Season Two

Episode Five: Remote Control

by Irismay42

Part Two

So how, exactly, had this happened? Dean wondered, fingers grabbing at air as the owl-eyed motel clerk shoved the shotgun closer to his face.

Staring down the barrel, Dean was overcome by an almost paralyzing sense of déjà vu. “Twice in one day?” he muttered through gritted teeth. “You got Ashton Kutcher back there someplace? ’Cause I ain’t signin’ no freakin’ waiver –”

“You’re not getting away this time, Winchester,” the clerk growled, and Dean paled visibly: bad enough this freak knew his first name; how the hell did he come to know his surname? Dean figured the last time he’d been checked into a motel under the name “Winchester” he’d been four and Dad hadn’t quite gotten a handle on the whole hunting thing yet.

“Listen, pal –” he tried, attention again drifting unconsciously over his shoulder, to the motel room where God knows what was happening to his baby brother.

“You’re going to pay for what you did.”

Again with the déjà vu.

“And you’re not the first person to say that to me today,” Dean returned, attention back on the clerk as the whirring of the security camera behind the guy’s head tripped another, more distant memory. He blinked a couple of times, unable to quite grasp it, before returning abruptly to the present with a shake of his head. “Enough with the cryptic, Goggles,” he said forcefully. Or as forcefully as he could manage with a shotgun shoved in his face. “Who the hell are you and what the hell have you got against me and my brother?”

The clerk began to move towards him, slowly inching out from behind the counter until the cold metal of the shotgun was pressed right against Dean’s forehead.

Dean swallowed, momentarily closing his eyes.

“It’s time for you to get what’s coming to you,” the clerk hissed. “Time for me to get my revenge.”

Dean shrugged, eyes lifted to the barrel of the shotgun. “Yeah, well that’s nice and everything,” he said. “But you know what else it’s time for?” He grimaced at the clerk. “It’s time for you to get that goddamn popgun outta my face before –” Dean bit off the end of the sentence as the clerk chambered a round with an ominous clunk.

Dean shrugged again. “And now time’s up.”

He reached up suddenly, grabbing hold of the shotgun and yanking so hard on the barrel that the clerk was tugged off balance. Dean swung him around in a wide arc while he clung on numbly, before finally jerking the weapon out of his hands and slamming the stock hard into the smaller man’s temple.

The clerk crumpled to his knees, slightly unfocused eyes squinting up at Dean. “You won’t get away this time,” he spat venomously. “You can’t run from me forever. I see everything. I’m everywhere. I’m legion. I’ll find you. Wherever you go, I’m watching. And I’ll find you. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

“Aw, will you shut the hell up?” Dean demanded, bringing the shotgun down one more time against the clerk’s forehead.

This time, the clerk’s eyes crossed before closing altogether, the young man’s body slumping in a heap on the office’s stained carpet.

Dean took a breath while he got his bearings, wheels in his head suddenly grinding to a screeching halt as the single word Sam filled every bit of his consciousness.

Sam.

“Sam!”

Taking off at a mad sprint, Dean covered the parking lot in less time than it took to say, “Sammy, hand me the rock salt,” not slowing his momentum as he approached room four, but rather plowing straight into the door with one turned shoulder…

…And skidding to a rather surprised halt as he took in the scene inside the room.

There stood Sam, breathing heavily, one raised hand clutching a hardback Gideon Bible as he stood over a young woman wearing a maid’s uniform who was sprawled across the carpet, meat cleaver discarded mere inches from one splayed out hand.

Sam looked up at Dean in vaguely stunned astonishment as his brother made his less-than-low-key entrance, blinking a couple of times before a sheepish grin broke out on his face.

Typically, Dean covered his obvious relief that his little brother wasn’t missing any body parts with an incredulous frown and a disbelieving, “You knocked her out with a Bible?”

Sam shrugged apologetically. “First thing that came to hand,” he said, before tossing the Good Book back onto the nightstand. “Not the first person to be struck down by the Word of God.”

Dean winced. “Sammy, we gotta get you some better material.”

“Whatever, man.”

Dean took a breath, staring down at the stricken maid. “I can’t believe the maid came after you with a meat cleaver.”

Sam shook his head. “Seemed kinda extreme to me too,” he agreed, crouching down to check the young woman’s pulse. “She was already in here when I came in,” he explained. “Hiding behind the door.” He looked up almost apologetically. “Guess she got the drop on me.”

Dean nodded, surprising Sam with the look of non-judgmental understanding that passed across his face. “Yeah, well, don’t beat yourself up about it, Daisy,” he said. “’Cause the office clerk just tried to ventilate my forehead with a shotgun.” He brought the clerk’s firearm out from behind his back where Sam could see it.

Sam’s eyes widened as he rose to his feet. “He what?” he burst out, before squinting at the gun and adding, “With that thing?”

“And that’s not the best part,” Dean continued, snagging his duffel from where he’d abandoned it on the floor earlier and flinging it onto the nearest bed. He met Sam’s eyes as he began stuffing what little they’d unpacked back into his bag. “He knew my name, Sam,” he said, shaking his head for extra emphasis. “Yours too. Called me ‘Dean’ first, so I figured, yeah okay, that’s the name I checked in under. But then he called me ‘Winchester’ and said wherever we went he’d find us. That he could see everything. Real God Complex kinda deal.”

Realizing what Dean was doing without the need to be told, Sam grabbed his own bag and began gathering up his possessions. “How would he know that?” he asked in a low voice. “Who would know that?”

Dean shrugged. “I dunno man, but the things he was sayin’ before I –” he gestured to the unconscious maid, “– he sounded way too much like Sandie did in the diner.”

Sam hefted his bag onto his shoulder and grabbed his laptop. “We gotta get outta here,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, shouldering his stuff and heading for the door. “Right now.” He glanced back at the maid and shook his head, snagging the shotgun as he opened the door. “Well, they say every cloud has a silver lining.”

“How so?” Sam asked, tugging the door closed behind him and vaguely toying with the idea of calling an ambulance for the maid.

Dean grinned. “Well, it may be a popgun,” he said, swinging the shotgun round in front of him. “But I’ve never been one to say no to a free firearm.”

****

“I don’t care if it was your dead grandma’s, you lowlife! You pawn it, you pay to get it back – them’s the rules of the game, son –”

Sam almost stepped back onto Dean’s foot in his haste to get out of the way of the young man currently being forcibly ejected through the front door of Manny’s Pawn Emporium.

The booming voice preceded a swarthy man whose beard seemed capable of supporting an entire rodent ecosystem. He paused mid-diatribe when he caught sight of the two potential customers hovering near his doorstep, grinning maniacally and revealing one gold tooth that glinted in the weak afternoon sunlight. He placed thick fingers on plaid-covered hips, attention completely drawn away from the kid he’d just tossed out of his store.

“Gentlemen!” he greeted the Winchesters slimily, taking a step to one side and throwing an arm out in the direction of his densely-packed store. “Please! Welcome to Manny’s!”

Sam, polite as ever, flashed the store owner a very brief smile before glancing warily over his shoulder at Dean.

“Uh-huh,” Dean drawled flatly, pushing Sam none-too-subtly toward the entrance. He smiled his biggest smile at the greaseball storeowner as he followed his brother inside. “I take it you’re Manny?”

“At your service!” Manny’s smile broadened to match Dean’s. “Welcome to my humble –”

“We’re not customers,” Dean stated, turning back to face the guy as he closed the door behind them.

Manny’s smile slipped several inches and several degrees in radiant temperature. “Oh,” he said, voice slightly less jovial and a whole lot less welcoming than it had been two seconds earlier. He pushed past the boys abruptly, heading for the rear of the store and narrowly avoiding a precariously balanced display of worn guitars and a beat-up old drum kit. “So whaddya want?” he demanded, retreating behind the shop counter, which housed an impressive display of jewelry, digital cameras and MP3 players behind locked glass. An array of electrical goods covered the entire wall to the boys’ right, while behind the counter were more locked display cases, only these were crammed full of weaponry.

Sam noticed Dean’s eyes lingering entirely too long on an ancient-looking .357 Magnum that looked like it had materialized right off the set of a Dirty Harry movie, and nudged his brother in the ribs in an attempt to regain his attention.

Dean blinked away his dreamy expression, attempting to go straight for Serious Face without much success.

Manny’s grin had returned full throttle the instant he noted the direction of Dean’s lustful gaze. “You know I’m told that’s an exact replica of a prop gun that was a duplicate of the one Clint Eastwood’s stand-in used on the set of Magnum Force.”

Dean’s eyes widened, and Sam shot him a murderous glance before he even had the opportunity to open his mouth. “Dean –”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Sam?”

Sam shook his head in exasperation before turning his attention back to Manny. “We need some information,” he stated shortly.

Manny shifted from one foot to the other impatiently. “Call the Yellow Pages,” he advised.

Dean suddenly withdrew the shotgun from the inside of his jacket, causing Manny to duck behind the counter in alarm.

“Hey, I already been robbed once this week!” the storeowner pleaded. “Have some mercy on a poor honest businessman!”

Dean rolled his eyes again before slamming the motel clerk’s shotgun down on top of the counter with a resounding thud. “Kinda what we wanted to talk to you about,” he said, indicating that Manny should stand. “Listen,” he continued, twirling the shotgun on the countertop as Manny rose uncertainly to his feet. “Though it pains me to do it, you give us the information we’re after and I’ll give you this fine piece of weaponry in exchange.”

Manny raised a less-than-impressed eyebrow. “It’s a popgun,” he said shortly.

“No,” Dean countered, jutting out his chin. “It’s a free popgun. Be thankful I didn’t pop you with it just to demonstrate its effectiveness.”

Manny reached out thick fingers, all overly-burdened with gold rings, and gingerly took hold of the shotgun, pulling it to his side of the counter and out of Dean’s reach. “Alright,” he said, plastering on his most insincere smile. “Whaddya want to know? Sports? General knowledge? How about nuclear thermodynamics, always a favorite of mine –”

It was Sam’s turn to borrow Dean’s eye roll. “The robbery,” he grit out tersely. “We just want to know about the robbery.”

Manny looked somewhat taken aback, bushy eyebrows disappearing into his even bushier hair. “Oh,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Okay. Fire away.” Panicked eyes suddenly darted to Dean as the words came tumbling out of his mouth before he’d really thought about them. “I didn’t mean that literally,” he assured the older brother with a nervous grimace.

Dean smirked at him. “You got the popgun, Clint.”

“Look,” Sam put in, clearly beginning to lose his patience. “The crystal that was taken –”

Manny nodded. “Worthless piece o’ crap,” he said bluntly. “Why the hell anyone would want that thing when they could have had all of this fine merchandise –” he waved his arm expansively, as if to indicate the entire contents of his emporium, before shaking his head. “Was even thinking about cutting my losses and having it made into a pendant for the missus…”

Dean cocked an eyebrow, eyeing the expansive inventory of jewelry Manny had just been indicating. “When you have all of this fine merchandise…?”

Manny squinted at him, as if gauging his level of density. “What are you, nuts?” he burst out. “I save the good stuff for my girlfriend!”

Dean did a double take. “You have a girlfriend?” he queried, as if such a thing were unthinkable.

A grin that was little short of a leer split Manny’s mouth wide open. “Think Britney before the radical hair surgery.”

Dean opened his mouth to enquire further, but abruptly closed it again at the pissed off scowl his kid brother was throwing his way.

Sam took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a second, before turning back to Manny. “So this crystal,” he tried again. “Where did you get it from?”

Manny shrugged. “Some drunk who figured himself a voodoo priest,” he scoffed. “Came right on in here, laid that ugly thing on my counter and told me I could use it to trap people’s souls. Their souls for crying out loud!”

Dean exchanged a furtive glance with Sam. “Their souls?” he echoed, as nonchalantly as the constriction in his throat would allow.

Manny scoffed again. “Big steaming pile o’ horse crap if you ask me.”

“But you bought it anyway?” Sam pressed.

Manny blinked at him. “What can I say, I’m a humanitarian,” he said with a shrug. “The guy seemed pretty desperate.”

“And the robber?” Sam urged.

Manny looked decidedly abashed. “Damnedest thing I ever saw,” he said. “She must’ve been eighty if she was a day!”

Dean gawked at him. “You got jacked by a coffin dodger?” he burst out.

“Dean –”

Manny nodded. “I know! Spitting image of Grandma Walton, I swear to God! Threatened to gut me with a bread knife if I didn’t give her the thing!”

“And that’s all she wanted?”

Manny continued to nod. “Sure did. Soon as I gave it to her, she was outta here as fast as her hip replacement could carry her.”

“Can we see the security tape?” Dean asked, eyeing the camera above the counter and frowning as that same memory he’d been vaguely aware of in the motel office tickled at the back of his brain.

“No can do,” Manny said. “My nephew – some kinda computer geek whiz kid – installed one of those hard disk systems a month ago. Shows how much he knows – ten minutes after the robbery, my whole system goes fizz bang and the data gets corrupted. Irrecoverable, according to the cop techy guy.”

“Crap,” Dean muttered under his breath.

Manny brightened. “Cops I.D.’d the perp, though,” he added. “Guy outside recognized her. She lives in the same nursing home as his mom. Cops picked her up a couple hours later, fast asleep in front of the TV. Didn’t remember a thing about it.”

“We’ve heard that song before,” Dean sighed.

“And the crystal?” Sam asked.

“Never found it,” Manny replied. “Granny didn’t even remember taking it, so no way could she remember what she’d done with it. Poor old gal has Alzheimer’s. They didn’t even charge her with anything.” At the raised brows of both boys, he added quickly, “Not that I’d have pressed charges anyway –”

“Course not,” Dean agreed.

“Humanitarian like yourself,” Sam added.

Manny took a second to realize they were being sarcastic. His face returned to that vaguely annoyed expression he’d first sported when Dean had informed him they weren’t customers. “Well, gentlemen,” he said with a distinctly cold huff. “Much as I’d love to stand here and chat all day, some of us have paying customers to attend to.”

Dean glanced behind him at the empty shop, while Sam frowned. “One more question,” the younger brother insisted.

Manny sighed loudly. “If you must.”

“You know which nursing home Granny Walton lived at?”

Manny shrugged. “Look for some place full of old people,” he said. “That’s as much as I know.”

****

“So what could turn an ordinary, everyday housewife into a gun-toting psycho, and a sweet old lady into Edward Scissorhands?” Dean mused, glancing in the rearview as the Impala sped down the highway towards a motel which he fervently hoped wasn’t full of crazed employees out to kill him.

“I’m starting to like the mind control theory even more,” Sam said, noticing Dean’s eyes flicker to the rearview for, like, the twentieth time in a minute. He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder, instead plowing right on. “But until we find out whether Sandie and Granny Walton had anything or anyone in common –”

“Besides the homicidal maniac thing?”

Sam frowned. “Yeah, besides that,” he admitted. “Then it’s gonna be pretty damn hard to figure out who or what exactly had them in its thrall –”

“Thrall?” Dean echoed, putting enough sarcasm into the word that it somehow came out in an English accent. “You swallow a dictionary this morning, Mr. Webster?”

“Shut up,” was the best comeback Sam could think of. “And I don’t hear you offering any theories.” His frown deepened as Dean’s gaze darted once more to the rearview. “Dude, what the hell are you looking at?”

He twisted in his seat, peering through the rear window, where all he could see was a shiny new Toyota following a few car lengths behind them.

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Probably nothing,” he said, cocking an eyebrow as the opening strains of Black Sabbath’s Paranoid began to blare from the speakers.

“What, Dean?” Sam twisted back toward him.

“I don’t know.” Dean’s face screwed up in something akin to embarrassment. “It’s just – since we got here – since the motel clerk – I just – I just –”

“Feel like someone’s watching you?” Sam offered.

Dean blinked in surprise. “You too?”

Sam nodded slightly. “Damn creepy.”

Dean’s focus again skittered to the rearview. “I don’t like this,” he muttered, as the car behind suddenly began to accelerate. “This guy’s been behind us since the pawnshop –” which was the exact second an almighty crash shook the Impala’s sturdy frame, causing Dean to slam into the steering wheel and Sam, thrown against the dashboard, to once again curse the old Chevy’s lack of seatbelts.

“Goddammit, sometimes I hate it when I’m right!” Dean cursed through gritted teeth, barely keeping the Impala on the blacktop as the now less-than-pristine-looking Toyota backed off a little.

Sam had again twisted in his seat to get a better look at their assailant. “I don’t recognize the driver,” he said, putting a hand out to steady himself against the dashboard, just as the car behind suddenly lurched forward again, rear-ending the Chevy and causing Dean to growl a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush. Sam swallowed. “If it’s any consolation,” he managed. “I don’t think it’s a hunter.”

“That makes me feel so much better, Sam,” Dean bit out, stomping on the gas as hard as he could as he gripped the wheel so tightly his fingers were in danger of cramping. “Whoever it is, he hurts my baby one more time, I’m going to work on his teeth with a pair of rusty pliers!”

He swore again, caught slightly off guard as the Toyota, which seemed to have lost its front fender after the last collision, suddenly spurted forward, drawing almost level with them before abruptly lurching sideways, as if it was trying to force the Chevy right off the blacktop and into the ditch alongside.

“I don’t think so, pal,” Dean snarled, tightly-wound reflexes kicking in with microseconds to spare as both boots slammed against the brake, causing the Impala to fishtail into a dizzying spin before sliding sideways across the road and coming to a halt with the front tire hanging perilously over the ditch by the side of the blacktop.

The Toyota, unprepared for the sudden evasive maneuver, seemed to skid almost in slow motion toward the opposite side of the highway, front end crumpling like tinfoil as it slammed into a metal post bearing a county traffic camera.

A shower of sparks rained down on the stricken vehicle’s hood as the driver slumped forward over the steering wheel, one bloody hand dangling limply onto the dash.

A couple of tortuously long seconds passed as neither Winchester dared to move; Sam certain he could hear Dean’s heart hammering as his older brother’s fingers whitened with their refusal to release the death grip they had on the steering wheel.

Eyes never leaving the Toyota or its occupant, Dean managed to croak, “Sammy, you got any pieces missing?”

Sam shook his head. “Everything present and correct,” he gasped out. “Except I might be losing my stomach contents any minute now…”

Dean released one shaky hand from the steering wheel to wave toward the passenger door. “Outside – upholstery –” he mumbled, finally having the presence of mind to shift the Chevy into park and switch off the engine.

Sam nodded. “Yeah, yeah,” he waved his brother away, finally managing to crank open the car door and swing his long legs out of the vehicle.

Dean followed suit, now satisfied that his Beloved wasn’t about to roll into the ditch, eyes squinted almost closed as he prepared to survey the damage.

Sam was already looking, a neutral expression on his face. “Well,” he said, hands on hips. “I can honestly say it’s not as bad as when we got hit by the semi…”

Dean released a breath as he noted the slight dent to the rear fender and the scratches along the back quarter of the driver’s side. “Teach him to go up against a Classic in a Japanese tin can,” he muttered. “And I’m still gonna pull his teeth out with rusty pliers, then go to work on his –”

“We should check if he’s actually alive first,” Sam pointed out. “After all, his car came off a lot worse than ours.”

Dean cast a glance over at the crumpled Toyota, grinning despite himself. “Good,” he said shortly. “That’s what he gets for buying a hybrid.”

Sam didn’t rise to the bait, having given up trying to convince his brother of the harmful effects a gas guzzler like the Impala could have on the environment when he was still in grade school. “C’mon,” he said instead, inclining his head toward the other car as the post supporting the traffic cam groaned and began to list a couple more inches toward the vehicle’s hood. “We gotta get that guy outta there.”

“Why?” Dean stuck out his lower lip stubbornly. “Guy just tried to kill us, Sam! And, more importantly, he tried to kill my baby!”

“It’s a car, Dean,” Sam reminded him, before again indicating the Toyota and flashing his brother that expression which had always gotten him the last bowl of Lucky Charms.

Dean sighed theatrically before reluctantly following him toward the stricken vehicle.

The driver, who had been stock still up until this point, had just begun to moan incoherently, and a quick examination of his cashmere sweater and neatly-pressed slacks quickly allayed Dean’s fears that he may have been some pissed off hunter out to get his little brother.

Or me, he reminded himself: He doubted the hunters who had helped his dad storm Haris’ fortified HQ had gotten the memo that Dean was no longer With Demon…

“Hey – uh – sir?” Sam stammered awkwardly, still acutely aware of the undisguised hostility in his brother’s accusing gaze. “We need to get you out of there –”

The man raised his head slowly, a trickle of blood running down his forehead, and Sam quickly realized he looked like the kind of guy who’d snatch away your latte in a Starbucks and be out of the shop before you had the chance to remonstrate.

City guy.

“Hey,” Sam tried again, reaching out toward the guy. “You think you can stand?”

The man’s gaze roved around him in confusion, eyes lighting on the post in imminent danger of crushing what was left of his car, but too dazed to really comprehend the threat. “Where the hell am I?” he mumbled, trembling fingers brushing at the blood on his temple. “Oh my God, I’m bleeding! How did I…?”

“You’ve been in an – uh – accident,” Sam supplied, again offering his hand to the spaced-out driver, who this time took it uncertainly.

“I – I don’t even remember getting in my car…”

While Sam helped the driver to safety, Dean reached in and shut off the Toyota’s engine, pulling out his cell phone and dialing 911.

“My name’s Sam,” Sam supplied, guiding the driver to the side of the highway, where he settled him down on the grassy verge. “What’s yours?” He crouched down in front of him, affecting his most trustworthy expression, which for Sam was less art and more nature.

“Uh – Chris,” the driver managed, fingers hesitantly exploring the blood trickling from his hairline.

“Hey Chris,” Sam smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, my brother’s calling an ambulance for you – you’ll be fine.”

Chris glanced about himself, wide-eyed and jittery. “Did you guys hit me?”

“Hell no!” Dean put in suddenly, ambling toward them as he slid his phone into his pocket. “The only person to blame for the concertina where your car used to be is you, pal.”

Sam shot Dean a “will you let me handle this?” look, before smiling at Chris apologetically. “I’m sure it was a genuine accident,” he lied smoothly. “You say you don’t remember anything? Maybe you blacked out at the wheel…?”

“No,” Chris disagreed. “Like I said, I don’t even remember getting in my car.”

Sam once again utilized the sympathetic smile coupled with a nod of his head, and even Dean was impressed by the smoothness of his brother’s method of intelligence gathering. “So what’s the last thing you do remember, Chris?” he asked casually.

Chris scrunched his forehead, wincing at the pain the action elicited. “I – I was at an internet café,” he said slowly. “Just finished reading my emails.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “And –?” he urged gently.

“And then I was looking on some local information website for a good dry cleaners nearby,” Chris added, smiling weakly. “Only moved here two weeks ago.”

Sam tried not to be too obvious when he seized on that last snippet of information. “Oh yeah?” he said carefully. “You remember the name of the website?”

Chris looked momentarily confused, but eventually shrugged, as if figuring Sam was just trying to keep him talking until the ambulance arrived. “Uh, some new site,” he replied. “PAVision or something –”

“PAEye?” Sam offered.

Chris’ eyes lit up. “That’s the one,” he agreed.

Another reassuring smile from Sam. “And that’s the last thing you remember? That website?”

Chris nodded. “Pretty much.”

Sam glanced up at Dean, who nodded minutely, but was prevented from commenting by the traffic camera suddenly collapsing completely along the length of Chris’ formerly shiny new Toyota, embedding itself in the roof even as every window popped simultaneously.

Dean turned back to Chris, who could only stare on in mute horror. “Dude,” he said slowly. “You – er – got insurance, right?”

****

“So it has to be this website,” Sam insisted, throwing his duffel and laptop onto one of the beds of the Good Nite Motel tiredly.

Dean cast one final look back over his shoulder before closing the door behind him and locking it for good measure: no homicidal maids or clerks so far. Which was always a bonus. “We should take a look at it,” he agreed, throwing his own bag onto the bed nearest the door.

Sam shot him an incredulous look. “That’s the last thing we should do, Dean!”

Dean met his gaze quizzically. “Sam, that website was the last thing two of our wannabe psycho killers remember looking at! If that’s not what’s putting the whammy on them somehow, I’ll – I’ll –” he groped for a suitable wager. “I’ll let you drive for a month!”

Sam stubbornly refused to see the funny side of that comment. “I agree, it’s a big coincidence if it’s not the website,” he admitted, “although I’m not sure whether bread-knife-wielding Grandma Walton would have been much of a web surfer.”

“So you’re agreeing with me?” Dean sounded mildly confused.

“Yes,” Sam confirmed. “To a point.”

“What point?”

“The point where we expose ourselves to some potentially hazardous website that could take control of us and turn us into murderers or criminals.”

“Technically, aren’t we both of those already?”

“Dean –”

“I get what you’re saying, Sam,” Dean held up his hands in surrender. “But how are we going to check it out without – you know – checking it out?”

“There are other ways,” Sam insisted, studiously avoiding Dean’s gaze. “We need to know what we’re dealing with first.” He sighed heavily, raking both hands through his hair in frustration before suddenly rounding on his brother and snapping, “Jesus, Dean, haven’t you had enough of something controlling you for one lifetime?”

Dean flinched, eyes widening in shock as he took an involuntarily step backwards and away from his brother.

Sam just stared at him, breathing hard.

Dean rigidly set his jaw before grinding out, “Well maybe the amulet would protect me –”

“That was demonic possession, Dean!” Sam burst out, advancing a step towards his sibling and raising his hands impatiently. “We don’t know what the hell this is!” And I’m not risking losing you again. Not after what it took to save you… He shook his head, deliberately calming his voice at the sight of the uncertainty – or was it fear – in his brother’s eyes. “And besides, that demon still possessed you, even with the amulet. It didn’t protect you from that, just kept it at bay so it couldn’t get complete control.”

Dean made no comment, just stared down at his duffel like it was a sack full of hellspawn and he wanted nothing more than to pulverize it into atoms.

Sam sighed. “Listen,” he said, voice softening, hesitantly raising a hand towards Dean’s shoulder before thinking better of the gesture and again running his fingers through his unruly hair. “I feel like roadkill. I’m gonna take a quick shower.” His shoulders slumped slightly at the defeated expression on Dean’s face. “We’ll figure this out, okay?” When Dean didn’t answer, just continued to glare down at nothing in particular, he added a little more forcefully, “Okay?”

Dean looked up, barely-checked anger glittering in his eyes.

Sam swallowed, almost expecting to see a hint of oily blackness encroaching on the hazel irises.

“Okay,” Dean agreed grudgingly.

Sam nodded, snagging his washbag from his duffel before adding uncertainly, “No looking at that website, alright?”

Dean glared at him. “Sam, I’m not seven,” he pointed out.

Sam grinned. “If I gotta threaten to tan your hide, I will, bro. I’m bigger than you, remember?”

Dean scoffed. “Like to see you try, Sasquatch,” he said, mouth quirking into a reluctant grin. “And despite what you might read to the contrary, size ain’t everything you know.”

“Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, dude,” Sam tossed over his shoulder as he closed the bathroom door behind him.

Dean watched his brother’s retreating back before his eyes were inevitably drawn to the laptop discarded on Sam’s bed.

Biting his lip as he glanced guiltily back at the bathroom door, he hesitated a second before finally stalking over to Sam’s bed and perching himself on the edge of the mattress, sliding the computer towards him, opening the lid and powering up the machine.

As the sound of water hitting tile trickled from the bathroom, Dean opened up the web browser and typed in the address, glancing down once at his amulet before hitting “Enter.”

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