A/N: Yay! Another chapter and this one has a little ass behind it, pardon my french. Not a tone of action, but I figured we could all deal with a little hurt/comfort, right?

Reviews are love-love-love, and they encourage me to keep writing...hint hint. LOL.

But really, let me know if events are moving too fast or too slow, because I want the story to stay interesting.

As Always,

EverReader

Disclaimer: Not my sandbox...

Tuesday's Child- Chapter Sixteen

"The River Lethe"

Book paced the empty room, footsteps echoing in the old abandoned house. He'd found the place on instinct, like a compass needle homing in on North, and he doubted that was a coincidence.

It felt familiar, dusty and decrepit, and if Book tilted his head the right way, it was almost as if he could imagine himself sitting just there, near the wall, talking to Dean. Perhaps they were arguing, he imagined two brothers as dissimilar as he and Dean must have argued more than he remembered. All siblings did, they couldn't have been the exception. Or perhaps they had been plotting and planning.

Dean, cleaning the guns he was so fond of, and Book, no, Sam, for he would have been Sam then, he would have been doing research.

Had Bela shown up that time too? Her presence now almost ached, like a wound that hadn't quite healed yet, and he wouldn't be surprised.

Sometimes Book felt like his other life was haunting him, a second shadow dogging his every step, and if he could just turn fast enough, he could catch a glimpse of it in the corner of his eye.

Tonight was one of those nights, every word spoken held a second echo, every sight screamed of deja vu, every step he took felt like an old acquaintance.

Which suited his purposes just fine.

He'd already made up his mind. Three bodies were three too many, and he had to do something.

He even knew what he had to do.

He had to remember.

Not everything. Just...enough.

He and Dean had solved this case before, and he had no doubt that given enough time, they could do it again.

But time wasn't on his side, and he had enough blood on his hands already.

But how to go about it?

For all his reading and travels, he didn't actually perform a lot of spell craft. His psychic powers and prior-life memories were often enough to tide him over, and Gabe had never been too keen on Book learning.

Like Book, Gabe had enough power to gain what he wanted without spell craft, and Anna had never really wanted to learn.

So how to remember what he specifically wanted, and not the rest?

How to remember anything at all, for that matter? He had spent a great deal of his life trying not to remember, for sanity and safety's sake.

How to even begin fishing the right memories out?

Usually they either came, or they didn't. Too many to count, and yet, when things were desperate, he found himself still forgetting something vital. Often, the harder he pushed, the faster what he wanted retreated.

Gabe would be furious if he knew what Book was attempting to do. It was exactly the type of thing he had feared when Book had first decided to make contact with Dean. Book was risking everything, perhaps for nothing.

They might be about to crack the case without any psychic assistance at all. The ghost might be through, there might be no further victims. Maybe he'd find what he was looking for, fry his own brain in the process, die of starvation on the floor of an abandoned house and be discovered ten years from now by some homeless man.

Hell of a way to avert the apocalypse.

Maybe he should have tried this sooner.

He forced himself to stand still, to marshal his thoughts, to calm his breathing. Exhaling, he sat gracefully on the floor in a shaft of moonlight.

He only knew one way to try and go after a memory. It was the same technique he'd used the few times he'd actively tried to trigger a vision, and it was painful as hell, if not outright dangerous.

This time he wasn't just looking for surface information, for the scraps and detritus of psychic information that floated like a soup around everyone, all the time.

He wasn't just searching the world around him, the past or present of some real person or thing. He was trying to sound out the depths of a time line that no longer existed. He was literally trying to remember a past that had technically never happened, in order to try and change a future that possibly never would.

The physics alone were a nightmare, and Book was really only guessing as he fumbled along. He was singular, in the whole of human existence, even Gabe knew of no one else like him. He was the origin point of a whole new reality. It was like reading a book and trying to back track to what the original rough draft might have contained simply by looking at the finished product.

This time he needed to go deep, and a map wouldn't really help him.

He reached into his hoodie and pulled out a pen and a crumpled sheet of notebook paper. He had jotted down some names of ships the day before, but now he was more interested in the blank side.

He inhaled and then exhaled again, deeply, pulling the air as far into his lungs as he could before releasing it. Closing his eyes, he began moving his hand, guiding the pen in ever-tightening, concentric circles.

The point wasn't the drawing, the point was to occupy the vigilant, busy part of his mind, while the rest of him was laid wide open, vulnerable and bare.

He had to open his mind to whatever would come, and hope his own focus, his recent experiences, even the house he was sitting in was enough to guide his memories, because with this particular technique, Book was simply a bystander in his own mind.

Tonight, he was going to take a walk in Sam's shoes.

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At first, Dean was simply driving in circles, hoping to see something that might give him a clue as to Book's whereabouts.

Gradually, he found himself focusing on the far east of town, and with nothing better to go on, he went with it. A voice was chanting in his head, a screaming sense of urgency, and more than once he'd had to force himself to let up on the accelerator or risk being pulled over for a speeding ticket.

Finally unable to sit still any longer, even in a moving vehicle, he'd pulled over on a half-empty road, full of falling down houses decorated with foreclosure signs. It was as good of a place as any to start, and then Dean applied a very basic principle from his many years of hunting.

He hit the pavement.

Every house, checked top to bottom. He knew it was a long short, but Bela had mentioned that Book had a habit of squatting, and there were more foreclosures concentrated on these few blocks than anywhere else Dean had seen so far in Connor's Ferry.

He'd been at it nearly an hour when he'd practically stumbled onto the old grey house, nearly hidden as it was in overgrown thorn bushes, like that stupid castle in that kid's movie.

He'd entered cautiously, his instincts telling him that this was the one. It was exhilarating and frightening, the easy way his emotions seemed to rise like the tide where the kid was concerned. Dean had spent years wondering if something fundamental inside him was broken, almost accepting it as fact by this point, because Dean simply didn't seem to feel the way other people seemed to feel. He didn't hurt, he didn't love, he didn't care about anything, not really.

Until now, anyway.

Easing in, he saw no signs of activity, no lights or voices, but that driving urgency forced him on. He could hear the sounds of faint scratching now, like rats or the dry rustle of fallen leaves.

Or the sound of pen on paper.

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Sam's memories were familiar and bizarre, a too tight skin that Book tried to slip himself into. Little bits and pieces rushed at him like overeager puppies, and Book's instinct was too pull back to avoid getting trampled. He forced himself to hold steady, however, riding out the tempest as best he could.

"Dad wants us to pick up where he left off. Saving people, hunting things the family business..."

Familiar, but useless.

"You have to watch out for me, alright?...Even now, everyone around me dies..."

Painful, still useless.

"...I look over at you and all I can think is...that stupid son of a bitch brought me here..."

God, useless...

There was just so much...and his head was killing him. His hands and feet had gone numb, he had no real idea how long he'd been at it at this point.

"Kind of makes you wonder...how many existed just because people believed in them?..."

"BOOK!" The hands on his shoulders were rough, though Book could barely feel them as his eyes shot open and then almost immediately tried to close again.

"Book, talk to me, dammit. Open your eyes, Book! Christ, what the hell were you thinking?" The voice was familiar, too familiar, and at first Book thought it was just another half-memory.

Sensation was starting to return to his limbs, however, and the pain centered him a little.

"Dean." He finally managed a word, and fortunately, it appeared to be the right word.

"I'm here, I'm right here. What were you thinking, kid? Hell, what were you even trying to do? Christ, you're sheet white dude...freezing in here..." Dean was rambling a bit, and Book just let the sound of his voice carry him along for a few minutes. Vaguely he was aware of being levered up, feet numb, wooden blocks that dragged and tripped when he commanded them to walk, but Dean didn't slow, simply holding Book tightly and maneuvering them out of the house on the power of fear and irritation alone.

They'd probably been in the car for several minutes before Book finally came the rest of the way back to himself, like a sleepwalker realizing they'd been awake for several minutes without knowing it.

"..Dean?" Book asked again, blinking as he looked around the Impala. The sun was just beginning to rise, and Dean had the heat blasting. Book shivered anyway as he met Dean's furious and frightened eyes.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Dean said harshly, and Book recoiled a little from his fury.

"Three." He mumbled, feeling more than a little hungover. He'd lost hours, apparently, none of them to sleep and he felt all the worse for it.

"Three? Three what?" Dean said, hands clenched on the steering wheel in anger.

"Bodies. Three bodies. Had to...try something." Book mumbled tiredly, slumping over against the door, feeling boneless and disjointed.

"Yeah, that looks like it was a fucking great idea, dude. Just fucking grand. You were all alone in there, dude. What if you had passed out? Or been attacked? What if I hadn't found you?" Dean spoke the words machine-gun fast, brutal and clipped.

"I'm okay." Book mumbled, trying to sit up straighter. "And, why does it matter, Dean. The case is what matters. People are dying." He realized, with a start, that something had been draped over him...a jacket.

Dean's leather jacket, and the memories were swarming him again.

"Yeah, like you if you don't start using your damn head. I care because I brought you here. You're my responsibility, and I'm not like those other assjack hunters who don't care if the psychics helping them get hurt or not. I don't know who you've worked with in the past, but I'm not them, got it?" Dean was almost shouting.

"Dean...I came here on the bus. And, last I checked, I'm an adult." Book pointed out tiredly.

Dean snorted. "Adult, right. Says the kid who nearly killed himself in an abandoned house by making really stupid choices. And your happy ass might have come on the bus, but you stayed because I asked you too, and that makes you my responsibility. Deal with it." With a screech, he pulled into the parking lot of their motel.

Book winced at the echo of Dean's door slamming, rubbing his aching forehead wearily. "Dean, I was just..." He stopped, trying to frame his words correctly, "Look, we needed intel-"

"You. Could. Have. Died." Dean said, gritting his teeth as he enunciated each word. Without a second thought, he'd walked over and opened Book's door for him, slinging his arm over his shoulders. Though Book had three or four inches on Dean in height, Dean was broader in the shoulders, and Book's tendency toward slenderness made it easy enough to manhandle him towards the motel room.

"Wrong...room." Book mumbled as Dean guided him towards his motel room. Absently, he started reaching in his pocket for the key to his own room, but Dean batted his hand away irritatedly.

"Yeah. Not so much. You can barely stand. You're gonna have to crash on the spare bed in my room for a couple of hours, at least until you can walk on your own." Dean said, cutting his eyes over towards Book's for a split second before looking away again.

"I'm fine, Dean. Really. You...showed up before I got too deep." Book said placatingly.

"Too deep? Dude, I was calling your name for like, five minutes. You're lips were nearly blue. You were shaking like you were having a damn seizure. What the hell were you even looking for? The spirit? What the were you gonna do if you found him? Make him dinner?" Dean shook his head in disbelief. "It's like you need a keeper or something."

Book pulled back, or tried to, anyway, the myriad feelings brought on by Dean's comment were anything but positive, but once again, Dean's grip tightened.

"Don't even think about it." Dean warned, voice gone deep and gravelly, a tone that clearly stated Dean was near the end of his rope.

Dean somehow managed to unlock the motel door without letting go of Book, and then they did an awkward half-dance as Dean maneuvered Book to the far bed.

"The other bed...would have been less work." Book pointed out, his eyes already starting to fall closed.

Dean snorted again. "Yeah, well. Some crazy monster bursts in here with a bone to pick, he's dealing with my cranky ass first, kiddo. You can bat clean-up."

That was the last thing Book remembered before sleep overtook him.

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Dean watched the young man sleep, tossing a little every now and again. Dean had already put the blankets back on him twice, but he was beginning to think it was a lost cause.

His nerves were still shot, the fear that had overcome him when he'd literally stumbled over a practically comatose Book was refusing to die a quiet death.

He wasn't sure he'd ever been quite so worried and so pissed off at the same time. Obviously, Bela had been right to worry about Book, and quite frankly, that just pissed Dean off more.

As if thinking of her summoned her, like a demon or a spirit, his phone rang at that instant. Dean flipped it open quickly, not wanting the sound to awaken Book, who looked like he needed to sleep for another week, if not two.

"Tell me you've located Book." The clipped tones were nothing less than an order, and Dean found himself baring his teeth at the phone, as if the con artist could see him.

"I took care of it. I've got him, he's fine. Go away." Dean said, stating his terms as simply as he could.

"Yes, from your tone, I'm sure he is. Does he need a hospital? Psychics are more fragile than most hunters realize-" Bela started, and Dean snapped back reflexively-

"I said he's fine. He doesn't need a damn hospital. I know all about psychics, lady, this ain't my first rodeo. I know how to keep him safe."

"Hmmm." Bela replied in a tone that didn't hide her disbelief. "Well, he may be fine for now, but it won't last. Not if you don't crack this case. Book has committed, Dean. He's all in, now. If you don't come up with some answers, and fast, he'll just go looking again. But this spirit's mean, and it doesn't have a grave. Book's trying to catch the wind with this one, and you're going to watch your little friend get hurt. Unless..." Bela trailed off enticingly, and Dean gritted his teeth.

Glancing once more at the exhausted young man sleeping in the bed next to him, he turned away, walking towards the window as he growled lowly into the phone.

"What do you want?"

"Parley. I have information, and a plan. But I need both you and Book to pull it off." Bela replied without hesitation, the time for games now past.

"Leave Book out of it." Dean replied instantly, the whole point of working with the she-bitch was the cut Book some slack.

"Would that I could, Dean. But Marcia's the key to this little plan, and she's taken a shine to your boy. I'll come over this evening, and we'll make plans." Bela instructed.

"He doesn't get hurt." Dean insisted.

Bela sighed. "Dean, I've met Book's brother and trust me, the last thing I want is to be on Gabe's bad side. This is absolutely the safest course of action for everyone, especially Book. I'll see you two in a couple of hours."

Dean snapped his phone shut, turning once more to look over at the young man who'd put him through so much fear and anxiety in the last few hours.

With a sigh, he walked back over and pulled the covers back onto the bed.

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The dream tumbled around him, bloody and dark, too many echos and too many shadows for anything to really be clear.

But one thing was.

He'd found the one he was searching for.

"Are you hurt?"

He wanted to rip open the bars of the cage with his bare hands, the fury of seeing the kid he'd sworn to protect, dirty and bruised and locked in the dark like an animal.

"No..."

The relief in the other man's eyes was easy to see, unlike Dean, the younger man didn't feel the need to hold back so many of his emotions.

"Damn, it's good to see you."

Dean wanted to say more, so much more, to pour out his fear, his terror that he'd lost him, that he'd never see his little brother again...

"All right, these locks lock like they're going to be a bitch. Have you seen them?"

Dean wanted to know what he was hunting, because someone was gonna pay for this.

"Yeah, dude. They're just people."

The sadness and sickness, the confusion in the younger man's eyes made his heart feel like it was breaking, and he used humor as a shield.

Dean shook his head in relieved disbelief. "And they jumped you? Must be getting a little rusty there, kiddo."

Time lapsed, or leapt forward, the way it does in dreams, and now he wasn't looking for a person, he was looking for a key, so he could get his kid and get the hell out of there...

A struggle, with a demon dressed as a little girl, then a screaming pain in his shoulder.

The fear as he'd realized he;d made the wrong decision...

"You were gonna give him a chance..."

The sick realization that they were going to shot his brother like a dog in a cage...

If you hurt my brother, I'll kill you, I swear. I will kill you all..."

Dean jerked awake, heart pounding as the dream raced through his mind, fading almost as soon as he opened his eyes. He'd fallen asleep in a chair facing Book, he remembered now.

He hadn't wanted to go to sleep right away, in case the kid got sick or needed help, but he must have been more tired than he guessed, if his weird dreams were any indication.

A pounding sounded at the door, and Dean realized that must have been the sound that had awoken him.

A glance out the window showed that several hours must have passed, if the sun was any indication.

In the bed, Book sat up sleepily.

"Dean?" He said uncertainly, mussed and confused from sleep.

Dean stood silently, drawing his weapon as he advanced on the door and looked out the peep hole. Sighing, he turned back to Book.

"Relax. I made a deal with this particular devil." He said ruefully.

"What-" Book said, shaking his head to clear it.

"Good afternoon boys." Bela said, striding into the room.

Book groaned and summarily flopped back down, and Dean mentally echoed the sentiment.

"Relax. I've brought gifts." Bela said, setting down a shopping bad. "For you..." She turned to Dean, holding out a Styrofoam container, "Something deep fried containing bacon. I was quite specific about the bacon part. And for Book..." She reached into her other bag. "Some orange juice and a file that I think you'll find quite interesting."

Dean intercepted the orange juice before it could get to Book. Once he'd ascertained it hadn't been tampered with, he passed it over to the kid, who took it gratefully, along with a couple of aspirin Dean handed him. Then he opened the file and Dean opened his own food.

Looking up from the sandwich, he saw Book's eyebrows come together as he read.

"What is it?" He asked, setting his food down to walk closer.

Book handed him the file. "She's found the ship."

"Not just the ship, boys. I've found the spirit." Bela corrected archly.