The Lights of Home Part 5

[maychorian]

Part 5: Can't Carry Myself Can't Carry Me Home

Woodlan, Indiana — January, 2009

Usually, when they reconned a town, everything was new. They absorbed all the details they could, tried to get a feel for the place and the people who lived there. They made note of where the restaurants, grocery stores, bars, and motels were, hospitals, clinics, pharmacies, any likely spots for the locals to mingle. Sam always rather enjoyed that, coming to a new place and learning all its tricks and shortcuts, its alleyways and hidden treasures.

Here, though, everything he saw dug at something deeply buried. Every discovery was an old one, though there were gaps, new additions. Not very many, though. This was a town where very little ever changed. No bar or motel or hospital, but a doctor's office expanded into the space where there used to be a tiny family pharmacy, now replaced by the enormous Walgreens in the next town.

Sam began to realize, as he watched and wondered and remembered, that this town had always been his ideal. In later years, when he yearned for a nameless, faceless normal and safe and good, he was thinking about Woodlan, its shady narrow residential streets and rows of touristy gift shops, Amish buggies tethered in the parking lot of the coin laundry and the fields of corn and soybeans all around.

They were memories without details, yet, indistinct and soft on the edges, impressions more than events. But he began to think that perhaps the reason Woodlan had always epitomized "safe" to him was because something bad had happened before they arrived, after they left, one or the other or both. Not in Woodlan, but surrounding it, making Woodlan a haven, an oasis, a harbor of normal in a sea of chaos.

And he thought that maybe the bad things hadn't happened to him, because surely he would have remembered anything like that, no matter the intervening years. Maybe they had happened to Dean.

Dean was quiet as they drove through town, checking things out, until they came to the General Store on Main Street. It looked exactly the same, false western-style front painted fading blue, big red sign with yellow lettering, antique advertising signs, warped boardwalk porch. A building from the last century standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the thoroughly modern concrete-and-glass bank next to it, both a buggie and a Toyota Camry parked in front.

Dean was all smiles and nostalgic laughter then, eager to see if they still sold Dum-Dums for a nickel, and Sam was abruptly a child again, thinking of nothing but flavored sugar as his ultimate good in life. Castiel—silent in the backseat this whole time, just watching and listening—followed them inside, a strangely wide-eyed man in a long coat. Sam half-expected to draw stares, the three of them, but the people here were a mixture of working class and farm country and middle-suburbanite, and the Winchesters in their battered jeans and jackets with their flannel shirts and Castiel in his messy trench coat and loose tie stood out not at all.

The interior of the candy store had been rearranged, walls knocked out so the place was more open, but it also seemed far more crowded with product, ostentatiously "Handmade!" and "Amish!" and "Country!" The place had been kitsched up, and Sam was vaguely disappointed. The candy selection was just as wide and varied as he remembered, though, perhaps more so.

Strange to stand here, at the counter of candy, looking at the spanning shelves of Jelly Bellies. He remembered this shelving unit as enormous, towering, a heady delight, a paradise, too large, it seemed, to ever be exhausted. Now the top shelf was on Sam's eye-level, and everything was impossibly small, dwarf-like.

Dean was having similar problems, his now-six-foot frame too broad and muscular for the narrow aisles between hand-labeled jars of jelly and bags of soup mix. He turned a corner and knocked over a stack of Mountain Taffy, then said "Sorry, sorry," to the little-old-lady cashier, who grinned at him good-naturedly over her big brass cash register and told him not to worry about it, happened all the time.

Castiel was the only one of them who seemed to have no trouble moving in the small space, sliding effortlessly through the room like a feather floating on a breeze. But then, he had been making himself unobtrusive for the entire trip, insinuating himself into the Impala, into Sam and Dean's lives, as if he had always been there. If Sam took the time to think about it, he might get a little freaked out. So he didn't.

Dum-Dums weren't a nickel anymore. You had to get a whole big bag of them. Sam did it, paid at the big cash register with its cheerful little bell, then turned to his brother. "Let's go to that hill by the new playground and eat these."

Dean grinned and led the way back to the car.

Sam remembered yellow-green grass, short and scratchy on the man-made hill, hot July sun and fluffy clouds, laying on his back next to Dean and making up stories. Winter now and the grass was brown and dead, the sky a featureless, gun-metal gray, but it wasn't too cold to sit out. They opened the bag of Dum-Dums and set it between them, devouring sucker after sucker, watermelon and cherry and butterscotch and mystery flavor, dropping the little sticks around them like harmless cigarette butts and sitting with their heels in the dirt and their elbows resting on their knees. Castiel wandered around the playground, eventually settling on the swings, where he sat and swayed gently back and forth, not reaching for the sky, just sitting. He looked like a business man taking a lunch break, trying to recapture a piece of lost childhood, and Sam supposed that it might be an accurate description, only without the "re."

They could see the duplex from here, hidden behind a sparse screen of trees, separated from the playground only by a short walk and a picturesque wooden bridge over a tiny crick. More memories were surfacing the longer they sat here, eating candy in companionable silence. Sam remembered mowing lawns, fireflies, Dean's beloved red bike. Wondered what had happened to it when they moved, if the next tenants had cared for it as a treasured symbol of childhood freedom or put it out with the trash first chance they got. He remembered Dean racing the buggies, laughing and whooping, eyeing the bearded men and bonnet-wearing women with a challenging grin. Dean had always been pretty weirded out by the Amish, couldn't understand why they preferred horses—big, smelly, always dropping their shit all over the street—when cars were so much cooler and faster.

"Remember the Fourth?" Dean asked, grinning around his latest Dum-Dum. "Dad took us to that college campus to see the Fort Wayne fireworks, what was the name?" He bounced his leg. "Mr. Stoller called it I Paid For What...IPFW!" He snapped his fingers, pointed at something in the distance. "Man, that was awesome. We got sparklers and everything."

"Yeah," Sam said, even though he didn't remember that one at all.

Sam's mind was busy picking at something else, some memory, but a treasured one. One he had tried to stick in his mind, because it had seemed important, because Dean had said it was important, and seven-year-old Sammy believed his big brother more than he believed anything else in the whole entire world...

Dean's voice was young and flat and hard, a coldness in it that made Sammy shudder. He'd never heard Dean sound quite like this, so utterly and completely serious, the solemnity of it filling his voice so full that there was no room for teasing, for exasperation, for big-brother bossiness. This was the most important thing Dean had ever told his baby brother, and Sammy needed to remember it forever and always.

"If anyone ever tries to grab you, or touch you, you know, in a bad place? Or even if you just think he might, if he's making you scared a-and you're not sure why...or, or for some reason you feel like you shouldn't be alone with him, but he keeps trying to get you somewhere where it's just you and him... Don't you stand for that, Sammy. Don't you put up with that. You scream and yell and hit him. Say 'This isn't my dad!' and 'Don't touch me like that!' and you keep yelling and screaming until someone hears you, okay? Kick him in the nuts or stomp on the inside of his foot, go for his eyes or throat if he's close enough. You use your elbows and your knees and everything you got and you don't just take it, you understand me? You don't take it. You don't let it happen."

Sam blinked and came out of it. Dean's now-adult voice washed over him, still prattling on about some happy summer memory, but Sam heard no words. At the time it had made perfect sense that Dean would be the one giving him such serious advice, these very solemn safety instructions. Dean taught him everything, far more than teachers and school, and Sammy soaked up all the learning he could get from his awesome big brother. But now...now he wondered what had made Dean say that. What had made him give such clear and explicit directions.

Dean had only been eleven. How had he known to say such things? That wasn't supposed to be an eleven-year-old's job.

You don't just take it, you understand me? You don't take it. You don't let it happen.

Sam took the Dum-Dum out of his suddenly slack and nerveless mouth, unable to taste it any longer with his mouth so full of bitterness and salt. God. God, what had happened to Dean in that long-ago summer, the one he now spoke of so easily and sweetly, as if it had been nothing but sunny days and clear nights?

"Dean..."

He didn't even know what he was going to say, which was fine, because Dean chose that moment to hop to his feet, grab the remaining Dum-Dums, and start striding down the hill to the Impala. "C'mon, dude, we should go get the lodging situation sorted out before it gets too late."

Sam stared after him for a moment, then jumped up and hurried after. "Hey, Dean. I want to go by the old duplex. You know, for old times' sake."

Sam didn't think he was imagining the uneasiness in the smirk Dean tossed back at him. "Reminiscing, Sammy? Stuff coming back to you?"

"A little, yeah. But it was a long time ago. I don't really remember that much."

Dean's stride smoothed out, confident, serene. "Castiel!" he bellowed. "We're taking off."

The angel slid off his swing and came to them, as mild as a lamb. Sam gave him a speculative stare, then looked away when Castiel met his gaze.

They drove the Impala by the duplex and indulged themselves with some nice long stares, but no one seemed to be home. Sam had hoped that it would spark more memories, something to back up the queasy suspicion that was beginning to build inside him, but nothing came to him. The sidewalk in front of the place made him think of hopscotch, though, for some inexplicable reason.

"All right, Cas," Dean said as they pulled away, back onto the main drag (such as it was). "You wanna tell us where we're going to spend the night? And while you're at it, ready to explain about this seal and what we're supposed to do?"

"Go west out of town," Castiel said. "I will direct you."

"West is toward Metea Park." Dean put his arm on the back of the seat and half-turned in his seat to look at their passenger. "It has something to do with that, doesn't it?"

"With what?" Sam piped up, not really expecting an answer.

But Dean sat straight and looked forward again, his face blank and silent but his eyes like a shout. Or a scream. "It's the reason we left. I'll tell you when we've gotten where we're going. Cas?"

"West," Castiel said again, and Dean drove.

Sam was not satisfied. Dean would tell him what he wanted him to know, but he wouldn't say enough. Not nearly enough.

~*~

"Second house on the right," Castiel said, leaning over the front seat to point out the windshield.

He had directed Dean through the twisting streets of a housing addition in Leoville, the next town over from Woodlan, simply saying, "Right here," or "Left now," or "Continue on this path." The brick-and-brown-siding house they ended at was nice, but not terribly expensive-looking. Two stories, curved landscaping including what looked like a plot of rose bushes, wide driveway with plenty of room for the Impala.

Sam and Dean exited the car a bit nervously, craning their heads to study the house, giving each other uncertain glances. Castiel followed, completely unruffled, waiting for them to steady themselves. "Okay, now will you explain?" Dean asked.

Castiel gave a solemn little head-tilt. "What do you know about Central Illinois?"

Dean's forehead furrowed. "Uh. Log cabins. Abe Lincoln. Corn. Lots of spooky stuff, actually. It's good hunting ground. Oh, and it's where we met for the first time."

"Yes. The people there tend to be religious, salt-of-the-earth. Central Illinois sees a high concentration of churches, including many of one particular, very small denomination."

The brothers stared at him. "This is not answering any of my questions," Dean said flatly.

Sam, though, was beginning to get an inkling. "Your vessel."

"Yes. It is a very tight-knit denomination, much given to hospitality and visiting between churches. I ask that you be respectful while we are staying here."

With that, Castiel turned, walked up the drive to the front door, and rang the doorbell. Sam and Dean gave each other one last, uneasy look, then followed, walking shoulder to shoulder and bumping elbows a couple of times. The door opened.

"Brother James!" The cry was delighted, warm, hospitable. Everything the Winchester boys were never greeted with.

A dignified older lady with her gray-white hair caught up in a thick bun pulled Castiel into a hug, then stepped back, her hand still on his shoulders, and looked behind him to the younger men. "These are the friends you talked about?"

Castiel smiled, honest to God smiled, broad and warm and lovely. Sam wondered, with a creep of gooseflesh across his back, if Castiel was somehow accessing his vessel's memories and mannerisms, if he had let the human come forward somehow. "This is Sam and Dean Winchester, sister. They are good men." He turned sideways to continue the introduction, holding out a hand as if inviting the Winchesters into their little circle of Christian greeting. "Dean, Sam, this is Evie Klopfenstein."

"Welcome, boys." Her voice was just as warm and welcoming for them as it had been for Castiel. "Friends of the Light are always welcome in my home. Come in, come in! I'll show you the guest room, and we're having lasagna for supper."

"Oh, man," the words were blurted from Dean's lips, and he blinked, startled at his own reaction. "Dude. I freakin' love lasagna."

She chuckled sweetly, holding the door as they made their way inside. "Yes, young men usually do. If you're very, very good, there might even be dessert."

"I'll be good," Dean said earnestly.

As they followed her into the house, Sam muttered to Castiel, "Old friend of yours?"

He shook his head. "I have never met her before. She only knows that I am her brother in Christ and a member of her congregation. As I said, much given to hospitality."

The Winchester boys blinked in perfect sync. It was all very strange.

~*~

A couple of other young men were staying the night at the Klopfenstein household, having come to Leoville for a "singing" at the church, invited from all over the country. (From what Sam could gather, a singing was exactly what it sounded like. The kids sat around in a room and...sang. And then had snacks. And these guys seemed excited about it.) They all ate supper together, the five visitors, Evie and her husband Gary and their son Josh.

The food was delicious and the conversation was amiable, mostly about friends and family back home, plans for the weekend, what the young men had been doing lately. Josh made a very slightly off-color joke, was scolded by his mother, then grinned at his father and winked at Dean, who smirked back when Evie wasn't looking. Sam and Dean mostly just listened, staring in astonishment whenever Castiel said something. He sounded so weirdly...normal, in this particular group of people. As promised, there was some sort of fantastic peanut butter/chocolate thing for dessert, plenty to go around and leftovers in the fridge that Sam knew his brother would be raiding later that night, if he could get away with it.

Another glimpse of normal, safe, good. Sam didn't know how much of this he could take.

Castiel and the Winchesters were sharing a large guest room, the brothers with a big double bed while Castiel had been given an air mattress. Sam wondered if angels even slept. Castiel had appeared to eat at supper—sparingly—but did he need it? Would he wait in line for the shower, would he appear downstairs for waffles in the morning with bedhead and baggy sweats? Somehow Sam doubted it.

He didn't have much time to wonder, though. When they returned to their room to "get ready for the singing," Dean shut the door behind them and turned to Castiel. "Metea Park?"

Castiel bobbed his head in something like a nod, though it seemed to set uncomfortably on his shoulders. "The mound has been rebuilt. A new witch has risen and must be stopped, and the perception of the angelic host is veiled. The demonic forces on Earth have gained in strength since three months ago, and they've managed to shield the area from our gaze. They want this rite to take place."

"Like last Halloween?" Sam sank down to sit on the bed. Halloween had not been fun.

"Similar, though the purpose of this ritual is not to raise a demon. It is merely one ordinary human who desires too much power, and is willing to sacrifice too much to get it."

"A child," Dean murmured. He looked pale, sick.

"Does this have something to do with that summer?" Sam tried to catch and hold his brother's gaze, but Dean was slippery, gazing out the window at the Klopfensteins' beautiful backyard.

After a moment of gathering, though, Dean looked back to him, jaw clenched. In determination or just trying to keep down that delicious lasagna, Sam didn't know. "I hoped that you would forget, you know. That was before you knew about...about everything, about monsters, about what Dad did, and I hoped... But you must have picked up something. You started asking questions all the time, wanting to know where Dad went, why we had to move so much, why we put down salt and herbs when no one else you knew did anything like that... You were such a smart little kid, Sam. Consciously or not, you figured out that something bad had happened there. Something supernatural."

"What did happen?" Sam fought to keep his voice level, to keep from shouting, Just tell me already! Tell me everything!

Dean drew a shaky breath and impossibly, incredibly, gave him a smile. "I almost got you killed. Again. The stupid Shtriga wasn't enough...no, we had to go find mortal danger at a freakin' birthday party...."

"It wasn't your fault," Castiel said softly. "You did nothing wrong. Not then, and not before that summer."

Dean stared at the angel, his breath catching in his throat, and seemed suddenly even more pale, more sick, the gorge rising to choke him. Words had failed him and he just stood there by the window, white face a stark contrast against the neutral taupe wall. He was sinking into himself, growing smaller and smaller right before their eyes.

"The hell..." Sam stumbled to his feet and reached out to catch his brother's shoulders just before Dean would have sunk back against the wall, his knees giving way beneath him. "What the hell, Dean? You're practically transparent, man..."

He grabbed Dean's arm to haul him over to the bed, and was peripherally aware of Castiel on Dean's other side, mirroring Sam's hold. "God, Dean, just sit down before you fall down, will ya?"

Together they manhandled (angel-handed?) Dean to the bed and pushed him down to sit, and Sam sat next to him, far too close but he didn't care. Dean was completely freaking him out. He thought he'd seen his brother broken before, on the side of that Kentucky road, but this was something different, something older, a wide crack in the very foundation of Dean's life that had always, always been there, somehow unnoticed by Sam until this very moment.

"Dean, you gotta tell me," he said urgently. "Not just about the mound, whatever it is, because that was a hunt, right? Something with Dad? And we got caught up in it somehow, even though we were way too little, and yeah, that bothers you, but I know you'll tell me everything you think I need to know about that, since we're up against the same thing now. But you gotta tell me more than that, dude. You gotta tell me everything."

Dean laughed hoarsely, wetly, terribly, and bent over, burying his face in his hands. "I already did, Sammy. I already did, and I shouldn't have, and I hoped you would forget, and you did, and now I can't, okay? I can't tell you again. I screwed up, all right? That's all you need to know. I screwed up, and I can't say it again, I can't."

Sam's hand gripped Dean's shoulder, seemingly of its own will, and he knew that it was biting in too hard, too deep, but he couldn't loosen his fingers. The room was swimming around him, black and gray and gold with the sunset outside, burning sparks that filled his head with insistent pain.

He looked up, the world tilting with the movement. He caught Castiel's sorrowful eyes as he sat on the other side of Dean, his hand also on the shaking man's shoulder. Castiel, the angel who had raised Dean from perdition, who had come to like him, who had quietly insisted on coming along on this mission even though the search for another witch probably did not require his presence at all...

"Cas...Castiel..." Sam blinked, hard, and fumbled in his mind for the words, for the magic spell, the incantation that would unlock what he needed from this ancient, immensely powerful creature. "He told me once. I was there when that hunt went bad. I need to remember. Please, just help me remember. I need to know...I need to remember that summer, everything about that summer. Please."

Castiel sat still for a moment, not even seeming to breathe as he considered. Then he nodded, slowly, solemnly, and reached out to touch Sam's forehead with the tips of two fingers.

driving into Woodlan for the first time, the smell of horseshit in the air, knowing something was wrong with his big brother but Dean wouldn't answer his questions, chalk and hopscotch and string and cat's cradle, mowing lawns and visiting playgrounds, rolling down hills and laying in the grass, and finally Dean told him what Coach Peters had done to him and Sammy didn't really get it, but he knew that it had hurt his brother and so he was sad and angry for him, Dean crying in the backyard while Dad watched from the kitchen with eyes depthless in grief, cinnamon toast and canned ravioli, fireworks and fireflies, bike rides and walks to the hardware store, playing with the neighbor kids, lemonade and cookies, Mrs. Stoller and her sweet smile that was just for him, running in the corn and watching the guy on Third Street practice his archery, wrestling with Dean in the living room and knocking over books, trips to the library and the grocery store, Dad coming home and hugging Dean all the time, Dean silently enduring the attention, dandelions in the grass and ladybugs on the leaves, picking up sticks in the yards Dean worked on to help out, and the candy store, oh the candy store, that Mecca of childhood delight, Eddie's birthday party at Metea Park, swimming in the dirty water of the pond, walking the trail in the cool depths of the forest, playing on the unnatural mound and falling through into darkness, Dean tying the strings together, leading the way, keeping him safe, and then he had to go off for a bit and Sammy thought he heard yelling but he was so scared, so terrified and he couldn't move, Dad coming for him and carrying him, the smell of Dad's leather jacket where Sammy hid his face, Dean lying limp and exhausted and hurt on the slope of the hill with moonlight all around, lighter fluid and fire, packing up and moving again

The restoration of memories crackled through Sam's brain like electricity, old, dusty pathways being restored in an instant's touch of power. It didn't hurt so much as it tickled, and he gasped at the strange feel of it, his head drooping. Then he raised it again, eyes wide, and stared at his brother.

"God, Dean. Just...God."

Dean didn't look up, just left his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking minutely under their hands, one human and one angelic. Sam was angry, suddenly, insensibly, at Castiel. For being there and knowing, for understanding so much more about Dean than Sam could ever comprehend. He'd seen Dean in hell, too. Had rescued him from it.

That should have been Sam's job. His privilege. Dean was his brother.

Castiel stood, abruptly, backing away from the bed and moving toward the door. "I am going to the singing now. I told our hosts that you'll be visiting some distant relatives this evening. You can search for the witch, if you like. Or you can...you can stay here."

So strange, to hear the angel seeming at a loss for words. He gazed at the brothers for a moment longer with his big, sad eyes, somehow reminding Sam of their father. Then he fled, closing the door gently behind him.

Sam remembered his own confusion, that summer, at why Dad was suddenly hanging around so much, touching Dean all the time, paying so much attention to him. He remembered being jealous in a small petty way. But now he knew. That look in his father's eyes had been guilt, and everything he did was an attempt to make up for the stunning error he had made in ever letting Dean get hurt like that.

Dean had told him about it, about all of it, and Sam had forgotten. How could he have forgotten something like that? There was always the excuse that he was too young to understand, but truthfully, Sam hadn't wanted to get it. He hadn't wanted to see his invincible big brother as weak or hurt in any way. And so he had let it fade, let it go, until was Dean was strong and unassailable again. Because Sammy had needed that, had needed an untouchable brother to keep him safe, and now he could admit that selfishness.

Now he knew differently, though. Now he knew Dean as a man. Now he could remember Dean as a boy, small and vulnerable and just as likely to be hurt as Sam had ever been, only better at hiding it.

And it was crazy, it was insane, but Sam was so glad to know. He was so glad that he knew now exactly what had happened, exactly what his brother had suffered. Because...because...this was such a normal thing. Such a human pain. Maybe Sam could deal with this, even though he still had no clue at all what to do about Hell.

He bent nearer to his brother, murmuring urgently in his ear. "It wasn't your fault, Dean. I remember...I remember everything. And I know it wasn't your fault. Didn't Dad tell you that? Did he even try? Or did he lay this on you, too?"

Dean laughed harshly, moistly, the sound bubbling through a throat choked off and tight. "He told me. I knew he was just trying to make me feel better. He did lots of things to try to make me feel better, for a little while. Before he found an important hunt."

"And the mound, Dean... God. How could you possibly think that was your fault? I was the one who wanted to go off the path, pushed you into it, idiot child that I was. God."

"I was the older one, I was in charge, I knew what was out there and you didn't. It was on me."

Sam pressed his hand more tightly into his brother's shoulder, rubbed it across Dean's rigid upper back to clasp the opposite shoulder, pulling him against his side. Once again, words were utterly useless, and he didn't know what else he had to offer. "Yeah, and you paid the price. I remember that, too. Something happened to you, and you could barely move out of bed for days after. Dad and I packed up, got us moved. It was weird and I was a little scared, because I'd never seen you so weak and sick. It was the witch, wasn't it? He or she did something to you."

"She," Dean muttered, finally looking up, though he didn't face Sam, just gazed away out the window again. "It was Mrs. Stoller."

Sam's breath stopped for a moment. "Christ."

Dean smiled joylessly. "Be respectful, dude. I doubt Evie Klopfenstein would care for that language."

Sam huffed a painful laugh. "Okay. Asshole."

They sat there for a small time, Sam's arm tight around his brother's shoulders, both of them staring out the expansive windows into the backyard. Gary and Evie were working in their garden, waiting for the kids to come back from their church function. A retired carpenter and a counselor for troubled kids, sweet and strong and beautiful together. Then Dean drew a breath and sat upright, pulling away, as Sam had known he would.

"C'mon. We got a witch to hunt."

~*~

The library was closed, but they parked nearby and Sam used the free wireless (the only one in the Woodlan area) to do his usual research-fu. They felt like they had something of a handle on this one, having already gone through something similar and knowing what they were up against, so Sam was mostly looking for a likely date for the witch to perform a ritual sacrifice. Tomorrow they would start investigating, look for the witch's daytime identity, but it would help to know what kind of timeframe they were working with. Dean sat in the driver's seat while Sam typed and clacked and made little humming noises under his breath. Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and did his best not to ask, "How's it going?" every ten seconds, but it was damn hard.

"Finding anything?" he asked when the last shreds of sunset started to fade from the sky. It was getting really, really cold. If they weren't going to accomplish anything tonight, they might as well go back to the Klopfensteins' and get a good night's sleep. In a house. It still kind of weirded him out.

Sam grunted. "A few possible dates, but nothing certain. I need books."

"Library's closed, buddy."

"I know." Sam paused just long enough to give him a narrow-eyed glare, then went back to his computer. "Just a little longer, and I might have a better answer."

Dean tapped his fingers some more. Waiting sucked. There had to be a faster way to take care of this problem. Dean wanted to get out of Woodlan and never come back.

An idea started to tickle at the back of his mind. "Hey, Sam... What if we could cut this one off at the pass?"

"What do you mean?" Sam didn't even look up from the screen.

"We know where the ritual is going to happen, right? The mound. I'm sure the witch's altar is there—it was last time—and we know that witches' power is tied to their altars. If we take it apart, he or she will figure out that something is up and come to check it out. And then we ambush 'im, take 'im out."

Sam did look up then, blinking owlishly. "Wow, Dean. That's...actually a really good plan."

Dean smirked, already starting the car, making inventory in his mind of what they would need from the trunk. "I know, right? This is why I'm the big brother and you're the little brother. Put that laptop away. We won't need it for this one."

Prologue & Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 & Epilogue | Warnings & Notes

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