Then:

The growl was low and deep, almost too low to hear over the storm.

A low, harsh huffing.

Heavy, wet breathing, getting closer.

Something big.

It was toying with him.

Stalking him.

He couldn't run, couldn't move. His heart pounded in his ears as he rolled his eyes, but there was nothing to see.

But he could hear it snarling. Claws clicked on stone as the thing circled the chair that held him motionless. And he could smell it now, the oily odor of rank fur, the rancid stench of its breath as it brushed his face.

A strangled whimper lodged in his throat as thick saliva dripped on his cheek.

He tried to turn his head away but something soft restricted him.

The thing was on him, crushing, slashing him to the bone with teeth and claws he couldn't see.

He still couldn't move.

But he could scream.

Dean's eyes flew open. His heart pounded hard enough to shake his body, loud enough that he chanced a glance across the narrow space between the motel room beds. Sam lay on his stomach, face turned away. June was curled into a featureless furball at his brother's side. Neither stirred.

Releasing a long, shaky breath, Dean wiped his sweaty face with the sheet. He rolled over, putting his back to Sam and June. He stared at the space between the room's drawn drapes until it glowed with early morning sunlight.

Now:

Memphis, TN

Four weeks after the events of 'Third Eye Blind'

"I'm borrred..."

Dean lowered his newspaper to look over at June. She hung head down off their motel suite's shabby sofa, her back on the seat, her ankles hooked over the back. Before he got his mouth open, though, Sam beat him to it.

"Never say that!" he told her, half-serious. "It's a sure way to invite disaster. And straighten up, that can't be good for your wound."

"It's healed, Sam." June somersaulted onto her feet and tossed her hair back off her face. "You know it is. I don't know why you keep babyin' me." She bounced like she was skipping rope. "There, you didn't feel one thing rattlin' around loose inside, did ya, and you know it's been at least a week since I've coughed. "

"June..."

She sank to her knees between Sam's legs, her hands on his thighs and her face turned up to his. For the first time in a long time, she looked about sixteen again. Funny how she could turn the whole jail-bait thing on and off like that.

"Come on, honey. I know you're going stir-crazy, and I bet Dean is too. I'm not asking to go slay a nest of vampires, but can't we go out and just have a little fun tonight, like normal people do on a Saturday?"

Normal. Did any of them have a clue what the word really means? The last time he'd even glimpsed normal in the rearview mirror was. . . Dean shoved the thought away and grinned before she caught scent or whatever the hell she did when she went all over-share and touchy-feely. "Hate to break it to you, Nose Marie," Dean said, "But normal people we ain't."

"Thus the like normal people. It's called simile. Google it. S-i-m-i-l-e." She looked back up at his brother and her voice turned coaxing. "Please Sam? We haven't done anything just for fun in ages."

Sam looked at her, then over at Dean. Dean didn't need freaky Hound-fu to read Sam's mind. He'd seen that expression before. Sam may be tagged a messiah figure now, but between them, Sam was still being way too careful about taking charge, because of the Ruby goat-fuck, and right now, that uneasy ongoing plea for trust meant asking permission, or at least for acceptance.

"Hey, don't look at me for arguments against goin' out and havin' fun." Dean lifted spread hands.

"You comin'?" Sam asked. His expression, his voice—hell, his whole over-grown body—relaxed just a fraction. Just enough for June to glance up at him and then grin at Dean as if he'd granted some huge favor. Somewhere in her psyche, Dean was pretty sure a fluffy tail was wagging madly.

"I've got the keys," Dean pulled them out of his pocket to dangle from a finger.

"Yay!" June exulted, jumping up and tearing around the end of the couch. "But hang on a minute, I need to change!"

"Change into what?" Dean called after her. "The shaggy dog act not workin' for you anymore?"

"You're slippin', sugar, if that's the best you can do."

Sam gathered up his own keys, wallet and phone with an indulgent smirk on his face.

Dean did the three pocket slap then shrugged on his jacket. "Hurry it up, Tinkerbell. That closet's not big enough to get lost in."

"Geez, get a grip, sugar! I'm out of practice putting clothes on fast, y'know!"

"That reminds me. I've been thinkin' about how you could pull your own weight around here," Dean called to her.

"Oh yeah?"

"Ever considered a career in the lucrative world of exotic dance?"

She snickered. "Actually, yes, but I'm too short and too freckled. And I never was able to think of a really good stripper name."

"Bebe LeStrange," Sam offered.

June laughed and came back out, doing a little two-step as she zipped up her boots mid-stride. "I kinda like that one."

She'd ditched her usual convent-orphan sack dress for jeans and a loose sort of top that threatened to slide off a shoulder at slightest provocation, a brightly colored strap from something else peeking out to crush a man's hopes. In other words, she looked like any other twenty-something woman going out for the night, with friends.

"Urban camouflage?" he inquired.

"Huh?" She cocked her head as she looked up at him.

"Or are you not expecting any trouble tonight?" Dean gave her an exaggerated look up and down.

Sam tucked his pistol into a waistband holster inside the back of his own jeans and spectated, his expression noncommittal.

"Well, no more trouble than usual." June glanced down at her own clothing, as if she'd forgotten momentarily what she had on. She lifted an eyebrow at Dean, a hint of playful challenge in her eyes. "I'm a little surprised that you even notice what I have on."

Sam's every whim, she instantly obeyed like a Kennel Club champion. Him, he got lip half the time if there wasn't imminent blood-splatter. "It's tactical, Fido. If things go sideways, you're not going to do us any good tangled up in a ball of laundry."

"Oh." Obviously, that reset the status-quo for her. "No worries, I can shift out of this no problem, everything's loose enough."

"Ok, then where's your backup?" he challenged. There was an intermittent strip of pale skin showing between jeans and shirt as she moved. Not much, but enough to see there was nothing hidden in her waistband and no suspicious pocket-bulges either.

"In my Flashbang," she informed him, expression smug.

"Your what?" Dean scowled at that little smirk. He had the feeling he was being set up for a punch-line.

"It's tactical," Sam interjected, as he caught her wrist to abort whatever move she was about to make towards the bottom of her shirt.

"And yes I'm packin', sugar, same as always, so if we're finished playing fashion police?" She twisted her wrist free of Sam's loose hold to grab Sam's hand instead. She pulled as if to tow him bodily to the door. "Come onnnn- the night's wastin'!"

Sam grabbed his jacket. Dean was halfway out the door. June wasn't the only one going stir-crazy from too many days cooped up in hospital and motel rooms with only worry and unpleasant memories for a distraction.

-oOo-

"Either of you got any idea which way to head?" Dean asked as he backed out of their space. He braked at the end of the parking lot, awaiting further suggestions.

"Not me," Sam shrugged.

"The Gutter," June said.

"Not askin' where you'll wind up, Yapster," Dean answered.

"Then why not The Gutter?" she persisted. "We can start and finish there. No wasted drinking time. Seriously, guys, it's a bar and grill in an old bowling alley. It's the only place I know of in Memphis, but since y'all don't know any place, why not check it out?"

"What do you think?" Dean looked over at Sam. He could use some dinner soon, so the grill part sounded as good as the bar.

"Sounds a lot like that dump in Arkansas," Sam answered. He didn't look thrilled by that comparison.

"That was a helluva fun night," Dean grinned.

Sam rubbed his head. "For you. I think I still have a scar from that bottle."

"Nah, I stitched you up right," Dean assured him and glanced back at June. "Which way, Huckleberry Hound?"

"Southwest, towards the river."

"Oh, that's precise." Dean pulled into the street and headed into the dense rush hour traffic of central Memphis.

June leaned over the back of the front seat, a makeshift, not entirely reliable GPS who breathed down his neck and talked in his ear. "All I said was that I knew of The Gutter. I've never actually been there."

Despite some significant glances towards Sam, his brother mostly gazed out the side window at the passing city. From what Dean could see of his face, Sam wasn't particularly annoyed by his dog's utter worthlessness as a road map.

It took a while and a few illegal U-turns, but they finally found the place. The Gutter turned out to be the lone commercial holdout in an area given over to industry and shipping, but it looked to be a few rungs up from their usual dives.

From the outside, at least, the place didn't seem foreboding. As soon as they stepped inside the door, though, the hair on the back of Dean's neck prickled as a good portion of the bar's patrons gave them split-second, furtive perusal before going back to their beer mugs and pool shots.

It felt like the last time he'd walked into a biker bar unaware, but there were more four-wheel drive pickups in the lot than Harley choppers. Sam's cautious, tense posture telegraphed that his brother noticed they'd made some sort of notable entrance too.

"Chill guys, just Hounds," June whispered, then lifted her chin and strode out in front of them as if she was a general reviewing the troops.

Dean lifted his eyebrow at Sam and Sam answered with a tiny shake of his head. Great. Just how he wanted to spend his first free evening in god knew when, as the center of attention in a honky-tonk kennel. He kept pace with Sam. Follow the dog to the bar and act natural seemed to be their entire game plan here. At least the bartender didn't appear to find them more interesting than any of the other patrons lounging on the stools. A perfectly normal exchange as they ordered drinks.

June knocked back her shot and then gave the bartender a withering look when he set a glass of champagne in front of her. "I didn't ask for this."

"From one of the gentlemen at the corner table." The bartender nodded that way with a slight smile.

June followed his nod and her chin lifted to that haughty angle again.

"Tell him thank you, but whatever she wants, she'll order herself," Sam said, pushing the glass back.

"No, don't." June captured the wine. "Whatever needs to be said to him, I'll say myself."

Sam stared at her but she didn't duck her head and give in like she always had before when she did anything to challenge his authority or piss him off in general. "Is this a problem?" he breathed, almost too low for Dean to hear, even standing right beside him.

"It could be," she answered, just as quietly, her gaze steady on his. "But not for either of you."

"You're sure?" Dean interjected.

"Certain," she answered, without breaking the staring contest she was having with Sam.

Sam dropped his eyes first. That had to be a bad precedent. Never let your dog get the upper hand, even he knew that. Dean felt like he missed some subtext somewhere in that clandestine exchange. Sam's emotions mumbled away a distant corner of Dean's mind, uncertainty and uneasiness the top notes in a mix as enigmatic as the byplay between his brother and June. He was getting more than tired of being on the outside looking in most of the time now.

"Do what you have to," Sam shrugged, and gestured for another beer. She patted his chest then headed over to the corner, bubbly in hand and a cool arrogance on her face.

Dean took his beer and tapped Sam's shoulder. Sam looked away from June's trajectory long enough to follow Dean's lead over to a vacant pool table. "Care to explain what just happened?" Dean asked, his question masked by the sharp clacks of his breaking shot.

"Hound business." Sam lined up his shot. "Some challenge to her rank or authority, I think."

"You don't know?" Dean looked across the bar to where June sat beside a dark-haired man, obviously deep in intense conversation. As soon as she had taken a seat, the three other burly specimens present vacated the table in too damn much of a hurry. He jerked his chin in their direction. "That looks like need-to-know intel to me."

"I've got the gist. It's only Pack protocol, nothing we'll need to get mixed up in." Sam stepped back as the cue ball dropped into the pocket. "Damn."

"But you're off your game anyway." Dean chalked his cue. "So give me the for dummies version."

"The man who sent her the wine is a Hound," Sam answered, as Dean took a careless shot.

"So I gathered, and speaking of, that's a factoid she should have told us before we headed to the bar." Dean straightened and did his own brand of eyeball challenging.

"Agreed, and I'll talk to her about that later," Sam nodded, and for the second time broke a stare first.

Dean's uneasiness ratcheted up another notch.

"We're in no danger here," Sam added before Dean could say anything.

"Then why the nerves?" Dean pressed.

"It's because—" Sam broke off, looking past Dean. "Later," he breathed, almost silently.

Dean turned to see June approaching them, a determined expression tightening her face. The dark-haired man attached to her crooked arm was a few inches shorter than him and Sam, but he made up for it in beef. June pulled him right up into close conversational distance. Almost too close. Dean was primed to stare the stranger down if he showed any attitude, but the other man wouldn't quite meet his eyes.

"Sam, Dean," June's voice barely carried over the bar noise, even at almost arm's length. "This is Jim Matthews, Pack Leader of Memphis Prime. He owns the bar. Jim, these are my Hunters, Sam the Joshua and Dean, his Caleb. "

Dean shot Sam a look and got a 'roll with it' nod in return. That did it. He and Sam were having a serious discussion about all this mysterious Hunter-Hound shit as soon as they got out of this creepy bar.

Matthews gave them that odd submissive head-duck and nod June used when Sam was all over her case about something. "I praise the Father I've been blessed to meet you both," he said, his voice as low as June's. "The Memphis Pack honors you and extends every welcome."

"Uh..." Dean said. "Thanks." That sounded like a formal religious script to him, and those always made him almost as wary as ominous chanting in malevolent Latin.

"I bless the Father for honoring me as your Hunter Joshua. May his will be done. My gratitude to your Pack, with that of my Caleb and the Major," Sam answered smoothly.

Dean shot him a skeptical eyebrow lift. For claiming to not know much, his brother seemed to have the canine catechism down pat.

"Is there anything we should know about in your territory, Pack Leader?" Sam asked, ignoring that facial comment.

Jim gave them the submission head-duck with a shrug. "We do have an escalating situation, but it's nothing we can't handle on our own, Hunter Joshua."

"I'm sure it isn't," Sam agreed, "But now that we're here, you don't have to put your people at risk. What's the situation?"

Why was Sam volunteering their necks? Wasn't covering Hunter ass the Hound Prime Directive? Dean gave Sam a scowl that Sam ignored.

Jim flashed Sam a smile and jerked his head towards the rear of the place. "Would you care to go to the back and discuss it? Not everyone here tonight is privy to Pack business."

Dean could hardly keep himself from scanning the bar crowd again. 'Not everyone' meant that most were. That explained the unsettling ripple they made when they came inside. Dean swept a hand in front of him, wordlessly indicating Jim to go first.

Jim gave him another of those weird little nods and took June's arm again. As they went through the rest of the bar, Dean realized he could count the dogs by how many subtle head-dips they got as they passed.

They entered the kitchen and, as if it had been rehearsed, every person they passed sank to their knees, head bowed in submission. Dean's eyes widened as they rose and went about their duties after the group passed by.

"...the hell?" Dean whispered.

"Later," Sam whispered out of the side of his mouth.

"Y' better," Dean whispered back.

Jim led them into a perfectly normal, shabby office for a bar-owner. There were a couple of worn but comfortable leather armchairs in front of a desk that looked like it had seen D-day and maybe survived a few armed sorties of its own, judging from the scars in its finish.

Nothing on the walls seemed out of place: the usual brewery promotional calendar, legal licenses, nothing more off-beat than a couple of finger paintings probably done by Jim's kids, or would that be his puppies?

"Please," Jim told them as he went behind his desk. "Make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you anything to eat or drink?"

"No, thanks. I'm good." Dean sat down slowly. He'd lost his appetite halfway through the kitchen, and it wasn't because of the food.

"Thanks, maybe later." Sam sprawled in his chair like he owned the place— who knows? Maybe now he did. June plopped herself into Jim's desk chair and leaned back, as much at ease as Sam. Jim knelt beside her, as if that was normal. June rested a hand on the man's shoulder.

Dean looked from the Hounds to his brother. He definitely had the feeling he was the only one in the class who hadn't done the assigned reading. Sam looked back at him with a blandly blank expression and his emotions weren't any more informative.

Dean fell back on something he could still understand. "So what's this escalating situation?"

"You may have heard of the old Waverly Insane Asylum?" Jim began.

Sam nodded. "Didn't it almost burn to the ground in the 1890's?"

"There were a number of fires over the nineteenth century. They kept rebuilding it over the old foundations," Jim said, "Still do, actually. It's the Tri-County Mental Health and Development Center now. Houses a lot of disabled or disturbed indigents and the long-term mentally ill in addition to the usual short-term and out-patient care. Basically it's always been a refuge for any ill, lost or confused soul who has nowhere else to go."

"Even if they've shuffled off this mortal coil?" Dean put in.

Jim nodded. "It's long been known to be haunted. It's listed on several of those annoying ghost-hunter sites. The unused buildings on the grounds attract all kinds of kooks and crackpots."

"If this is a routine haunting," Sam asked, "Why do you think it warrants our attention, even as amusement?"

"That's the heart of it. We suspect it's something far beyond residuals or a vengeful that's taken up residence out there this year." He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a file. June took it from his hand and stood, moving back around the desk.

June knelt beside Sam's chair, with the same ritual grace the Pack Leader had displayed, and handed him the file. She looked over Sam's arm with interest as he opened the folder.

Dean moved over to lean against the back of Sam's chair and read over his shoulder. He let out a whistle at the photos. The first victim had only minor scratches over his torso. The last one was a mess of ragged slash wounds, ripped down to bone in spots. "That's no poltergeist showing off."

"These injuries," Sam said, "There's no mundane explanation for them?"

June left Sam to sit on the corner of Matthew's desk. Jim rose up off his knees and reclaimed his chair. That struck Dean as significant, in the light of recent weirdness, but nobody else in the room seemed to pay their relocation any attention.

Jim shook his head. "I know institutions like that have a bad reputation, but Tri-County's a tight ship and run right. There was nothing in the patients' rooms that could have inflicted those wounds, and the patients themselves had none of their own skin under their nails. The worst wounded is a quadriplegic."

"So none of the attacks have been on staff members or visitors?" June asked.

"Right. It's limiting itself to patients."

"A coward then," she sneered.

"Or a scavenger, going after the sickest of the herd," Jim nodded.

"Or it could be straight-up staff abuse," Dean countered.

"Always a possibility." Jim agreed. "Our next step in investigation would be to put Pack members on the inside, but now that you're here-" he inclined his head, "I turn the investigation over to you, if you care to take an interest."

"With the full assistance of the Pack?" Sam added.

"Of course."

"What about the full assistance of the staff?" Dean asked.

Jim shook his head. "That's a complicating factor. The amateurs and trespassers have left such a lasting bad impression that the Director won't even consider a non-mundane explanation, much less allow an overt investigation team to set foot in the facilities."

"What do you think?" Sam asked Dean.

At least he was being let in on this much of the deal. Dean shrugged. "Couldn't hurt to slide in undercover and check it out. Be a good way to get Precious over there back up to speed."

"May I keep this?" Sam asked Jim, lifting the folder.

"Everything I have is yours, Hunter Joshua," Jim answered.

"Thank you, Pack Leader." Sam gave the man a cool nod, as if Jim only confirmed common courtesy.

Sam stood up. "June, are you ready to leave?"

Why was Sam even asking? Normally, he simply walked off and she trotted along behind without a word between them.

"If it's ok with you," she answered, "I'd like to visit with Jim for a while."

Sam nodded. Dean resigned himself to watching and being watched by Hounds for the rest of what promised to be a very uncomfortable evening.

"We can look after ourselves for a couple of hours," Sam told her.

"Then I'll catch up to y'all later." She smiled at him with a little toss of her head, back to normal again, all the queenly demeanor vanished.

Dean's eyes narrowed. Sure, they could look after themselves, but why was she letting them do it without kicking and screaming? Wasn't that long ago that she got nervous when he or Sam went out of sight into the men's room.

"Call and we'll swing back and pick you up," Sam continued.

"I'll be happy to take her wherever she needs to go," Jim offered, his voice so deferential that it was almost not an interruption at all.

"Thanks, Jim," Sam murmured with his own version of a stately nod of acknowledgment.

"And where I need to go better not be back to our room," June answered Sam, a teasing lilt in her voice, "At least, not before midnight, you hear?"

"I dunno. I've got research to do now." Sam lifted the folder in his hand.

"Come on, Sam," Dean grumbled. "It can wait."

Sam's brows pulled together and he glanced towards Jim. "But if this thing attacks again. . ."

"It won't," Matthews assured him. "At least, not tonight. It's well within the spacing between attacks, so relax and enjoy Memphis."

"We all agreed, tonight's for having fun, remember?" June cajoled, all but wagging a tail she wasn't manifesting at the moment.

"Barely," Sam smiled.

"Let me refresh your memory," Dean told Sam, with a clap on the back that was a few degrees more solid than usual. "Jim, it's been good to meet you. We'll touch base with you tomorrow on Tri-County."

"The honor's mine," Jim smiled back, and stepped towards them. To Dean's relief, he did nothing more unconventional than offer his hand. "Enjoy your evening and I'll work on my end to get credentials arranged for you both."

"Have fun, y'all. I'll catch up in a little while," June added with a cheery wave as Jim closed the office door between them.

A passing busboy dropped to his knees and bowed his head as they went through the hall, the kitchen staff did the genuflection wave again as they went through and Sam nodded benediction on them all like the Hound pope. Dean lengthened his stride to get the hell out of bizarro world as quickly as possible.

"Care to explain all the bowing and scraping in there, Your Highness?" Dean snapped as soon as the heavy steel service door closed behind them.

"Proper respect." Sam shrugged. "At least, that's how they see it. We're a big deal for them."

"Complete with pomp, circumstance and liturgy," Dean grumbled, heading for the car. "And most important, the royal 'we,' since it's obvious you haven't seen any need to clue me in on all this crap."

Sam kept stride. "It's not like that. I didn't think it would come up this soon." He went around to the passenger side and paused till Dean tossed him the keys over the roof and they were both inside. "Besides, I know you don't want to be involved."

"I've been involved since she landed on the hood," Dean snapped as he started the car, "and I'm getting damned sick of being left out of the loop."

The expression on Sam's face didn't change. The emotional message broadcasting over Hound radio was a damn sight more informative.

Dean knew Sam wasn't getting as fine-tuned a reading on his own internal simmering mess. He'd have to use his words, like that always worked out so well for them. "You want me to start trusting you again? Keeping me in the dark on crap like this is exactly why I'm having a real hard time doing that."

A hit of hurt and hostility spiked Sam's emotional chatter. His expression tightened and he glanced away. Dean could feel as well as see his brother bleed all that tension off, maybe into June, maybe into his own self-control. "I'm sorry," Sam said, his voice low and neutral.

He turned back to Dean, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "You're right. I should have told you everything, as soon as I heard it myself."

The utter sincerity of that apology, audible and otherwise, smoothed the sharp edges of Dean's own emotions. "True, but I guess neither of us have ever been into full disclosure, even at the best of times."

A slight smile tugged at Sam's mouth as he drew his hand back. "Makes it even harder to remember to pass the conversations along when it feels like I'm talking to myself."

"Guess you really do have a feminine side now, Francis."

Dean's smile broadened Sam's, and Sam gave a little jerk of his chin back towards the bar. "Speaking of, we need to get out of here before she and half the Pack barrels out to ask why we haven't left yet."

"Hound radio sucks," Dean groused and pulled out. "Where to, Your Holiness?"

Sam flicked a languid hand. "Find Beale Street, and thou shall receive enlightenment at B. B. King's, my son." Then he dropped the act. "Or, at least a big platter of ribs."

"I always handle enlightenment better on a full stomach," Dean agreed as he aimed the Impala towards the heart of Memphis.