in southern Georgia."

Dean pulled his belt tight and looked around the room, trying to remember where *he* was. He glanced outside, noting the sun was still fairly high in the sky. "I can be there in less than a day," he said, doing the math in his head. He would leave now and drive all night, hopefully crossing Georgia's border by mid-morning tomorrow.

"I'll meet you."

The statement didn't surprise him. Missouri had been concerned about Sam since Dean had called her- almost as concerned as he was. "Where?"

"There's a diner, at the edge of Alabama."

"What's the address?"

Dean scribbled the address on a napkin between shoving his arms through his shirt sleeves. He sniffed, still trying to reign in his emotions. Two weeks of panic and sorrow were over. Sam was found, albeit worrisome that he was so far away from California, but Dean could sort that out later. Right now, he needed to feel his brother, to hold him and hell- maybe even hit him for all the stress he'd caused.

He grabbed the knife from under his pillow and threw it in the duffle bag, then went to the bathroom to retrieve his toiletries. "All right, I'm on my way," he said in a stronger voice than he knew he had. "Thank you."

"He'll be all right," Missouri replied. "I'll see you soon."

Dean nodded at the order. Then he snapped the phone shut, zipped up the duffle bag, grabbed the handles, and walked out the door, the lingering images of the nightmare quickening his pace.

~o0O0o~

Jake woke from his nightmare covered in sweat and breathless.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to dispel the frightening images, then turned his head to look out the window. The sky was stained pink as the sun was just starting to rise above the horizon. Dew glittered on the lawn, twinkling up at him like fallen stars, helpless in their places upon the ground. Songbirds flittered about a birdfeeder and plump Morning Doves waddled beneath them, pecking at the seeds the smaller birds spilt. A rabbit was slinking forwards to join the birds, confident enough to leave its shelter of thick Ewe bushes.

Downstairs, Jake heard a familiar clinking of pots and pans. Linda was preparing breakfast, as she had every morning since he'd arrived here. His stomach gurgled in response. He stretched his hands above his head, welcoming the pull of well-used muscles, and flipped back the covers.

Jake climbed out of bed, the cool morning air eliciting goose bumps on his bare skin. His feet touched upon the cold wooden floor and as he shuffled forward, he stepped on the strap of his backpack. It sat in the corner, unopened and forgotten. The hair on the back of his neck rose slowly, softening the edges of his outline as he looked at himself in the mirror.

The face that stared back at him was foreign. Who was he? Was there someone out there looking for him, who cared about him? His parents must be sick with worry- at least that's what Linda had told him. He'd already checked himself for clues; there were no tattoos and the scars he bore provided no hints as to who he was. There had been nothing in his pockets and nothing identifying in the backpack. No wallet, no keys, no folded up pieces of paper to tell him what he had been doing in the woods- or what he was running from. Had he been mugged? Or did he leave all his personal belongings behind on purpose? The bumps and bruises he's arrived here with were faded now, but there were still a few mysterious scars, and he wondered if he'd ever find out what caused them. Jake's memory began the moment he'd woken up alone and in the woods, wet and chilled from the heavy rain. Inexplicable fear had pushed past his aches and pains and he ran until he had found this house.

Linda had taken him in, fed him, warmed him up, tended to his injures, gave him a soft bed… and a name. She was all he knew. His memory was gone, locked away in the darkest corner of his mind, yet she cared for him and nourished him and in return, he trusted her completely. He may not know who he was or what had happened to him, but this place felt safe.

Jake pulled a plain white t-shirt on over his head and pulled the hem down with a tug. He reached up, using the mirror to smooth out his unruly mop of dark brown hair, then reached for his jeans.

Once he was dressed, the sun had climbed higher into the sky and the glare from the mirror forced him to turn away. On his way to the door, Jake paused by the window once more. The birds were still fluttering about, but the rabbit was gone now and in its place stood a young deer. He smiled at the rare sight. The leggy animal crept about, its small hooves soundlessly piercing the grass as it foraged for food amongst the doves.

Jake let his gaze travel past the animals and over the expanse of the yard, towards the dark woods lining the property. He felt something twist in his stomach as he studied the trees.

Something was out there, and it was waiting for him.

It was just a forest, but something ominous and foreboding lurked there and Jake honored his fear. He'd been afraid to leave the house- his only known shelter- even to look for clues about his past. After all- it wouldn't matter who he really was if he was dead. He'd simply make a new life for himself here, and he'd stay alive. Out of the clutches of whatever had chased him two weeks ago. Linda was kind and patient, and there were plenty of ways for him to earn his keep. She'd made it clear that he was welcome here. Like a child clinging to a favorite stuffed toy, Jake clung to this house, letting his unfounded fear hold him prisoner.

Suddenly, the deer's head shot up, its ears erect and eyes wide and unblinking. For a second, its body seemed to be made of stone.

Then the deer turned and sprung, scattering the birds as it bounded away in a flash of white tail. Jake waited, tense and barely breathing against the windowpane, wanting to see what spooked the animal.

Bear trotted into view, his tail held high as he moved to the abandoned birdfeeder and began rooting through the grass. Jake chuckled nervously and turned away, heading for the bathroom while trying to calm his racing heart.

~o0O0o~

Wiping the last of the shaving cream from his face, Jake inspected his work and set the razor on the marble counter. Satisfied he hadn't missed a spot, threw down the towel and went into the bedroom.

While his body provided no clues as to his identity, there was, however, a journal. It was worn and well-used- the pages were full of gibberish scribbling that had proved to be his own. The words made no sense though. There were lots of numbers, lots of foreign languages. Lots of talk about supernatural beings. Even badly-sketched pictures. Perhaps he was a struggling fantasy author? Since the book was of no help- except in giving him headaches- he'd stuffed it in the backpack and forgotten it.

Frustrated, Jake got dressed. He wanted to find out who he was, but not at the price of traveling into the jaws of whatever lurked in those woods. Linda had told him that his memory would probably return in bits and pieces, so he would remain here, in the only safety he knew, and wait.

Jake brushed his hand over the light switch and headed downstairs and into the kitchen. On his way through the living room, he passed a small end table under a photo of Linda hugging an old woman and wondered- not for the first time- who stranger was. The picture was displayed in the center of the room, instead of having a place on the bookshelf with the other photos. Whoever she was, her and Linda were close at one time. There was still many things he didn't know about Linda.

The smell of pancakes and sausage were overwhelming and his stomach gurgled in response. Linda loved to cook and would always make elaborate meals, even when it was just the two of them. Jake didn't mind the pampering. It made him wonder about his own mother, and what she was like.

"Good morning, Jake," Linda greeted as soon as he stepped off the bottom stair. She was bent over the table, the small pendant around her neck swinging gently as she placed two loaded plates in front of separate chairs. Her apron was spotted with flour and her graying hair was pulled up in a loose bun. The table was already set with a pitcher of orange juice, a plate of lightly-browned toast, a dish of real butter, a small bowl of handmade strawberry jam, and another pitcher of milk. The pans on the stove were hissing and steaming and Linda turned to remove them from the heat. "How's you head? Did you take your pill?"

Jake nodded. "It's fine."

"Did you sleep well?" she asked over her shoulder.

Jake nodded before realizing her back was still turned. "Yes, thank you," he replied as he took his seat. His eyes lit upon the full plate before him and he swallowed. "Did you?"

Linda scraped the cast-iron pan with a wooden spoon, emptying it onto a plate. "Oh honey, I always sleep better knowing there's a man in the house." When she was finished, she set the pan in the sink and came to the table.

Jake watched her, praying his stomach wouldn't rumble too loudly as he waited. With each day, his appetite grew stronger. His chores weren't hard, but they required him to spend most of his days outside and he had the tan to prove it. It was the least he could do in return for the meals he was served.

"Well what are you waiting for?" Linda admonished, settling herself in her chair. "Eat! You've been here two weeks and I still haven't put much weight on you." She reached for the toast and muttered, "If only I knew your secret."

Jake grabbed his fork and pierced the pile of scrambled eggs, the tines *tinking* against the plate. They ate in silence for a few moments, each one content with simply enjoying the other's presence. The sun was shining in through the window over the sink, spilling bright yellow light over the shiny linoleum floor and the food spread out before them. "Can I ask you something?" he spoke at last.

"Of course."

"The woman in that picture- the one by the stairs… who is she?"

Linda's face darkened and she lowered her fork. "That's my mother," she replied softly. Before the could continue, a group of birds squawked outside, then Bear's joyous barking filled the air.

"That dog," Linda smiled, shaking her head as she grabbed her glass of juice. "Almost thirteen years old and he still manages to sneak up on things."

He studied her, choosing to let the serious topic drop. Clearly, it made her uncomfortable. "I think this place keeps him young," Jake said, chewing thoughtfully. "He's got a job to do- he doesn't have time to think about how old he is. It's happy here."

Linda's smile softened as she studied the butter dish. "I suppose you're right," she murmured, then after a few moments, she blinked and resumed eating. "I need you to stay close to the house today. The Bradleys are checking out and we'll need help packing their things."

Jake studied her for a moment. The slight tension on her face and in her shoulders told him that something was not right. He glanced at the counter, where a newspaper lay folded by the edge. "Did someone else disappear?" The town residents knew enough to stay away from the Black Hills Forest, but occasionally, a tourist would get lost or a cocky teenager would take a dare. The bodies were never found, and the media loved a good ghost story.

Linda shook her head. "No, it's not that. Thank God."

He'd never seen Linda upset about anything, but she sure looked worried now. Jake nodded once, his own brows furrowing as he replied, "Sure thing. Just call me when you need me."

She smiled softly and the corners of her brown eyes crinkled, but the tension never fully left her shoulders. "Thank you, sweetie."

His lips twitched in a brief smile. "Are you okay?" he asked, setting down his fork. He'd only eaten half the food on his plate, but already he was full.

Linda blinked and shook her head, swatting a hand in his direction. "Of course I'm okay," she grinned. "Why wouldn't I be okay?"

Jake shrugged. "I don't know. You just seem a little off, that's all." A tiny seed of worry had planted itself in his stomach, taking root in the breakfast he'd just consumed. He was still clinging to the stability and security of Linda and her bed and breakfast; he didn't like the feeling that something was threatening them. Had one of the customers upset her? Or did she discover something, something disturbing? About him?

That thought prompted him to keep pushing her. "You would tell me if it was something about me, right? Or if you were in trouble?"

"Oh sweetie," she sighed, and her eyes glistened in the sunlight. She reached across the table and covered his hand with her own. "Of course I would. I'm just being silly, that's all. You've got nothing to worry about. Just my imagination running away with me." She patted his hand. "Bear's not the only one getting old around here."

Jake smiled at her, feeling the uneasiness in his stomach ease just a fraction. Perhaps he was being too sensitive. After all, he trusted Linda with his life- she wouldn't keep anything from him, especially knowing how much he wanted to regain his memory. "Okay," he said, and she withdrew her hand. "I'll stick around." He smiled mischievously. "Or you can always send the dog after me."

Linda laughed and rose from the table, picking up their plates. "You're a good boy, Jake. What would I ever do without you?"

Something shifted inside him, and Jake's smile faded behind her back. Would he truly stay here forever? What would happen when he discovered who he really was? How *would* she manage without him?

"Jake?"

He blinked, bringing himself back to the present. "Yeah," he said, forcing a grin. "What would you do without me?"

~o0O0o~

It was almost eleven by the time Jake had finished painting the last shutter. The sun was a brilliant ball of flame overhead and the heat of it had given him a deep-seated headache. Deep blue atmosphere stretched over the sky, tucking itself into the horizon. Thick white clouds moved slowly in the gentle breeze that rattled the oak leaves. Jake was perched near the top of an old wooden ladder, paint brush in one hand and steadying himself against the house with the other. The one-gallon bucket of dark green paint hanged off the ladder next to his thigh. The temperature was comfortable, but the sun was relentless and Jake raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead. His hand lingered, pinching the bridge of his nose as he fought back the pain in his head.

Linda was in the rose garden below him, pruning the richly-colored blooms from her plants. She looked up at his movement, raising a gloved hand to shield her eyes from the sun. "That looks very nice, Jake! Thank you."

He felt a surge of pride from her approval and moved his hand. "That's the last one, Linda. There's still a lot of paint left though."

"Just put the lid back on and put it in the shed. I'll find something else around here that needs painting."

Jake lifted the handle over the side of the ladder and began his descent, glad to get out of the sun. An hour ago, the Bradleys left for one last shopping spree in town before they headed back to their home state of Arizona. They wouldn't be back for a few hours, so Linda decided it would be a good time to repaint the old wooden shutters while nobody was around to accidentally get messy.

Jake's toe hit solid ground and he let go of the ladder, rocking back on his heel as his other foot followed. The paint can swung in his grip and he took a deep breath against the spots in his vision before turning towards the shed. It was a large structure- more of a garage than a shed, really. It housed the green John Deere tractor Linda owned, plus a variety of garden tools and other supplies. He walked towards it and Bear joined him, hobbling along in front of him as if the dog were making sure the path was safe. The grass had been worn away in a narrow trail leading towards the shed's door, and the dirt billowed up as the two trod over it.

*'You know, Sam, we are allowed to have fun once in a while.'*

Sam stumbled, dropping the paint can as his hands went to his temples. Pain had ignited within his skull and he cringed, bent over forward with his eyes screwed shut. Panic swelled within his chest. What was happening?

// 'Here, take a look at this, I think I got one. Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin. Last week Sophie Carlton, 18, walks into the lake, doesn't walk out. Authorities dragged the water—Nothing. Sophie Carlton is the third Lake Manitoc drowning this year. None of the other bodies were found either. They had a funeral two days ago.'

'A funeral?'

'They buried an empty coffin. For uh, a closure or whatever.'

'A closure? What closure? People don’t just disappear, Dean. Other people just stop looking for them.'

'Something you want to say to me?'

' The trail for dad—It's getting colder every day.' //

Sam was on his knees now, gasping against the overwhelming pain that gripped him. He was barely aware of Bear's rough tongue against his cheek as more images flooded his mind.

// 'Exactly, so what are we supposed to do?'

' I don't know. Something, anything.'

' You know what? I’m sick of this attitude. You don't think I wanna find dad as much as you do?'

' Yeah, I know you do, it’s just-'

' I'm the one that’s been with him every single day for the past two years, while you've been off to college going to pep rallies. We will find dad, but until then, we're gonna kill everything bad between here and there. Okay? ' //

At last, the pain receded and Sam blinked open his eyes. Bear was staring at him, the dog's brown eyes large and sparkling as they stood eye-to-eye.

What the hell just happened?

Jake pushed himself to his feet, his limbs stiff and heavy. In the images, he had been in a diner of some sort, talking with a guy a little older than himself. What were they talking about? Who was the other man? He'd called him Dean, and in return, was called Sam. The revelation got his heart pumping. Were his memories returning? What was his relation to the man in the diner? Friends? Relatives? And who was Sophie Carlton? His mind was spinning; Jake promised himself to scour the journal again later, this time applying his new knowledge.

Still troubled by the experience, Jake pulled open the door and Bear quickly disappeared within the cool darkness. Jake raised his hand, feeling the air above his head for the chain. When he found it, he pulled, and 75 watts of light illuminated the musty shed. A workbench lined the wall to his left, its surface littered with tools and greasy rags. A potting bench sat along the wall to his right, the floor around it covered it spilt soil and fertilizer. The tractor was parked in the space opposite him. There was a single window above the tool bench, but the glass was so filthy that the sunlight could barely penetrate it. Jake added that to his list of things to do and grabbed a hammer. Bear was lying in the dirt next to a sack of potatoes, panting so hard that his tongue was dripping. Jake shook his head and went back outside, leaving the old dog in the coolness of the shed.

Jake set the paint can on the ground and knelt down before it. He grabbed the lid by the edges, set it over the top of the can, and raised the hammer.

A noise caught his attention- a deep rumble that sounded some distance away. Jake lowered the hammer slowly, his attention riveted on the tree line where the sound was coming from. He breath caught in his throat as he waited, every muscle tense with nervous fear. Was the thing in the woods coming for him at last? How would he protect himself? His fist tightened around the hammer's wooden handle and he straightened, still on his knees in the dirt. Would it go after Linda too? Should he try to warn her?

His heart was racing and his lungs burned with expired air. He wanted to get up- to run, but he was frozen in paralysis like a deer in the headlights. The grumbling grew louder and behind him, Bear started to bark.

At last, a large black shape rose over the hill and Jake nearly collapsed with relief. A car. It was only a car.

Feeling like an idiot, he drew in a large, calming breath and tossed the hammer in the grass. He stood and watched as the car traveled slowly over the dirt road towards the house. Even though it was still a good distance off, he knew it wasn't the Bradleys returning from their shopping trip. This car was old and large, but the sun glinted off it fiercely and the engine's strong rumble held no hint of being worn out. As it drew closer, Jake could see two figures inside. The driver was male and the passenger was female. Who were they? Travelers looking for a room?

"Jake?" Linda's voice held naked fear now and she motioned for him to come to her. "Come over here, honey."

He looked back to the car once more before making his ways towards her. The shed and the house were roughly fifty feet apart, and the car was moving in slowly from about two hundred feet away. These weren't regular customers- Linda was never afraid of new visitors no matter what they drove or what they looked like.

"What's going on?" he asked as he reached her side.

She glanced at him then back to the black car, her eyes narrowing as her face hardened. "Nothing, sweetheart. Just go inside for a second, okay?"

Bear was still barking and Jake looked at the shed. "I forgot to let Bear out-"

"Leave him. Just go inside. Now."

"But-"

"Go!" Linda grabbed his bicep and shoved him towards the screen door. On seeing his confused look she added, "I can't explain right now, just go inside and I'll be there in a minute. Call the police."

"Police? But-" Jake climbed up the steps but turned, unable to leave her. On the ground, Linda squared her shoulders and waited. Jake refused to be sent away like a helpless child. She was afraid, and he would stay with her.

The car's tires crunched over the dirt road and small pieces of gravel popped and jumped into the air under the massive weight. The engine rumbled rhythmically as it slowed and came to a stop, then eerie silence filled the air. Dust swirled around the car's reflective black shine. The driver and passenger looked at each other, then with a squeak of protesting hinges, the driver's door swung open, followed by the passenger door.

A brown work boot touched down upon the dirt. Frozen in place by his curiosity, Jake let his gaze travel upwards. A ringed hand grabbed the door frame and as he shut the door, the stranger's full body came into view. His clothes were simple- a solid-color t-shirt and jeans with holes in the knees. His hair was cut short and sunglasses covered his eyes. A hint of familiarity blossomed within his gut, but it was the necklace that caught Jake's attention. The gold, scarab-shaped pendant captured his gaze and for reasons unknown, Jake felt… safe. *Protected.* Who was this stranger? He stepped off the porch and stood next to Linda. Bear's barking grew more insistent in the background.

"Sammy!" the stranger exclaimed as he started forward.

Jake blinked. Sammy? The man from the flashback… Dean… Recognition brushed against the back of his mind as it danced just out of reach.

Jake found himself stumbling backwards as the stranger grabbed him in a bear hug. The other man's face was familiar- he'd seen this man before, in his dreams. But Jake had no idea who he was. He tensed, too shocked to push away. "Thank God, Sam," he murmured against Jake's shoulder. "You have no idea how good it is to see your ugly face."

Linda was watching with wide eyes. She took a small step backwards, towards the house. "Who are you people? What are you doing here? Stay away from us- I'll call the police!"

The approaching black woman held up a hand in appeasement. Jake felt his bones grind together as the stranger hugged him even tighter, then he was grabbed by the biceps and pushed back, arm's distance away. Jake was uncomfortable under the stranger's scrutiny and he looked away, just in time to see Bear practically fall through a half-open window. The dog shook itself off and immediately started trotting towards them.

"You don't look sick or injured," the stranger said, his eyes narrowing. "So I'd say you owe me one *Hell* of an explanation."

Jake was more confused than frightened, although his muscles were taught and ready for action. What was going on? He didn't owe this guy anything- he didn't even know him. Did he? His head was pounding again. There was something undeniably familiar about the guy before him, and the unexplainable pull made him even more apprehensive. Jake met the stranger's gaze and held it. "Who are you?"

The stranger's smile vanished.

~o0O0o~

'In a box high up on the shelf, left for you, no one else
There's a piece of a puzzle known as life
Wrapped in guilt, sealed up tight'
-'45', Shinedown

Dean stared at him. Of all the reactions he'd been expecting, this was not one of them. "What do you mean, who am I?" he said, letting his hands fall from Sam's shoulders. "I'm Dean, your awesome and incredibly handsome big brother." The words were heavy on his tongue.

Sam shook his head slowly, his expression painfully blank. "I've never seen you before…"

No… he couldn't believe this. Dean stamped his foot. "I know sometimes you *wish* you'd never seen me," he stated, searching Sam's face. When those empty green eyes continued staring back at him, he swallowed and smiled weakly. "Come on, Sam, cut the crap." His heart was hammering in his chest. Sam was joking. He had to be.

"You're not taking him anywhere," a woman said, and for the first time, Dean noticed the middle-aged woman. She was holding a large, panting Golden Retriever by the collar, as if trying to give the impression that the tail-wagging dog was about to attack. "Who are you people?"

"Like hell I'm not," Dean shot back as Missouri approached from behind. "And just who the hell are you, and what have you done to my brother?"

"Dean," she said softly, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Just calm down-"

"Calm down?" Dean gasped., ducking out of her reach. "You said he was fine! Look at him!" He swung a hand towards Sam. "He doesn’t know who I am! I'd call that pretty far from *fine*!"

"I said he was *safe*," Missouri corrected. "Ms. Silvey has done a fine job of watching after Sam," she said, glancing at the woman inching her way towards Sam. "You owe her your gratitude."

Dean snorted but held his tongue. Like hell he owed this woman- she could be keeping Sam here against his will for all he knew. She could even be a witch, and Sam was under some sort of spell-

"How do you know my name?" Ms. Silvey interrupted, her voice high with fear. "Who are you? How did you find us? And what do you want with Jake?"

Missouri stepped forward, reaching for the woman but she stepped out of reach. Missouri let her hand fall. "My name is Missouri, I talked to you on the phone yesterday. This is Dean Winchester." She looked at Sam. "These boys are brothers."

There was a pause and Dean waved a hand. He had no interest in formalities at the moment. He just wanted to grab Sam and get far away from here. He could figure out what had happened when they were safely inside the Impala, just the two of them.

"Is there a place where we can talk?" Missouri asked.

Ms. Silvey looked skeptical. The dog whined and shifted its weight.

"I promise you, we're not here to hurt anyone," Missouri said. "But these two boys are brothers and it's time we reunited them."

"No offense, ma'am, but I didn't live to be as old as I am by trusting stranger's promises."

Dean looked at Sam once more and their gazes locked. Ms. Silvey still had one hand on the dog's collar as she stared at the back of Sam's head, then she turned to glare at Dean. He recognized the look easily- she wanted to protect Sam. Dean bristled. That was *his* job- one that he'd been denied for far too long.

He wanted his brother back.

"Please," he said, pleading and demanding at the same time. He looked at Sam. "I just want to talk to you."

Sam looked between them all before finally nodding. "Yeah, okay."

"Fine," Ms. Silvey relented at last. "We can talk in the kitchen."

Dean watched with resentment as she released the dog, which promptly laid down in the shade, and entered the house. Her body language was tense- she clearly was uncomfortable with the proceedings. Dean understood, but at the moment, he didn't care. As he moved to the stairs, Missouri joined him. "I know this is hard for you," she said gently, "But we'll get Sam back. Just have patience."

They walked up the steps. "He's my brother. I shouldn't have to get him *back*." They stopped before the screen door. "Do you know what happened to him?"

Missouri shook her head. "I expect we'll find out. Ms. Silvey is a nice person, Dean. I can sense it."

Dean forced his temper to settle. He nodded once, glancing in the house. Sam was sitting in a chair at the kitchen table and Ms. Silvey was filling glasses with ice cubes. The phone was placed at the corner of the table, within easy reach. He looked back at Missouri and nodded again, this time more sincere. If this woman truly had kept Sam safe, then he was in her debt.

Missouri smiled. "Come on, child. It's getting hot out here."

She placed a hand on his shoulder and Dean allowed himself to be pushed through the door and into the large house. It was airy and bright and the sun shone brilliantly off hardwood and linoleum floors. To his right, a steep staircase led upwards and out of sight, presumably to the bedrooms. Through the kitchen he could see the living room, loosely coordinated in a comfortable, homey way. Silver-framed pictures littered the bookshelves, save for one which was on display next to the staircase. The carpet was dark and thick and a large area rug was laid out in the center of the room.

"Have a seat," Ms. Silvey said coldly but politely, patting the back of the chair in front of her. She turned and returned the pitcher to the refrigerator.

Dean obeyed, letting his hunter instincts guide his survey of the room. A large window was placed over the sink and sunlight streamed in, eliminating the need for electricity at this hour. The cupboards were made of a polished light wood and various cookie jars and other knick knacks were placed strategically over the counters. There was even a dog bed in the corner, and next to it, a painted bowl that read 'Bear'. Dean rolled his eyes. So Sam had finally found his apple-pie life.

Too bad Dean hadn't been part of it.

"I hope you like lemonade," Ms. Silvey said as she joined the brothers and Missouri at the table. "I made it this morning."

Missouri was the fist to speak. "It's wonderful, Ms. Silvey. Thank you."

Dean's leg bounced.

The air was still charged, but Linda appeared to be trusting them quickly. "Call me Linda. All the other guests do."

Dean was getting impatient. He fidgeted and looked at Sam, willing the younger Winchester to meet his gaze.

Missouri shot him a stern look, then looked back to Linda. "I suppose we should tell you why we're here," she said.

"That would be helpful," Linda replied and she sat back in her chair, leveling an assessing gaze at Missouri and Dean.

"Sam's my brother," Dean blurted, desperate for Sam to just *look* at him. The outburst had the desired effect but now Dean was pinned beneath a haunted gaze. "He went missing, and I want him back."

"Tell me about the night Sam came to you," Missouri asked gently, the request effectively casting Dean out of the conversation.

Suddenly a different kind of fear settled over Linda, and shaken, she took a small sip of lemonade. Her hands and face were pale as she set the glass on the table, spinning it slowly between her hands. "It was raining," she started slowly, glancing at Sam. "Jake… *Sam* showed up on my doorstep. He was bleeding and petrified."

Dean tensed, looking over Sam for any recent wounds. "You-"

"Petrified of what?" Missouri prompted.

Linda took a deep breath. "He said something was after him, chasing him."

Both Missouri and Dean stiffened. What kind of 'something'?

"I don't know why I'm telling you this," Linda said, shaking her head as she forced a laugh. She stared at her glass.

"No," Dean interrupted. "I'm listening. Keep talking." Finally they were getting somewhere.

Linda gave him a strange look, beginning again more hesitantly. "There was something… big," she continued. "It had claws. It tried to break through the door."

Dean glanced at the unmarked front door.

"I had it replaced," Linda said. "It was ruined."

"It didn't get in?" Dean asked.

"It just… stopped," she shrugged. "It went away."

There was a moment of silent and Dean pondered the story.

"It was a black cat. A big one."

The soft words stopped Dean's calculating thoughts. God, he had missed his brother's voice. "A cat? Like what, a panther?" Dean glanced at Linda, but she looked confused, as if she were hearing this information for the first time. He stared at Sam. "You saw it?"

Sam was hunched over in his chair, looking very small. "That night I did. I… I was running away from it." He took a breath, then, "I don't think it was a normal animal."

"Not normal how?" Where they dealing with a Black Dog mutation? Those were easy enough to dispose of…

"There are no black panthers in Georgia. Only cougars, and they are tan. And they almost never attack humans…" Linda interrupted- somehow politely. She was twirling her necklace around her fingers as she spoke.

Dean continued to look at Sam, ignoring Linda's sudden wellspring of information. "Not normal how?" he asked again.

Sam shrugged. "It was quick- I could hardly see it moving. Its eyes were red… like they were glowing red, but that could have been a weird reflection from the moon, right?"

This was sounding more and more like a simple Black Dog- which boosted his confidence. He'd blow the thing's head off and then he and Sam could leave this place. Dean looked to Linda. "Did you see it?"

Linda shook her head and took another sip of lemonade. "No. It just disappeared. Look- I don't see what this has to do with-"

"What else?" Dean asked.

"There was fire," Sam said, staring blankly at the tablecloth.

"Fire?" It didn't make sense. Animals didn't usually have power over flames…

Sam glanced at the door, his eyes losing focus as if he were remembering that night. "Just before it left- there were flames."

Dean looked at Missouri. He sincerely hoped that the presence of fire didn't mean things just got a whole lot more complicated. He'd consult with the psychic later- when they weren't in the company of an innocent woman and his amnesic brother.

He switched topics. "What about Sam? What happened to him?"

Linda smiled and reached out to hold one of Sam's hands. He glanced at her, but his gaze quickly returned to the tablecloth. "He was hurt and confused- but ready to protect me," she said. "He's a brave young man."

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sam always had that affect on people. "You said he was injured."

Linda's eyes darkened. "He looked like someone had roughed him over then left him for dead." The words were full of anger. "He had a concussion, not to mention the bruises and cuts. He was nearly hypothermic before I got him warmed up."

"You didn't go to the hospital?"

"He wouldn't let me-"

Dean's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "He wouldn't *let* you? You just said he was a walking icicle!" He forgot that Linda didn't have the strength to simply carry Sam over his shoulder in a fireman's hold to the nearest hospital.

"I begged her not to."

"Why, Sam?"

"It…" Sam started, dropping his gaze then visibly forcing himself to look at Dean, "It wasn't safe."

Linda squeezed his hand gently and Sam's shoulders lowered a fraction. "I had a doctor come to the house," she said. "We're not *completely* cut off from civilization. Doc Stevens looked J- Sam over and did some tests. He said the memories would return with time, and that in the meantime, Sam should let his body rest. There's a prescription to help with the headaches-"

"Headaches?"

Sam shrugged. "I get them a lot. The pills work, though."

"When he remembers to take them," Linda chided.

Dean felt a little better knowing that Sam had at least seen a doctor. "So the amnesia- how'd he get it?"

Sam reached up, gently touching his fingertips to his temple. "I was hit on the head."

Linda shook her head. "The doc agrees- there was no doubt about it. Jake- Sam was hit pretty hard, it's what caused the amnesia. We just don't know *how* he was hit."

"Sam," Missouri broke in. "You said you didn't leave because you didn't feel safe…"

Sam nodded.

"What wasn't safe?" Dean asked, using his voice to recapture Sam's attention. "Was the thing that chased you still out there?"

Sam looked to the window and his face darkened despite the bright sunlight that filled the room. "It never left. It's out there even now, waiting."

"For what?"

"For me."

Silence hung over the kitchen as Linda raised a hand to her face, concealing her open mouth. Dean looked to Missouri. "Can you feel it too?" he asked. His heart was beating faster with the understanding that Sam was under threat. "Is there something here?" If the thing stayed, it meant that Sam was a target. It meant that the thing could think… and had patience.

"I think we better talk about this someplace-"

"No," Linda interrupted. "Please. I may not have known 'Sam' very long, but I've seen his soul. He's got a good heart, and if he's in trouble, I want to help. I can't explain it, but he's almost like a son to me. Please- let me help."

"Listen lady, I know he's got the lost puppy thing going for him, but I don't think you know what you're getting yourself into here…"

"I'm not afraid."

"Maybe you should be."

"Dean," Sam spoke up, the name still painfully void of endearment, "This is her home. Doesn't she have a right to know what's going on?"

"Not if knowing would get her hurt or killed!"

Dean was left panting lightly, staring at the shell of his little brother. Linda seemed to shrink away from the table, a wary expression on her face. "Exactly who are you people?" she asked cautiously. Her hand moved towards the phone.

It was Missouri's turn to speak up. "Perhaps I can answer that while the boys get reacquainted with one another."

*'Thank you.'* Dean pushed his chair back and stood up. "Come on Sammy," he said, grabbing Sam's shoulder lightly. "Let's you and me have a little talk. You can show me around."

Sam pulled away.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Linda started.

"No," Sam said. "I'll be fine. We'll be right outside." He looked between Missouri and Dean with a coldness Dean didn't recognize, like Sam was sizing them up. Trying to intimidate them. "We won't go far," he added.

Dean's heart twisted at the way Sam was acting. He tried to place himself in Sam's shoes, knowing it must be hard having two strangers show up on your doorstep, trying to convince you that you were someone totally different than who you thought. Dean willed himself to have patience. "We'll stay within yelling range," he agreed.

With empty eyes, Sam nodded briefly then stood, standing face to face with Dean. "Let's go."

Dean let Sam lead the way. He had to admit, Sam appeared to be healthy. There were no visible bruises or wounds, and Sam didn't walk with a limp or even seem completely out of character. If anything, he had gotten a tan and some muscle mass. Dean's opinion of Linda climbed another notch despite the terms they were parting on.

They stepped out the backdoor and into the sunlight. While his hair was still shaggy in a way that the girls found sexy, Sam's hair had lightened a fraction, shinning a sort of copper in the afternoon light. His hair, his appearance- these were all superficial changes. Dean knew that the real damage was underneath, and fixing it would require the all skill and patience of people who truly cared. And in their fractured, tiny world, there weren't too many of those people.

"So this is pretty much it," Sam said, gesturing to the house behind them. "Linda's had this place for twenty years. She usually hires help for the warm seasons, when there's more business. There's a lot of chores to do around here-"

Dean ignored the house. Sam was alive, after all this time while Dean had been trying to convince himself that Sam *wasn't* dead. Here he was, his little brother, his flesh and blood, and Dean had to be sure. He stepped forward and grabbed Sam, pulling him into a tight hug, feeling the solidness between his hands and against his chest.

"What are you doing?" Sam yelped, jumping backwards.

Dean stood still, hands up in surrender. "Sorry," he breathed. The barbed wire around his heart had cinched even tighter. He wanted nothing more than to feel Sam, to prove he was alive and whole after a two-week absence, but Dean couldn't even touch him. To Sam, Dean was a stranger. Dean could hardly remember a time when he hadn't been a big brother. It was all he knew how to be- and now, Sam wouldn't even let him be that.

It was a cold, empty feeling, and Dean hated it.

He pulled himself together, wiping at his eyes before the tears fell. "Do you have any idea how scared shitless I've been?"

Sam seemed to sober, holding up a hand. "I don't know what to… I'm sorry. I just… I don't know you, okay? You have to understand how weird this is for me."

Dean breathed deeply, raising one corner of his mouth in a lopsided grin. "Yeah," he sighed, shrugging one shoulder. "It's definitely 'weird'. I'm just glad you're safe. The doctor said you'll remember everything eventually, right?"

"Yeah. He didn't know how long it'd take. I guess it depends on the person, or the injury."

It didn't matter. Dean would wait until the end of time. "What do you say I help you then, huh?" He smiled, nudging Sam with his elbow.

Sam returned the smile- the biggest one Dean had seen so far- and glanced at the Impala. "That your car?"

"Hell yeah it's my car."

"I like it."

Dean steered them towards the car, shoes crunching softly on the gravel driveway. "That's because you have good taste in cars, little brother. That's one thing you and Dad could always agree on."

"Where is he?"

"Dad?" Dean tried to remain cheerful. It was an answer he'd like to hear himself. "He's working." He pulled open the passenger door, urging Sam to sit down. "We don't really see him a lot anymore."

Dean crossed around the Impala's hood and took his seat behind the steering wheel. They closed the doors and rolled down the windows, simply sitting in the silence as a warm breeze blew through the car. Sam ran his hand over the dashboard, his eyes narrowed as he took in every detail. "Did he give you this car?" he asked, his fingers moving to the dials of the radio.

"Kinda," Dean replied. "I found an ad for it in the paper, but the transmission was all shot to hell. I got it for a fifteen hundred dollars and me and Dad fixed it up. Best investment I ever made." He patted the dashboard, then realized Sam wouldn't get the joke. "Only investment I ever made, but still…"

"So you guys are mechanics?"

Dean chuckled. "No way. I know my way around engines, sure… Dad co-owned a shop in Kansas- where we used to live. He drug us down there when we were little, made us clean up and stuff like that. Then after he gave up the shop, fixing cars was just a hobby. We'd spend whole Saturdays on the driveway, car parts scattered all over the front yard, eating doughnuts and getting bloody knuckles…"

Dean trailed off, suddenly finding his throat tight from the memories he thought he'd forgotten. He said once that if he ever had to live a 'normal, cookie-cutter life', he'd shoot himself. But he'd forgotten how wonderful it'd been while he was living it. Before he was old enough to stand the kick of a shotgun, before he could launch an arrow at a moving target two hundred feet away and score a bulls-eye. He sniffed, blaming it on the pollen of the nearby honeysuckle, and blinked away the memories. Dean turned to Sam, who was watching him intently.

"Sounds nice," Sam said, shifting slighting in the leather seat. "Sounds like a happy family."

Dean smiled. "We had our moments." He propped an elbow on the window sill and shielded his eyes from the sun.

"What about Mom, what does she do?"

*'Oh, Sammy.'* Dean closed his eyes briefly, gathering strength. "She's uh-" he started, clearing his throat. "She died when you were a baby."

Hurt flickered across Sam's face, followed closely by… confusion? "Oh." He said calmly, keeping his eyes down. "How?"

*Fuck.* Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "It was uh… a fire." He couldn't lie, but he doubted Sam was ready for the whole truth. "It was in your nursery."

Sam looked up. "She died trying to save me?"

That was the million dollar question, wasn't it? But the only one who knew the answer was the demon who did it, and they were no closer to it now then they had been 25 years ago. Fortunately, John Winchester was nothing if not tenacious, and Dean had no doubt that one day, vengeance would be theirs. That fucker of a baddie would pay with its life.

Sam must have taken the silence for an affirmative answer. "So who got me out?" he asked, looking up at Dean. "Dad?"

"Dad gave you to me and I got you out of the house."

"Oh." Sam offered a small smile. "Well, thanks."

"Anytime, bro." *Anytime.*

Sam's smile fell. "Dad must have been a mess. I mean, they loved each other, right?"

"Yeah, he was pretty shaken up." Just call him Dean, the King of Understatements.

"Did he ever remarry?"

"Only to his job."

"Oh." Sam seemed disappointed. "What about you?"

Dean laughed out loud. "Me, married? Yeah right!"

Sam laughed as well, but it was quiet and tentative, as if weren't sure if the joke was really supposed to be funny. Then, "Am I?"

"Married? Nope, sorry Sam. We're two of the world's unluckiest bachelors."

Dean was still chuckling when Sam asked, "Who's Jessica?"

Silence fell over the car. Outside, leaves rustled in the wind. "How did you-"

"I have dreams," Sam said, picking at a seam in the leather beneath him. "I never knew what they were about. I mean, I figured they might be memories, but I didn't know for sure. Sometimes I get… 'visions' during the day, but they always give me a headache. It's weird, I know. I don't know why I'm telling you-"

"No, I understand," Dean said. "That's why you have the pills, for the headaches?"

Sam nodded. "So do you know who she is?"

Dean's stomach tightened. "She was your girlfriend."

Sam's hand stilled. "She's… dead… too, isn't she?"

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah buddy, she's dead too."

Sam rubbed his temple. "A fire killed her too, didn't it."

"Yeah."

Sam blinked and took a breath, seeming to digest the information. He looked outside, away from Dean. "That was in my room too, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." Dean didn't have the heart to elaborate- besides, Sam had probably seen it all in his head.

There was a beat of silence, then softly, "I don't think I wanna be me."

For once in his life, Dean didn't know what to say.

"Dean? Can I ask you something?"

They'd already covered all the painful topics, hadn't they? "Yeah, sure." The pain in his throat surprised him and he swallowed.

"There was another… what happened at Lake Manitoc?"

Dean furrowed his eyebrows as he searched his memories. He and Sam had rid the town of a water spirit that had been claiming lives out of revenge for his murder. It was years ago. "You remember that?" If Sam remembered a random moment from an old hunt, maybe it wouldn't be long before he remembered *Dean*.

"I think so," Sam replied. "I had this… flashback. My head started killing me and next thing I knew, this scene played out in my mind. I think we were at a restaurant, talking about Dad. You said were would kill anything that got in our way." Haunted eyes turned to Dean. "Do we kill people?"

Dean opened his mouth to argue that no, they didn't really kill *people*- at least not living people, unless they were dabbling in the evil witchcraft business- but suddenly a large, long-haired dog slapped its front paws on the door panel and stood on its hind legs, panting happily in Dean's face.

"What the hell?" Dean jumped, backing away from the long, graying muzzle and hot, tepid breath.

Sam got out of the car. "Bear, get down!" he ordered, rounding the hood and grabbing the dog's collar. "Sorry," he said to Dean as the dog hit the ground with a jingle of tags. "He loves people."

"What's a Bear?" Dean asked warily as he opened the driver's side door. The dog sat wagging its tail, watching him with squinted amber eyes.

"Don't worry, he's harmless," Sam said, scratching the dog's head. "He's Linda's dog. Good for nothing, really, except chasing off the wildlife and getting hair all over the place."

The dog got up then, and Dean could almost hear the old animal's bones cracking. It hobbled to the porch, hopped up the steps slowly, then stood at the door and started scratching. He wouldn't admit it, but Dean had always liked dogs and enjoyed playing with them as a kid. But even as a child, he understood why they couldn't have one of their own and had never asked for one. His family simply didn't have the time nor the money to care for a fourth member, not with their lifestyle. Dean was okay with it- in a lot of ways, having a kid brother was even better than having a dog.

At least Sam made less noise.

Most of the time.

Dean laughed to himself, then noticed Sam was standing motionless, one hand on the car door and the other hanging limply at his side. He was facing the tree line, eyes wide, barely breathing.

"Sam?" Dean said, stepping next to his brother. "You okay?"

"It's out there," Sam replied softly, his lips barely parting. "I can hear it sometimes, at night. It's watching. Waiting."

"The panther thing?"

"I don't think it's *really* a panther- that was just a disguise or something… but I can feel it. It's dark, powerful. I get this feeling, like something bad is going to happen."

"Guess that means your Spidey-senses still work," Dean murmured, searching the thick forest for any signs of evil.

"My what?"

"Nothing." Dean couldn't find anything out of place, so he let himself relax. "How long have you felt like this?"

"Since I got here," Sam replied, at last shutting the shed door. "Whatever's out there, it chased me. It's been out here, waiting, ever since."

Dean knew he needed to talk to Missouri, as soon as possible. She'd know better what they were dealing with, why it wanted Sam, and how to stop it. "Wait-" started Dean, his mind skipping tracks, "So that's why you wouldn't let Linda take you to the hospital?"

Sam looked embarrassed but his tone was defensive. "It's powerful! Nothing lives in those woods- the birds fly over the trees, but they don't land in them. The deer stay to the fields. Whatever is in those woods is evil."

"So you were scared."

Sam remained silent. He looked to be on the verge of tears and Dean couldn't stand that hurt look on his brother. He wanted nothing more than to wrap an arm around Sam, but he knew that doing so would only result in conflict. "It's okay," Dean said quietly, forcing himself to settle for just standing next to Sam. Funny how all his life, Sam was the touchy-feely one, and now, Dean would trade his soul for a quick hug. "I'm here now, and we're gonna kick that thing's ass, okay?"

Sam's voice was soft. "How?"

Dean shifted his weight. "I don't know yet, buddy. But as your big brother, I promise, I'll get you out of here." He relaxed a little and added, "I'll get us both out of here. I hate Georgia. It's too damn hot." He smacked a mosquito.

He felt Sam chuckle against his shoulder. The screen door opened and Dean turned in time to see the dog trot inside. "Boys!" Missouri called from the doorway, "Come on in here and get some homemade apple pie!"

Dean looked accusingly at Sam. "You've been holding out on me."

Sam smiled brightly as he ducked his head, and Dean realized just how much he had missed those dimples.

He steered them towards the porch and continued, "I bet you're making up all that stuff about a monster in the woods. You really just wanna stay here and eat her country cooking- is that right?"

Sam shook his head, still sporting a goofy grin. "She is a good cook…"

Dean stepped onto the porch, his kid brother flanking him and his pride soaring. He had always been the only one with the power to make Sammy smile, no matter the circumstances. If Sam had fallen off his bike and scraped his knees, Dean had the power to make him laugh about it. If Sam had come home with a less-than-average grade on his report card, Dean convinced him that next time would be better. And when Sam had watched his girlfriend burn on the ceiling above him, Dean had been there as well, pulling Sam from the fire for a second time.

And it felt pretty damn good to simply *be there*.

~o0O0o~

"I'll hand it to you Sam- you always did know how to run away in style," Dean said after dinner, patting his stomach in an exaggerated show. "Dad and I never needed to worry about you starving to death."

Sam looked at Dean as Linda reached in front of him to clear away the dishes. "I ran away a lot?"

A laugh bubbled out of Dean. "You went through a phase. You know, the rebellious, 'I'm-growing-my-hair-long-and-won't-take-your-orders-anymore' phase." Dean watched as Sam glanced up at his overgrown bangs and added, "Actually, it wasn't so much a 'phase' as it was a 'decision'."

Missouri chuckled from her place beside Linda at the suds-filled sink. "You Winchesters are known for your 'decisions'. You're the most stubborn group of boys I know."

"How do you know us?" Sam asked innocently, watching the black woman with interest.

"I'm a friend of your daddy's," she replied, accepting a dripping white plate from Linda and covering it with a hand towel. "He came to me for help a long time ago, back when you were just a babe and Dean was a knobby-kneed toddler."

Dean snorted and glared. Really, what relevance does his 5 year-old appearance have in this story?

"What did he need help with?"

Dean winced. How do you explain your career of hunting the supernatural to your amnesiac brother? Dean hadn't mentioned it directly… he didn't want to push and he just assumed that deep inside himself, Sam knew. He knew about their mother, about Jessica- about what really killed them. But maybe Dean was wrong. It's not like he had introduced himself as Dean Winchester, Ghost Hunter Extraordinaire. And by the way Sam, you're my nerdy geek-boy sidekick.

Missouri cast a quick backwards glance over her shoulder. "Help with finding your mother's killer."

At that, Linda stiffened, her back still facing Dean.

Sam's eyebrows dipped in confusion. "Dean said she died in a fire."

Oh, shit. Yup, he was wrong. "Uh," Dean cleared his throat, getting Sam's attention away from Missouri. "Look, Sam… maybe we can go for a walk or something, and I can explain every-"

Sam pushed away from the table, the wooden chair legs scraping over the linoleum. Bear raised his head, watching intently from his oversized pillow in the corner. "No," he said, stepping away from the table, holding up a hand. "Not until you tell me what's going on. How'd Mom really die? Is she even dead, or is that a lie too?"

"Yes she's really dead," Dean said, standing as well. He glanced at Linda, who was facing him now and inching her way towards Sam. "Look, it's a little hard to explain right now, I-"

Sam and Linda looked at each other. "Why?" Sam asked, moving to stand beside Linda. "What ever you have to say, you can tell it to both of us."

What? "Would you listen to yourself, Sam?" Dean said, one hand coming up in exasperation. "You've only known this woman for a couple *weeks*!" Linda flinched, but Dean couldn't bring himself to feel remorseful for the harsh words. "You've known me your whole *life*! Why can't you just trust me?"

"Dean," Missouri warned softly.

"Because I can't *remember*!" Sam exclaimed, his volume matching Dean's. "I don't remember anything about you, or Dad, or Mom- and what you *did* tell me was a lie!" Linda's hand went to Sam's elbow but he appeared oblivious. "Is anything you told me true? The story about the car… about the fire? Is my name really Sam? What exactly do we *do*, Dean?"

"Damnit, listen to me," Dean said, taking a step towards Sam. The room was growing hot; anger and determination swirled in his gut, tensing every muscle in his body. He was *this* close to getting his brother back- he would *not* lose him to a misunderstanding. "Dad's job- *our* job… it's trying to find and kill the thing that killed Mom in a fire 24 years ago."

Sam's mouth was open when he blinked and cocked his head. "Wait- what do you mean, *thing*?"

"Dean," Missouri interrupted again, "Now may not be the best time-"

Dean ignored her. Prompting amnesia victims were suppose to help them remember, right? That's how it worked on the movies. "I mean it was a demon, Sam. We don't exactly know which one. Dad's been researching it and hunting it since it took her and he's only ever gotten close. We don't know how to-"

"A demon?" Sam asked, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other. "A demon killed my mother."

Dean recognized that look- it was the look people gave them right before they were laughed out of a poltergeist-infested house by people who didn't believe in poltergeists. But that look on Sam… it hurt deeply. Sam was one of two people who knew what it was like losing a mother to something that shouldn't even exist. Sam had never laughed at the supernatural. Unearthly beings were *real*… and they killed people.

He felt anger well up inside him. "Don't you dare," he growled, pointing a finger at Sam's chest. "You don't get to choose what you believe. You don't get to throw away a piece of you just because you don't like it." As he advanced, Linda's grip on his brother tightened. "You want the truth? Fine. Here's the truth." He felt Missouri behind him but ignored her. "When you were six months old, our Mom burned to death on the ceiling above your crib. Dad turned into an ex-marine-gone-ghost-buster, and I became his soldier. Dad read us Latin protection spells for bedtime stories. We weren't allowed to get out of bed at night because we might break the circle of salt that surrounded our beds. We had dream catchers in every window. The Holy water was on the top shelf of the refrigerator so we couldn't reach it and drink it accidentally."

"Dean."

He ignored her. His heart was pounding and memories flashed through his head as he narrated. "When you were five, I was making you macaroni and cheese while Dad spent the night hunting ghosts. When you were nine, Dad gave you a .45 to fend off the monsters that shouldn't be in your closet. When you were eleven, you could disassemble, reassemble, clean, load and shoot 9 different types of firearms." Dean took a deep breath, welcoming the burn in his lungs. He was spiraling out of control but couldn't stop it. He ignored the hurt look on Sam's face and plowed on, "When you were 15, you killed your forth werewolf. When you were 19, you thought you could escape this life-" Dean paused, suddenly tired and sad at this particular memory, "…And when you were 23, you found out that it was impossible."

Sam was looking at him with large, wet doe-eyes and Dean was sorry. Sorry for the outburst, sorry for losing his patience, sorry for forcing Sam into this life once again. He felt Missouri pull on his shirt, gently urging for him to come outside with her. He looked at Sam once more, feeling like he'd just kicked a new, soft, cuddly puppy in its gut. He couldn't bear it- so he turned and followed Missouri on numb legs, the sound of retreat the only noise breaking the tension that hung over the kitchen.

The screen door slammed behind him.

He had seriously fucked up.

An open palm smacked him on the back of the skull, causing him to flinch. "Don't you cuss like that around me! What's the matter with you, boy?" Missouri chided, giving Dean a hands-on-hips look of reprimand. "Can't you take a hint? Next time, you listen to me when I'm saying your name!"

"I'm an idiot," Dean said, dejection tightening his throat as he stepped off the porch. He needed to walk- to figure things out and cool off. He didn't need a psychic- a motherly one at that- poking through his thoughts.

She smiled. "Ah, but you're an idiot with good intentions," Missouri corrected.

Dean snorted. What good where intentions when he was trying to piece his family back together?

"Hey," Missouri said gently, firmly. "He'll get through this. Trust me. Everything will work out in time."

A cricket paused its chirping as they walked past the shed where it must have been hiding. The sun was just starting to nestle into the horizon and the landscape was stained a soft, lemonade pink. Lightening bugs floated in the air under a large oak tree, flashing in a slow, steady rhythm. Dean sighed, breathing in the flower-scented air and tried to relax. "He told me he had a flash back- said his head hurt before it happened. Has he talked to you? Have you gotten a 'read' on him?"

"A flash back?" Missouri turned a concerned gaze on him. "When?"

"I don't know- before we got here. It kinda sounded like he had a vision."

"He could have. He's very confused. He wants to believe, but more than that, he wants the truth."

"I thought I was protecting him."

"You can't protect someone from who they are," Missouri said. "You know that. He's frightened. He doesn't understand what's happening, or what *has* happened. The only safety he knows right now is Linda. We should be thankful he has her."

"Well now he has *me*," Dean replied. "I'm his big brother- I'm the one who looks out for him. He should come to me." It made him sick to think Sam could forget him so completely, that 24 years of trust and love could be gone in the blink of an eye. It wasn't fair.

Missouri laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "His memories are there, buried inside. He's not forgotten you, Dean. You have to understand what he's going through, all the memories he's got inside his head that don't make any sense… He wants to trust you, I can see that. But he's confused. Lost."

Dean stopped walking and turned to face her. The house was some distance behind them now, glowing like a beacon as the sun continued to set. He did understand- well, not completely. But he could imagine the constant state of confusion Sam must be in, the toll it must be taking on his brother. This was one of those times were he missed his mother desperately. He wanted someone to tell him it would all be okay- to wave a magic wand and make everything go back to normal. He couldn't fix Sammy by himself. He didn't know how.

"Oh child… come here." Missouri reached out and pulled Dean against her. "Stay strong. We'll get him back, I promise you. Just have patience."

Dean let himself be held for a moment, taking comfort in the foreign gesture. After Mom died, Dad was not real big on the touchy-feely emotional stuff. If the boys were bleeding, John told them to suck it up, focus on something else. If they missed their mother, John told them to hit the gym or the shooting range. If they were hungry, he microwaved a frozen dinner or ordered fast food. If they were sick, they were dosed regularly with over-the-counter cough syrup. And if they were tired of hunting, John kicked them out of the house.

They'd always had each other, though… but the late night cuddling and sleeping in the same bed stopped years ago, once Dean had hit puberty. Now, the only time they shared a bed was when money was tight, and they most certainly never, *ever* cuddled.

Dean pulled away, sniffing to clear the stinging from his nostrils. "You know I hate these chick-flick moments, right?" He swatted an insect that landed on his forearm. "I also hate Georgia."

"I won't tell anyone." Missouri winked at him, then turned and surveyed the scenery with a frown.

Dean followed her gaze, surprised to find that they were so close to Sam's Forest of Evil. A shiver ran through him. "What is it?"

"I can feel Sam," Missouri started, turning completely to face the dark trees. "I feel his pain… his fear."

Dean glanced to the house behind him. "But Sam's inside-"

"It's residual," she explained, closing her eyes, a crease between her eyebrows. "His emotions were so strong then, when it happened… he's left a signature here." She took a step closer to the tree line. The crickets stopped chirping. "There's also a great evil nearby. It roams this forest… hungry, and impatient."

Dean swallowed as his heart quickened. "The thing that went after Sam?"

Missouri looked at him. "The thing that very nearly took Sam."

Dean searched the shadows for any sign of movement. The sky was orange and purple now, but the trees remained colorless. In fact, even in the light of day, Dean remembered them to be black. Sam's words cam back to him: // 'Nothing lives in those woods- the birds fly over the trees, but they don't land in them. The deer stay to the fields. Whatever is in those woods is evil.' //

Dean stepped beside Missouri. "Can you tell what it is?" he asked. "Jersey Devil… Black Dog… ghost…" If he knew what kind of creature they were facing, he could prepare himself- arm himself- and destroy it. He was a man of action, after all. He glanced at the Impala, wishing he had a gun in his hands.

"It's a lot more powerful than those things," Missouri said, her voice confident. "Whatever is out there is pure evil. It's not going to be defeated without a fight, you can be sure of that. It's smart..." Missouri trailed off, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the tree line. "It's on the move," she said quietly, and Dean followed her gaze.

Missouri gasped half a second before Dean saw the faint movement of black on black. The shadows slid over one another and the tall, wispy figure of a cloaked human being appeared, then faded back into the night as quickly as it has materialized.

Everything happened so fast- Dean still wasn't even sure the image had been real before Missouri grabbed his elbow and tugged, hard. "It's coming- run!"

And then he was, turning on his heel and nearly tripping over his own feet as the shadows slid against one another again. He'd never seen anything move so gracefully- so quickly and silently and *smoothly*… A foreign feeling of fear numbed his legs as his feet pounded over the ground. Missouri had let go of him and he was easily overtaking her- but he forced himself to slow down stay behind, putting himself between Missouri and the monster behind them. Adrenaline flooded his veins and his heart felt swollen as it throbbed in his chest.

Dean risked a glance behind him. The tall silhouette collapsed in a puff of black smoke. In its place, a large black panther took up the chase- claws extended and piercing the ground to give the animal leverage and speed. Its red eyes sparkled in the moonlight.

Shit.

"Run!" Dean yelled, urging Missouri faster as he placed his hand on her back. They were almost to the house- but they weren't moving fast enough. Missouri was heavier- she couldn't move like Dean. Her knees were bad and she hobbled. She had the build of a wonderful, kind-hearted mother… and right now, it was a curse that would see them killed.

A flash of gold almost sent Dean stumbling. Bear appeared, his tail held high and rigid as he lowered his head, displaying a row of yellowed, crooked teeth. The dog stood firm, staring at the demon with fire in his clouded eyes.

"Go!" Dean shouted, pushing Missouri towards the house. She continued hobbling, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Dean turned to face the demon as the dog barked and leapt forward.

Light met darkness as the dog collided with the demon. Dean searched the ground for a weapon as snarls and the sound of snapping teeth filled the air. He found a large tree branch a few feet away and ran for it, unable to turn away from the promise of a fight. He just had to stall the demon long enough for Missouri to get help-

A screech filled the air, tearing at Dean's eardrums and he flinched. He grabbed the stick just as the dog yelped. Silence hung heavily in the darkness and Dean turned, panting, and looked into the demon's hungry eyes. The dog lay in a heap some distance away, unmoving.

Before he could use his better judgment, Dean swung the branch at the demon, the length of it swiping through the cat-like head without any resistance. The smell of sulfur clung to the branch as wisps of black smoke curled in the air.

The demon's lips peeled back, revealing a set of threatening fangs.

Dean dropped his make-shift bat and ran.

"Get back!" he yelled, seeing the Missouri standing in front of Linda. Sam was nowhere to be seen. He sprinted towards the women and was almost to the first step when Missouri screamed a warning.

Pain exploded in his ankle as a single silver claw swiped at him, snagging his jeans and slicing through skin. He fell, his face bouncing off the ground upon impact, and instantly, the shadow was on top of him. His brain was reverberating against his skull and everything was blurry- but with the righting reflex of a cat, he flipped over on to his back, suddenly looking straight into the glowing eyes of the demon above him.

His death reflected back at him and he froze.

"Dean!" Missouri cried from the porch. Her voice was muted as Dean's heartbeat pounded his eardrums.

He couldn't move- the massive ghost-animal had him pinned to the ground. The thing had no specific features; it was a panther-like shape that had been cut into the fabric of time- a panther-shaped black hole. Its hot breath moistened Dean's face as it blinked, black eyelids sliding shut over the fiery coals in its eye sockets.

And suddenly Dean knew he was going to die.

Fear twisted and froze in his gut. He stopped breathing. The animal's lips wrinkled as it exposed a row of teeth, framed by long, sharp canine teeth in all corners of its mouth. Saliva and small bubbles clung to the animal's fangs, making them sparkle in the near-darkness. A low growl sounded from deep within the creature's body and all other sounds faded away. Death was heavy on the animal's breath. Dean was paralyzed. This was not how he imagined himself dying.

"Back off, pussy cat."

The voice to his left was deep and firm. Dean didn't move.

Suddenly the panther flinched and screeched- an inhuman sound that nearly shattered Dean's eardrums- then the animal imploded, disappearing in a puff of wispy smoke that smelled of sulfur- and something else. The weight on his chest was gone and Dean gasped for breath, struggling to push himself up, silently thanking whatever god was looking out for him this night.

A hand extended down, stopping in front of his face. Dean looked at it, recognizing that large hand, then followed the arm up to the body and finally to the gruff, smiling face of John Winchester.

Dean was breathless. "Dad?"

"Dean."

Dean reached out and grasped his father's hand, accepting the help to his feet. Blood was congealing in a trail from his nose to his ear and he wiped at it, feeling it start to drip down his upper lip. The world was spinning around him so when John opened his arms, Dean was more than happy to return the hug. "What are you doing here?" he asked, feeling the firm pat on his back before John separated them.

John held up the yellow and orange plastic water gun. "Saving your ass," he replied with a grin. He aimed the weapon towards the sky and pulled the trigger.

Dean watched as a stream of water burst forth, shimmering as it fell to the grass. Dean recognized the toy gun; it had saved their lives before. "Holy water?"

"Holy water."

"But what- how… when…"

He was still stuttering- and the look on John's face was one of amusement- when he heard a commotion on the porch.

"Dean?" Missouri called, sticking her head through the narrow opening in the door. Once she saw him, she pushed the door completely open and stepped outside, Linda on her heels. "Boy, you sure know how to send a woman to an early grave, you know that?" She stepped off the porch and moved with determination across the yard. "Boy, the next time you pull some pig-headed stunt like that- John?"

"Missouri."

Dean remained where he was as Missouri moved towards his father. Where was Sam? His face ached and he licked his lips, tasting the blood from his nose. He took a step towards the house, panting through his open mouth, unable to shake the lingering feeling of impending death. Then Sam ran through the doorway, thudding to a halt halfway down the steps, his eyes wide with worry as he looked between Dean and where Linda was kneeling next to the dog.

Sam was holding a sawed-off shotgun.

Their eyes met and in that connection between the brothers, Dean understood why Sam had been so afraid to leave the property. The thing in these woods was more evil and more powerful than anything they'd ever hunted. The fear in Sam's eyes reflected the cold terror still pumping through his veins. They had both tasted it now, both felt the power of the evil entity haunting the woods.

"We need to go inside now," Sam said, his quiet voice halting all other conversation. He glanced to the trees and Dean couldn't help but do the same. Night had completely fallen now.

They were vulnerable.

John straightened as if he had just now noticed that his youngest son was standing before him. "Sam?"

Dean's thoughts flashed forward on the complexity of the ensuing conversation and he stepped forward, pain lancing through his ankle as he remembered his injury. "He's right- we need to get in the house, now." His shoe was hot with blood and it turned his sock spongy and tacky.

But Sam was eyeing John with a wariness normally reserved for stray dogs. So Dean ignored the pain and the limp in his gate, joining Sam on the steps. Behind them, Linda got the dog to stand up and walked with it as it limped heavily, favoring its right front paw. As the group moved back into the house, Dean prepared himself for the long night ahead.

~o0O0o~

'Tomorrow comes. Sorrow becomes his soul mate.
The damage is done. The prodigal son is too late.
Old doors are closed but he's always open,
To relive time in his mind.'
-'Billy', James Blunt

A bag of frozen peas plopped down upon his ankle and Dean stifled a yelp, jumping from his sprawled position at the end of the overstuffed couch to grab his foot.

"Keep that there," Missouri scolded, pointing her finger at the space between Dean's eyes. "You got lucky that thing didn't rip clean through your tendon. And don't roll your eyes at me."

Dean leaned back against the cushions and tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his ankle. He looked around the room, feeling the heavy tension in the air. His father was pacing in front of the window, a gun resting against the small of his back as he kept tabs on everyone's movements. Sam sat on one end of the loveseat, Linda on the other. The shotgun was gone; Dean suspected Sam had returned it from wherever he found it. Both Sam and Linda looked nervous. In fact, the only calm soul was Bear, who lay on his oversized pillow, his foot bandaged neatly, snoring rhythmically. The couch dipped as Missouri sat on the end opposite Dean, and he caught a glimpse of her concerned gaze before studying his brother.

Sam looked absolutely lost. His senses seemed to be on high alert, causing him to jump at the slightest sound while tension hardened his face and shoulders. Dean was afraid that he'd lost the trust he'd worked so hard to earn this afternoon. Sam was withdrawing, and- much to Dean's dismay- he was turning to Linda for shelter. The thought set him on edge, and Dean clenched his jaw.

"Tell me what you know about it," John said suddenly, and Dean turned his head to find he was being stared at.

"Not much," Dean replied, pushing himself straighter against the couch. "It seems to stick to the woods and only come out at night. It's fast- possibly a transporter?" He glanced at his leg. "It's also a shape shifter, obviously."

"Have you researched the land yet? Found out what it wants?"

Dean blinked. "No sir. I just got here this afternoon." He had more important things to do, like try and recover his brother's memory.

John nodded curtly and looked to Sam. "Tomorrow morning, I want you to go to the library. Dean and I will-"

"Dad," Dean interrupted at Sam's incredulous look. He ran a hand over his head. "There's a problem."

"I'm well aware of that, Dean. Which is why we need to-"

"No," Dean said, and John froze. Interruptions weren't common- multiple ones were grounds for punishment. "It's Sam."

"Your message said he was missing… looks like you found him now." John said, then he looked at Sam. The room was silent. "What's going on? Are you hurt?"

"You got my message?" Dean was astonished. "Sam's been missing for two weeks and you show up now? Why not sooner? How'd you know we were here?"

"Missouri called me. Said you found Sam and that she needed help, that I needed to be here." John's gaze went from Dean and Missouri slowly. "I thought she was talking about the demon."

The answer didn't surprise Dean. Hunting always came first. It always had and it always would. "Dad, Sam was attacked by that thing out there. He's got amnesia- he doesn't remember anything."

All eyes were on Sam and he seemed to shrink into the cushions. Linda reached over to reassure him, one hand twisted in the necklace on her chest.

"How did this happen?" John asked, looking from Dean to Sam. "What were you doing alone in the woods to begin with?"

"That's what I've been trying to figure out," Dean said. "We were suppose to meet at the airport 45 minutes north of here. I was going to pick Sam up when his flight arrived, but he never showed. I waited for five ho