Previous part of When Our Minds Betray Us.

***

"You're the one who killed my brother."

---

A storm of emotions flew across his face and his eyes popped wide. "What? Where—How—" he stumbled and then stopped, working his jaw back and forth as he tried to put together a thought. But he quickly recovered, collecting himself enough to ask, "How do you figure?"

Sam saw through his obvious mask, and he was glad that, for once, he was able to take someone else by surprise. "I read about most of it in the newspaper archives," he explained. "Put two and two together and got you."

A confused frown creased his forehead, but then the man's eyes widened with understanding. "Oh," he said weakly. His eyebrows furrowed together and he ducked his head.

Sam felt he should say something, felt he needed to defend himself against the possible thoughts running through the stranger's head. "Look, I don't remember what happened," he said, keeping his voice serious. "But I want you to know, I'm not a violent freak like my brother."

He flinched violently, jerking as if struck, and Sam knew his words had hit a bull's-eye. "Yeah. I know. I know that," the man muttered.

Sam frowned. "So what do you want with me?"

"Oh, boy..." he said, forcing a noisy breath through his lips as he scrubbed his face with his hand. "Is Rebecca here?" he finally asked.

Sam shook his head. "No, not yet."

"Crap." He tossed his head in frustration and said no more.

Refusing to be deterred, Sam crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Were you looking from something?" he asked impatiently. "Who else was here? How did you get in?"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, college boy," the man said, holding up a hand. "Hit my head, remember? Not working at full capacity here."

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes. At least it didn't look like he would be attacked anytime soon. "Can you at least tell me your name?" he asked dryly.

"Yeah. It's John," the other man replied.

Sam didn't believe him, seeing no reason why "John" would tell him the truth. But he supposed he didn't need to know, at least not yet, so he accepted it. "All right, John, what the hell happened?"

"You know, it'd really help if Rebecca was here."

"Try anyway."

John drew in a long, deep breath. "Okay, fine. Rebecca called me, told me she needed my help. She's the one who left the door unlocked for me."

"Rebecca told you it was okay to mess up my room?" Sam asked skeptically.

"Well, no, that was just a side effect," he replied, and Sam snorted.

John paused for a moment, looking a little uncomfortable. "Um...Rebecca said you don't believe in ghosts anymore."

"I never did," Sam retorted.

"Fine, whatever," John said irritably, waving him off. "The thing is, they're real, and your room attracted a poltergeist. Rebecca called me to get rid of it."

Sam stared at him for a long moment. "Rebecca called you to get rid of a poltergeist in my bedroom," he repeated flatly.

He shrugged casually. "Yeah, that's kinda my gig."

"How old are you?"

John narrowed his eyes. "25. Why?"

"You're 25, and this is what you do with your life?" he scoffed. "You go around, like one of those ghost hunters?"

John shot a fierce glare at him. "Yeah. I'm a freakin' ghost hunter." And even though his tone was sarcastic, it was obvious he wasn't denying it.

So he was "the expert" Rebecca was referring to? Was this what Zach meant by bounty hunter? Sam thought furiously, trying to piece together the information he had. John's story fit, in a strange way, so maybe—maybe—he was telling the truth.

But that didn't mean he believed the nonsense John was saying. "And how much will this scam cost Rebecca?" he asked.

John's jaw dropped. "Hey, I offer my services for free," he said defensively, sounding hurt. Sam almost felt bad, but then he remembered what John was trying to convince him of. "I got rid of it, by the way."

"What? The poltergeist?"

"Yeah. It put up one helluva fight though." He gestured at the mess around him.

"You're cleaning that up, you know," Sam told him.

"Me? Hell, no, I'm not."

They stared at each other for a long moment, a short battle of wills. Finally, Sam shook his head and sighed. "I just...I don't believe this. I've been waiting for answers, and this is what I get."

"What do you mean-" John started in defensively.

Just then, they heard the apartment door open and the noises of Zach and Rebecca coming home. Both men jerked in surprise, and Sam wasn't sure if he should be relieved or not. An instant later, Rebecca's voice rang out. "Sam?" she called, sounding hesitant.

Then Sam felt a sudden stab of irritation and anger, realizing she had set him up.

She knew John would be here, and she sent Sam, hoping he would run into him. "We're in here," he called out, suddenly tired.

A few seconds later, he heard the footfalls of Rebecca as she came towards his room. She poked her head through the door. "Is everything okay?" she asked timidly. Her eyes widened as she surveyed the room. "Oh, gosh..."

"Yeah, it's fine," Sam replied lowly. "Looks like you sent me home just in time."

John reacted immediately, leaping to his feet at Sam's words. "You sent him?" he burst out, outraged. "What the hell!"

Rebecca opened and closed her mouth a couple of times. John continued to glare at her, which seemed to give her a sudden, hard resolve.

"I was sick of this," she finally said. "I was sick and tired of hiding all of this from Sam." Sam watched her silently, not saying anything, and John glanced away, glowering. She looked around the room and ran a frustrated hand through her blonde hair. "Although I guess this wasn't much of a reunion," she sighed, worrying her lip. She took a step backwards. "I'll leave you two alone-"

Sam jumped up, dumbfounded. "Reunion?" he shot out. "We've met before?"

Rebecca turned wide eyes on him. "You—You..." She swung towards John, a shocked look on her face.

"Yeah," John admitted gruffly to Sam. "You were there when I killed your brother." Sam sucked in a sudden breath.

Rebecca gasped. "Is that what you told him?" she demanded angrily.

The older man shook his head. "I didn't tell him anything. He already knew." He looked at Rebecca pointedly.

Sam glared at him for that, irritated that he seemed to blame her, as if it were her fault Sam spent the last year struggling to find answers.

"What! How?" she exclaimed, her white face turning to Sam. "Where did you hear that?"

Sam couldn't meet her eyes at first. "I looked it up at the library a few months ago," he admitted. He raised his head to look at her through the fringe of his bangs. She was staring at him, a look of horror on her face. "I'm so sorry, Rebecca. I-I knew you were hiding that from me, and I was too scared to tell you I knew about my brother."

He ducked his head again. "God, I'm so sorry. I don't know how I can ever make up for what my brother did to you and Zach."

Rebecca continued to stare at him, her face having yet to regain color. "Oh, no, Sam..." she whispered. She looked over at John and then back to him. "That's not—Sam, you of all people have nothing to apologize for."

Sam shifted uncomfortably and decided not to reply to that. "I still don't understand why you wanted me to meet John," he asked instead.

John jumped in, answering for her. "I saved your life," he told him bluntly.

"What?"

Sam listened, stunned, as John explained how he found Sam on the floor of Rebecca's house, Dean on top of him, strangling him to death. John had burst in just in time, had to stop Dean by shooting him, which killed him instantly. Saving Sam's life.

As he explained, Rebecca looked away and shuddered.

Sam whistled lowly at the news, unable to do anything else but run a shaky hand through his hair. So he had been there, he had been that close friend Zach told him about. And his own brother tried to kill him.

He looked at Rebecca, but she refused to meet his gaze. "So why have you been hanging around here?" he asked John.

John tilted his head, considering his answer. "Okay, I know you don't believe me about this whole poltergeist thing, but well...you're kind of a magnet for paranormal activity," he explained as Sam listened critically. "In between my jobs, I've been checking up on you, making sure everything was okay."

"You've been stalking me to make sure ghosts weren't haunting me." Sam closed his eyes and jerked his head with disbelief. "Wow. Okay. That's insane."

"You felt someone tug at your ankle, right?" John pointed out hotly."And pull your chair?"

But Sam wasn't ready to admit anything yet. "I don't know, I mean, it could have just-"

"Been your imagination?" John replied sarcastically. Sam just lifted an eyebrow, thinking, yes, my imagination.

John studied his face and then let out a half-snort, half-sigh. "Well, anyway, I guess it doesn't matter if you believe me or not."

Sam was taken aback by the sorrow in his voice. "You have to understand, this is the first time someone's told me ghosts are real," he explained, trying to ease tensions. "Even if it is true, it's going to take some getting used to."

"Yeah," John grunted, looking away. "Yeah, I know."

***

Rebecca insisted that John spend the night that night. He refused at first and only relented after she dumped a pile of pillows and blankets onto the couch. He also accepted the leftover pizza she shoved in the microwave when he admitted he hadn't eaten dinner yet.

Sam watched it all from the kitchen table, listening to Rebecca's clipped words and John's gruff responses. Sam knew there were still things he didn't know, on top of things he still didn't believe, but it was far too late and he was far too drained to worry about it.

Zach, for his part, remained mostly silent after Rebecca pulled him aside and explained the situation. Sam could tell he was uncomfortable with it, and he almost wished he could turn the clock back a couple of hours, back to when they could full-out ignore the past instead of tiptoeing around it like they were forced to do now. He also knew Zach would have been much better off without a blatant reminder of his girlfriend's death hanging over the evening.

Zach ended up going to bed after a short while and Rebecca excused herself to change into her nightwear, leaving Sam and John alone. From his position at the table, Sam could see into the living room, and he quietly watched as John arranged the blankets over the couch. "I don't know why she gave me three," John muttered. "It's freakin' June."

Sam cracked a smile, and he must have made a noise because John looked up at him. John studied him for a moment and then, straightening, decided to walk towards him. "Got a nice place here, eh Sammy?" he said with a half-smile as he approached.

"It's Sam," he replied automatically. "And yeah, I have the Warrens to thank for that. Who knows where I'd be without them." He'd given that possibility a lot of thought, and he still hadn't a clue where he would have ended up.

John nodded as he pulled out a chair. "So, life is pretty good, huh? Got a college degree, living out in Cali, bright future, hot roommate..."

Sam snorted and ducked his head. "Yeah, it's alright, I guess."

"Just alright?" the shorter man replied skeptically, leaning back in his chair. Sam merely shrugged in reply. He knew he had it pretty good, but...Well, no life was perfect, so he couldn't complain.

Sam was just about to ask about his life when Rebecca came back, now wearing pajama pants and a tank top. "I just wanted to say good night, make sure you were all set," she said softly. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Nope, I'm good," John replied. "Thanks." She looked at Sam, who nodded that he was fine, and then left them with a friendly goodnight.

John turned to Sam. "Well, I guess you're probably going to bed too."

"Nope," Sam replied. John blinked in surprise, his head cocked in a questioning manner. "You might have a concussion," Sam told him. "I'm going to stay up with you, make sure you're all right."

The injured man scoffed. "Dude, I'm fine," he said. "You don't need to do that."

"Wanna see what's on late night TV?" Sam went on, ignoring him. He smirked as he added, "I hear Leno had Wentworth Miller."

"I said I'm fine."

But Sam was already on his feet and making his way towards the living room. "Have you seen the remote? Ah, never mind, here it is."

He heard John grumbling behind him as he followed him in. Sam plopped down in the armchair, watching out of the corner of his eye as John slowly lowered himself onto the couch.

As Sam flipped through the channels, John cleared his throat. "So, um," he started. "If you know what happened in St. Louis...why aren't you mad?"

"I am mad," Sam replied. "Dude, you trashed my room."

John snorted and shook his head. "But what about..." he trailed off.

Sam shrugged. "Well, I don't remember my brother." He turned suddenly, frowning. "Did Rebecca tell you I had some type of mental breakdown? Select amnesia or repressed memories, something like that." He gave a forced half-laugh, trying to keep that announcement casual. John paused but then nodded uncomfortably. "So anyway, as far as I'm concerned, I don't know my brother. And it sounds like he's better off dead anyway. I mean, God, what he did to Rebecca and Zach..."

He felt that familiar sick feeling twist inside his stomach. "Thank God you stopped him."

John shifted, obviously uncomfortable with the praise. "Well, you know, you kinda helped."

"Yeah, right," Sam scoffed. "I just provided enough of a distraction to stall him."

John looked at him. "No, it was more than that," John argued, his eyes boring through him. "The case was closed. Everyone thought Zach had done it. Everyone except Rebecca and you. You're the one who went out to prove otherwise, and without you, he'd still be sitting in jail and that psycho would be out slaughtering people."

Sam flinched at the word "psycho" in reference to his brother, but his mind was whirring as he struggled to comprehend what John just told him. "I...Really?"

He knew he never would have believed Zach was capable of such horrible crimes, but would he really have thought he had the power to do anything? The fact that he tried...Sam sucked in a breath, enjoying the warm, pleased feeling that gave him.

"So, uh..." Sam started, trying to cover up that feeling. "Did my brother have supernatural powers or something?"

"Huh? Nope, just a normal, regular guy."

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "So then how did you get involved?"

John gave it a second of thought. "Referral," he said with a smirk, resting his head against the back of the couch.

Sam quietly nodded. He had many other questions, but his mind hid them all, too tired to define them into words. He turned his attention back to the television, flipping aimlessly through the channels. Five minutes later, he gave up and left it on a documentary about medieval England.

"Yeah, you would choose the History Channel," John muttered from the couch.

Sam turned to him, bemused. "What do you want to watch?"

"Nah, this is fine."

Sam settled back into his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. The narrator droned on about kings and battles, but even though he tried to concentrate, Sam quickly tuned his voice out. His mind had shut down so that all he could do was watch images of English landscapes and historical artifacts scroll across the screen.

It wasn't until he was seeing footage of B-52s that Sam realized he had fallen asleep. A glance at the clock told him two hours had passed. He looked over at the couch and found John asleep in a sitting position, his head lolled back.

Sam pushed himself out of the chair and went to him, crouching down on the floor. "Hey. Hey, John," he said, shaking his arm. "Wake up."

John groaned. "Stop it, Sammy."

Sam sighed. "No, you gotta wake up. C'mon, just for a second."

Finally his eyelids parted and he lifted his head. "What?"

"Just wanted to make sure you're not confused," Sam told him.

"Well, I am confused - I should be asleep right now and yet I'm not."

"Alright, alright, just tell me you know who you are."

"I know who I am," he replied irritably.

"Good. Now why don't you go ahead and lie down?" Sam suggested. "I'll wake you up in another couple of hours."

"You don't need to do that," John replied with a roll of his eyes. "I'm fine." As he spoke, he lowered himself into a lying position, pulling the covers up over his shoulders as he rested his head against the pillow. "Just go to bed," he commanded, his eyes already closing.

Sam ignored him, going back to the chair. Within moments, he was asleep again.

A few hours later he forced himself into a semi-conscious state, dimly aware that the historical documentaries had been replaced with infomercials. He half-heartedly tried to open his eyes, but they slid back shut. His limbs felt as if they had melted into the chair, and he didn't even bother to try moving them.

Without opening his eyes, he rolled his head towards the couch. "Hey. Wake up."

A grunt answered him, so he tried again. "Hey, Dean, wake up."

"Go to sleep, Sammy," a gruff, groggy voice replied.

That suggestion sounded really good – but he had to finish this first. "Just tell me your name," he said with a groan.

"Dean."

Sam sighed with relief. "All right. Night," he said drowsily, rolling his head back into a more comfortable position.

He had just reached the edge of slumber when his mind jerked him back awake. "Hey!" he said, scrambling out of his chair. "Hey, wake up again."

"What?" the older man growled as Sam shook his shoulder.

"You're confused," Sam told him. "You gave me the wrong name."

He cracked an eye open. "Huh?"

He must have had his brother on his mind when he called John the wrong name. However, there was a big difference between getting someone's name wrong and getting your own name wrong. "Your concussion—you're not thinking straight. I accidentally called you Dean, and that must have messed you up, because that's the name you gave me."

Now both eyes opened. "No, it wasn't," he protested.

"Yes, it was." Sam chewed on his lip, studying John's face in the blue glow of the TV, trying to find any sign of a concussion. "Maybe I should take you to the hospital, just in case."

"No, man, I'm fine," he said irritably. "My name is John, today is officially Saturday, and if I didn't need my beauty sleep, I would kick your ass right now."

Suppressing a smirk, Sam gave him the once over. "Alright, fine," he finally relented, holding his hand up in surrender. He was too tired to argue, and it seemed to him John was coherent, if not cranky. "If you lapse into a coma, it's not my fault."

"I'll take that chance. At least then you can't wake me up." With that, John rolled over, turning his back to Sam.

Sam sighed irritably as he stood up again. His neck and back protested simultaneously with painful cracks. He looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly morning, and in another few hours, Zach would be waking up. Sam scribbled a quick note telling him to wake John to check on him. Then he stumbled into his bedroom, where his bed promised a much more comfortable place to rest.

ooOOoo

Sam woke up slowly the next morning, gently coming into consciousness as the light brightened through the curtains and snaked up his bed. His eyes opened and closed a couple of times before he finally decided to get up, and he took his time to stretch before he tossed his sheet off and rolled out of bed.

But it wasn't until he was out of bed that he realized how weird it felt. Replaying the last few moments, it occurred to him just how unusual waking up that way was for him.

It was the first time he could remember that he woke up without a hint of panic racing through his veins.

Sam wondered if he had finally broken that habit. Since last summer, nightmares of Jessica that attacked him every night faded slowly into a weekly occurrence until now, when he dreamed of her only occasionally. But that underlying panic that woke him everyday had never faded. Not until that morning.

He hoped it would stay that way.

After a quick trip to the bathroom, Sam wandered out to the kitchen-slash-living room area. He heard water running in the second bathroom and knew Rebecca or maybe Zach was showering. In the kitchen, he found John standing by the counter. He was fumbling with the tray in the coffee maker with one hand while reading the plastic coffee canister he held in his other.

"Need some help?" Sam asked with a smirk.

John whirled around. "Oh. Heh," he said, trying but failing to hide his embarrassment. "How do you work this thing?"

"You don't know how to use a coffee maker?"

"Dude, I'm on the road all the time," he said indignantly. "All my coffee comes from gas stations and diners."

"You don't have a coffee maker at home?"

"I don't even have a home."

Sam gaped at him. "So when you say you're on the road all the time, you mean, all the time."

John spread his hands out. "I don't speak in riddles."

He stepped back as Sam strode forward and took over the coffee maker. Sam wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he didn't. As he scooped grinded beans into the filter, he glanced over his shoulder. "So how'd you sleep?"

"Not too bad," John shrugged. "That couch was more comfortable than most hotel beds. Would've been perfect if someone hadn't kept waking me up." He shot Sam a glare.

Sam chuckled. "You're welcome, by the way." John just scoffed. "So, what's next for you?" Sam asked him just as he flipped the coffee maker on.

He turned around as John considered his answer. "I drink my coffee," he said. "And then I leave."

"Already?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow. "Where are you going?"

John shrugged. "Wherever I'm needed."

Still not satisfied, Sam pressed forward. "How do you know where that is?" he asked.

"Newspapers," John replied with an irritated snort. "I go through hundreds of newspapers until I find something that might be up my alley. You know, anything weird."

"So you're still selling the ghost thing."

"Not just ghosts. Anything that goes bump in the night."

Sam shook his head lightly with a laugh. "Wow." John scowled and looked away, sending a pang of guilt through Sam. He decided to change the subject, backtracking a little. "That must take you forever, going through all those newspapers."

John nodded, relaxing again. "Heh, you're telling me. I used to have a laptop, but now..."

As John trailed off, Sam shuffled his feet. "You know, our library has free access to a bunch of them, more than you could ever find online," he told him. "If you wanna go down there, I can help you search." He didn't know why he offered, but as soon as those words were out of his mouth, he found himself seriously hoping John would accept his help.

"You...you want to help?" John asked hesitantly, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, sure," Sam replied. "I don't have to work today, so why not?"

It was more than that, but Sam kept those thoughts to himself. He wasn't sure of the exact reasons, but he knew how to search, and for some reason, he wanted to help this man in some way. He wanted—He needed to do something that did even a little bit of good for somebody. And Sam was suddenly eager to showoff what he knew about research.

John was giving him a long look, some unidentified emotion just underneath the surface of his eyes.

"Okay, yeah," he finally accepted, his voice gruffer than normal. "Sure. Let's go to the library." Sam couldn't stop the grin the spread across his face.

ooOOoo

They didn't leave for another hour, each of them finishing a cup of coffee and then taking showers first. The timing worked out though, as the library opened later on Saturdays.

Sam knew he was crazy. He didn't even know John at all, except for that very gruesome fact that he killed Sam's own brother. A fact that refused to sink in. But the Warrens trusted him, and Sam couldn't convince himself that they were wrong to do so.

As Sam led John to the library, he was consciously aware of John's presence right next to him. A kind of static filled the air between them and left his left side buzzing. Even though it wasn't exactly a physical sensation, he could feel it, all along his skin.

He realized he was fascinated with the shorter man beside him. John exuded a quiet power, a dark intensity underneath his casual, tough guy exterior. Even though he was shorter than Sam and thinner than he'd remembered, Sam still felt this guy could kick his ass.

And there was something to him that seemed almost melancholy, a hidden sadness that Sam wouldn't know how to touch.

But maybe Sam understood it. He thought it might be loneliness. A kind that mirrored his own.

Beside him, John's step suddenly faltered for a half-second, and it wasn't until Sam caught sight of the brunette that passed them that he realized why. Sam smirked, not surprised at John's behavior. "What? She's hot," John cracked, seeing Sam's expression. "You've got a beautiful world here, Sammy."

At the library, they went straight to a row of computers and slid into side by side seats. Sam started to direct John to the archive link, but the older man seemed to know how to find it from doing it so often before. They restricted their search to the past two weeks, and John gave him some key words to search for – for example, "deaths" preceded with "mysterious" or "multiple" or "gruesome."

"Fun," Sam remarked dryly.

"Yeah, well, there'd be a whole lot more 'fun' if someone like me wasn't out there stopping it," John remarked.

"So, that's what you do? Go out there and fight the forces of evil?"

"That's the comic book version of it, yeah."

"You do this alone?"

John made some deep noises in his throat before he spoke. "Well, my dad does this too."

"Yeah?" Sam frowned, having never heard John's father mentioned during the events in St. Louis and knowing that he wasn't around when John "exorcised" Sam's room. His father may hunt as well, but they apparently don't together, at least not always. "Where is he now?" he asked curiously.

He was answered with a shrug. "He, uh, needed a break after a bad job," John said.

Sam could hear it in his voice. "You don't know where he is, do you?"

"Not really, no," John replied sharply, keeping his eyes staring at the computer screen in front of him.

"Oh." Sam knew he shouldn't ask, but he couldn't help himself. "Doesn't that get lonely?"

The rush of emotions that fell over John's face told him he had hit the target. The shorter man refused to look at him as he clamped his jaw. "You have to make choices," John told him eventually, speaking in a slow, deliberate manner. "In my line of work, some things are more important."

Sam raised his eyebrows at the implications. It occurred to him that this guy made it his mission to hunt down those that hurt others, but in the process he would have had to give up any semblance of a normal, personal life.

That is, he did if he were actually telling the truth-which Sam inexplicably found himself beginning to believe.

He couldn't comprehend, though, a life constantly on the road, a completely solitary existence. At least truckers had a home to go home to. "But still, that's..."

"Besides," John continued, interrupting him. He gave Sam a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth pointing up into a smirk. "There are a lot of lovely ladies out there, just waiting for me to meet them."

"I'm sure there are," Sam replied with a half snort, relieved by the subject change.

They fell silent for a few moments, and then John spoke again. "Like you wouldn't believe," he went on.

"Uh-huh. I bet." Sam typed in a new search string and waited for the results.

"Incredible hotties. I mean...man. California babes, farmer's daughters, southern belles..."

Sam grinned but otherwise ignored him as he turned his attention back to the computer screen. Fortunately, the results weren't nearly as numerous as in his Winchester search. He attacked it the same way though, going down the list and skimming the article each link produced.

Teen shot by sister. Wedding crashed by food poisoning. 3 die in car accident. Lighthouse keeper disappear.

Sam stopped and turned to the other man. "Hey, lighthouses are notoriously haunted, aren't they?"

"Yeah, why?" John asked, his eyes flickering across his own computer monitor.

"A man disappeared at one up in Oregon."

John looked at him and frowned thoughtfully. "That could be something. What does it say?"

"Uh..." Sam said, scanning the article. "Caretaker Walter James disappeared while working. No body was found...No reason for him to leave. Left wife and two kids...No signs of struggle or theft."

"Alright, sounds like I've got myself a gig." John pushed himself away from the computer and stood up. "Can you print that for me?"

Sam quickly complied and handed him the sheet the printer spit out. "Great, thanks," John said. "If I hit the road right away, I could get there by dark."

Sam stood up beside him, shifting on his feet. "So...that's it, then?"

"Yeah, guess so." John stared at the printout, but if he was reading it, his eyes weren't moving.

They kept mostly quiet as they walked back towards the apartment. Sam wasn't sure what to say, and he couldn't decipher the feelings that were swirling around in his stomach.

"Hey, thanks for helping out," John said suddenly, breaking the silence.

"No problem," Sam said back.

He chewed the inside of his cheek as he tried to think of something to add. But before he knew it, they were back at the apartment, and John was gathering his things – namely a small, already-packed bag and a few stray items like a tube of toothpaste and the knives Sam had taken from him the night before. Sam stood back as he roamed the apartment, looking for anything he may have missed. The search only lasted a couple of minutes and then John was shoving his hands into his pockets, saying goodbye to Sam and the Warrens as they all gathered by the door.

"Sam, uh..." John stalled with a slight grimace. "Thank you for...you know, making sure I was okay last night. I know I was kinda an ass."

Sam nodded in reply, quietly accepting his thanks. John held out his hand, and Sam shook it firmly.

"Well, I guess..." John trailed off and glanced away. "I'll see you around," he tried again, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Sam's mouth moved of its own accord, and the words popped out before he realized what he was asking. "Can I come with you?"

***

John looked up at him sharply. "What?"

"Can I come with you?" Sam repeated more earnestly. This time he knew what he was saying.

He watched as John glanced over at Rebecca for help, but she had a small smile playing on her lips. He looked back at Sam, a deep crease in between his eyebrows. "Uh, you...You really want to come with me?"

"Yes."

"But...Why?" He didn't look upset, exactly, but his face was strangely pale.

Sam wasn't sure how to explain it. "I want to see what it is you do," he eventually said. "I could really use—" He stopped, reluctant to finish that sentence. "I don't know, it just seems like a road trip would be kinda fun," he amended.

John was still trying to comprehend his request. "What about your job?"

"It's a supermarket – they'll survive a week without me. Besides, I've never taken a day off, so I'm due for a break."

Sam was expecting him to turn him down. After all, if he had been lying to him about demons and werewolves – a very definite possibility - it'd be a lot harder to keep that up with Sam actually there by his more than that, Sam wasn't sure how John, a loner, would feel about Sam tagging along.

"Um...Okay."

Sam felt his eyes widen. "Really?" John nodded tightly. "Wow, alright. Let me pack." He bounced on the balls of his feet, everything within him rising with sudden excitement, and then spun around to dash to his room before John could change his mind.

"You're bonding, aren't you?" he heard Rebecca ask John with a self-satisfied tone. John mumbled a reply, one Sam couldn't hear as he stepped into his bedroom.

It only took Sam five minutes to throw a couple changes of clothes and some essentials into a duffle bag. He also packed his laptop – he never went anywhere far without it. After that came a quick call to the grocery, telling them he wouldn't be in that week. Of course his manager was a bit disgruntled at the late notice, but Sam knew even if he were fired, it was far from the end of the world. After all, he had been planning on quitting for a long time now.

When he came back out, he could tell John was still uncertain, worried. "This will be dangerous, you know," he told him.

"I'll let you do all the dirty work," Sam replied easily, spreading his hands out. He couldn't explain it – maybe it was that "psychic ability" the shopkeeper told him about – but he felt an innate trust in John. He knew instinctively that he would watch his back, that he could put up a good, powerful fight when needed.

Sam had to stop himself. He was dangerously close to thinking as if monsters and ghosts were real.

He said goodbye to the Warrens – after promising Rebecca that he would check in everyday – and then he and John left. John led him around the corner of the block, and for the first time, Sam saw John's car – a classic Chevy Impala.

"Hey, nice ride," Sam remarked.

John grinned at him then. "You like that?" Going around to the driver's side, he tugged open the backseat door and tossed his bag inside. Sam did the same thing on the passenger side.

They each slid into the front seat, John behind the wheel and Sam into the passenger side. As Sam settled into his seat, he was surprised by how comfortable it was. It almost felt as if it were already molded to his body shape. Sam mentally whistled to himself, impressed by the classic car. It wasn't flashy, but it had finesse and attitude, fitting in perfectly with what – admittedly little – Sam had picked up from John's personality.

Once they were settled, John stuck the key into the ignition, but then he paused. For a moment he stared hard at the steering wheel, keeping his hand unmoving on the key. Sam waited uneasily, worried that he was having second thoughts. The air had suddenly grown thick, tense.

Then John glanced over at him and finally twisted his hand. In the next instant, the car roared into life.

Sam found himself thrumming along with the car's rumbling engine, and even his leg bounced in rhythm. His heart and blood found new life as a sense of adventure filled him. As the car pulled away from the curb, his mind pulled away from his apartment, his job, his old and upcoming life as a student, his future as a lawyer. He knew his mind wouldn't return to those subjects until the car returned him to that same curb.

"How long will this take?" he asked John.

"Well that depends. A couple of days, maybe a week."

"All right, cool," he said casually, secretly hoping it would be closer to a week. He felt like a little kid almost, with a big brother who was taking him to Disneyland. He knew it was insane, thinking that way, but he was too anxious to care.

He sat back and enjoyed the scenery that passed by his window, watching as sights he walked by every day flew by in an instant. Within minutes they were out of town.

It wasn't until they had passed the city limits that Sam allowed himself to ask questions - to acknowledge this temporary change in his life. He started simple.

"You still have a cassette player?"

"Shut it," John instantly replied.

"What? I didn't say anything," he said innocently.

"I could hear it in your voice."

Sam laughed. This felt good. He felt good. "Well, it's not everyday I see such an antique."

"That's odd. Your piehole - I'm still hearing it."

Sam gave him a cheeky grin in response. Rarely had he enjoyed such easy banter, not since Jessica. But even with Jessica, she had always been good at teasing him – it was one of the things he loved about her – but he never really learned how to tease her back.

Sam stretched his legs out as far as space would allow. "Hey, why don't you pull out the roadmap," John said, nodding towards the glove compartment. "So we know where we're going."

Sam popped the compartment open and reached in for the map. As he pulled it out, a small box spilled open and a shower of cards fell onto his lap. "So which one of these is your real identity?" he asked with a smirk as he gathered the cards into a stack. He glimpsed ID cards for various government agencies, credit cards assigned to different names, and even a couple business cards – just more of the same mixture he had found in his wallet.

"Not in there," John replied slyly.

"Yeah, didn't think so," Sam said, shoving the stack back into the glove box. He took a look at the foldout map and saw it was for the Pacific Northwest. "So you pretty much keep in this area?"

John glanced over. "Ah, nah, I go all over. I was in Nevada last week, Michigan before that. The other maps are in the backseat."

"Wow. You drive everywhere?"

"Hate flying," John told him. "Besides, I've got everything I need right here."

Sam nodded, impressed by the thought. John got to explore, see the entire country. He imagined that would lose its appeal after a while, but even so, at that moment he couldn't help but feel envious. He unfolded the map, creasing it back so that it only showed the area they needed. A mess of red and black ink spread across the paper in front of him, each wriggling line representing a new possibility.

After a few minutes of looking, Sam told him the routes to take. But he didn't put the map away at first, opting instead to follow the roads and highways with his finger to see which towns they ran through. He only spent a few minutes, knowing he couldn't explain what he was doing without embarrassing himself, but he soaked up those names of places he'd never been to into his mind, telling himself that someday he might visit.

ooOOoo

"You're the one Rebecca called about my nightmares, aren't you?" One by one, Sam was slowing going through the questions flying around in his head. They had been in the car for three hours, and that was the first one he finally had the courage to ask.

"What's that?" John asked, cutting himself off from a bad rendition of "Immigrant Song" by Led Zeppelin. "Oh. Yeah...About that..."

"Did you go to Boston?" Sam asked, cutting him off.

"Yeah, I did."

"What happened?"

John shrugged. "Not much."

"Oh..." Sam felt a stab of disappointment and even a little embarrassment go through him. He had started to think that maybe his dreams meant something, but now he realized how foolish that was.

"Did some research, found a Sarah Mitchell who spontaneously combusted on the bridge back in the seventies," John continued. "Dug up her grave, salted her bones, and then made sure nothing happened when those four drunk partiers crossed the bridge. Pretty cut and dry."

"Oh," Sam repeated, though with an entirely different emotion. "Wow, really?" He swallowed, almost afraid to ask to ask the next question. "What about the...other one?"

"The werewolves?" He must have seen the worried look on Sam's face because he was quick to grin, wasting no time to explain. "A couple of silver bullets took care of that. Got a few scars in the process, but the family wasn't even touched."

Sam let his shoulders sag in relief. "Oh, thank God..." he breathed. He could still picture the bloody images in his head – the ripping of flesh, the gnashing jaws that tore limbs off - and that brief moment when he realized it could have really happened was completely horrifying.

He turned to John. "Battle scars, huh?"

"Mm-hm," he said with a offhanded shrug. "Male got a piece of my forearm, and the female nicked my back."

"Your back?" It finally occurred to Sam just how dangerous this kind of life would be.

"Yeah. Werewolves don't exactly fight with honor," John said. "They have no problem attacking from behind. Of course," he added with a smirk, "I don't either."

Sam had a sudden thought. "Can I see your arm?"

"Huh?"

"Your arm. You said the werewolves scarred you. Let me see." This could, once and for all, tell him just how ridiculous he was for starting to trust John.

"You don't believe me?"

Sam just gave him a pointed look, cocking an eyebrow.

John looked back at him for a second and then started grumbling incoherently, making irritated noises in his throat. Then, keeping his right hand on the wheel, he used his left hand to push the sleeve up on his right arm, baring the skin underneath.

Sam almost gasped at the sight. Faded streaks – three wide ones and a smaller fourth one – wrapped around the outside of his arm, creating shallow dents in his flesh. The healed white skin contrasted sharply with the tan that covered the rest of his arm, burning an image into the back of Sam's eyelids. Now he understood why he was wearing long sleeves.

"Jesus," he said in an awed whisper. "How does your back look?"

John waved him off. "Not nearly as bad. She barely scraped me." A corner of his lip pressed up into his cheek. "Do you believe me now?"

Sam let out a low breath. "I'm definitely starting to," he said.

They fell into silence for a few moments before Sam spoke again. "So, what does that mean about my dreams?"

"You got the Shining, bro."

Sam chewed on his lip, wondering when his mind would finally give out, overloaded with information just from the past 24 hours. "But...how did you know? And what made you think that I'm, uh, a magnet for all this...stuff? Isn't that what you said?"

John seemed to consider his answer for a moment before he replied. "I don't know for sure why, but...Your life, it...it hasn't been exactly good. And, uh, some people who've experienced traumatic events sometimes end up attracting bad forces. Or they might develop certain psychic connections or abilities. You might have gotten both."

Well, okay, that kind of fit Sam, but it still didn't explain everything. "Not to downplay Jessica's death – I'd do anything to get her back – but lots of people go through traumatic experiences. Why would I be any different?"

"Some people are naturally more...sensitive. Like you." John glanced over at him. "Add that with your situation and..."

"I'm pretty vulnerable," Sam stated flatly.

"Well..."

"Did Rebecca tell you that, or did you know just by looking?"

"What?"

"That I'm that weak."

John tore his eyes from the road to look at him before turning his gaze back. "You are not weak," he said firmly, clenching his jaw. "You..." He trailed off with a short, violent jerk of his head, and didn't finish his thought.

But Sam didn't believe him, and wouldn't have even if John had finished.

"So...Rebecca says you graduated in the top five percent of your class," John said after a moment. "That's awesome, Sam."

Sam would have rolled his eyes at the obvious rather than patronizing, John's voice struck him as heartfelt, so he let it go. "Yeah, thanks," he replied.

"Gonna be a hotshot lawyer someday?" John asked with a wide grin.

Sam shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know..." he replied tiredly.

A surprised, consternated look crossed John's face at that. "What do you mean, you don't know?"

"Eh, I'm just not sure that's what I want."

John stared at him for a long moment. Then, his head jutting forward, he burst out, "What?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, taken aback. "Why, what's the problem?"

"I just don't—You have this amazing mind, this great career ahead of you..."

Sam let out a half-laugh. "What are you, my guidance counselor?"

John propped his left elbow against his door and leaned his cheek on his hand. "I just..." He scrunched up his eyes and gave a short shake of his head. "You can't waste your life, Sammy."

"But..." Sam stopped, frustrated. It took him a few moments before he could express his thoughts. "That's what I'm afraid I am doing."

John gave him a long look. Then he jerked his head back, turning back to the road. "Don't be stupid."

Sam snorted in surprised annoyance. Who did this guy think he was, telling him what to do?

He really didn't want to spend the rest of the time in a tense silence, so he quickly changed the subject away from him. "So, this is a family business for you?" He immediately winced, wishing he hadn't brought that up. He hadn't meant to, but lately family had been lurking at the top of his mind, and it was the first thing he thought of.

John blinked a couple of times. "Uh, yeah...Kinda," he said, with a casual air Sam could tell was fake.

Sam knew it was a sensitive subject, so he veered slightly off, making sure he didn't ask about John's MIA father. "How long have you been doing this?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Since I was a kid."

Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Your whole life?"

John shifted into a defensive stance – not in a physical sense, but a mental one, a visible change that included a squaring of shoulders and a clenched jaw - and nodded stiffly, not looking at him. He looked as though he were preparing himself for insults or sarcastic remarks or critical comments. Sam wondered if he'd heard them before, if that was why he reacted so defensively.

He didn't need to, though. Sam felt nothing but a growing sense of awe.

***

The drive up to Oregon was, predictably, long and tedious. They only stopped a handful of times, timing their bathroom breaks to coincide with gas refills and snack stops. Sam appreciated each opportunity to stretch his legs, but he was just as eager to get back on the road so they could reach Oregon that much sooner.

The two men talked back and forth, and Sam was starting to understand at least a few more pieces of the mysterious hunter from the bits he gathered from their conversations. It was far from a complete picture, but Sam's curiosity refused to wan.

He learned mostly only the trivial facts. His taste in music for one, obviously. His extensive knowledge of daytime TV, even though he professed to hate it passionately. His cell phone, which never rang the entire time they were in the car. The road miles he put on his beloved car because he refused to fly.

Sam knew his preoccupation with the man and his lifestylewas very strange, if not unhealthy. It wasn't an attraction – thank God, because wouldn't that be all kinds of awkward? – but it was a fascination. Maybe it came from the fact that John wasn't anything like anybody Sam knew from Stanford, wasn't like any of his friends or any of the people that surrounded him. And yet...maybe that was why Sam felt comfortable around him.

Of course, who wouldn't find a ghost hunter's life at least somewhat interesting?

They finally arrived to their destination around nine that evening. Sam felt his heart rate speed and his stomach clench in anticipation the instant they passed the town limits.

But instead of heading for the lighthouse, John pulled into the parking lot of a roadside motel.

"Wait, what are we doing?" Sam asked just as John was about to jump out of the car.

"We're getting a hotel room," the older man replied with a tone that said "duh."

"Aren't we going to the lighthouse?"

"Nah, we'll do that tomorrow."

"But...I thought people did things like this at night." Sam immediately felt stupid, but he was still so thrown off-guard he didn't regret his question.

"You watch too much TV," John scoffed. "Unless it's a nocturnal creature, it doesn't matter what time of day we go. They usually don't care." Sam assumed "they" encompassed the entire gamut of monsters and supernatural forces, and he had to wonder what that included. Just what all was out there? "And besides," John went on, "Police are a lot less suspicious of possible trespassers in broad daylight. They see a parked car during the day, they assume there's a good reason for it. At night, not so much."

"Oh."

"Yeah, so we'll settle in for the night, order some takeout, and get a full night of beauty sleep. That all right?" Sam nodded, and John left to rent a room.

The room was neat and clean but had a musty smell. Even with all the lamps turned on, the lighting remained dim and orange, which was probably for the better considering the tacky floral pattern covering the bedspreads on the double beds. The TV set was the oldest model Sam had seen in recent memory, perched on a set of drawers, and it got only six static-y channels, including the "free HBO" advertised on the motel sign.

While Sam set his laptop case on top of the cheap wooden desk, John claimed the bed closest to the television. He picked up the phone, announced that he was starving, and thirty minutes later, a pizza was delivered to their door.

Sam paid for it and brought it inside, setting it on top of the bedside table in between the two beds. He had to grin when he flipped the lid open. "Hey, you like pepperoni and green peppers too?" he asked, incredulous and pleased at the same time.

"Hm? Oh, yeah," John quickly replied. "I hope that's all right with you."

"Yeah, definitely," Sam said brightly, pulling out a slice. "It's actually my favorite."

"Oh, hey," John said just as Sam was about to sit down with his pizza. "I spent an extra ten dollars just so we had a hotel with internet access. You wanna see what you can find on this lighthouse?" Sam looked back at him, his curiosity sparked, as he explained. "Look up its history, see if there's any violence or tragedy connected to it."

Sam nodded and eagerly fired up his laptop. Detective work – he could really get into that.

Behind him, John got up from his bed and perched at the end of Sam's, which was closer to the desk. Sam quickly typed in a couple of searches and read a loud several of the results in a list. He and John volleyed ideas back and forth as they went through the few stories that came up, most of them unrelated or irrelevant.

But eventually they found the information they were looking for. The lighthouse, built in 1890, ran smoothly until 1922, when the then-current keeper committed suicide by leaping from the top of the lighthouse, his body lost forever in the ocean below. His wife took over for him, but she died of pneumonia five years later.

A few more lighthouse keepers followed, but they never stayed long, and before long, the lighthouse was closed. Over the years, the abandoned building fell into disrepair, suffering under the effects of time, weather, and vandalism, until just recently when Walter James, who made his living restoring historic buildings, bought the property. One day he went there alone to do a quick, cursory inspection. He never came back.

Sam sat back, letting himself enjoy a feeling of accomplishment, just so he wouldn't have to focus on the recent tragedy that left a woman a widow and her two children fatherless.

"Well, that just made our job harder," complained John behind him. When Sam shot him a questioning look, he explained. "It sounds like a haunting, but if there's no body, we can't salt and burn the bones. We'll have to find another way."

ooOOoo

Sam barely slept that night, his mind burning at full capacity with thoughts of the next day's hunt. Whenever he dozed off, he was assaulted with images of monsters and spirits, and even though it didn't frighten him as a regular nightmare would, it still left his heart pounding.

When morning finally arrived, signaled by the crack of light that pushed itself between the closed curtains, Sam jumped out of bed, eager to end the night and anxious to start the day. Even though it was rude to do so, he took a quick shower, almost hoping the sound of water would waken John. It turned out the shower took longer than it should have - the water pressure was equivalent to someone spitting at him - but when he came out, he was relieved to find John sitting up, staring groggily at the weather report on TV.

As the two got ready, John gave him tips, teaching him what to expect. He showed him his EMF detector, which would alert them when a supernatural force was near. Rock salt was good for repelling ghosts, and he would have a filled shot gun just for that purpose. He even gave Sam a knife, just in case he was wrong and it was something other than a ghost.

They left the motel before eight, and following the directions Sam copied from online, they found the lighthouse within minutes. They rolled to a stop at the end of the gravel path that led up to the property. The towering structure was perched at the edge of a rocky cliff, and the ocean was so far below it was obscured from view, although they could hear its dull roar.

And at the base of the lighthouse was a parked blue car.

John cursed under his breath, slapping the base of his hand against the steering wheel. It wasn't a violently angry reaction but an annoyed one, and Sam had to admit he was just as frustrated that his first, er, hunting adventure might be stalled.

"Should we come back later?" he asked.

John stared at the lighthouse for a moment. "No," he replied. "Whoever's in there might need our help."

"Or, he could call the cops on us." So maybe that was a little bit of an exaggeration, but Sam had always been a rule follower, and he broke into a sweat at the very thought of getting into trouble.

"If they kick us out, they kick us out," John replied glibly. He then reached over and popped the glove compartment open, pulling out the box of cards he stored in there. Opening it up, he grabbed a handful and flipped through them until he found what he was looking for.

"Ah, here we go," he said, flourishing a business card around so that Sam could read it. Hank Lohman, Property Inspector, Staten Appraisals Co.

"Not bad, huh?" John remarked proudly. "All right, let's go."

Together they climbed out of the car, quietly pushing their doors shut. John walked back to his trunk, motioning Sam over. "Okay, here's what we're going to do," he said as he popped open the trunk.

Sam sucked in a startled breath when he saw what lay inside. Weapons piled on top of weapons, every kind he could think of and many he never knew existed. What had he gotten himself into? He realized sardonically why they had kept their bags in the back seat on the way up.

John bent down and picked up a shotgun which he then tossed to Sam. Startled, Sam caught it, staring at it as if he had just thrown him a python. "I'm going to go on up there, have a quick chat with whoever's in there, see if I can get them to leave. You stay down by the base, keep a look out. If I need you, I'll call out, otherwise stay hidden."

"A-a gun? But-" Sam protested. When John had said he'd have a gun, he didn't know John would give it to him. "I don't even know how to use it!"

"Well, we can't go in unarmed, and we certainly can't go in carrying a frickin' shotgun around," John pointed out. "So one of us has to keep guard. And since I'm the better liar, that leaves you." He patted Sam's arm. "You'll figure it out."

Sam's mouth flopped around like a fish's. "What if my aim's horrible?"

"Trust me, it won't be."

That did little to reassure Sam, but John seemed satisfied. He led Sam up the gravel driveway, although they stayed to the side where the grass softened the sound of their footsteps, and around to the back of the lighthouse, the side opposite the door, away from the road. "If you hear me shout, come running. All right? And aim for the ghost, not anyone with a heartbeat," he said with a smirk. "Believe me, you can tell," he added when Sam opened his mouth to ask that very question.

"Relax, Sammy," he went on. "Even if you hit one of us, it won't kill us." Sam stared at him, his eyes wide. Just the thought of hitting someone horrified him. "It'd hurt like a bitch though," John added as an aside, his lips twisted into a half-smile.

Sam let out a harsh laugh and gripped the gun tighter. Once again he wondered what he'd gotten himself into.

John gave him one last pat on the shoulder before he turned around and disappeared into the building.

Once he was gone, Sam sighed, his shoulders sagging. He didn't know what he was expecting, but waiting alone in the shadows holding a gun wasn't it.

But he only let himself "relax" for that brief moment before he straightened, holding the shotgun at the ready (or at least the closest approximation he could come up with). He strained to hear, but the only sounds his ears could pick up were the waves breaking against the rocks below and the wind rustling the leaves and branches in the trees. Would he be able to hear John's voice over these noises? He imagined the walls of the lighthouse were pretty thick, and he could only hope John knew what he was doing.

The minutes ticked by slowly, the time filled with Sam jumping at every cracking twig. He slowly made his way around the side of the lighthouse, being careful to remain hidden from the road, inching closer to the door. He thought maybe he could hear better through the door than he would through the walls, and he'd be a few seconds closer just in case John needed his help.

The wind whipped around him, blowing his hair in all directions. Sam spared a few glances at the roiling ocean behind and below him. He was still several safe yards from the edge of the cliff and inching farther away, but with the lighthouse towering over him, he couldn't help but shudder at the thought of falling into the chasm below. He lifted his gaze upwards, his eyes following the curved wall all the way to the top until his neck was craned painfully backwards. It would be one hell of a drop.

And at least one person knew what it was like to plummet all the way down. How could anyone do that willingly, even a depressed lighthouse keeper? And if Walter James had been pushed by the ghost, like John suspected, how much more terrifying would that be? That poor man – what a horrible way to end. Sam felt sick to his stomach, unable to stop his mind from picturing a body flung from the top, flailing as he plunged through the air.

He almost hoped John would call out to him, just so he could stop his morbid thoughts. Get a hold of yourself, he told himself.

The longer the time stretched, the more tense Sam grew. The wind seemed to grow stronger and the sounds of the violent waves filled his ear canals with an almost physical force, leaving him with a vague yearning to drain his ears. He shifted his feet, shifted the shotgun in his hands, ran his hand through his hair and over the gun barrel. As he waited, he wondered whether he would hear John shout or see the owner of the blue car leave first. He desperately hoped it would be the latter.

And then he heard it. John's voice, loud and clearer than he expected. "Sam! Now!" he shouted, and Sam realized it was outside, not in, coming from somewhere above him. He jerked his head up, but the angle was too sharp for him to see. But the voice came from the small deck or catwalk that circled the top, and in the next instant Sam was sprinting for the door.

He yanked the door open and dashed inside, heading straight to the spiral staircase that led to the top. Taking two steps at a time, he ran up the stairs, almost stumbling a couple of times. He was winded by the time he reached the top, but he barely noticed that, or the way his heart pounded in his chest. Fortunately, he never lost his grip on the shotgun, and he cocked it as he rushed into the room at the top.

He ignored the huge light that took up the middle of the room, or the room itself which was encased in glass. Instead, he raced straight to the door that led to the balcony outside. His heart stopped instantly.

John was leaning over the rail, positioned right over the ocean. As Sam got closer, he realized he was clutching a body, a man who was dangling over the side of the lighthouse. The only thing keeping him from plummeting to the ground below was John's grip.

Over the roar of the wind, he heard John and the man he held shouting at each other, both their voices frantic, the man's close to panicked. John was commanding him to quit moving around, but the man was having trouble keeping his legs from kicking, desperately trying to find purchase on any surface. But there was nothing but air. The entire width of deck extended out from the structure of the lighthouse, leaving the wall far out of reach.

Sam shot forward. "John!" he shouted, alerting him of his presence.

"Sam!" John cried back, not moving his focus from the man hanging from his arms. "Is it still here?"

Sam glanced around the deck. "I don't see anything!"

"Help me, then!" he barked, and in the next moment, Sam was standing next to him, reaching over the rail to grab a hold of the man's arm. He dropped the shotgun next to his legs, making sure it pointed away just in case it discharged, so he could use both hands to grasp the man, getting a better grip.

His heart pounded as he struggled for leverage, trying to snake his arms through John's, trying to help support the man's weight. He could see sweat breaking out on John's forehead, his arms pulled taut, his knuckles already white. Sam bent far over the rail, trying not to the think of the drop below, ignoring the drop of sweat that fell through the air. The metal pole dug into his stomach, making it hard to breathe, but that sensation was better than the dizzying vertigo he was forced to push through.

Yet foremost in his mind, the only thing he though of, was the man struggling below them. One slip, and he would crash into the surf below. Sam tightened his grip, refusing to give him that death sentence.

"Count of three!" John shouted to him. "One...Two...Three!"

At three, the two of them heaved, struggling to pull the man up. Sam felt his arms strain with his weight as he and John tugged him upwards, using the railing for leverage. As they lifted him, the man helped by grabbing onto the rail once it was within reach, and as soon as that happened, the process went a lot quicker as John and Sam pulled him up and over the top until they stumbled backwards as he spilled onto the floor at their feet.

John hunched over, breathing heavily with an arm wrapped around his middle. The man, a guy around forty years, was gathering himself together, his breath also coming out in loud gasps as he struggled into a sitting position. Sam watched with wide eyes, his adrenaline still pumping through his system, unable to believe what had just happened.

"You all right?" he asked, unsure which man he was talking to. They both nodded though, to Sam's relief.

"It's...It's not the keeper," John panted. "It's his wife."

"What?" Sam asked, confused. Did he mean the ghost? "But she just died from-"

The words were yanked from his throat when he saw her.

A woman, wearing a simple, old-fashioned grey dress, appeared suddenly on the opposite side of John, materializing right before his eyes. Her sharp eyes, wild and angry, focused immediately on John's bent back and her mouth twisted into a snarl. Then she lifted her arms and rushed at him.

She reached out and upwards, planting her hands on John's shoulder blades, on the verge of shoving him. Sam shouted out a warning while in the same breath he reached down to sweep the shotgun into his hands, swinging it up and training it on the apparition.

At his shout, John jerked up and jumped aside just as Sam aimed and squeezed the trigger. The salt pellets exploded from the gun straight through the ghostly woman.

She shrieked, a piercing sound that he heard inside his head as much as in his ears. But she also flickered, and when Sam shot again, she disappeared instantly, even as the echoes of her scream reverberated in Sam's rib cage. Sam jerked his gaze around, unable to breathe, desperately looking to see if she had darted to a different spot.

But they were alone again.

Sam's hands shook as he lowered the gun.

It had happened so quickly, too quickly for his mind to think. He had just shot a gun. He had just shot a gun mere inches from John's head.

"Nice, Sammy!" John praised him, but Sam barely heard him.

Then everything came back into sharp focus as Sam sucked in a long, sharp breath. "Holy..." he started before taking in another gulp of air. He almost dropped the gun, but John saw it just in time and took it from him.

The woman had been so angry, he'd felt it deep to his core. And she was right there, so close to pushing John right over that sharp drop. And the third man—if they hadn't been there, he'd be gone. Dead. Because of the woman, the ghost, the transparent apparition of a dead person. The ghost Sam shot-narrowly missing John's head. He hadn't even thought about it, just let his instinct aim for him.

Would a skull stop pellets of salt blasted at close range?

While Sam was trying to calm his racing heart, John was holding the shotgun out, waving it around the area the ghost had been standing.

"Let's go, let's go," he shouted, urging them on with his free arm. "Get out of here! Before she comes back!"

For a moment, Sam could only stare at him, atthe way he was poised and back wasto Sam and the other man. Guarding them. He was tense, but also steady, in control. He knew what he was doing.

"Sam! C'mon!" he barked over his shoulder.

Then Sam snapped into action. He turned to the other man still on the floor, ready to help him up and push him along.

The man was watching them, his face pale and his chest still heaving. "You're not really a property inspector, are you?" he finally asked.

ooOOoo

"Oh my God, that was awesome!" Sam was almost giddy, the adrenalin still coursing through his blood as he and John sped away from the lighthouse. "I didn't think I could shoot, but I did...and it worked! And that guy—we saved his life!"

John listened with that cocky grin of his. Sam grinned with him, trying to force his body to calm down as they drove back to their hotel.

"Wow..." he said again. "That was a freakin' ghost up there!"

"I told you," John replied.

After Sam had helped the other man to his feet, John had quickly ushered them inside and down the stairs, warning them it wouldn't take long before the spirit drew in enough energy to manifest again. Soon they were outside again, gasping in new air, safely on the ground this time.

As they were leaving, John told the man, a contractor Walter had hired weeks ago, to stay away for a few days while they took care of the "problem."

Taking care of the problem turned to be much easier than they had originally thought it would be, and it was almost anti-climatic. John referred to it as simple cleanup.

From the appearance of the woman, they assumed that the lighthouse keeper's wife in a rage had thrown her husband over the side. John claimed that the first time she manifested, she had screamed about betrayals just before she tried to push the contractor over the edge. After the death of her husband, John speculated, she spent the remaining five years of her life in torment until her mind was so twisted with anger and an indignant denial of guilt that, even though she died peacefully, her spirit wasn't at rest. And so she haunted the lighthouse, the scene of her crime, with the same rage that had pushed her into killing her husband.

And since the woman had died of natural causes, her body wasn't lost as her husband's had been. They needed only to track it down. So they drove back to their hotel room, and with the help of Sam's laptop, they found her name in the records of an old cemetery located a few blocks from the lighthouse.

They waited until several hours after nightfall. This time, the cover of dark would help them - it'd be hard to explain why they were digging up a grave nearly a century old. Once the darkness of night was total, they traipsed through the old tombstones, each of them holding onto a shovel as John shone his flashlight at possible graves. Unfortunately, the records neglected to list the location of each plot, which meant they had to comb the entire cemetery, an area over an acre in size.

John had a knack for knowing which tombstones came from what era, and those he shined his light on all had death dates within a decade or two of 1927, the year Gladys Burton died of pneumonia. Since Sam didn't have a flashlight, he spent most of the time glancing at the road, fearful of any passing lights. Luckily, the road was more like a country lane with very little traffic, and the cemetery sat far enough back that the chances of being spotted were low. He hoped.

They had walked through two-thirds of the graveyard when John finally found the right stone. Together they dug through the dirt, a long, tiring process that left them both sweaty by the time they hit wood. John used the blade of his shovel to break through the top of the coffin. Sam almost made a comment about respect for the dead, but then he realized the woman had killed two men and had tried to kill at least two more.

From his bag John pulled out a canister and tipped it over the grave, pouring a stream of salt into the hole he created. Next came a container of lighter fluid which he emptied, the liquid splashing over the bones and salt below. Then he took out a box of matches and struck one, the tip bursting into flame.

John stared into the small blaze for a moment, a mesmerized, determined look to his eyes. Then he flicked it into the ground, the light creating an orange trail in the darkness as it fell. When it hit the ground below, flames erupted with a small burst of light and then shrank back down as they slowly consumed the remains left in the coffin.

Once the fire burned itself out, Sam and John shoveled the dirt back into the hole. With the coffin now broken open, there wasn't enough dirt to fill the hole completely and it left a shallow dip. Not that they worried too much about it – even if they had left the ground even, there would still be an area of soft, broken dirt suspiciously devoid of grass.

"Well, that's that," John said, leaning against his shovel. "Mission accomplished."

So that was it. It was over.

Sam stared at the sunken ground.

***

They drove back to the hotel in silence. It was late, and Sam figured John was pretty tired. Sam was tired too, but he didn't feel like sleeping.

They lumbered into their hotel room, neither of them saying a word. Sam had so much to say, but he wasn't ready yet. He flicked the wall lamp on, flooding the room in orange light, and John went past him, his back hunched until he dropped his backpack onto the floor beside his bed.

Sam claimed the bathroom first, buying himself some time. He was afraid that if John went before him, he'd be in bed by the time Sam came out after his turn.

Once inside, he did his business, washed his hands, and then rinsed his face of all the sweat and grime digging in the graveyard left. He then meant to brush his teeth, but he realized he had left his toothbrush in his bag.

As he pulled open the bathroom door to retrieve it, he caught John changing out of his t-shirt.

The air flew from his lungs.

John had his back to him, and Sam's eyes were immediately drawn downwards. In the middle of his right side were four large claw marks. They matched the ones on his forearm-only they were deeper, longer, stretching across nearly three-quarters of his back in an arc about the width of Sam's hand. The scars disfigured his back grossly, striking against otherwise mostly-smooth skin.

At Sam's gasp, John spun around in alarm, turning his back away from him, while at the same time he struggled to pull the t-shirt back down. But he wasn't quick enough. On his front, Sam saw another deep gash running across his abdomen.

"What the hell!" Sam exclaimed in horror.

John was unfazed as he drew the shirt down to his waist. "Are you finished with the bathroom?" he asked.

Sam came closer, ignoring him.

"How are you even alive?" he said in a harsh, astonished whisper. Those marks had been impressive, terrifyingly so.

"It's no big deal," John ground out. Sam stared at him, dumbfounded.

John gazed back, and then after a moment, pushed himself past. "My turn," he said before locking himself into the bathroom.

After a moment, Sam stripped to his own nightwear, his movements slow as his mind turned over the images of John's scars. He thought about the day they just had, thought about the werewolves and ghosts and everything else John has faced. Now it was all real to him, and now he understood what it all meant. When the other man finally came out of the bathroom, Sam continued to stare at him.

John saw that and rolled his eyes. "I told you, it's a dangerous job."

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but John cut him off. "Don't even start, all right?" It annoyed him, but Sam relented, clamping his mouth shut.

However, a few minutes later just as he was about to settle into bed, he opened it again. He would avoid the subject of John's back, but he wasn't ready to give up on the other questions that had been plaguing him. He hesitated, sitting on the edge of the bed with the covers drawn back.

"Do I know you?" he asked.

John glanced at him sharply, and Sam continued. "Before this, I mean. Did we know each other?"

"Why would you think that?" John asked, tilting his head.

"I don't know," he replied uncomfortably. "I just feel like I know you."

"But...how would you?" John pointed out.

Sam looked down at his lap. It seemed to him John was avoiding answering, but he didn't blame him. "Well, I was thinking that maybe—you said this was a family business, right?" John's eyebrows came together, and he nodded slowly. "So, I don't know—I just thought that, since my brother was this murderous psycho, and I have these psychic powers or whatever, maybe your family knew my family. Like, maybe they were rivals or enemies, or something."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Huh?"

Rushing forward, Sam tried to explain. "My mind repressed every memory of my family-and I can tell there's something dark about it. Even the psychic at this new age store sensed there was something wrong with me."

Sam frowned then, unable to stop himself. "Is that why you kept an eye on me? Were you afraid I'd do something to Rebecca and Zach?

"What? No! I told you, it's because-"

"Yeah, I know what you said, but why me then? Are you telling me you go all across the country checking up on anyone who has psychic abilities?"

"Well, no, but-"

"And the fact that you killed my brother. There was something that brought you to him, something that told you this might be your thing, right? Otherwise, that's a pretty random coincide-"

"Sam, stop it. That's not it at all."

"Then what is it?"

John took a moment to answer. "You're my responsibility."

"But why?" Sam asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I saved your life, didn't I?"

"Yeah. And Rebecca and Zach."

"Right. I couldn't just let you guys go after that, knowing the dangers you could attract. Not without checking up on you." He shrugged casually. "Simple as that."

Sam frowned and ducked his head again. Was it really that simple? He toyed with the edge of the tacky bedspread.

"What was my brother like?" he asked after a long, silent moment.

John stilled. "What do you mean?"

"What was he like?" Sam repeated, peaking up at John. "I'm sure you remember at least something about him."

"I don't know, Sam, you and Rebecca talked to him more than I did—"

"But I don't remember, and I'm sure as hell not going to ask Rebecca," Sam told him. "You're all that's left."

"I don't know, Sam," John replied again, impatiently, his tone weary.

"Anything. Tell me anything," Sam pleaded. "Please."

"What do you want me to say, Sam? That he was messed up? A freak?"

Sam didn't mean to force it out like that, but that was the response he was expecting. Nodding slowly, he looked at John and swallowed. "Sometimes I feel like I'm a freak."

Immediately John jumped up from his bed, his eyes going wide. "Dammit, Sam," he yelled angrily, towering over him. "You are nothing like that animal! There's not an evil bone in your whole goddamn body."

"But...what if it's in my genes?" Sam asked softly, finally voicing the fear that haunted him ever since he read that article from St. Louis.

John laughed then, a dry, humorless laugh. "Trust me, Sam. You and your brother are completely different."

Apparently that was the only answer he would get. Sam drew in a long breath.

Then he started fluffing the pillow behind his back, arranging it to his liking. He tossed the second one out of the way so he could settle down. "Was he tall like me?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah," John replied, and something in his voice caught Sam's attention. "Real handsome, too," he continued. "Too bad looks didn't run in the family, huh, Sammy?"

Sam narrowed his eyes at him. Then he grabbed his extra pillow and slammed it into John's face. "Jerk."

John pulled the pillow away and wagged his eyebrows at him. "Ooh, touchy."

Settling back into bed, Sam asked curiously, "So is everyone in your family short like you?"

"Short?" John sputtered. "Just because I'm not a beanstalk..."

"Hey, your height is nothing to be ashamed of," Sam went on. "I'm sure plenty of girls appreciate not having to wear heals around you."

By the time John snapped the light off and said good-night, Sam was no longer thinking about St. Louis and freak genes. As he drifted off to sleep, he realized how nice a change that was.

ooOOoo

This time Sam slept through the whole night and a good portion of the next morning. When he finally woke up, sometime after ten, he felt almost good. Even though the bed wasn't too comfortable, it felt like his muscles had melted into the mattress, and he didn't want to move and lose that feeling.

Then he saw that John was already up. He was sitting quietly in the chair, his back slightly hunched over the desk. But he didn't appear to be doing anything, just slumped there with his forearms resting against the desktop. His gaze was pointed at the spot where the desk met the wall, but from his angle, Sam couldn't tell if his eyes were open or not.

Sam pushed himself up until his back was against the headboard. "Hey," he greeted softly. "What's wrong?"

John started, his shoulders jerking up. He turned his head sideways towards Sam, although he kept his gaze downward. "Huh? Nothing," he grunted. Sam watched quietly as he scrubbed his face with his hands and took in a deep breath that filled his chest. And then he was standing up at the foot of Sam's bed, looking down at Sam still leaning against the headboard.

"We're going back to make a sweep of the lighthouse, make sure there's nothing there," he told him. "Then we'll take you back home."

Home. Sam faltered at that. Did he consider the apartment home? He had never batted an eye at that term before – after all, the apartment was where he slept every night, where he kept all his possessions, where he went whenever he wanted to hide from the world. But now, the word "home" jolted him.

"Okay," Sam got out casually, even as his stomach was sinking.

Sam showered and then they packed up their meager belongings strewn across the motel room. They moved silently, not speaking much, the television providing background noise which they largely ignored. Sam's mind was too occupied, filled with churning thoughts he struggled to organize.

They checked out of the motel and the next thing Sam knew, they were back in the Impala. They debated grabbing breakfast but neither of them were hungry, so they headed straight to the lighthouse.

After the day they had yesterday, this visit was less than exciting. Since no one was there, Sam was able to go in with John, armed once again with the shotgun. John carried his EMF detector in his hand, a small black device that looked a lot like a rigged up walkman. He followed the older man as they tracked through the lighthouse, taking the stairs slowly, methodically, John sweeping his device through the air as they moved. The lights on the side never came to life, and the static emitted never spiked past the low, barely audible level.

They went through the entire building and followed the deck all the way around the top without encountering anything. They doubled back, following the same methodical method, but it remained quiet, still. Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, John pronounced it all clear.

"And that's that," John said once they were back in the car.

Sam nodded quietly, staring at the lighthouse that stood before them, proud but empty. "Kinda boring, huh?" John went on. Sam turned to him, disagreeing deeply but unable to say anything.

John looked at him through the corner of his eye, his lips twisted into a smirk. "You get these boring jobs sometimes, but they're not all like this."

"But...a man almost died," Sam protested.

"Hm? Ah, yeah, that's to be expected." John saw the horrified expression on his face and shrugged. "Someone almost dies in almost every case. That's why I'm here," he replied.

He turned to face Sam, his face suddenly serious. "He didn't die though, did he? Thanks to you." He raised his eyebrows pointedly, and Sam knew he was thinking of their conversation last night.

Sam wanted to ask what would have happened if he hadn't been there. But he was too afraid to consider that possibility.

ooOOoo

Sam felt cheated. He'd thought it would have taken up to a week, but instead it had barely lasted 24 hours.

The ride back to Stanford was just as long and tedious as the ride up. They made the same number of stops as last time, grabbing hamburgers through drive-thru and stopping at gas stations that offered public restrooms.

John, however, was more quiet this time around. He said very little, driving with his focus almost solely on the road. Even the volume of the music was turned down at a lower level, although the beats still pounded through the framework of the car. Overall, the energy was muted, even morose. Sam chose to ignore it.

It was almost just as well John was unusually quiet, because Sam had a lot to say, and he forced John into talking. Sam filled the silence with questions, grilling the experienced man about all the different supernatural forces he fought. Sam wanted to know as much as possible. What was real and what was only myth. What was the purpose of each weapon Sam had spotted in the trunk, and even ones he hadn't noticed. Sam rarely stopped talking, and even when he thought he had run out of questions, a few minutes later more would pop into his head.

John dutifully answered his questions, giving him full details and sometimes even expounded on his answers. It was clear to Sam he knew his stuff, an expertise that could only come from a lifetime of experience.

And now Sam knew it was all true, that John really hadn't been lying to him.

A silence finally fell over the car when they saw the road sign proclaiming Stanford 30 miles away. John's answers had grown more and more terse the closer they got until his mouth finally closed as that sign passed their window. Sam also stopped asking questions as his mind switched gears, his stomach suddenly twisting in his gut.

Sam couldn't stop his fingers from tapping a rhythm against the top of his door. His leg bounced up and down frenetically in front of him. The car was suddenly confining, not because of its size but because of the impatience that suddenly coursed through him.

The static between them grew until Sam's skin felt as if it were tingling, and the silence filled his ears with cotton. He almost couldn't stand it, but his mind could no longer hold questions, which trickled away with little notice from Sam.

Then, finally, finally, the Impala pulled up along the sidewalk that ran in front of the Warren's apartment. Sam had planned on inviting John in so they could talk, knowing it would be easier inside, where they could sit down face to face with all the time they needed and no distractions.

Instead, just as his hand gripped the handle to open the door, Sam stopped himself. Letting go of the handle, he turned to John and said it outright.

"I want to come with you."

John stared at him blankly for a long moment, and then with cautious surprise as Sam's words sunk in. "Again?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Not again," he stated. "For good."

John froze. "I—I don't understand," he stammered.

Nerves almost stopped Sam from continuing, but he forced himself through. "I want to do this with you. Long term. I want to help."

"What? But-but what about school? Your friends?" John asked. "You'd just give that up?"

The sensible side of Sam balked at that, but only slightly. "I just don't think—I don't think that's what I want. There's just...nothing there for me," Sam tried to explain. "But this - you're doing something. You're helping people, saving lives. That's something you can be proud of." As he spoke, he grew more and more energized, his belief in his own words empowering him.

John looked at him, stricken. "No, Sammy, you can't. You can't want this." His face had gone white, and Sam couldn't understand why. "I can't let you..." He trailed off, ducking his head.

Sam felt his heart sink. "You don't want me around," he said. It occurred to him how he was pushing himself into the other man's life like a rude, uninvited houseguest. He knew he shouldn't expect the man to take him on like that, but that didn't stop the hurt feeling that stabbed through him. He had subconsciously assumed they had a great partnership, an easy connection between them, but that easily could have been wishful thinking.

"No, that's not it," he replied, jerking his gaze back to Sam, his eyes blazing. "You just can't..." He stopped and swallowed heavily, his eyebrows scrunching together. "Don't give up your life, Sam."

Sam started shaking his head midway through John's statement. "My life isn't exactly...It's not all what you think it is," he said, feeling frustrated.

"And my life ain't all that it's cracked up to be, either!" John shot back. "Your life is good, normal. Safe."

"Maybe. But there's something missing."

"So, what? After all this, you're going to give it up, just because there's something missing? My life doesn't come with white picket fences and two-and-a-half kids, Sam."

"Maybe someday it will," Sam replied. "But I'm not ready for that yet, anyway."

John opened his mouth, but Sam went on before he could speak.

"I think you need me."

A shocked, sick change came over John. His jaw twitched and trembled slightly as the rest of his body stilled.

Sam, afraid that he would be insulting him, rushed ahead before he could second-guess himself. "If I hadn't been there to help you out, you might not have pulled that guy up in time. You wouldn't have been able to take care of that ghost if you were still holding onto him, and that ghost would have pushed you right over the edge."

"No. No. I don't need you to help me out," John said. "I would've been fine, I would've tried harder."

"He could have died. You could have died," Sam pointed out. "And what about next time? What happens the next time when there's no one there to watch your back?" John shook his head, his clenched jaw showing his refusal to answer.

"I'm coming with you," Sam said.

John turned to look out the windshield, unwilling to face him. "You don't even know me," he said lowly.

"I know enough," Sam told him, leaning a few inches closer to emphasize his point. "I want to do this, John."

John flinched. "No, you don't."

"How do you know?"

"I know what this life does to you!" John exploded, turning around with eyes that burned.

Sam sat back, knowing he couldn't argue with that. John would know more than Sam what sacrifices that kind of life demanded. Sam, though, was willing to find out. He knew, somewhere in his mind, that he could face those sacrifices, that it was worth giving up his current life.

"You don't have to do this alone," he said finally. Earnestly.

Sam knew instantly he had hit a nerve. John swung his head in a tight arc, sucking in his bottom lip, as his eyelids screwed together. He pounded the bottom of his palm against the steering wheel. "You don't know what you're saying," he said in a hush, his low voice contrasting sharply with his physical reaction.

Sam suddenly realized how lonely John was. He saw it in his demeanor, in his eyes, in the way he interacted with others. He knew that loneliness would lessen sharply if he at least had a traveling companion, if he had Sam to talk to and share experiences with, but he suspected the other man was too afraid to allow that to happen. If he honestly thought John didn't want him, he wouldn't have asked. But something told him it wasn't that that caused his hesitation.

Sam thought it might be guilt. He didn't want to draw Sam away from the life he assumed was so much better.

"Can you let me make that decision?" Sam asked softly, without a hint of sarcasm or venom. He was asking a sincere question, and he truly wanted to know if John would allow him that choice.

John gazed out of the windshield and then the side window, wiping a hand down the side of his face.

"Yeah," he finally said, turning his head forward, not looking at Sam. "Yeah. You decide."

***

Sam felt an immediate rush of relief and gratitude. "All right, then I guess I'm coming with you!"

He knew he was asking a lot of John by insisting on traveling with him, and now that he knew he could, he hurried to make compromises, trying to ease his sudden guilt. "If I drive you crazy or if you're ever uncomfortable with me around, just tell me and I'll leave," he told him, jerking his arm in demonstration. "All right? This doesn't have to be permanent. I can leave if things don't work out."

The adam's apple in John's throat bobbed up and down. "Well, you gotta pack, don't you?"

Sam grinned. "Yeah, actually, I do." He literally bounced in his seat, suddenly filled with excitement. A thousand thoughts swirled in his head. "Oh, wow, okay. I need to..." He trailed off, mentally making a list of everything he'd need to do. "Oh, man, I hope Becky or Zach are home."

"Yeah, me too," John remarked dryly. "Maybe they can talk some sense into you."

Sam flashed him a grin as he pushed open his car door. "C'mon, you need to help me move."

"Hey, this is a car, not a minivan," John retorted. "And there's no way I'm gonna strap furniture to the roof of my baby."

With a grin, Sam assured him he didn't have any furniture and very little possessions. He had moved into the Warren's already-furnished spare bedroom and never felt comfortable making it his own, so it was still mostly full with the same things that had been there before him. Things that were Rebecca's, not his.

Looking back, he found it strange how few possessions he did have. Mostly just clothes, a few books-but no mementos, no picture frames, nothing personal. He wasn't leaving much of a life behind, he realized wryly.

As they walked up to the apartment, Sam suddenly grew nervous about telling the Warrens he would be leaving. He knew what he was doing was impulsive, definitely not the "responsible" thing to do. It didn't matter what others thought, he told himself. But as he led John through the front door, he started to dread facing them. He worried about their disapproval - especially after they took him in and gave him so much. He cared about them too deeply to just brush off their reactions.

But it turned out he had nothing to worry about.

At his announcement, Rebecca's eyes widened and her lips spread into a broad grin. And then - to Sam's mortification – she burst straight into tears, throwing her arms around him and squeezing tight. Beside her, Zach nodded slowly with a small smile, a satisfied look on his face.

Sam was taken aback, but when he asked why they were being so understanding, they shrugged off his question with vague answers.

"I think this will be good for you," Rebecca told him at length, beaming and sad at the same time. "I'm going to miss you so much though!"

"I'm going to miss you too," Sam replied, still somewhat dazed.

"But I'm so happy you made this decision," she went on. When Sam gave her a questioning look, she gave him a crooked smile. "Sam, it's been over a year since I last saw you excited about anything," she explained, touching his arm. Sam blinked at her, stunned. He wanted to disagree with her but found he couldn't.

John, meanwhile, was leaning against the wall, his face pinched into a tight expression. His mouth opened a couple of times, on the verge of protesting, but ultimately he kept quiet.

"You'll visit, right?" Rebecca pressed him, drawing his attention back.

"Of course!" he assured her. "You know I will."

Rebecca laughed. "No, actually, I don't. You didn't before."

Sam frowned before he realized what she was referring to. "Yeah, well, this time I'll be mentally stable," he told her with a smirk.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zach make his way to John. They had a short conversation, one held in whispered tones Sam couldn't hear, and then Zach clapped a hand to John's shoulder, shaking his head with a sigh.

"I'll hold you to that, you know," Rebecca told Sam, grinning. "If you don't visit, I'll hunt you down myself."

Sam smiled, feeling a growing warmth inside. He really was going to miss them. But at the same time, he felt no regret. He was nervous - his reasoning side cringed at the obvious irresponsibility - but not regretful. This decision felt right to him.

It struck him then that the Warrens weren't nearly as shocked as they should be. They were surprised, certainly, but Sam thought that if a friend of his had announced he was dropping out of school to hunt ghosts, he'd be rather floored by it.

Then again, 48 hours ago he hadn't even known ghosts existed, and yet he here he was, already deciding to devote his life to finding them. At least the Warrens had known of John and his "profession" for over a year.

Sam quickly packed most of his belongings – which mainly entailed throwing as many clothes and necessities that would fit into his suitcase. He also decided to bring a couple of books, stashing them into a bookbag and leaving the rest behind. In the end, he only had three bags: the small suitcase, the bookbag, and the duffle bag he had already packed for their Oregon trip. Considering those bags would be the extent of his belongings, he figured he did pretty good. John would grumble, but there was plenty of room in the Impala.

The Warrens were gracious enough to offer to store the rest of Sam's things for him for an indefinite time, and Sam knew they had his cell number in case they changed their mind. He wondered when he would have his own place to keep his things, and it scared him that he had no idea.

But he can worry about that latter. Maybe this could be his destiny.

ooOOoo

Sam threw his bags into the backseat and slammed the door shut. He caught John watching him over the top of the car. As intense as his gaze was, Sam couldn't read the emotion behind it. It made him uncomfortable not knowing what the other man was thinking.

In sync, they pulled open the front doors and slid into their respective seats. Sam's heart was still racing. This jump into a new life thrilled him and scared him at the same time, and he had to stop himself from fidgeting. John, however, sat stiffly in his seat, his steely gaze turned somewhere between the windshield and Sam, looking at neither.

"I can't let you do this, Sam," he said at length.

"We've already been through this," Sam replied. "You said it was my choice."

"Yeah, well, maybe I take that back," he retorted gruffly.

Sam felt his stomach twist again, afraid of John changing his mind. "Do you not want me here?" he asked, unable to stop the corners of his mouth from dipping.

"I told you, it's not that," John replied, gripping the steering wheel like it was his anchor. "I shouldn't let you do this."

Sam understood then, suddenly recognizing the intense emotion that poisoned his voice. John felt guilty.

"I'm an adult, John. I think I can make my own decisions," Sam told him. "And if I make the wrong one, I can always come back here."

But this only seemed to upset John further. They sat in silence for several long moments as Sam desperately searched for something to say.

"Fine," John said at last. "But if you change your mind, you're finding your own damn way home."

Sam laughed gratefully, relieved the tension was finally broken. Then John started the car and pulled away from the curb. Sam never thought to look back.

ooOOoo

After leaving Stanford, they headed southeast, making their way towards the panhandle of Texas. While Sam had been asleep that morning at the hotel, John had gotten a phone call from a friend or acquaintance or someone, needing his help. John wasn't sure what the problem was – his contact didn't know, and the details were sketchy.

Something was attacking people, that's all John needed to know.

It was evening though when they left Sam's apartment, so they only drove five hours before they stopped at a roadside motel. After the long drive they had already went through earlier that day, Sam was especially grateful. This lifestyle, he realized, involved a lot of driving, a lot of long distances, but he figured they had put in enough hours that day. John even let Sam drive for a while - albeit with a strict warning that whatever happens to the car, John will make sure the exact same thing happens to Sam.

This hotel was much like the last. Same floor plan, same cheap furniture, slightly better television model but worse reception, and a different but still tacky bedspread pattern. John claimed the bed closest to the TV, again, and Sam dumped his bag next to the other one.

"So this is my life now..." he said, surveying the room.

"Until you change your mind."

Sam ignored his remark as he dug through his bag for his toothpaste and brush. He was exhausted, and even the tropical bedspread-covered mattress was looking pretty cozy to him.

They took turns in the bathroom, each quickly getting ready for bed. When John came out, Sam noticed he had already changed into an old t-shirt. Still, Sam had a hard time keeping his eyes away from the claw marks on his arm.

John wasted no time climbing into bed, and Sam followed suit, burrowing into the covers. Reaching over, he snapped the bedside lamp off, plunging the room into cool darkness. He sank back into the bed and stretched out, pulling a sheet up over his shoulder. Within seconds, he was asleep.

At first it was a deep sleep, full of dark nothingness. But midway through the night, visions of flames and Jessica's terrified face came to him. Assaulted him—like they always did. Her body floating above him, crowned with fire, her face gaping with fear. Sam cried out for her, strained for her, but he couldn't reach her.

And then the flames erupted into a fireball that swallowed her whole.

And a hand on his shoulder jerked him awake.

Sam's head surged off his pillow as he gasped for air. As he sucked in a few deep lungfuls, he let his head fall back and strained his eyes in the darkness. "John?" he panted.

John was crouched over him, his face twisted with worry. Once he saw that Sam was awake, he drew back a few feet so he could sit on his own bed. "You're still having nightmares?" he asked, sounding troubled.

Sam sighed and sat up. "Yeah," he admitted reluctantly. Then his eyebrows rose as realization dawned on him. "Oh, but it was just a regular nightmare," he assured him quickly. "Nothing you have to worry about, nothing psychic."

John nodded with a grunt. Sam hoped he would drop it, but he didn't. "What was it about?" he asked after a moment.

Sam looked at his lap. "My girlfriend. Jessica. She died in a fire almost two years ago." He felt the other man's eyes on him as he continued. "I got there too late. I couldn't save her."

He heard John suck in a long breath. "You-you remember that?"

"Yeah," Sam said with an unhappy snort. "My mind blocked most of my memories, but not that one."

"Well...that sucks," John replied awkwardly.

Sam tried to shrug it off. "Just bits and pieces though. Flashes, mostly."

"And you still have nightmares about it."

Sam nodded. "But it's so screwed up. There's the fire, and Jessica—but she's hanging over me. Out of reach. And I can't do anything..." He pressed his lips together. "And then she's gone."

John was listening intently, a grim look on his face. Sam almost wanted to say more, to get it out and lay it bare now that he had a chance. But John seemed too uncomfortable, too disturbed by it, so he didn't. It was a private matter anyway, one he shouldn't burden the other man with.

"Dammit, Sam," John said, his voice heavy. "I'm sorry."

Sam looked at him and gave him a sad, twisted smile. "Me, too," he replied. Then he glanced down, away from the other man's stare.

ooOOoo

They set out early the next morning, packing and leaving as quickly as they had come in the night before.

Neither of them mentioned Sam's nightmare, to his relief. He was still embarrassed by it and he wished he hadn't woken the other man up. Fortunately, Sam had been able to fall asleep almost immediately afterwards – he was used to the nightmare by now, no longer so disturbed that he couldn't sleep. Judging by John's appearance, though, he wasn't so lucky.

They had been on the road for three hours, driving down a long stretch of dusty highway when John suddenly turned down a side lane. Sam was startled, knowing this wasn't part of the directions that were leading them to Texas. A few miles later, he pulled the car and got out, motioning Sam to do the same.

"What's going on?" Sam asked.

John walked around to the back and lifted the trunk. He rummaged through a couple of the weapons stored there and pulled out the shotgun. Sam frowned when John handed it to him, confused and more than a little alarmed.

Then John pulled out a knife and a handgun which he carried himself. With a wave of his head, he indicated the field he'd parked next to, and Sam followed as he started into it. He glanced around, but the area seemed to be deserted. There wasn't another car or building in sight.

They trampled over thin, brown grasses, their feet kicking up ground that was more sand than dirt. Overhead, the sun shone brightly, and its heat beat down on Sam's shoulders. He thought he should be a little nervous, maybe even a little scared, but John seemed relaxed, unconcerned.

He finally came to a rest about fifty feet from a scraggly, twisting tree. "Target practice," he announced.

Sam tilted his head as John continued. "If you're going to be hunting with me, you gotta know what you're doing. We should've done this before we went up to Oregon."

For the next couple of hours, he showed him how to hold a gun, how to load, aim and shoot each one that they had brought with them. Sam was surprised no one came running each time he fired, but John had chosen a truly deserted field.

He also taught him how to handle a knife, both offensively and defensively. He demonstrated different attacks, told him what body parts to aim for and which movements and angles caused the most damage. He even had Sam practice a few throws against the tree.

Sam was skeptical that he could learn all that in just a day, in just a single lesson. But fortunately he seemed to be a natural. It turned out the lighthouse hadn't been a fluke – after only a few clumsy attempts, he found himself hitting the tree with each shot. He picked up all of John's demonstrations easily, and they quickly moved through each lesson and onto the next.

It was a good thing too. The sun was hot, the air was dry, and Sam was covered with sweat. After almost three hours, John finally and mercifully declared that Sam had enough practice for now.

The two of them trekked back to the car, both of them sweaty and tired and Sam filled with a muffled sense of exhilaration. The quick lesson had given him a shot of confidence, and he was starting to feel that he could be a valuable companion, that he really could help John in his hunt.

He was nervous and excited, and he couldn't wait to try.

***

Just as they crossed the border into New Mexico, Sam saw a sign advertising a nearby historic train depot. He convinced John to stop at the small museum, if for no other reason than to stretch their legs. Sam, however, could admit only to himself that he actually wanted to stop there. If they were going to be constantly roadtripping, he wanted to do the whole shebang, the entire tourist-trap routine, see things he had never seen before and most likely would never see again.

John grumbled good-naturedly about stopping, but he seemed to need a break just as much as Sam did. The museum was a small, converted train station, filled mostly with black and white photos and model train sets, and miraculously air-conditioned. It probably took only fifteen minutes to go through, but Sam stretched it to thirty by reading the captions for each photograph and the boards explaining the history of area train services.

A particular photo picturing a fatal train crash caught John's eye, and Sam watched as he wandered over to the ticket lady sitting at desk by the front door. Sam drifted closer, reading the pictures next to them so he could listen as John casually asked if there were any legends of ghost trains or passengers in the area.

The lady, an overweight woman with graying red hair, was appreciative of John's interest and she eagerly related local stories of phantom train whistles and a headless man that wandered the area at night. Sam enjoyed hearing the local lore, but he could tell John lost interest as soon as he found out no one had ever been injured by these apparitions.

But Sam was still curious. Now that he knew they could have basis in fact, he started looking at ghost stories and legends in a whole new light. He sauntered up to the ticket desk just as the lady was finishing her stories.

"Hm, interesting," John was saying, but the short nod that went with it was too polite for him to be sincere.

The lady, whose nametag read Elaine McDougal, seemed to pick up on his waning attention. "Well that's just some small-town chatter for you," she said with a gracious smile, absently shuffling some papers.

"Ms. McDougal," Sam said, slipping in. "You said the name of the ghost was Donald Polley? Is that any relation to the Polley house, back in that picture over there?" He pointed over his shoulder at a row of pictures he had just looked at. There had been a few photos of the rural area before the railroad was put in, and the caption of one of the more ornate homes had read Polley.

Ms. McDougal nodded with new energy. "Oh, yes, actually, he was the oldest son."

"That was a grand place, wasn't it?" Sam remarked.

"They don't make 'em like they used to, that's for sure," she agreed.

"Is it still around?" By now, John had lost all interest and was wondering around the miniature train set.

"Oh, no, they lost their property when the train came through. Donald was all set to inherit it, too." She leaned closer, eager to tell her story. "He'd been engaged at the time, but that fell apart after his parents lost the home. So he took up drinking. And he was still drinking after the railroad was built."

Her voice became a loud whisper. "That's how he died, you see. He got drunk one night, right after midnight, and started wandering about the property that should've been his, like he was wont to do. And Donnie, he started kicking and cursing at the railroad tracks that went straight through his land. The next thing he knows, a train is barreling down upon him, its light blinding him. He trips over his own drunken feet, and before he can get out of the way, the train runs right over him. Decapitated him," she added as she shuddered.

"Ouch," Sam remarked, grimacing.

"They say you can still see his ghost haunting his old property," she went on. "There's also a phantom train, although nobody knows if it's the train that killed him, or the one that crashed. Some say it's the same one that did both."

"Oh, really?" Sam said. "Where can we find them?"

"Well, the tracks don't exist anymore, but Route 151 pretty much runs where it used to be. And the Polley property, that's right off where Avondale crosses 151. Right now it's just a big field in the middle of nowhere, although there is a family plot near the back. Donald was the last one buried there."

Sam nodded with interest. "Hey, maybe we'll check that out tonight," he lied with a friendly grin. He doubted John would allow any more time for sightseeing.

"Oh, I wouldn't advise that," Ms. McDougal replied. "That can be a very dangerous intersection at night."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw John perk up. "Oh, yeah? How's that?" he asked as John came closer.

She shrugged, a baffled look on her face. "There's been a lot of fatal crashes there over the years," she told them. "No one's sure why. They keep putting up all these new signs, even took out all the trees nearby, but that doesn't seem to help. Probably too many kids trying to catch a ghost," she added, shaking her head sadly.

Sam nodded politely, but he saw the thoughtful look on John's face and felt the same way.

"If you're a curiosity seeker, though," she went on, "Donald's skull is on display at Dusky College."

John's eyebrows shot up. "It...is?"

"I know, that's a little morbid for me," Ms. McDougal remarked. "When his body was discovered, they couldn't find his head. So they buried him without it. When they finally came across it two years later, no one thought it was worth the effort to dig him back up. So they gave it to the local college instead."

Sam shared a glance with John. "Right now it's in a display case right outside the library, if you'd like to see it," she told them.

ooOOoo

"Congratulations, Sammy," John said, patting him on his back as they walked out of the museum. "Looks like you found our new case."

"What about the thing in Texas?" Sammy asked.

"Eh, there's no rush," John replied. "I'm told the attacks there happen about as often as Halley's Comet."

"Every 76 years?" Sam asked, puzzled.

John gave him an incredulous look. "No, you geek," he retorted. "I just mean they're spaced out over the years." He snorted as he climbed into the car. "C'mon, diploma boy, let's get something to eat, then check out what the local college has to offer."

They did just that, stopping at a nearby diner for a warm meal. Afterwards, they found another motel room, killing time as they waited for the sun to set. They'd have to do some sneaking around in the dark, John told him, so they decided they would crash there for the night and continue their trip in the morning.

"We're really going to break into the college?" Sam asked, suddenly worried.

"Well if you'd kept your damn mouth shut, we wouldn't have to," John replied. "We could've gone on our merry way, none the wiser." But now that they knew something strange was causing problems, it became by default their duty to solve it.

They pulled into the college parking lot a couple hours after the sun had set. Fortunately the library was held in a well-marked building, and they had no trouble finding it. John parked the car in a far corner at the back of the building and dug out from the trunk a pair of bolt-cutters and a small case which he slipped into his pocket.

"Just act like you belong," he advised Sam as they strolled towards the library. The small campus was deserted, and the nearest car was on the opposite side of the next lot over. Even so, Sam felt his heart pound. He was sure they would get caught, sure that any second a cop would turn the corner.

Once they hit the darker shadow the building cast from the moonlight, they dodged closer and came up to a service entrance. A chain and padlock hung from the handle.

"All right," John whispered as they hunched by the door. "We probably have sixty seconds before the alarm goes off, and another five minutes before the cops arrive – less if there's campus police. I'm pretty sure I can handle 'em, but I'd rather not."

Sam sucked in a deep breath and nodded. "Okay. In and out. We can do this."

John looked up at him. "You're not freaking out on me, are you?"

"No. Of course not." John smirked at him and turned back to the door. He took his bolt cutters and snapped the padlock from the door.

"Here goes nothing," he announced, pushing the door open.

Sam followed closely behind John as they rushed inside and turned down the hallway. Fortunately the layout was straightforward and they found the display case almost instantly, a long, low table covered in glass, propped against the wall opposite the front doors.

"Keep a lookout," John commanded, nodding at the entrance. Sam quickly obeyed, sliding along the side wall until he had a good view outside of the road out front. As far as he knew, it was the only way leading to the parking lot, so at least they would have some warning before they were caught.

He glanced back at John anxiously, checking his progress as he tried to pick the lock, using a thin tool he'd pulled from the small case he had carried in. "You almost done?" Sam asked impatiently.

"Hold your horses..." John grumbled in return.

Just then Sam spotted flashing lights off in the distance. "Damn!" he shouted, and John straightened up.

"Hey, Sammy-Catch." Sam spun around, jerking his hands up just in time as John threw something at him. His hands closed around a hard, round surface – the skull.

"Dammit, John!" he exclaimed.

"Let's go!" John replied in mock-exasperation. Then he flashed him a quick grin and was already dashing back towards the exit. Sam cursed under his breath and raced after him, clutching the skull in his hand.

ooOOoo

John somehow managed to maneuver his car away from the police without detection. Sam didn't know how – he was too panicked to pay attention. They had just broken into a locked building and stole something that didn't belong to them.

Right now the skull was sitting in his lap. Sam was a little disturbed that he was holding a severed body part, but at the same time, he couldn't help but feel a strange fascination towards it. Once the police were a safe distance behind them, he let himself examine it, picking it up so he could study it underneath the passing street lights.

It hadn't been a clean decapitation. The jaw had been smashed, and someone had inserted a wire to hold several of the broken pieces together, even though they no longer fit.

"Hey, John," Sam said. "Why am I holding someone's head?" He knew the answer of course, but he couldn't help but think that a normal person wouldn't have a skull balanced on his knees.

"Because I'm driving," John replied simply as he made a right turn onto Avondale. With a soft snort, Sam turned back to the skull, turning it over in his hands.

After a few minutes John pulled over, parking his car along the side of the road.

"We're not at 151 yet," Sam protested as John started to climb out. They had only just crossed Pleasant Valley, nearly a half-mile from away.

"Did you hear the lady?" John asked, turning back to look at him. "Man, no way I'm risking my car."

Sam quickly met him at the back of the car, glancing around at the moonlit surroundings as John searched through the trunk. Soon he pulled out a shovel and the shotgun before slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He gave Sam the shovel to carry, and the two of them started down the road towards the rumored haunted intersection.

"Okay, so what are we doing, exactly?" Sam asked as they walked alongside the empty street. "I mean, I have the basic idea, I think. But what are we dealing with? A ghost? A train?"

John gave him a long, almost surprised look. "Um, right, I guess we should cover that first," he agreed awkwardly. "And yeah, I don't know." Sam looked at him, startled. He'd just assumed John knew what he was doing. "But it sounds like a curse to me," John continued, "since no one seems to have connected ghost sightings with the crashes."

"Unless they all died."

"Well, there is that," John conceded lightly. "In any case, I'm guessing ol' Donnie wants his head back."

"So we're giving it to him? To break the curse?"

"Yep, that's the plan."

As they walked closer to the intersection of Avondale and 151, Sam realized Ms. McDougal hadn't been exaggerating about the new street signs. The first one they passed warned them of an intersection ahead. Several yards later came a light with a sign attached which read "Prepare to stop when flashing." And then at the intersection were stop signs at each corner and a traffic light strung across the two streets. The land itself was flat and mostly treeless, and the roads were straight.

"Unless the town is full of dumbasses who can't drive, there's definitely something supernatural going on here," John remarked.

Sam agreed. "But how will we know for sure?"he asked. "Obviously not everyone experiences something every time they come out here."

"Trust me, it's us - we'll see something," John remarked. "Are your spidey senses tingling?"

Sam tried to sense the air, tried to pick up something. "I don't know. Maybe," he replied with a shrug. He couldn't tell if he was really sensing something or just thinking about it too hard.

"Well, let's find that graveyard, get this over with," John said as he stepped onto highway 151, ready to cross the two-lane road. A field stretched on the other side, dissected by Avondale. With the dim moonlight, they'd have to get closer before they could see which side held the Polley cemetery.

Sam followed behind John, the skull in one hand and the shovel in another. But he stopped suddenly at the yellow line dividing the lanes.

The ground was rumbling underneath his feet.

"Sam?" John asked from the other side of the road.

Sam looked down the highway, his muscles tensing. There was a light some distance away, but it was growing bigger—

Speeding towards him, he realized.

"The train!" he shouted at John.

John whipped his head around and gasped. Sam barely heard him, too mesmerized by the light bearing down on him. Unable to move, he stared at the circle of light as it headed straight towards him. Distantly he heard a train whistle echoing through the air.

"Sam! Move!" John shouted.

But Sam wasn't paying attention. He was standing on a highway, and a train was coming. That should have been impossible.

Just then something impacted against his middle, and for a split second Sam thought he'd been hit by the train. But then as he hit the ground beside the road, he realized John had his arms wrapped around him, and the two of them skidded a few feet across the dirt. A blast of air shot by them and then everything was silent again.

"The hell, Sam!" John cursed as he pulled himself away.

Sam struggled to sit, pushing himself up by his elbows.

"It was just a ghost, wasn't it?" he panted. "It would've gone right through me-right?" He didn't think he actually believed that, but for the sake of his pounding heart, he tried to convince himself anyway.

"You really want to test that out?" John demanded, getting to his knees. "Why don't we go back to Oregon, see if Ms. Lighthouse Keeper can push you off the side, too." He stood up, cursing under his breath as he brushed the dirt from his jeans.

Sam's face burned furiously in the dark, and he ignored the other man's words as he scrambled a few yards away from the road. When John had slammed him against the ground, the skull popped out of his arms, and he went to scoop it back up from where it had rolled. Then backtracking to where he'd just been, he picked up the shovel which in the commotion he had dropped beside the road as he fell.

Once he had a hold of that, the two of them started across the street again. This time, John walked resolutely behind him, to Sam's irritation. He didn't need him to urge him forward like some kid. When they reached the other side, John quickly picked up his shotgun from where he had dropped it before tackling Sam. Sam used that moment to fall back beside him.

The truth was, John eventually admitted as they walked side-by-side across the field, most ghosts are insubstantial and in fact do go through objects and people. But certain ones, if they're able to draw enough energy, can have a force to them. For example, anger fueled the spirit of the lighthouse keeper's wife. It really depended on what kind of ghost it was – whether it was merely an imprint or memory, or an intelligent one.

"So how could a train be intelligent?"

"If someone was driving it, it could be considered intelligent," John answered curtly. "Maybe Donnie can control it. Maybe it was only an omen. Who knows?" He still seemed angry, so Sam decided to stop asking questions.

They could see the faint outlines of small tombstones in the distance, so they changed directions, cutting across the field to where they stood. Sam clutched the skull tighter, eager to get it over with.

He stopped suddenly again. "Now what?" John asked, irritable but alert.

"Something's here..." He looked around the field. "I think."

John followed his movements. His eyes suddenly widened just as he looked over Sam's shoulder. "Look out!" he shouted.

Sam twisted around to see, but the next thing he knew, a cold feeling shot through him, ripping through his back and entering his heart.

Then John was shoving him, pushing him out of the way, and the cold feeling shrank back and disappeared. As he stumbled to the side, he saw it. A body in man's clothing. A bloody mess where the neck should have met the head.

What the hell? Sam thought. Wasn't the train enough?

A few feet from him, John raised his shotgun and aimed. But just as he shot, the apparition vanished. Sam at first thought he'd gotten him, but almost instantly Donald Polley reappeared – only this time he was on the other side of Sam. Closer to him.

"Dammit!" John shouted, swinging his shotgun around. "Move, Sam!"

Sam ducked to the side just as another shotgun blast exploded through the air. But when Sam moved, the ghost moved with him, only to disappear right as John fired.

And then it came back, five feet in front of Sam.

Sam gasped in horror and dodged to his right, breaking into a run. Again the ghost materialized mere feet before him.

"Sam, get over here!" John commanded. Sam glanced over at him and saw him was struggling to reload. "Sam!" he barked again, jerking his head.

But instead of getting behind John like he indicated, Sam veered away. The ghost followed, flashing in front of him, and Sam twisted right.

"The skull!" he yelled back at John, circling around but keeping his distance. "It wants the skull!" When the ghost flashed before him again, Sam went left. He kept on changing directions every time the apparition tried to cut him off.

"Get over here!" John shouted again. "SAM!" Sam dodged again, almost tripping over his feet but quickly recovering.

"Give me the skull!" John commanded behind him.

But he ignored him, dashing across the field. If he could just stall for a little longer—

Then he heard the telltale cha-cha as John finished loading the gun. Sam swung around towards him, coming at him at an angle. But this time when the headless body jumped in front of him, Sam stopped and leapt backwards.

"You want this?" Sam taunted, waving the skull in the air. "Then take it, you bastard!" He launched the skull at him as hard as he could. It sailed straight through the apparition and landed on the ground several feet on the other side.

"John, shoot it!" Sam yelled frantically as the ghost drew towards its head. "Now, now, now!"

"Dude, I know!" John snapped loudly. His shout was punctuated with a blast from the shotgun.

This time the shot struck true, and the ghostly body disappeared in almost an explosion. Sam knew it could only be a few moments before it manifested again so he dashed forward and scooped the skull back into his hands. Then, tucking it under his arm like a football, he started for the cemetery at the far side of the field.

"Sam, give me that!" he heard John shout, running behind him.

"What?" Sam exclaimed, his heart and legs pumping furiously. They didn't have time to exchange possessions; they had to get the damned thing in the ground before Donald reappeared.

"Just give it to me!"

"No!" His longer legs pulled him farther away from John. He bounded over the ground, clutching the skull and trying not to trip over the shovel he was still carrying. Within moments he was skidding to a stop just inside the boundary of the graveyard. John pounded up behind him seconds later.

"Hey, can you give a flashlight?" Sam asked breathlessly, holding his free hand out as he frantically surveyed the small stone markers.

"God dammit, Sam, are you trying to get yourself killed?"

He didn't have time to answer. "Which grave is his?" he demanded, moving forward. He darted among the stones and tried to read their engravings with the dim moonlight. "Nevermind, found it," he said impatiently. Irritably.

"So go," John replied, just as irritated. "Start digging."

Sam had been on the verge of doing just that, but John's words pulled him up. "What? Why me?"

"I have to keep a look out."

"Isn't that my job?" Sam sarcastically pointed out.

John huffed with exasperation. "Why are you wasting time?"

Sam chucked the skull hard at him, and John fumbled to catch it. "Why are you ordering me around?" he retorted.

Even as he said that, though, he had already struck the shovel blade into the ground. He knew he needed to get started and they'd only brought one shovel. But he didn't want John to think he was doing it because he was told.

"Jesus Christ, Sam," John said.

"Why are you complaining?" Sam puffed, throwing a shovelful of dirt aside. "You're not the one who has to dig."

"Yeah, well if you hadn't started running around like a crazed lunatic, maybe you wouldn't be so tired!"

"Jerk," Sam said, shaking his head as he tossed aside another load of dirt.

"You should've just given me the skull," John went on.

Sam dug the shovel back in. "I know, I'm sorry," he apologized, trying to sound sincere. "I didn't realize you could hold onto a skull the size of a volleyball, protect yourself from a murderous ghost, and reload a frickin' shotgun, all at the same time." He threw more dirt away. "My mistake."

"Damn right it is. Don't make it again."

Sam paused just long enough to shoot the other man a dirty look. Then he shook his head and got back to digging. He stopped only once to warn John that the ghost was behind him. John whirled around and with one shotgun blast, bought them some more time.

Finally Sam broke through to the coffin. Using the shovel blade, he smashed a hole through the lid, just as John had done in Oregon. Once it was big enough, he stood back and watched as John dropped the skull onto the remains below. They looked at the pile of bones below.

After over a hundred years, Donald Polley finally had his head back.

"So, is that it?" Sam asked, looking down at his body. "Did we stop the curse?"

John stood silently beside him, staring into the grave. Sam waited for him to answer.

"Ah hell, let's burn it," John finally announced.

Sam looked at him with an amused frown, and the other man just shrugged. "Hey, couldn't hurt."

"Better safe than sorry," Sam quickly agreed.

John dropped his backpack to the ground and rummaged for supplies. Soon he was soaking the coffin in salt and kerosene, and Sam watched as he lit a match and tossed it below. The body erupted into orange light as flames began consuming the coffin.

They waited for the fire to die away. "There. That should do it," John said as the flames eventually flickered away.

The walk back to the car was mostly silent, the return trip lacking phantom locomotives and headless spirits. Even the air felt clearer, cleaner to Sam, and he knew whatever haunted the place was gone. Neither of the two men spoke as they made their way back, dragging their shovel and shotgun. Sam felt almost as if he were still trying to catch his breath - and he was still annoyed that John had tried to order him around.

But nevertheless, they finished their impromptu job without any major problems. The roads would be safer now for the townspeople, and Sam had a suspicion that even though the headless ghost would disappear, they would continue to catch glimpses of a ghostly but benign phantom train. Whatever John had said, Sam thought the train he saw had merely been the memory of a tragic event, doomed to repeat until it burned itself out.

As they strapped themselves into the Impala, Sam turned to John. "We make a pretty good team, don't we?"

John looked at him in surprise. Then a small smile spread across his face. "Yeah, we do."

***

Impatient after the two detours they made the day before, they drove straight through the next day, stopping only when necessary. Even so, it still took almost a full day of driving before they finally reached the outskirts of Crider, Texas. They found a Days Inn just off the exit and ended up settling there for the night. It a higher class of hotel than the usual roadside dump, but Sam offered to pay for it all. He thought it might be a nice way to start off this new chapter of his life.

Plus they had found a cockroach in their last motel room, and he wasn't eager to repeat that just yet.

This time they ordered Chinese for dinner, and they ate from the cardboard cartons – Sam with chopsticks, John with a plastic fork - as they sat around Sam's laptop, looking up information on the town of Crider.

As it turned out, it wasn't difficult to find. Several people had dedicated entire websites to the local and regional lore, providing every detail they've ever gathered. Unfortunately, none of it was substantiated, and the stories and rumors differed wildly from site to site. The only hard evidence they found that held any connection to the stories was one newspaper article, a recent one that most likely explained the reason they were brought there.

According to the varied legends, a settler had arrived to the area in the early 1800s and suffered through a wide range of harsh conditions and misfortunes, including Indian raids, crop failures, disease, freak blizzards, dust storms, bandits – pretty much anything the storytellers could think of. These events drove the person to some version of the dark arts to survive, and he or she quickly became a witch or warlock (depending on the website). This person somehow gained the powers of immortality on top of dark magick, but in return had to perform periodic sacrifices.

Rumors of unnatural or violent deaths had circulated in the area ever since. Some claim those chosen by the witch simply died in their sleep, others said only animals were killed, their guts spread over a stone alter. Most stories however told tales of gruesome murders, of people strung up among trees, slashed and gutted, or of people burned at the stake or hanged from branches. These deaths occurred anywhere from once a year to once every hundred, although most claimed the sacrifice happened only every few generations.

Unfortunately, records back then were rare, if they were taken at all, and newspaper accounts didn't exist for the remote area until 1900, and anything prior to 1970 were lost. Therefore, the websites depended largely on word of mouth, and John didn't need to tell Sam how unreliable that was.

But the newspaper article, dating from just last month, reported a grisly death that mirrored the legends. A woman, Janine Larson, had been found deep in a nearby woods, the apparent victim of a ritualistic murder. The newspaper suggested a satanic cult or a copycat of the legendary figure as possible suspects. Just as in the stories, the woman had been tied spread-eagle between the trees, and someone had carved symbols across her skin with a knife or other sharp object. The newspaper was vague on the details, but judging by the atrocity only hinted at, Sam couldn't blame them for the bit of censorship.

"You think this is your kind of thing?" Sam asked. "Or just some disturbed person, like the newspaper suggests?"

John chewed on the inside of his cheek as he stared at the computer screen. "There's no way to know unless we check it out," he replied. "Either way, I think we can help. We're pretty good at tracking, looking in places the police wouldn't even think of."

Sam thought it was nice of John to include him by saying "we" even though Sam had no experience, but he was nervous John might expect too much from him too soon. "You know what to do then?" he asked carefully, making sure he pronounced "you" clearly.

"Always good to start at the scene of the crime," John replied matter-of-factly. "We'll go first thing in the morning. Take it from there."

ooOOoo

Unlike the Oregon lighthouse and the headless New Mexican, this case proved to be more than a one-day investigation.

They had no trouble finding the woods where Janine Larson had been found. It was the only treed area within miles of farmland and grassy plains. After John chose a suitable place to park, they entered the cooler shade of the trees and began combing the area. They roamed around until they found the site, a search that ended up taking over an hour.

It was hard to miss, though, and once they came upon there was no doubt they had the right place. Even though there was not much left to suggest a violent crime took place there, it was clear that curious sightseers had trampled through to take a look for themselves. The brush was flattened and branches broken, and there were even discarded potato chip bags and empty soda cans and beer bottles littering the ground.

But even before Sam noticed the litter on the ground or the trampled brush, his skin had started to crawl. The air seemed to buzz along his skin, reaching deep into his chest, making his sternum thrum. He shivered as an icy feeling sank in his stomach.

He had no idea what kind of things John would be looking for there, unable to imagine anything helpful being left behind. The month-old crime scene had been thoroughly cleaned, and Sam - as uncomfortable as he was at the thought - figured that anything stained with blood that had been overlooked by the cleanup crew would have long been stolen by souvenir seekers.

Incredibly, they found the two trees the woman had been strung between. They were easily identifiable because rough symbols had been carved into the trunks, four different shapes that formed a vertical line about a foot long on each trunk. They sent a chill through Sam, even though he didn't recognize any of them. Apparently neither did John - he took out a small leather binder and flipped through the pages as if it were a reference guide. Sam realized belatedly it probably was. When he didn't find what he was looking for, John took out another small notebook and a pen and quickly sketched the symbols.

Then Sam noticed a white speck on the ground, an oddly-shaped object with a slight sheen. Picking it up, he was surprised to find it was solid but soft. Melted wax. He showed it to John, who took it from him. The other man scratched it with his fingernail and then brought it up to his nose to smell it.

"Yep, that's from a ritual candle," he remarked. "Whoever did this was serious about it."

Sam shuddered, knowing magic was involved. He could sense it in the air, and that unnerved him. The killer was more than just a sick copycat. That didn't necessarily make it worse, but the whole thing felt more creepy.

"How do you deal with this?" Sam asked. "I mean, I can feel the evil here...How can you face that every day?" The air almost felt like it was slithering along his skin, and it made him queasy.

"You get used to it," John hedged.

Sam frowned. He didn't think he ever would.

"It's harder for some people," the other man added after a moment, speaking lowly. Sam caught him studying his reaction, and he immediately cleared his face. He didn't want John to know he was so bothered.

After they inspected the rest of the area and found nothing else, John dropped Sam back at the hotel, leaving him to research the symbols online while he went to interview a Mrs. Stevens, the woman who had asked him there.

It was nearly an impossible search. Sam had hoped John would know something about the symbols, no matter how insignificant, but apparently he was as clueless as Sam because he left him with nothing. Sam had nothing to go on, nowhere to start, with no way to search by images with unknown names. Instead, he had to search for online symbol databases and rune guides and go through them all, image by image. He was still searching when John came back.

John entered the hotel room with a flourish, waving a manila folder through the air as he burst through the door.

"Any luck?" he asked.

Sam felt himself go bug-eye with annoyance at the mismatched entrance and greeting. Here he was, his vision blurring after hours of fruitless searching when John waltzes in with an obvious find, and yet he had the gall to ask Sam if he had any luck? In one fell swoop, John managed to make him wait for answers and rub his nose in his own lack of results.

"No, not yet," Sam replied irritably. He impatiently gestured at the folder in John's hand, annoyed he even had to ask. "What's that?"

"Hey now, no need to get your panties in a bunch," John remarked tossing the folder onto the desk.

"What is it?" Sam asked again even as he was reaching for it.

"Mrs. Stevens is actually Lieutenant Stevens, a cop. And she came prepared." Sam lifted his eyebrows as he opened the folder. "Crime scene photos," John announced just as Sam was sucker punched by a graphic image of a hanging, bloodied body.

Sam jerked his eyes away, only half listening as John talked over his shoulder. "More symbols to research," he said. "We definitely have a sick bastard on our hands."

"Yeah," Sam snorted in agreement, chancing another look at the photographs. Just as the newspaper had reported, symbols had been carved into the skin on her hands, forehead, stomach, and upper chest, and her body and clothing were streaked with blood.

"Notice anything about these pictures?" John asked, and Sam took the cue to look through the other photos stashed in the folder. In addition to pictures of the entire scene as a whole, there were close-ups of each mark, of the thick, rough ropes that bound her wrists and ankles to the trees, and of the ground below, where the dirt and fallen leaves were splattered with blood. Sam studied the pictures, and the analytical side of his mind quickly overrode the queasiness in his stomach.

"Is it just me, or is the marking on her forehead darker than the others?" he asked, examining the photo of her face. The symbol looked almost black.

John nodded. "Yeah, I noticed that too. Might just be the lighting, or it might be part of the spell. Something we'll have to keep in mind if it is a clue. But that's not all."

Sam hmm'ed to himself as he looked through the stack again. Something struck him then, and he tried to remember what he had read in the article. "Wait," he said. "How did she die?" He studied the ground again, but as far as he knew, the amount of blood that had dripped onto the ground wasn't enough to account for her death. He looked at her body, but didn't see any significant wounds, only the skin deep etchings.

"Bingo," John replied. "They don't know. The best the coroner can come up with is that she died of fright, that her heart just stopped, even though she was young and had no health issues." Sam looked up at him, frowning. "And that pretty much means we have something supernatural here," John finished with a proud flourish.

"You really think we're dealing with a 200-year-old pioneer?" Sam asked him, cocking an eyebrow.

"Maybe. Or some kind of intelligent creature, like a wendigo, maybe even a demon."

Sam let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. "That's..."

"What?" John replied sharply. "That's what?"

Sam had been about to say crazy, and he knew John had picked up on that. "Hey, I'm still getting used to the idea that all this is real," he said defensively. He'd only seen ghosts so far, and ghosts at least were generally more accepted by the public. He could deal with the idea of ghosts existing. But monsters and witches and demons? He knew he had offended the other man, but Sam had a hard time accepting that this - all of this - could truly be real. It was crazy.

ooOOoo

Sam woke up early the next morning, images of Jessica slipping from his mind as he pushed himself up. He tried to hold onto his dream, but the memory was gone before he had a chance. Jessica had been speaking to him, but he couldn't remember if he had been able to understand her or not. He couldn't even remember where she was or what she had been wearing, couldn't remember anything but her.

But it hadn't been a nightmare this time.

Sam sighed and scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles. Even though the curtains had been pulled close, enough light snuck through the edges that he could see. In the next bed, John was still asleep, his even breaths almost loud enough to be considered snores.

So this was his life for now. A cheap hotel room in a strange town. A snoring roommate. A new job that ran the gamut of cheesy horror movies and campfire stories.

And yet, he realized, this life seemed more real to him than the entire past year at Stanford.

Grabbing his overnight bag, he snuck into the bathroom where he quickly showered and changed, hoping the noise wouldn't wake John. When he came back out, he found the other man still asleep, and he shifted on his feet, taking a couple false starts as he considered his next steps. The television wasn't worth risking waking John, and after the research the day before, Sam would be happier not staring at his laptop screen. Then his stomach growled, and Sam remembered the McDonald's across the parking lot. He quickly decided to grab some breakfast to bring back to the room, effectively solving several problems at once.

Unfortunately, his timing was bad, and he hit the restaurant at the height of morning rush hour. Between waiting in line, ordering, and the backup of orders, the fast food took thirty minutes from the time he entered through the door. As he waited, he started to regret not leaving a note. He hadn't counted on being gone for so long. ButJ ohn had no reason to worry – even if he woke up before Sam returned, the most logical assumption would be that Sam had just gone for breakfast.

He balanced the two hot coffee cups and a bag full of various breakfast sandwiches as he weaved his way back across the parking lot towards their hotel. He figured John wouldn't be too picky about food, but he had ordered several kinds just in case.

Once he reached their room, he had to press the cups against his chest with one arm as he unlocked the door. It swung open and he pushed himself through, trying to keep the coffee steady so it wouldn't spill.

John was sitting with his legs bent over the side of the bed. Even though Sam hadn't seen it, his back was in a stiff, upright position, suggesting he had just jerkedupright when Sam opened the door. For a split second he looked up at Sam with wide eyes, but then he quickly schooled his features into an impassive expression.

"Hey," he greeted casually.

"Breakfast," Sam returned, setting the coffee onto the desk with relief. He turned back to the older man and studied him. "Is something wrong?"

"Huh? No," John replied. Sam cocked his head, not believing him. "I just—I thought maybe you'd gone back."

That startled him. "What? Where'd you get that idea?"

"I didn't see your things."

Sam blinked and looked around the room before remembering. "Ah, I must've left them in the bathroom." He frowned and looked back at John. Why had the other man have jumped to that conclusion so easily? It bothered him. "You actually thought I would leave, just like that?"

"Figured you changed your mind," John replied with a stiff shrug. Sam continued to stare at him, but the other man refused to meet his eyes, keeping them instead leveled at Sam's chest. "I know it's not the best life or anything," he went on. "I understand if you wanna go back, you know."

"But I don't," Sam replied. "We're just getting started."

John indicated his chest with a nod. "And you're going to tell me that's not some Freudian message, college boy?"

Sam was confused for a moment before he looked down at his t-shirt. It was a grey one with Stanford printed across in block letters. He hadn't even looked at it when he pulled it from the bag after his shower. "I just threw it on this morning. It doesn't mean anything." John just snorted, and Sam had to snort in return.

"Why're you being so pissy?"

"I'm not being pissy," John replied petulantly.

"Yeah. You are."

John just shook his head and pushed himself up from the bed. "Yeah, well, I haven't had my caffeine yet." Sam smirked as the other man grabbed a coffee from the desk. John took a long, bold sip – making Sam, who was nursing his own steaming hot cup, wince at the sight – and then sat it back down. "'Scuse me," he said. "Haven't had a chance to take a leak yet either."

While he was gone, Sam took the bag of food and divided it up between them, making two equal piles. John quickly returned, and Sam could almost see his mouth salivating at the food. It wasn't gourmet, but it was warm.

As John tore into a sausage egg McMuffin, Sam couldn't let go of his bewilderment. He was gone when John woke up, and his first assumption was that Sam had left him. He hadn't even had the chance to go to the bathroom, yet he had time to jump to that conclusion. "You think the whole world is against you," Sam realized.

John's jaw dropped and Sam could see half-chewed bits of egg and meat. "What?" he said, swallowing.

It started to fall into place for Sam. The evils John faced constantly. Alone. That had to turn even the most cheerful person into a cynic. Added to that is a missing father, which meant he probably had abandonment issues as well. "You don't trust anyone, do you?" Sam asked him. "You didn't even trust that I would say goodbye if I were to leave."

"Well, you didn't seem too happy at the crime scene."

"Can you blame me? That place was awful," Sam replied. "Look, I know we barely know each other, but I wouldn't just leave without telling you first."

"But you would leave."

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, maybe. Someday. But that's no reason to be so paranoid." John clamped his jaw, refusing to say anything. Sam was confused by his reactions. Why did he care so much about what Sam did?

"Did your dad leave without warning?" Sam suddenly asked.

John obviously hadn't been expecting that, and silence stretched between them as Sam waited for an answer. "Yeah," John finally admitted with a tight shrug. "But I should've expected it."

He should have expected it? Sam studied the tormented look on John's face.

"This life really does mess you up, doesn't it?" he realized.

But John shook his head. "No," he whispered, lifting his eyebrows. "Not me. Just everyone around me."

"Dude, you are messed up," Sam told him, trying to sound a little bit cheerful. "But that's okay, I'm pretty messed up too."

"I'm fine," the other man practically growled in response. Sam almost laughed at that obvious lie. He could name so many ways in which he was wrong, but he decided to begin with the one that had started the conversation.

"But you don't trust people," Sam pointed out. "I don't blame you, not after all you've seen, but you gotta admit-"

"No," John interrupted vehemently. "That's not it at all. If anything, I'm the one..." But he stopped.

"You're the one what?" Sam pressed, curious.

He looked down at his hands and took a deep breath. "Sam, I..."

When he didn't finish right away, Sam stared hard at him. "What is it?"

The older man seemed to stiffen. "Nothing. Never mind," he replied, his Adam's apple bobbing.

Sam sighed, frustrated. But whatever was bothering him would have to come out eventually.

***

The next day brought more of the "boring part," as John dubbed it.

First they interviewed the parents of Janine Larson - but that turned out to be much more depressing than it was boring. They pretended to be detectives still working on the case, and the Larsons accepted them with a mix of eagerness for new help, and the tired acceptance ofthe miserable discussion they knew from experience was coming.

Until he saw their gray faces, Sam didn't realize just how hard it was to speak with people who were still grieving, to force them to share their memories out loud with complete strangers. He immediately felt guilty, knowing they weren't who the Larsons thought they were. But if he and John were to stop whoever or whatever had killed Janine, they needed more information, and they needed to lie to get it.

He tried to put on the most sympathetic, understanding face as he could, but he was nervous it would look forced, and these two people obviously didn't deserve to see more forced sympathy. It wasn't that he was insincere, because he really did feel horrible for the Larsons - so much that his stomach felt heavy in his stomach - but as much as he tried, he felt too uncomfortable for any of his real emotions to show naturally. He was trying too hard to make up for what they were putting them through.

Unfortunately, Janine's parents weren't much help. Still visibly shaken, they lead Sam and John into the living room and told them with shaky voices that they had no clue who could have done that to their daughter.

"She never said much about her social life," Mrs. Larson said from her seat on the couch, clutching her hands in her lap. "In fact, before all this happened, I-I was worried about her. She had a great job at the bank, you know, and this cute little apartment above her favorite cafe..." She trailed off for just a moment to recompose herself, shaking her head with a sniff. Mr. Larson put his hand on her knee, and she continued. "But then she stopped seeing her friends, stopped dating."

"Do you think she started hanging with the wrong crowd?" John asked. "Maybe got involved with someone dark, dangerous?"

Mrs. Larson shook her head emphatically. "Oh, no, not Janine. In fact, every time I visited her, every time I called, she was home, alone."

"Mm, I see," John murmured with polite detachment. "What about her actions? Did she have any unusual interests? Anything you'd consider even a little bit strange?"

"No, nothing that I knew of. She didn't seem to have interest in much of anything."

Sam frowned. He had planned on letting John do all the talking, since he knew what he was doing and what questions to ask. But he found himself jumping in before John could go on. "Was she depressed?" Sam asked gently. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John glance sharply at him.

Mrs. Larson drew in a shaky breath and nodded. "Yes. I-I think so. But I don't know why, she had no real reason to be. I told her to go to the doctor, but she refused. She refused to do anything about it."

Sam nodded, sad but knowingly. He could understand that.

But Mrs. Larson misinterpreted his reaction, and her eyes widened suddenly. "She would never have killed herself, if that's what you're thinking!"

Aghast, Sam quickly shook his head and held up his hands. "Oh, no, I wasn't implying that at all," he rushed to assure her. He'd seen the pictures; there was no way Janine could have done that to herself. He wouldn't bring that up though, refusing to remind them what their daughter had suffered through. He hoped the graphic photos had never been shown to them.

Mrs. Larson sniffed wetly and her husband took over for her, speaking up for the first time since he greeted them. "We just want this case solved," he explained. "We were so afraid y'all have given up. That-that person is still out there, and what's stopping them from doing this again?"

"I want justice," Mrs. Larson spoke again, her voice suddenly firm despite the tears that were still lining her eyes. "I want to know why. I want them caught." She stared at John and Sam. "We need that peace of mind. Please."

Mr. Larson swallowed heavily before he added to his wife's sentiments. "I don't want no one to go through what we've been through," he said thickly. "Janine didn't deserve to die that way. No one does."

ooOOoo

"Those poor people…" Sam muttered to himself as he and John walked back to the Impala.

Their torment had been hard to take. From the moment he saw the Larsons pale faces, he couldn't force the crime scene photos out of his mind. He couldn't stop thinking about the ghastly images of the bloodied, tortured body-the body who had been someone. He couldn't stop thinking about the young, late Janine Larson and the mourning parents she left behind.

"There's a lot of evil out there, man," John remarked casually. Sam nodded silently, not replying. John seemed to watch him for a moment over the top of his car, but then he climbed into the car without another word.

Sam followed, closing the creaky car door beside him as he settled into the passenger side.

"That has to be so hard, so depressing, to face that kind of evil," Sam murmured.

"Yeah, what the hell was that about back there?" John jumped in. "Acting like you knew all about depression. I thought you were going to let me do all the talking. I mean, c'mon, you were happy at Stanford."

"Relatively speaking, I guess," Sam replied with a offhanded shrug. John seemed to want more, but Sam was too distracted. "I mean, you can't just track the supernatural down like an animal. Someone has to die before you even realize something's going on."

John just shrugged in answer, obviously unwilling to change topics.

"And it's always there," Sam persisted, gazing out of the car into the bright sunshine. "And you - you're always going after it. Going after these…monsters who carve people's skin or push them off lighthouses or turn into werewolves and slaughter little children."

He turned from the windshield to look at John. "That can't be healthy for you," he said. "That can't be a good life."

"What's going on here?" John asked, sounding annoyed. "Are you playing Dr. Phil now?"

Sam ignored him. "So that's what we're supposed to do? Track this evil down, confront it—come face-to-face with that horror—and then fight it with just a gun or a knife or-or a cup of salt?" he remarked heatedly. "And when that's over, we have to do it again?"

"You don't have to do anything," John retorted, sounding terse.

"Is that how you chose to live your life?" Sam pressed, undeterred. "Is that what you really want?"

"It's not about choice with me," John told him. "It is my life. It's just what I do."

"But how can you deal with all that darkness?"

John drew in a long, frustrated breath. "I dunno," he said irritably. "Same way cops and doctors and social workers have to deal with their own evil."

"But this…this is a little different," Sam argued, thinking out loud as he went. "You can't go home and leave your work behind. You can't even let anyone know what you're doing because no one'd believe you." He looked at him again. "Don't you just want to give up sometimes?"

He watched as John's jaw twitched and his lips pursed together. "Look, Sam-With this kind of life, you gotta be committed to it," he told him. "You need to accept it and everything it throws at you. You have to have the right nature, the right makeup or constitution-whatever. It's not for everyone."

"But it's for you?"

John nodded. "This works for me. It's what I know."

"You spend your life dealing with monsters," Sam stated slowly."You live through a perpetual nightmare. Fighting monsters."

"Sam," John said seriously. "Lots of people live their lives without even knowing our brand of evil. They never have to deal with this. They're happy. And you can have that, you can leave right now if you want to, forget all about this."

But Sam only half heard him. "Every day you discover a new evil," Sam went on. "A new horrible reality that you have to face."

"You can leave this behind, before it gets to you," John told him, looking at him."I'll understand that."

Sam returned his gaze. "Every day you find another Janine Larson."

John seemed to give up, sighing wearily. "Like I said, there's a lot of evil out there," he replied.

Sam nodded slowly. "Like this evil we're facing now," he added, turning to his head to glance back at the Larson home.

"Yep," John agreed glibly. "We get to expose ourselves to something really messed up. We get to see something disturbing and freaky and wrong."

"But we're going to stop this from happening again," Sam said, turning back to watch John's expression. "That's all that really matters, right?"

John looked at him, stunned. Then he nodded tightly and started the car.

ooOOoo

The true boring part came next. The internet had been nohelp in finding the symbols that had been carved onto the trees and across the victim, so they decided to research at the library in hopes it would have more focused information. They went into the local history section, going through old books and records on early settlers and their religions or heritages.

They spent four hours there, learning more than they wanted and nothing they needed. Sam knew that in a more relaxed circumstance, he'd actually might be interested in learning the local history. But as part of research, he quickly grew frustrated. And even he found all of the information to be dry, dense, and just too overwhelming.

Worst of all, there were no leads. The pioneers had been a mixed bunch, one that kept moving, constantly coming to and many times leaving the area around Crider. They all seemed to have a rough time settling, which meant any one of them could have resorted to magic. Sam was quickly growing discouraged as he ran out of ideas and options.

Just as he was about to declare a break, John beat him to the punch. Their eyes aching, they slammed their books shut with more force than needed and stood up on legs that needed stretching.

John was clearly just as irritated as he was, but Sam gave him credit for looking on the bright side as the two headed out of the front doors. "At least this isn't urgent," he remarked. "Whatever-it-is only kills every few years. We've got time."

Sam nodded, glad for that point. As far as they could tell, Janine's death was the first one in at least thirty years. But, he added to himself, that was all the more reason for finishing the case quickly so they could move onto something else that was more urgent.

He would have suggested they move on anyway, but the Larsons' pale faces hadn't left him yet. He wanted to give them some justice, whatever little peace he could.

The sun was bright overhead, and they squinted from the sudden light. Despite the pain in his eyes, it was a beautiful day and Sam almost hated to waste it inside researching.

John apparently agreed, because his eyes were quickly caught by a blonde who was walking along the sidewalk in their direction. She wasn't exactly a head-turner – her nose was just a little too big, and her eyes were set close together – but she was pretty enough, and Sam got the feeling that John wasn't too picky, especially in a small town.

John didn't surprise him. "Hello," he greeted with a cocky grin as she got closer.

She nodded and returned his smile with a wide, friendly one of her own. But her step didn't slow and she passed right on by them, walking past Sam's side. John huffed in disappointment under his breath.

Just as the girl was beside him, Sam heard a scuff the shoe scraping against concrete and she stumbled. He automatically reached out, snatching onto her arm to catch her from falling.

"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry!" she gasped, her eyes wide as he pulled her upright.

"Hey, no problem," Sam replied easily.

"I don't know how I..." She trailed off with an embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. Then her arm dropped and she looked between the two men, cocking her head to the side. "I haven't seen you around before. New in town?"

John seized the opportunity to jump in. "Yes, actually, we are," he replied with a grin that showed his teeth. "I'm John, and this is Sam. Just here for a few days, thought we'd explore the sights and sounds." Sam forced himself to refrain from rolling his eyes.

The girl's eyebrows rose in curiosity. "Oh, is that right?" she teased with a smile.

"That is right," John replied smoothly, matching her tone. "Maybe you could help show us around."

"There really isn't much to see here," she told him. "It's rather dull."

John was quick, smooth with his answers. "Maybe a little company would liven some things up," he remarked with a smirk.

The young woman laughed lightly. "Well, I can't promise you I'll give you a good time," she replied. "But you know what? Here's my number if you'd like to hang out sometime while you're here." John grinned in triumph as she hunched over to rummage through her purse.

"Red ink, huh?" John observed when she brought out a pen. "The color of love."

"And desire," she added as she scribbled onto a piece of paper.

John flashed Sam a quick smirk, waggling his eyebrows. Sam just shook his head, content to stand back and let John flirt.

Which was why he was taken off guard when she extended the slip of paper to him instead. Sam blinked and reached out his hand, and she pressed it into his palm. Beside him, he saw John bristle at the snub.

"Well, gotta run!" she replied with a wink before spinning around.

But Sam barely heard her. "What the hell?" he exclaimed, bringing his hand up in front of him.

His skin was burning.

"What is it?" John asked.

Sam stared at the piece of paper. It stuck to his palm by itself, a white rectangle with red writing. But before he could even try to peel it off, the white suddenly, right before his eyes, crumbled and blew to the ground.

But the red ink stayed behind. The words remained in his palm, tattooed against his skin for a brief moment before it dissolved away.

"What the hell was that?" Sam demanded, shoving his hand out.

"What happened?" asked Johnas he glanced at the ground. Tiny white scraps of paper blew in the wind, slowly crumbing to dust as they skipped along the cement sidewalk.

"That...that paper she gave me, it just disintegrated!" Sam said, still reeling. His thoughts raced as he struggled to comprehend what had just happened. "That wasn't a phone number she gave me, it was a name...and it-it sank into my palm."

"It...what?"

Sam quickly looked down the sidewalk but the woman had already disappeared. He jogged to the corner, vaguely award of John following close behind him, but she wasn't on the side street either. She was gone.

"Okay," John said. "Tell me exactly what happened." Sam explained as best as he could, trying to describe the way the paper crumbled away, leaving just the ink behind, which burned itself into Sam's skin before it faded away. "Did you see what was written?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah." John perked up with interest. "Annie Smith," Sam told him with a frustrated snort.

John deflated slightly, but he still nodded with some eagerness. "All right! That's a start," he said. "Hopefully there's only one Annie Smith in the town records..." he added sardonically.

Sam was still reeling. He tilted his head, squinting at the other man. "So...So that was her? The murderous witch we've been tracking?" She was young, and she wore jeans and a tank top – certainly not what Sam would have pictured as a witch, or an early 19th-century pioneer.

John shrugged. "You have to admit that was weird. It's a lead, if nothing else." He laughed dryly. "Boy, she picked the wrong guys to run into. At least we know she's not completely psychic."

Sam had a hard time trying to put it all together. "But...why me? And what exactly did she do to me, and-why?" he stammered, trying not to sound panicked. He didn't want to admit it, but the strange encounter left him nervous and uncomfortable. He realized just how scary it was, not knowing what they were up against.

There was a short silence as John leveled his gaze at him. His look was intense enough to bring Sam from his thoughts. "I'm not sure," he told him evenly. Sam nodded, hoping it didn't look as shaky as it felt.

"But don't be scared, all right?" he went on, tilting his head forward to emphasize his words. "I'm here, and I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Sam blinked, startled by his announcement. He was also surprisingly comforted. He took in a deep breath to compose himself. "Thanks," he replied, a little awkwardly.

He swallowed, feeling compelled to continue even though he didn't want to know the answer. "You don't...you don't think she marked me as her next victim, do you? I mean...It doesn't fit the MO. It's too soon. Right?"

John looked at him and Sam knew he was carefully choosing his words. "Well, we don't know for sure what her MO is, or her reasons. We need more information."

Sam nodded in agreement, willing to accept that for now. He could worry about it later, once they had a better idea who – or what - they were dealing with. Fortunately, even his gut started to agree. As he calmed down, the initial shock from the encounter slowly leaving him, he could think more clearly.

He was incredibly thankful that he wasn't alone, that John was there with him, and he knew that was the reason his anxiety was fading. Sam trusted him.

That girl didn't seem so tough, he realized.

"Alright, say this Annie Smith is...responsible," Sam started to think out loud. "So what are we dealing with? A witch? Do we really think that girl is 200 years old?"

"Well, it's too early to say anything," John replied after a moment. "But, if the legends have any basis, it is possible that she resorted to witchcraft to protect herself, and maybe she learned how to sacrifice lives to extend her own."

Sam let out a low half-whistle.

They decided to head back to the library, this time with a little more energy now that they had a lead to follow. They went back to local history section, the room they had already spent four hours in. But they had a name to look for, and within twenty minutes they found a small entry in the records.

A Henry Smith of Virginia died in 1821 of cholera, leaving behind a widow, Anne. Three months later, her five-year-old son also died. There were many other Smiths in the records, but other than an unrelated young girl who had died as a toddler, that was the only Anne they could find.

Sam tried to imagine moving into across the country into an unknown territory, only to suddenly lose your only family. But this Anne Smith, whether she was the one they were looking for or not, lived through that.

Maybe that was enough to send someone over the edge. If she was left alone in an unfamiliar, dangerous place, she would need some way to protect herself. Otherwise, she wouldn't have lasted very long.

But the young woman they ran into – she couldn't possibly be that same Annie Smith. She was too...normal. It was hard to see her as a woman who traveled in a covered wagon almost 200 years ago.

Besides, were they really thinking that Anne Smith was still alive?

Maybe the girl they'd just met was a descendant. Carrying on the family practice, Sam thought wryly.

Then an idea occurred to him. With a sudden gust of curiosity, Sam rushed to the nearest computer and pulled up a genealogy website. In the search fields, he entered all the information they had and impatiently waited as it searched. A match came back seconds later – a Henry Smith, born in Danville, Virginia in 1795, died in Texas in 1821, married an Anne Palmer, born in Virginia in 1797, death unknown. They had only one son, George, who also died in 1821. It fit.

Which meant their Anne had no direct descendents.

Of course, it could be that the girl had no connection with the witch legend at all - but Sam had to admit it was too much of a coincidence that in their search of the supernatural, they came across a girl with apparent magic.

"All right, what all does that tell us?" John asked as Sam voiced his thoughts out loud.

Sam snorted and rubbed the back of his neck. "That I'm starting to think that girl today really is our pioneer-witch."

John nodded, obviously finding the idea less outrageous than Sam did. "Okay...So now what?"

"Wait, I'm not finished yet," Sam replied, typing in the new information. He still hadn't a chance to explore his idea. A few clicks later, he had a new result. "Look at this," he said, a slight but triumphant feeling swelling in his chest. He tapped at the screen.

Annie Palmer, born to parents George Palmer and Maria Arthurssen.

Sam allowed himself a smile of triumph. He was hoping for something like this.

"What if..." he began, gathering his thoughts together as John looked on blankly. "What if Annie – if she really was or is a witch – learned the art from her mother? I mean, she had to have gotten the knowledge from somewhere, right? It could be an ancient knowledge that's been passed down-maybe her mother told her stories of their heritage."

John frowned thoughtfully as he digested Sam's idea. "So...Anderssen, that's Scandinavian, right?"

"Yep," Sam nodded. "I bet if we look up Scandinavian or northern European sources, we'll find those symbols." He bounced his leg eagerly as a dog would wag its tail. He couldn't help but feel as though he was close to breaking the code.

"We don't know she got it from her mother," John pointed out. "What if she learned the magic somewhere else?"

"Well, then we're be back where we started. We'll just have to keep searching." Even as Sam answered, John was already typing away at the computer next to his. Despite his arguing, he obviously thought Sam was onto something.

"Holy crap..." John suddenly said some twenty minutes later. He reached into his bag and pulled out a notebook, flipping through the pages. Since they couldn't flash the crime scene photographs around in public, John had sketched them into a book in case they would need them. Sam was now grateful he had.

From his angle, Sam couldn't see much on John's screen, so he waited through several more clicks of the mouse and a-ha's from John.

"All right, get this!" John suddenly said, spinning around on his chair. He looked down at the notes he had scribbled, tapping them with the short stub of a pencil provided by the library as he spoke. "Okay, the symbols come from some obscure ancient tribe, an offshoot of the Vikings. I'm not even going to try to say the name. Anyway," he continued, clearing his throat, "the cuts on Janine's body – those were basically like labels. It's kinda a rough translation, and I think she modified or combined the symbols, but it's enough to get an idea."

He looked up at Sam to see if he understood before he turned back to his notes. "The one on her hands stands for...body, or more like the ability of the body. The physical aspects or something. The one on her stomach stands for power or force, kind of like fuel. Then over her heart is, duh, heart and spirit. And her forehead means mind."

"So, four basic elements of life," Sam summed up, sitting back in his chair.

"Pretty much, yep," John agreed. "And on the trees were markings that stood for doorway or portal, and a symbol for transference. It's all pretty straightforward, actually. Looks like your basic power-sucking spell."

Sam snorted, doubting that was the official term. But then he suddenly leaned forward. "Wasn't there another symbol on her chest?"

John nodded with a snort. "Yeah. What I thought was a crooked triangle and some type of squiggle was simply English - a rough A and S."

"Her initials," Sam remarked.

"Yep. It's a signature, a way of claiming Janine and her energies."

Sam swallowed, thinking of the signature in his hand. He tried to suppress his shiver. "So...Annie's been doing this ever since the 1820's? She performs this ritual, sucks up everything she needs, and gets to live forever?"

He thought it over before amending, "Or at least, until the person's energy is used up and she needs a new victim."

"That would explain why these rituals only happen every fifty years or so."

Sacrifice a life to save your own. Any sympathy Sam may have had for Annie Smith and her tragic lifedisappeared instantly.

ooOOoo

After their discovery, John agreed to a break, and this time they followed through. They headed to a nearby tavern, a dark, quiet place just a few blocks away. It was still too early for any serious drinking, but they each ordered a hamburger and a cold mug of beer. Sam dove into his meal, suddenly ravenous. As they ate, they discussed their next step.

Neither of them knew how they would track Annie down. They'd already tried the phonebook.

Sam suggested that since she marked him, she'd probably show up sooner or later to finish whatever she started. All they would have to do was wait.

John, however, hated that idea. He told Sam it wouldn't work, that they didn't even know if she would ever come back for him.

But Sam knew John believed she would be back for him, and that made the other man nervous. Sam's suggestion had unnerved him, Sam could tell. He wanted to go on the offensive, he wanted to do the attacking – even if he didn't know how. He was dead set against Sam acting as bait, even though thatmade the most sense. Even though that was their only option.

"Then what should we do?" Sam demanded, knowing John didn't have an answer. All they could do was wait.

It was strange, maybe even a little funny. Just an hour earlier, Sam had been the nervous one, scared and uncertain. Now their roles were reversed, and Sam was more confident and eager, ready to prepare himself for when she'd come for him - if only John would just accept it.

By the time they made it back to their hotel room, they still hadn't reached an agreement on how to proceed. John seemed angry and Sam was annoyed.

So they watched some unmemorable TV for a couple of hours and went to bed early.

And then Sam dreamed of towering trees, leaf-patterned sunlight, and a rock outcropping covered in moss.

***

"I know where to go," Sam announced first thing the next morning.

"Huh?" John asked, his voice still groggy from sleep. He wasn't even sitting up yet. Sam had only waited until his eyes opened before he spoke.

"I know where to go," Sam repeated as John finally pushed himself up against the headboard. "She sent me a message."

"A message?" Sam watched John's confused expression as his mind struggled to work through the early morning fog.

"An image," Sam explained. "In a dream."

John sat up straighter at that. "What do you mean? How do you know?"

"I dreamt of the forest. The details were so sharp, so specific." Sam paused for a moment. "And...I don't know how to explain it, but...I could just tell that didn't come from my own thoughts. It felt foreign. Out of place." He tried to keep a poker face, wishing he had John's talent for that. He didn't want the other man to know how freaked out he felt. Again. Even now, as he spoke, he could feel the persistent pull, tugging him to the forest.

"Dude, that's creepy," John remarked.

"Yeah. Tell me about it."

"Is she still in there, in your head?"

"No," Sam replied before thinking. But then a sudden panic set in. "Wait, what if she is?" He didn't feel or think anything different but...would he know?

John shook his head. "I doubt that. That seemed to be a very minor spell yesterday, probably just enough to create a simple one-way connection. A dream would use up most if not all of whatever power she cast over you."

Sam's doubt must have shown on his face because John continued. "She sent you a location, right?" he pointed out. "I don't think she was concerned about anything else. This was only her first step."

"So what's her next step?"

"There's not going to be a next step."

Sam ignored his growled announcement. He ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts racing. "She wants me to go there, doesn't she," he realized.

John hesitated but then gave him a short nod. "Probably," he admitted.

His skin crawled at the idea of being called like that - but at the same time, he knew how much this helped them. "So she'll be there," Sam exclaimed. "That's where we can find her!"

His excitement grew as it sunk in. The thrill of puzzle pieces falling into place, of problems on the verge of being resolved – his heart hammered at the culmination of their hunt that loomed ahead of them. They could finish this today.

John, however, looked the opposite of thrilled. His face had a sick sheen to it, and he kept twitching his head as if he were trying to keep emotions from breaking through.

"What's wrong?" Sam finally asked, unable to stand it any longer.

John swallowed heavily. "I made a huge mistake, Sam..." he said, his voice filled with gravel.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, a little confused and alarmed.

A moment passed before John flicked his tongue out to wet his lips. "I left you unprepared," he replied, jerking his head away. "I should never have..." He trailed off and took in a deep breath. "God dammit."

"I don't understand..." Sam frowned, his cheeks flushed red with heat. He knew he wasn't a skilled fighter and knew next to nothing about defending himself. It embarrassed him that he needed to rely so much on John. But that wasn't John's fault and he didn't know why he was so upset.

John started to explain. "She wants you...but she might also think I'll tag along. She knows we're in town together, so she has to be prepared in case you'd bring me with you."

"So I have to go alone," Sam surmised, catching on.

"No...but it has to look that way," the other man replied. "If she can lure people to her with just a dream, she must have some pretty impressive powers. If we want any kind of advantage, we need the element of surprise. Which means I stay hidden."

"But you'll still be there."

"Yeah, but even being a few seconds away, I'm leaving you unprotected," John argued. "And you don't know how to defend yourself."

Now John was making him nervous. Sam rushed to reassure him and himself. "But doesn't she need me for a ritual? And that takes at least some preparation." Sam smirked as he went on. "You'll have plenty of time to rush in and be the hero," he joked, hoping to relieve some of the tension.

"I still don't like it," John grumbled.

Sam stood up then, wanting to finish the conversation. "Want any breakfast before we get started?" he asked, absently knocking a knuckle against the desktop.

John shook his head. "Nah, not hungry."

"All right. Well, I'm going to McDonald's, and you can go take a shower or whatever," he said as he walked towards the door. Just as he left, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of John leaning over and placing his head in his hands.

ooOOoo

John armed Sam with several knives and blades, weapons he could hide underneath his clothes, while he armed himself with the bigger ones, a shotgun and revolver. They knew the rituals have extended her life, but they didn't know whether they left her invulnerable or not. John guessed they didn't, explaining that taking someone else's life-force only replaced your own, and nothing more. In essence, taking a stronger life to restore a weaker, fading one, which - he assumed - wouldn't give that person any special powers.

But he wasn't confident about that.

"What if she is invincible?" Sam had asked from the passenger side of John's car.

"Then we're screwed," John replied simply, not taking his eyes off of the road.

Sam gaped at him. He wasn't serious, was he?

At least he seemed to have regained some of his glib confidence. "Should we call the police?" Sam asked.

"And tell them what? That a 200-year-old witch is stealing people's lives?"

"That Annie Smith murdered Janine Larson," he replied.

John shook his head. "We don't have any proof. The only way they could hold her is if they caught her in the act. And we're not going to let it get that far." He shot a pointed glance at Sam.

Fifteen minutes later, Sam told John to turn off the road and park. The pull that had guided him since he woke up sharpened into a powerful tug, and he knew they were close. Soon Sam and John were walking through the forest, armed respectively with knives and guns.

At least Sam thought John was walking through the forest with him, even though he couldn't see nor hear him. The older man knew how to sneak about without making a sound, a talent that could only come from years of practice. Sam was definitely impressed by the repertoire of skills he had developed.

Sam, on the other hand, trampled through the underbrush. After all, there was no real reason he needed to sneak up on Annie. Even though John was doing great at being silent, Sam wanted to create more noise than he normally would, just in case he needed to cover any sounds John might accidentally make.

Of course, making extra noise was probably unnecessary – his heart was pounding so hard he was sure Annie could hear it.

He tried not to think about how his feet knew where to take him, even though he had never been through this part of the woods before. The place where Janine had been killed was well over a mile away. Most likely Annie didn't want to chance any curiosity seekers wandering onto the site.

Yeah, Annie wouldn't want anyone accidentally walking in on her sucking the life out of him.

Oh, God. Sam really hoped John was keeping up.

And then he saw the rock outcropping and knew he was there.

He didn't know, though, what he was supposed to do next. Annie wasn't in sight, and after a few short moments of silence, he started to look around.

The rock formation was made from several large boulders piled naturally together. It was covered mostly in moss and had a few saplings breeching through the cracks, and the entire thing only came up to Sam's chest. He circled around it.

He found Annie sitting on the other side.

Sam's heart jumped in surprise. It was the strangest, most anticlimactic greeting he could have imagined. She sat calmly on the ground, her back resting against the rock and her legs folded loosely in front of her. "Hello there," she greeted, looking up at him.

Sam didn't know what kind of outfit he was expecting – something black, maybe something with a corset – but he never pictured the ripped jeans and old t-shirt that she wore. Even her dark blonde hair had been pulled up into a messy ponytail. She looked like she was about to work on a car or in a garden.

Then Sam realized with a sickening feeling that her real work could get her dirty too.

"I'm so glad you came," she told him as she pushed herself up from the ground. "I could really use your help."

"Is that right?" Sam replied, taking a step backwards, his hand inching towards one of his knives.

"Uh-huh," she nodded, following him. "You're suspicious. Most people aren't."

Then her hand lashed out towards his neck.

Without time to think, Sam instantly dodged with a quarter spin as his own arms came up to block the blow. In the next instant he stepped away from a knee to his groin, a move so quick it had happened before he even realized it.

He was just as surprised by his speed as Annie seemed to be.

Unfortunately, Annie recovered a split second sooner, and she took advantage by wrapping an arm around his neck and bringing him down. As Sam struggled to free himself, he distantly wondered when John would make an appearance.

"Sam!" he finally heard John shout. John wasn't anywhere near silent this time as he crashed towards them.

It only took a few seconds for Sam to break free and he scrambled for his knife. But that brief moment was just enough for Annie to clamp a hand around his nose. He didn't realize it until he felt it, but she had some kind of fabric in her hands. A strange scent filled his nostrils, and just as he wretched himself from her grasp, he felt his knees buckle.

But a darkness filled Sam's eyes, and his head suddenly grew too heavy, pulling him downwards. Sam toppled over, barely feeling it when his body slammed against the ground and his head landed with a jarring thud. Then all sensation and thought left him.

ooOOoo

The first thing Sam became aware of was a soft steam of words worming through his ears. His mind struggled to make sense of it, but it was in a language he didn't know. Once he realized that, he forced his unusually heavy eyelids open.

A dizzying sense of vertigo overcame him when he realized he was standing upright, his arms and legs spread wide. His limbs automatically tried to jerk into a more natural position, but they were bound, and Sam was suddenly aware of the rough burn of rope digging into his wrists and ankles.

His arms were outstretched at his sides, each tied to a tree just below shoulder height. His legs were also pulled out, just past shoulder-width, also tied to each tree. But he didn't have any time to give the bindings much thought.

Annie stood in front of him, only her lips moving as she chanted. Her eyes flickered when she saw he was awake, but she didn't stop. As her voice rose into a crescendo, she stretched her arms up towards him.

Sam tried to jerk his head away, but he didn't have enough room to move it out of reach. Her hands wrapped around the sides of his head, her thumbs digging into his forehead. She tilted her head down as the concentration on her face sharpened.

Something like electricity jolted through his skull. It felt as if he were being constantly shocked. His entire head vibrated. The pain wasn't excruciating, but it was strong enough that he couldn't concentrate. He couldn't even form a thought - let alone some sort of plan or strategy to get away.

And then a thought slipped through his buzzing mind.

John? Where's John?

Suddenly it stopped. His head cleared, the energy flow vanished. Immediately he scanned the woods before him.

"Sam!"

John was there, a wide-eyed look on his face. As Sam heard his shout, he realized John had been shouting even since he had woken up – only it was just now penetrating through to Sam's awareness.

Like Sam, he too was strung up between two trees. They had been positioned so that they faced each other, separated by thirty feet or so. John thrashed against his bonds, struggling to no avail to break free. Sam was shocked to see blood soaking both of his sleeves.

But he didn't have time to find out why before he was distracted by Annie. He watched as she dropped her arms from his head and stepped backwards. A shocked look was written across her face.

"Damn it all!" she cursed under her breath.

Sam looked at her in bewilderment. She crossed her arms and studied him as she started to explain. "Your mind has already been tampered with," she told him. "It's no good to me."

Sam frowned at her. "What do you mean, it's been tampered with?"

"A part of it is blocked."

Sam felt his eyes widened as realization overcame him. Janine had been depressed when she was killed. That explained why the symbol on her forehead had been dark - something was wrong with her mind. Sam was here because Annie needed a new victim, to replace the mental energies she was unable to use from the other woman.

"You're right," Sam replied triumphantly. "I had a mental breakdown. Selective amnesia. You can't use me for your ritual!"

She cocked her head, drawing her eyebrows together. "What do you know about the ritual?" she asked, her voice filled with surprise.

"Oh, I know a lot about you," answered Sam darkly. "I know you're two hundred years old. I know you're a witch who has been killing people just so she can live. I know you murdered Janine Larson."

She blinked and raised her eyebrows. "I'm impressed. But I prefer the term sacrifice to murder." A smile came over her face when she saw his scowl. "It's all about survival, Sam. I'm sure you can understand. Those of us with an advantage triumph over those who are weaker."

"You think that justifies killing people?"

"People live and die every day for no reason," she replied. "Like my husband, my son - they just got sick. Their deaths didn't do anybody any good. At least the people who I sacrifice don't die in vain. It's almost heroic, don't you think?"

Sam felt sick. But he knew he couldn't change her mind, not after she had spent the past two hundred years convincing herself. "You can't justify killing me," he argued instead. "I'm no good to you."

"No, you're not." Annie sighed. "You know, I've run into a bit of bad luck. I chose Janine because she seemed healthy and intelligent-but the chemicals in her mind were all wrong. Unbalanced. So I needed to find someone else."

"So you chose me."

She stepped closer to him. "When I saw you coming from the library wearing that university shirt, I thought, well you must have a strong mind. And you were from out of town. It was perfect." She snorted derisively at that. Sam just glared at her, unable to do anything else.

"Good thing I read you first," she went on. "It would have been a pain to go through the entire ritual, only to have it fail like last time. But what are the chances I'd select two people with poor minds?"

She shook her head, blinking up at him. "It seems we are both facing strange coincidences, doesn't it?" she asked mockingly. "So, Sam, who's been in your mind before me?"

Sam frowned, surprised by her question. "No one," he told her wearily. "I just had some psychological problems."

"No, there is definitely a magical imprint," Annie replied with confidence. "There's an unnatural energy that's blocking your mind from me. It's tainted, Sam."

Sam felt his breath catch deep in his chest as he tried to comprehend what she was saying.

"Sam!" John shouted out suddenly, disrupting his thoughts. "Don't listen to her! She's just trying to confuse you!"

"Quiet!" Annie called back. Sam heard her muttering a string of words, and then John said no more, even though his mouth was still moving. An outraged look colored John's face, and his struggles to free himself immediately strengthened.

Sam drew in a deep breath. Her words had shocked him, but he didn't have time. He had to get himself and John away from her. "Well, in any case," he told her arrogantly, "You can't use me."

"No. Good thing I have a spare." She glanced over her shoulder at John, who was actively glaring at her.

Even though his heart skipped a beat, Sam forced to keep himself calm. "Who? John?" He laughed. "He's just as messed up as I am."

She smirked at him, obviously skeptical. Sam went on. "Look at him! Does he look like a clean guy? Hell, he's been doing drugs ever since he was twelve!" he told her in a rush, talking as quickly as he could think. It was the first thing he could come up with, and he ran with it. "Do you have any idea what that does to a person's brain?" he asked. "I don't know if you live in a house or a cave, but even you must have seen the commercial with the egg and frying pan."

But Annie just shrugged. "Well, a simple mind read should tell me the truth." Sam tried to protest some more, but she ignored him as she started making her way towards John.

Sam sagged in his ropes, ignoring the pain in his wrists. At least the process wasn't too painful, and it gave him a little bit of time. He wished he knew just how much, but he had woken up in the middle of her little incantation and didn't know how much he missed.

Sam immediately started working at the ropes, trying to twist his hands free. He pulled and tugged as hard as he could, gritting his teeth. The ropes scraped against his skin, and it wasn't long before his wrists were slick with blood. Sam tried to push through the pain, ignoring the way the stiff broken strands of the rope rubbed against the already inflamed, bloodied skin.

Annie had started her chanting, but she hadn't raised her arms yet. Sam only spared her a glance before staring at his hands again as he pulled and yanked and twisted.

The rope around his right hand had a little bit more give, so he focused his concentration on that. By now, blood soaked his entire wrist and lower palm, and though it stung, it made the binds slide more easily. If he could just get the rope past the bony part at the base of his thumb, he'd be free.

Sam bit down hard on his entire bottom lip as he gave his hand one savage yank. The rope scraped deeply across his hand, taking a thin layer of flesh with it as he pulled his hand through the rough loop.

But his hand slipped free.

A rush of air blew into his lungs as he was filled with instant relief. Across from him, Annie had now lifted her arms to John's head. He was surprised he didn't see any visible signs of the spell – no blue electric bolts or black mists or anything. But he knew by John's twisted expression that the spell was happening. He could tell John was no longer aware of anything, too submerged in the constant shocking pain Sam had already experienced.

Fortunately, Annie was also too absorbed to notice Sam.

Sam didn't waste a single moment once his hand was free. He immediately reached into the waistband of his jeans were he had slipped a knife. With that in hand, he got to work on the ropes that still held his other limbs, sawing furiously at the rope until it gave away.

Then, finally, he was completely free.

And armed.

He started creeping towards Annie and John. Though he tread carefully, he feared that his footsteps against the leaf-covered ground would alert Annie. But to his surprise, his steps were silent as he stalked towards them.

Annie slowly lowered her hands from John's forehead. Since her back was to Sam, he couldn't see her expression and didn't know whether it worked or not. It didn't really matter, though. He'd stop her before she started the main ritual.

Finally, Sam was close enough to attack. He tightened his grip on the knife and leapt forward.

Just as he was about to slip an arm around her neck, Annie spun around to face him. He could tell by her wide eyes he had surprised her. Even though he had been caught, he still had the advantage, and he showed her the knife to prove it.

"Go, Sammy," John cheered, but Sam was surprised by how weak his voice sounded. He thought maybe it was because the silencing spell was just wearing off, but now that he was closer, he could see the wounds on his arms more clearly, and he realized how serious they were. On his right arm, a deep gash ripped through the sleeve of his t-shirt and the skin below it. On his left, to Sam's horror, he saw the handle of a knife which was still stuck in his arm.

Sam refocused on Annie, who was glaring at him while eyeing the knife in his hand.

"This stops here, Annie," he told her firmly, brandishing the knife. "I'm going to cut my friend free, and then the three of us are taking a trip downtown." He winced at his own words and quickly tried to redeem himself. "To the police station," he corrected. Which only made it worse.

But the hand holding the knife never wavered, and that's all that mattered.

"You're not going to take me alive," Annie replied defiantly.

Sam just shrugged. "Fine then. Your choice." Despite his forced coolness, he hoped she wouldn't take it that far. He didn't think he could stomach killing a human, even if she deserved it. But he would if he had to.

Annie moved suddenly. In one quick motion, she spun towards John, grabbed the knife stuck in his arm, and yanked it out. John let out a pained cry, and he very nearly passed out if he didn't completely.

Without slowing, Annie whirled back around. But before she could do anything with her new weapon, Sam slid forward and pressed the tip of his blade into her neck. He glared at her, daring her to move.

Annie gave him a defiant look. "If I die, your brother dies with me."

Sam almost faltered at that, but even though her threat worried him, he forced a indifferent attitude. If he could get her to believe that he'd risk John's life, maybe he could call her bluff.

So he smirked and shook his head. "My brother's already dead," he told her cheekily, raising his eyebrows. "And I barely even know John."

Annie's reaction, instead of looking crestfallen like Sam had hoped, was full of surprise. Her eyes widened and her jaw drop.

"Oh, ho!" she chortled. "That explains so much. You really don't know!"

"Know what?" Sam replied guardedly, pressing the blade tip even closer to her throat.

"Don't listen to her, Sam!" John gasped hoarsely, suddenly coming alive. His body strained against his bonds as he shouted at him. "She lied to me too, said you wouldn't wake up either. She's just trying-"

But then Annie held up a hand and pointed a finger at Sam's forehead, and John instantly fell into fearful, apprehensive silence.

"Who did you kiss last?" she asked a stunned Sam.

"Jessica Lee Moore." The words were out of his mouth at once. Sam clamped his mouth shut in shock, horrified that the answer came against his will, angry that he was forced to speak her name out loud. And confused that Annie would want to know.

But Annie didn't even pause to acknowledge his answer. As soon as he had spoken, she spun around to face John.

John was shaking his head furiously at her, his feet scraping against the ground. He struggled to push himself backwards, shrinking away from her as far as his tight bonds would let him, vainly trying to get away. Desperation made his eyes wild.

Ignoring him, Annie raised her arm and pointed at his forehead.

"What is your name?" she demanded coolly.

Sam could see him trying to hold them back, could see the way he kept his jaw clenched tight. But the words flew from his mouth heedlessly.

"Dean Michael Winchester."

***

Next part of When Our Minds Betray Us.

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