Season Four

Episode Six: A Very Supernatural Toy Story

By JennyF

Part Two

Sam groaned and rolled over in bed. Dawn was trying to break through the heavy snow clouds and he wondered if the day would bring anything worthwhile. Looking across to where his brother slept, he couldn't keep the grin off his face. Despite all Dean's protestations that he was going to watch the small locomotive all night, he was currently sprawled on top of the comforter, one leg flung over the edge, hand under his pillow and face relaxed and peaceful. From the number of discarded mugs of coffee, Sam would hazard a guess that Dean had actually tried his damnedest to stay awake as long as he could, but nature had evidently had other things to say about it.

Deciding to take advantage of a clear run at the bathroom and unrestricted hot water, Sam forced himself out of bed. The room was cold, colder than he would have liked, but when money was tight, luxuries like heating tended to take a backseat. Checking Dean was still fast asleep, he made his way over to the small bathroom.

By the time he returned, refreshed and relieved, Dean had managed to roll onto his back but little else had changed. The train was still sitting on the bedside table, exactly where Sam had last seen it the previous evening. It was clear to him that Dean's theory had failed. With a small smile on his face, Sam reached over and picked it up. He hadn't handled the toy before and he was surprised by the warmth of the wood. He was no expert but he thought the main components of the little engine were crafted from oak and rosewood.

Turning the toy over in his hands, the smile on his face faded, to be replaced by a frown. Standing up, he moved to the window and opened the drapes to allow as much natural light into the room as possible. The wood beneath his fingertips felt warm, too warm. The heating in the room was virtually nonexistent and the train had been sitting on the stand all night. Yet the wood was warmer than room temperature. Confused, Sam set the train down and ran his fingers along the windowsill. It was decidedly cold in comparison to the train. Moving back to the bedside table, he rested the back of his hand on the veneered surface. It had more warmth to it than the sill, but not as much as the wooden toy.

Convinced there must be some logical reason behind the warmth, Sam picked up the train once more, turning it over and examining it minutely. He could see nothing to explain the unusual warmth in either the toy or its surrounding environs. He had to admit, he was flummoxed.

Turning to his brother, he lay one hand on Dean's shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. When that didn't have the desired effect, he shook a little harder. Knowing from past experience the possible consequences of waking his brother unexpectedly he took several steps back, just as Dean shot up in bed, swinging one hand wildly in his direction.

"Dude," Sam laughed. "It's just me."

"Sammy?" Dean's sleep-laden eyes were a sight to behold, confusion and disorientation slowly clearing as he focused on the room. "You know better than to wake me like that," he grumbled.

"C'mon. Day's nearly over, man. Time to get up."

Dean flung an arm over his eyes, ignoring Sam for as long as he could as his younger brother proceeded to move around the room, preparing for the day and generally making as much noise as he possibly could about it. Eventually, he couldn't block out the noise and disturbance any longer.

"Could you be more obvious?" he demanded. "I'm trying to sleep here in case you hadn't noticed."

"You've had plenty of time for that," Sam replied unsympathetically.

"Well, I would have done if I hadn't been watching that damned train all night," Dean grunted, barely intelligible.

Sam raised a single eyebrow. "All night?" he sought clarification. He couldn't help the smirk that crept onto his face when Dean looked away sheepishly.

"Yeah."

Nodding sagely, Sam looked at his brother seriously. "Did it do anything, then?" he asked, trying not to laugh out loud when Dean threw a look that would have frozen Hell over his way. Flinging himself out of bed, Dean stalked past his brother on the way to the bathroom, muttering something about “enough hot water” and “know it all brothers.”

By the time Dean returned, marginally refreshed if not fully compos mentis just yet, he was amused to find his younger brother sitting on the edge of his bed holding the little engine in the palm of his hand. He watched from the bathroom door for a few minutes as Sam lifted the toy to eye level and squinted at it, turning it to various angles and tilting his head this way and that. Eventually he put it down and frowned at it.

Dean took a step forward, flinging a towel down on the floor, ignoring the glare Sam sent his way.

"So, what's so fascinating about it then?" he enquired, gesturing at the train and stepping over the discarded towel in a deliberately exaggerated manner, just to annoy Sam.

Sam, however, took no notice of Dean's antagonistic actions and simply folded his eyebrows together, making creases in his forehead that had no business being there. "Have you touched it this morning?"

Taken aback by the question, Dean raised an eyebrow of his own. "Touched it? Why the hell would I do that?"

"When I picked it up earlier," Sam began, "it was warm. Warmer than it should have been and now..." he trailed off, not quite sure of how to continue without sounding as though he was talking complete and utter nonsense. He looked up at Dean, an earnest, solemn expression on his face. "It smells kind of...smoky." He sat back and waited for the sarcastic comment he just knew was coming from his brother. He wasn't disappointed.

"Dude," Dean grinned, "there's help out there for people like you, you know. I could fix you up with someone if you like."

"Dean." Sam didn't mean to whine but somehow Dean managed to bring out the bratty little kid in him just a bit too easily at times. "I'm serious."

"So am I! Really. There's all sorts of treatments. I'm sure you're not the only person out there that sniffs trains. Admittedly glue might be the preferred option but, well, whatever does it for you."

Sam glared. He had known Dean wasn't going to take this seriously but he really did have a point. He picked up the train and thrust it at Dean so vigorously that the older Winchester flinched involuntarily.

"Just feel it,” Sam commanded, refusing to take his eyes off Dean's face until he was guaranteed cooperation.

After a brief stand off, Dean stretched his hand out, accepting the wooden loco with ill grace. He made a great show of turning it over and over in his hand and examining it every which way.

"Yeah," he acquiesced, "it's a little warm. But dude, you've been cradling it for at least a half hour now." He looked at Sam through lowered lashes. "Which, let's face it, is a little odd for someone your age. You sure you don't need me to make a call?"

"Dean!" Sam's patience was running out and Dean was walking a thin line. "Tell me what you smell." He paused and contemplated pulling out the patented Sam Winchester puppy dog eyes. "Please?"

Dean huffed and took a cursive sniff of the wooden object in his hand. He looked up at Sam. "Nothing. I smell nothing. Can we get breakfast now?"

"Properly, man. Do it properly."

"This is stupid," Dean muttered under his breath, thanking God there was nobody there to witness his rapid decline in coolness. He raised his hand again and inhaled deeply. Lowering his hand he looked over to where Sam sat watching him expectantly. He sighed and nodded once, reluctantly agreeing, "Yeah, I guess it does smell a little funny."

"So, you believe me now?" Sam sought reassurance and Dean nodded again.

"What is that smell though?" Dean wondered. "It's not wood, or at least I don't think it is. Maybe Mort uses some sort of lacquer to finish off his products. Or maybe it's..." he trailed off, rummaging around in his head for something to tie into the odor lingering in his memory.

"It's smoke," his brother declared.

"Smoke?"

"Think about it, Dean. It's a steam train. How do steam trains work? It must have…come to life…last night and what we can smell must by the residue of the smoke coming out of the funnel. Smoke."

"Great theory except for I was watching it all night. I would have seen if it had done anything."

"Not all night," Sam corrected his brother. "You didn't make it all the way through the night, remember? Doesn't matter how much coffee you drank, at some point you fell asleep."

Dean glared at the toy and slammed it down on the table. Raising his eyes to Sam he hoisted himself off the bed and flung his jacket on, gathering various articles to him that he might have need of during the day - keys, wallet, gun.

"I think we need to pay Morty another little visit," he decided, not bothering to check if Sam was following behind him.

*****

There was little choice in town for coffee, and seeing as Dean had discounted the diner without a second thought, the only place left to try was Martha's Coffee and Ice Cream Parlor. Dean had insisted on some form of breakfast before returning to Westland's Toy Shop, but once faced with the plethora of baubles and elves in the window of the coffee shop, coupled with the nauseating Christmas songs floating out into the street every time the door opened, he had quickly lost the desire to sit down in a civilized fashion.

Which is how Sam found himself at the end of a line for breakfast. Breakfast which, for his older brother at least, consisted of chocolate donuts and a maxi strength black coffee. Sam would have preferred a traditional morning meal, hell, pancakes and syrup would be better than the sugary confections offered at Martha's, but try as he might, he just couldn't face donuts at this time of day. Selecting an array of cakes for Dean and a couple of coffees, he paid for his purchases with a smile at the assistant and made his way back out of the shop.

Dean was where he had left him, propped up against the Impala. Sam noticed with wry amusement that he had procured a local paper from somewhere. He hadn't noticed anywhere in the vicinity where it was possible to get hold of one but his brother had his own unique methods of obtaining things where none seemed available. Sam couldn't help checking up and down the street for the poor passerby who had, no doubt, been persuaded to part with his or her morning read.

Crossing the street carefully, balancing cardboard cups and donut box, Sam made his way over to his brother. Dean had his head bowed, brow furrowed in concentration as his eyes skittered across the pages of the daily paper he held. Sam reached the car and held out the box with a carefully positioned beverage. Dean was engrossed in his reading though and Sam had to clear his throat a couple of times before Dean looked up.

"What you got there?" he questioned, only to be greeted by a distracted "huh?" and a pair of eyes raised above the journal.

"In the paper," he clarified, curiosity now getting the better of him. "What're you reading?"

Dean folded the paper over on itself, leaving page four exposed, and waved it at his brother. "You seen this?" he demanded, pointing to an article barely two paragraphs long.

"What is it?" Sam asked, placing the box of donuts on the roof of the Impala, slightly disturbed when his actions didn't provoke an instant rebuke from Dean for defiling his baby. He glanced at the headline just above Dean's finger and, as he took in the words, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"A kitchen fire? Really?" He looked back up at Dean who had a bizarrely triumphant look on his face. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Read it." Dean ordered. "Properly." And he thrust the paper at Sam with such force the younger brother had no option other than to take it in order to avoid a face full of paper cuts.

Dean watched as Sam's eyes flitted across the words at breakneck speed and nodded smugly when Sam did a double take and reread the article with more care. Dean could almost see the thought process reflecting on his brother's face, starting with a patronizing, I’ll humor my brother, attitude and ending with confused concern. Snatching the box off the roof of his car, mentally making a note to talk to Sam about the proper care of his baby, he bit into the biggest donut he could find.

"She said her doll told her to it?" Sam exclaimed, incredulously.

"Oh yes," Dean confirmed, leaning toward Sam as though he was about to impart the world's biggest secret. "And where do you think that doll came from?"

Sam shot Dean a knowing glance. "Mort's?" It was a guess, but an educated guess nonetheless, and the raised eyebrows coupled with the I told you so look on Dean's face was enough of an answer for him. "That could have been a nasty accident." Sam mused, grabbing his rapidly cooling coffee.

"If it was an accident," Dean responded curtly.

"Of course it was, Dean. What else would it be?"

"Toys, Sammy. Toys coming to life. Ring any bells for you?"

"She's six, man. Six year olds have vivid imaginations. Don't you remember being six?"

Dean's face turned serious and Sam winced, wishing he could take back that last question. "Yeah, Sam. I remember. I remember I didn't have imaginary friends because I knew what they really were."

"Dean," Sam softened his tone, hoping Dean would take if for the apology it was. "She was just playing with a new toy. In the middle of the night. She fell asleep and forgot about the cakes." He paused. "It's what kids do. I really don't think there's anything more to it than that. I don't see anything malicious going on here."

"Her doll told her to do it, Sammy. A doll which just happened to come from Mort's. A shop which is about to close because the toys are coming to life. Are you seriously telling me you don't see the connection here?"

Sam sighed. Dean had been craving a hunt for days and as far as he was concerned this was a good enough excuse for him to launch into full-on hunter mode. "You're right, Dean," he acquiesced. "We should check out Westland's again. Just in case."

"Thank you!" Dean's exclamation was tinged with glee at what he perceived to be his successful persuasive powers. "This needs to be stopped before anyone gets really hurt. It's not natural, Sammy. Nothing good ever comes of that."

*****

The new day had brought nothing good for Westland's Toy Shop. Although to outward appearances the little store was bustling with customers, old and young, the conversations being held in the warmth of the cozy showroom were anything but convivial. The pile of toys and gifts behind the counter had grown threefold and the shelves were fully stocked.

Tessa sighed and ran her hand through her neatly styled hair. She felt, rather than saw, her next customer looming up at the counter and looked up to find herself facing a tall, middle aged man. She automatically scanned up and down and frowned when she could see no package to be returned or purchased. She wondered briefly what could possibly have happened to his child to warrant an empty handed visit to the store. Putting on her best smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, she took a breath.

"Can I help you?" she asked pleasantly, not warming to the man, but not feeling threatened either.

"I'd like to speak to Mortimer Westland," the man answered, placing both his hands on the counter and leaning forward slightly. Tessa frowned and took a tiny, involuntary step back at the invasion of her personal space.

"He's busy at the moment," she replied. "Can I help you?"

The man shook his head and smiled, a cold, thin smile. "I doubt it," he answered, lowering his head to Tessa's level. " I really need to speak to Mr. Westland in person."

"He's busy in the workshop," Tessa explained. "He doesn't like to be disturbed when he's working."

"Doesn't look like he'll need to be working for much longer," the man sneered, looking exaggeratedly around the shop. "Doesn't seem to be much demand for his goods." He raised his eyebrows, inviting a response from the toymaker's wife.

"There's still plenty to be done." Tessa gesticulated at the short line that had formed behind the man.

"In which case," he insisted, "I'll leave you to it and see myself into the workshop." He pushed himself up away from the counter. "Through here, is it?" he enquired as he moved purposefully toward the door at the back of the shop leading to the workshop.

"You can't go through there," Tessa reiterated, hastening to the front of the door. "I've told you, Mort's busy and not seeing anyone. If you have something to return or buy, I'll deal with it. If not, you're welcome to browse or leave." Preferably leave, she thought as she became uncomfortably aware of the height difference between herself and the man in front of her.

"I don't want a toy," he snorted. "I want to talk to Mortimer Westland." He took another step forward, crowding Tessa, moving so close she could almost feel the heat of his breath.

"And I said, he's not seeing anyone. Especially you." She hadn't realized her voice had risen but she was decidedly uncomfortable in this man's presence. Glancing around the shop in hope of some support, she was dismayed to see all her customers had discovered fascinating things to look at on shelves or in the display towers. Nobody seemed inclined to help her.

Just as she was convinced the man was going to barrel past her into the workshop, the merry brass bell above the door chimed its happy jingle and her salvation walked over the threshold. The man in front of her ignored the distraction with all the arrogance Tessa had suspected he had all along. His voice a couple of decibels louder than what was comfortable, he continued to demand entrance to the work shop.

"The lady said ‘no.’ What bit of that don't you get?"

The words, growled softly, carried through the air, holding a menace and threat of damage if the man failed to respond in an appropriate manner. Tessa leant slightly to one side and tilted her head, mouth turning up ever so slightly into a smile as she recognized the two young men who had appeared the previous day. She took a step back as the older of the two pushed through the milling crowd of customers, glaring at the man as though he could burn the meaning of his words into his opponent's brain by sheer willpower alone.

"What's it got to do with you?" The man tried to sound as menacing as he could but, upon turning to face the newcomer, the threat died in his throat. Dean smirked, lulling the guy into a false sense of security.

"Specifically? Nothing. In general? You're an asshole. What don’t you understand about 'he's not seeing anyone'? It's not complicated." The older hunter waved his arm toward the door he and Sam had just entered through. "There's the exit," he stated. "I suggest you use it."

Closely studying Dean and taking in Sam's stance just behind his brother, the man decided to cut his losses and run. But not before he threw one last comment to Tessa as he thrust a business card at her. "I'll be back to talk to him," he promised, turning on the spot and making his way out of the shop, deliberately crashing his shoulder into Dean, causing him to sway a little on the spot.

Pissed off, Dean whirled around, fully intending to take the fight outside. A large hand on his forearm stopped him in his tracks though and Sam's face appeared in his line of vision.

"Let it go," Sam told him. "It's not worth it." He turned his attention to Tessa who was studying the card in her hand. Her face had drained of color and there was a slight tremble to her hand. "Are you okay? Who was that guy?"

She tore her gaze away from the card and looked at Sam with sad eyes. "Philip Gibson," she told him. "A journalist." She threw the card on to the counter and shook her head. "This is the last thing we need."

*****

Sam watched as the journalist stalked out of the shop, recognizing within him a determination to get the truth and, less honorably, a willingness to ride roughshod over almost anybody to get there. He could see Dean out of the corner of his eye, reassuring Tessa, comforting her with soft words and a gentle hand on her forearm, and he wondered what exactly Philip Gibson thought he knew.

Attracting Dean's attention with a nudge to his arm, Sam nodded in the direction the man had taken, silently communicating his intention to follow the guy. Dean frowned slightly and Sam knew his brother thought he would be wasting his time but in this case he begged to differ. It was common knowledge that there was a breed of journalist who would dig and dig and dig until every stone was turned and every creepy crawly exposed, regardless of who got hurt along the way. He jerked his head toward the door, acknowledging Dean's resigned shrug, and left the storekeeper in his brother's capable hands.

Outside the shop Sam stopped, turning his head this way and that, hoping to spot his quarry. He was in luck. At the end of the street he caught sight of the man's coat tails disappearing round the corner. Sam picked up the speed of his stride and he was soon only a little distance from the man. Not wanting to startle him, Sam cleared his throat in a way that couldn't be mistaken for a simple seasonal cold.

"Philip Gibson?" he called, watching as the man froze before turning to face Sam with a curious expression.

"Yes," he confirmed and stopped, waiting for Sam to continue. He wasn't sure why the younger man had followed him and, bearing in mind the confrontation a few minutes ago, he wasn't entirely happy with the situation. He glanced round, taking comfort in the number of people milling about. Sam took in the man's show of bravado, and his surreptitious safety check, and was strangely satisfied by his reaction. He plastered a smile on his face.

"My name's Sam Whittaker," he said, extending a hand for Gibson to shake, or ignore. "I'm a writer for Toy Maker Magazine." Sam paused, studying the face opposite to see whether the name of the journal had rung any bells. If the man had connections there it could prove awkward.

Gibson relaxed slightly with Sam's introduction. He'd heard of the magazine vaguely but never got further than glancing at the front cover in various office reception areas. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I couldn't help overhearing you back at Westland's. I'm currently working on an article about the financial hardships facing independent toyshops and, well, I've only just got into town. Mortimer Westland is a difficult man to get hold of. I just thought maybe we could help each other out." He stopped, mentally crossing his fingers that the man might just see an opportunity for himself here.

Gibson smiled and visibly relaxed. "Shops all over the country are going out of business," he told Sam as though he was speaking to a child and Sam felt the stirrings of irritation in his gut. "You want to know why Westland is struggling, though? It's nothing to do with the economic climate. I mean, c'mon! It's Christmas. No toyshop goes out of business at this time of year, no matter how crappy it is. And, between you and me, it's not a crappy shop. It's one of the best there is. I'll tell you what's wrong with that shop," and he leaned forward, glancing left and right. Sam had to stifle a laugh at how ridiculous the man looked, acting like a spy. Gibson lowered his voice, "It's haunted."

Sam's face was the epitome of shock and incredulity. Impressed by how he could school his features at the drop of a hat, Sam raised his eyebrows and let his mouth drop open. "Haunted?" he exclaimed. "What d'you mean, haunted? There's no such thing."

"That's what I thought," Gibson agreed, "until I came across Westland. But there's no other explanation."

"Explanation for what?"

"The accidents. The children. The returned toys." He watched Sam for a reaction, encouraged to continue by the look of bafflement and shock on his audience's face. "You read about Lily Campbell, right?"

Sam nodded. "The little girl who set fire to her kitchen, right?"

"Yeah. She's not the only kid in town to blame her toys for accidents. I've got a list as long as your arm back at the office of accidents and incidents, all involved children and all blaming their toys. Their new toys." He paused for emphasis. "New toys from Westland's Toy Shop. I'm just trying to get his side of the story. That's all. Honestly? It would be in his best interests to talk to me."

Hiding his rapidly growing dislike of the man, Sam furrowed his brow, playing his role for all he was worth. "What other kids?" he asked, injecting just enough morbid curiosity into his voice to stoke the fire of Gibson's gossip.

"Started a couple of months ago, across town. A kid called Tommy Marshall got a boat for his birthday from Westland’s. Decided to go sailing it in the bathtub, so he goes to try it out and floods the bathroom in the process."

"So?" Sam shook his head. "That's not so unusual. Kids tend to play with toys."

"Yes, yes they do," Gibson conceded. "But this was four in the morning and the kid managed to flood the kitchen downstairs too. Took out most of the electrics in the house."

"Just means he was excited about his birthday and couldn't sleep," Sam theorized. "Doesn't make the shop haunted."

"Not in itself, no." The journalist was warming to his subject now. "Then, two weeks after that, there's a fire. Kid burns down his dad's tool shed. His excuse? The sparks from his wooden train's tinderbox caught the sawdust on the floor. And in the same week a four-year-old girl was treated for a fractured wrist. Mom and Dad blamed her older brother for playing rough but the kid claims it was one of his soldiers fighting its way out of the jail block he'd built for it. His sister won't say anything about it, she's obviously too freaked by the whole thing." He stopped and waved one arm down the street. "I've got a whole, long list back at the office. You'd be more than welcome to come and check it out."

"No, it's fine. Thank you," Sam smiled, weakly. "I think I get the picture."

"Yeah. So now you see why I want to talk to the guy? He's got something freaky in that workshop of his, and I intend to find it. This is too big to let go. It could be my big break!"

*****

Returning to the motel, Sam wasn't surprised to find Dean already there. Acknowledging his brother with a nod of his head, Sam settled himself down on his bed with his computer on his lap. Dean glanced up at him briefly, then returned his gaze to the toy train, still resting quietly on the bedside table.

"What'cha doing?" he asked Sam.

"Philip Gibson seems to have done a lot of our research for us," Sam replied, bringing up the website for the local paper and entering the name of the first child mentioned by the journalist. Sure enough there was a brief mention of Tommy Marshall and his nocturnal boating activities. Sam motioned Dean over and turned the computer so he could see it himself. Dean read it through carefully and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

"Coincidence?" he wondered.

"I don't think so, Dean. Gibson has a whole list of accidents involving children and Mort's toys." He turned back to the laptop and changed his search criteria to Philip Gibson. Mildly surprised by the plethora of stories credited to the man, Sam shook his head, hurriedly filling Dean in on the conversation he'd had with him, including the fire attributed to the train, a train that sounded exactly like the one Dean currently had beside his bed.

Dean straightened up and arched his back, working out the kinks making themselves at home in his spine. Pacing up and down the small room, he found himself unable to settle. The story Sam had brought home hadn't particularly surprised him but the severity of some of the incidents was on a grander scale than he had realized they were dealing with. His instinct was to get this thing dealt with as soon as possible. He didn't know how many of Mort's toys were sitting under trees or hidden in cupboards, waiting for Christmas Morning, but he didn't really want to be reading tales of woe the day after Christmas.

Scuffing the toe of his boots on the threadbare carpet, he turned to Sam. "We have to stop this, Sam." He paused and turned back to the toy. Eyeing it suspiciously he ran a finger along the smooth wooden steam engine. "D'you think this is safe?" Ignoring the way Sam's eyebrows shot up in surprise he continued, "I mean, it is one of Mort's creations. You don't suppose it's going to do anything while we're out, do you? Maybe we should take it with us."

Suppressing his amusement, Sam schooled his features into a suitably serious facade. "I'm sure the train is capable of being left alone, Dean. Actually, if you think about it, the accidents have actually been caused by the children playing games that have got out of hand. I think by now you're old enough not to be taken in by a toy." He paused and dramatically rubbed a hand over chin, narrowing his eyes at his older brother. "Of course, if you're not sure you can resist..." Sam ducked just in time to avoid being hit by the pillow that came flying in his direction.

"Bitch."

Sam broke into a grin. "Jerk," he retorted. "What did you get up to with Tessa while I was gone?"

"She's pulling her hair out. Their accountant called earlier this morning, before we got there. He's coming down to pay them a visit on Thursday," Dean reported.

"Thursday?" Sam interrupted. "But that's..."

"Christmas Eve. Yeah, I know. Timing sucks," Dean agreed. "Thing is, he has the final say with the bank. If he doesn't like what he sees, he's going to pull the plug on the shop. Tessa doesn't know what she's going to do. Mort's burying his head in the sand, Nathan's hiding in his room, doing God knows what, and she has three days to turn things around. There's no way she's going to manage that." Dean flopped on to the end of his bed and let his head drop forward. "It doesn't seem fair, Sam. How the hell can toys be so damned destructive?"

"Strictly speaking, they haven't actually destroyed anything yet, Dean," Sam pointed out, taken aback when Dean's head snapped up and hard, green eyes fixed on to his.

"That's crap, Sam. I see a whole family being destroyed every time we walk into that store. You can't tell me that's not as destructive as ripping them to pieces?"

"I know. It sucks, Dean, but what can we do? We can't gank an accountant no matter how much you want to," Sam sympathized.

"There's gotta be something we can do about it, dude. I can't just sit here and do nothing. It's her family." Frustrated, Dean rose up from the bed, absently taking hold of the train, turning it over and over in his hands. "It all comes back to the toys. D'you realize we haven't even been inside that workshop yet? I think it's time we took a good look around. Preferably when Mort's not hiding away in there."

There was logic in Dean's plan and Sam couldn't find a reason not to go ahead with it. He'd come to pretty much the same conclusion himself and, well, he liked Tessa, wanted to help her, and this was something positive they could be doing. The shop would be closing late for the rest of the week, not due to desperation but in order to fall in line with the other stores in town. Late night Christmas shopping had hit with a vengeance. Which gave the Winchesters a couple of hours to eat a relaxed dinner for a change.

By the time Dean and Sam were finally hovering outside Westland's Toy Shop, the temperature had plummeted to barely above freezing and Sam was sure they would never be able to get their fingers working well enough to manipulate the lock picks they never traveled without. Standing over his older brother, who was alternately blowing warm air through his gloves and trying to get the pick into the lock, Sam kept a casual eye on the street. Frost was forming on car windshields and shop windows and the moon shone out from a clear sky. Sam was sure someone, somewhere, was singing It Came Upon a Midnight Clear. Shaking his head to clear away the festive fancy he rubbed his hands together, wondering how much longer Dean was going to take opening the door.

As if thinking it had willed it, Dean straightened up, giving Sam a triumphant grin as he pushed the shop door open with the tip of one finger. Sweeping an arm out in front of him, he took a little bow as he ushered Sam over the threshold in a grand gesture. Stepping through the entrance while pulling a face at his brother, it took Sam a couple of minutes to comprehend what was actually going on inside the shop.

Stopping so suddenly Dean ran into his back, Sam's jaw fell. "What the hell?" he asked nobody in particular. He could feel Dean edge his way forward until they were standing shoulder to shoulder.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was so hushed Sam wasn't sure at first if he had spoken at all. As it was, he had no answer for the unspoken question. All they could do was stare in dumbstruck silence at the scene before them.

The shelves of the shop were empty, the display towers were gone and the piles of returns behind the counter were nowhere to be seen. Every toy in the shop was on the floor, either solitary or in groups of two, three, four. There was no noise but the activity going on was something else. There were miniature battles going on over by the counter between the wooden Confederate Army and the Union forces. Wooden cowboys were being chased along the bottom shelves by hoards of Indians and, by the doorway to the workshop, there appeared to be some sort of drag race going on involving three or four of the exquisitely crafted cars.

Sam watched, entranced, as the collection of dolls seated in the middle of the shop floor engaged in silent, amiable conversation over the tea party that was taking place, wooden fruit and vegetables strategically position by each one. Little wooden arms waved animatedly and heads turned left and right, all the better to continue the conversation.

"This is not exactly what I was expecting," Dean hissed in Sam's ear. Sam turned to see his own bemusement reflected in his brother's face. Dean seemed to be particularly fascinated by the drag race and the collection of role play toys which were trying very hard to build a house with the building blocks he'd last seen sitting on a pile of unwanted gifts, waiting to be re-shelved.

"Me neither," Sam agreed. On reflection, he supposed his voice was, perhaps, a touch on the loud side. As one, the toys ceased to move, the previously amicable silence turning heavy and threatening. Then, moving like a well-oiled machine, every eye in the place turned menacingly to look at the Winchesters. Even toys without eyes managed to face the brothers. Dean couldn't suppress a shudder as the car headlights, train funnels, and even the wooden bananas turned their stance toward him.

Reaching slowly into his jacket pocket, Dean fumbled for the flask of holy water he had brought with him, knowing as he did so that Sam was doing exactly the same thing.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was hesitant, uncertain. He'd never come across a situation like this before and he honestly had no idea how they should be handling it. Glancing down at the silver flask in his hand, and checking Dean's, he looked up at the now frozen tableau before them. It didn't take a genius to work out that there was no way he and Dean could douse the entire stock with water. Hell, they didn't even know if the water would work. He had salt in his pocket too but he was even less certain that would have any effect on the toys.

Dean shrugged his shoulders. "I have no idea, dude," he admitted, unscrewing the cap. He extended his arm, clutching the flask loosely between his fingers. He flicked an experimental drop at the nearest toy, a perfect replica of a motorbike complete with sidecar.

"Dean, I don't think that's going to do anything," Sam told him. "And even if it does, we've got, what? Two flasks of water. Against..." he gestured round the room. "We don't have enough water, dude."

Dean surveyed the scene carefully, mentally calculating how much water they had between them. He bit his lip in contemplation. "You're right," he agreed. "But what do you suggest we do?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but whatever he was going to say never made it past his lips as Dean suddenly grabbed hold of his sleeve and pulled him violently to the side. Stumbling slightly before regaining his balance, Sam glared at Dean. "What the hell..." he started, but broke off as another of the toys flew over their heads, settling itself back on the shelf where it belonged. Dean just raised his eyebrows and pointed at the flurry of activity that had suddenly broken out in the room.

Almost as if the toys were being operated by a central command post, they were all heading back to where they presumably had been at closing time. Taking the direct approach, the wooden vehicles drove in straight lines back to where they should be, while other wooden articles were crawling, sliding or, in some cases, flying back to their bases. Dean and Sam ducked and dodged, barely avoiding the soldiers marching over their feet. Dean instinctively hit out with the holy water still in his hand, but as soon as the liquid left the flask, the intended target had moved on. The toys were determined and fast. Too fast for conventional hunting weapons and neither brother was willing to go down the bullets and rock salt route.

A lull in the frantic toy retreat tempted Dean and Sam out of their hiding places. Somehow in the tumult they had managed to separate, Dean ending up by the counter, Sam crouching beside one of the display shelf units. Edging his way forward, Sam decided that, machismo be damned, there was safety in numbers. He was pretty sure neither he nor Dean would ever be bragging about this particular incident in the hunting community they hovered on the fringes of. Bent at the waist he shuffled in the general direction of his brother, concentrating hard on locating a relatively safe route through the few remaining toys on the floor. Just as he thought he had one, a well-built doll flew at his head. Caught by surprise, Sam only just managed to avoid a direct hit to the head, settling instead for a clip on the shoulder. Through the shock and sting he heard Dean snorting with laughter.

"It's not funny, man!" he exclaimed, offended.

Dean, however, couldn't help himself. "Dude," he snickered, "you just got hit on by a chick!" and he dissolved into a fit of the giggles, leaning heavily on the counter to support himself.

Sam glared his sternest glare but in the face of Dean's hysterics it was impossible to hold a grudge. Retribution wasn't far away though. Almost before Dean had recovered from his giggles, a toy hammer flew across the room, intent on returning to its workbench which was sitting just behind Dean. Hurtling through the air, not stopping for any obstruction, the hammer slammed into his wrist, sending a shockwave of pain up his arm and down the nerves in his fingers, numbing both wrist and hand.

"Crap!" he cried out, pulling his arm in to his body, cradling the rapidly swelling wrist with his other hand.

"You okay?" Sam's irritation at his brother quickly turned to concern as he heard the pain in his voice.

"Yeah," Dean hissed. "But that hammer is dust!"

"Dude, relax. It didn't mean to hit you." Sam straightened up. The shop was back to how it should have been, all the goods safely back where they belonged and peace and quiet had settled over the shop. "It was just trying to get home." Sam pointed to where the little workbench was sitting, all its parts neatly in the right slots.

"Home? How the hell can a hammer have a home, Sam?" Dean coughed, a little embarrassed by how high pitched his voice had risen. "That's gonna bruise," he complained.

"Live with it, Dean." Sam gave his brother's injured limb a cursory glance. "You'll do," he announced. He leant back against the counter, surveying the contents of the shop. "What d'you think is going on here then?"

When Dean didn't immediately reply, Sam twisted his head to the side. Dean was as still as a statue and Sam recognized the look. The older hunter had picked up on something. Trusting his brother's instincts implicitly, Sam reached for the gun tucked into his waistband. Turning back to Dean he raised quizzical eyebrows. In return, Dean put a finger to his lips and pointed at the counter, gesturing downwards. In the silence Sam could now hear it too. The soft sound of breathing. Someone or something was behind the counter and whatever it was, it wasn't made of wood.

Moving in perfect harmony they moved to either side of the counter, weapons drawn, ready for anything. Pulling a flashlight out of his jacket, Dean flicked it on, illuminating a huddled figure crouching beneath the worktop, head down and knees drawn up.

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The Winchester Chronicles