Note: This story was written for spn_gen bigbang over on livejournal. To see the lovely art that was created for it, view the story on my account there (greeneyes_fan.)

As Dean drove out of Jericho, California, Sam threw back his head and laughed. With all the ugliness that went along with his family's lifestyle, he'd forgotten the thrill of hunting with his brother and the joy of a job well done. Still, it wasn't as if he could go back permanently, not now. And, sure enough, Dean asked.

"If we shag ass, we could get there by morning."

There were so many things Sam could have said. There's no way I can keep hunting with you, not now. The long drives without sleep, the fights and the beatings, it'll take me a week to recover from this little weekend road trip. And there's no way you'd understand.

All Sam said was, "Dean, the interview's in like ten hours. I gotta be there." Back to Stanford, where nobody dies if I can't keep up.

Then came the fire, and after that it didn't matter any more.

Two Years Earlier

Sam had broken with his father when he ran away to school at eighteen, but he and Dean kept in touch. For two years, he studied, moved ahead, met people, and worked summers to pay for what his scholarship didn't cover. By the end of his sophomore year, he had friends, his GPA was an admirable 3.86, and the prettiest girl on campus had just agreed to go out with him.

Which, of course, was when it all fell apart.

It started with a fall. Dean had always said tripping over his clown feet would be the death of him, and apparently Dean was right. Sam was moving out of his dorm after finals, carrying a load of books downstairs to a friend's car, when he tripped over abso-freaking-lutely nothing and landed on his right arm. It wasn't broken, didn't even bruise much, but it hurt plenty.

Two weeks later, he was trying to fix a bowl of cereal left-handed when Zach walked into the kitchen.

Zach frowned. "Your arm still hurts? You should get it looked at."

Sam shrugged. "It's not broken. What are they going to do?"

"Put a brace on it, maybe?"

"I'll think about it," Sam replied. And he did, for a whole ten minutes on his way to work. Sam had managed to find a full-time summer job as a lifeguard at the city beach, making use of all those swimming lessons Dad had forced on them. In the evenings, he worked at the library, shelving books, just as he did during the school year. The injury to his wrist didn't even get in the way, much, and he'd for damn sure hunted with worse.

The beach was pretty quiet, because it was a Monday and the weather was a trifle overcast. The library was much busier, having received a massive shipment of new books, and Sam's size and fitness had him drafted to help the moment he walked in.

Three hours of carrying and unpacking boxes had his wrist throbbing and stiff by the time he went home, and ice didn't help much. When Zach found him curled up on the couch, eyes squeezed shut and right arm cradled in his left, he was less than sympathetic.

"Seriously, man, enough is enough. Tomorrow's your day off at the beach, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Go to a doctor."

Campus health looked at his arm, x-rayed it, declared it sprained and ordered him to wear a brace and take Advil. Which was about as much as he'd expected to get out of that visit. His supervisor at the library didn't particularly like the brace, and ordered him to work data entry on the new books rather than toting and carrying. At the beach, he didn't bother wearing it. The supervisor didn't like any hint of lifeguards who were less than perfectly able, and it wasn't as if he needed his arms to yell at kids who couldn't figure out how to stay between the flags. In a pinch … well, he'd done tougher rescues with worse injuries before.

The brace helped a little, at least, his arm didn't ache so much from swinging when he walked. Still, it got stiffer than ever and seemed to hurt more at night. While it was a relief not to be lifting any more boxes, even the typing seemed to make his wrist more painful. His left arm began to ache from the awkward business of compensating for his injury, and his neck and back grew sore as well. He needed the work, though; he needed to pay for food and rent until September and build a stock of cash for the school year.

The pain faded into the background, until one morning in mid-July when he reached into the kitchen cabinet for a glass. He grabbed it and slid it towards himself, but once he reached the end of the shelf, the glass fell through his fingers and shattered on the hard wooden floor.

Sam stood there a moment, staring. His hand just…didn't…work. It didn't even hurt much, it just refused to grasp. This time, the campus health center had no glib answers for him, but wrote the referrals that the college insurance plan required. That night, Dean called, and for the first time since leaving for school, Sam neither picked up nor returned his call. His family didn't need to hear about this, and if Dean heard his voice, he'd know something was wrong.

The function in his hands seemed to come and go, just like the pain, which made it hard to diagnose.

Weeks passed, Sam still couldn't return to work, and rent, food and co-pays rapidly burned through his money. One specialist sent him to another, who sent him to a third. He endured blood tests, X-rays of what seemed like his entire body, and one incredibly painful nerve test involving electric shocks and needles in his neck. None revealed a single problem.

The pain settled in like a live thing, worst at night, and Sam gave up on ever sleeping more than four hours at a time. He'd wake before Zach, putter around the apartment, then nap a little in the afternoon to make up for the sleep he missed at night.

September arrived, and Sam still lived in pain. The only thing Stanford could offer was medical leave. Without a diagnosis or straight answer from the doctors, he wasn't eligible for accomodations to help him get by in his classes, and he had no choice but to take the leave.

Sam and Zach couldn't keep the apartment without Sam's share of the rent, so they were forced to give it up. Zach moved back on campus, and Sam found himself moved in with his new girlfriend Jessica. The Moore/Winchester place was tiny, but it was home. More importantly, Jessica's budget could cover the entire rent, because, to Sam's humiliation, he had no way to contribute.

"It's just for now," she assured him. "Just until you get better and get back to classes."

Sam envied her optimism. He found a few tutoring clients and arranged to watch the neighbors' children after school. It brought in enough to pay his medical expenses and help out with the groceries.

Finally, in late November, Sam got answers.

"Fibromyalgia?" he repeated carefully. "So, what's the treatment?"

"Celebrex. It'll relieve the pain." The doctor thrust a handful of samples at him and was gone before Sam could even ask how to spell fibro-whatsit.

He took the first pill that night, and by the next morning, he was completely covered in red hives. Jess came up behind him as he stood in the bathroom staring at himself.

"Well, I guess that didn't work," was all she said.

Information had always been Sam's rock. He figured out how to spell fibromyalgia, then headed to the library that afternoon and grabbed several books about the condition. What he read did not improve his outlook.

Chronic. No cure. No truly effective treatments.

In January, he was back in school. Instead of five classes a term, he took only four. Instead of long hours of study followed by work followed by long nights in coffee-houses or bars, he'd spend most of the day doing classwork. No more than an hour at a time, then he'd take a stretch break. No job, Jess insisted, his job was to stay well and finish school. Though Sam preferred to work in long intense stretches, he learned to pace himself, alternating study with exercise or household chores.

One day in late March, Sam woke to a sunbeam shining in his eye, breathed in the smell of coffee and rubbed at an aching shoulder. Clearly, it was not going to be a good day, but at least Jess had made coffee. "God, I hate mornings," he moaned.

"Yeah, well, maybe mornings hate you. Get your ass out of bed," Dean's memory answered.

He groaned aloud, but did what Dean said. Two midterms today, both essay tests. He didn't feel much like gripping a pen or sitting in a chair, but he didn't exactly have a choice in the matter.

Twenty minutes into the second test, his index finger seized up. Too much writing. When he tried to loosen up his arm, the muscle in was rock-hard and tender to the touch. After a few moments of fussing with it, Sam determined it wasn't going to get better anytime soon. He had to pass this test. Next time he'd make sure this didn't happen, but right now, there had to be a way to finish.

A voice came from… somewhere… and before Sam knew what he was doing, the pen started moving again. It wasn't Dean's voice, but there was no way it could be the voice of John Winchester telling him, "Suck it up, soldier."

That afternoon, he dragged himself into the physical therapist's office for his regular visit. Cindi looked up and grinned. "Hey, Winchester! How's Economics treating you?"

Sam grinned ruefully. "I think midterms killed me."

"Lie down on the last table, and we'll have a look."

Cindi bounced over, dressed in her signature pink sweats, thick black hair pulled back into a braid that fell almost to her waist. When Sam stood up, he was almost frightened by how tiny she was, less than five feet tall. Somehow, though, this little sprite had realigned his hips a few times. Today, she started with the hands. He gasped as she pulled at the knotted muscles in his forearm, but they loosened only slightly.

"Huh," she said thoughtfully. "Let's try the exercises first, then heat and stim. If we can get your neck relaxed…"

An hour later, Sam was feeling close to human again. He was sore, sure, but most of the knots were gone, and he could feel all ten fingertips. If he could just rest his hands and neck until tomorrow, he'd probably get through without a full-on flare. There was a paper due Monday, but he'd have time over the weekend. He'd just have to miss that party. Again.

Sam made it through. One semester, one day, one hour at a time he put the pain aside and survived.

Until the night that Dean came crashing back into his life.

Now

Dean dropped off to sleep quickly as they left Lost Creek, Colorado. Sam scanned the radio dial, but the reception was pretty limited in the mountains, so he settled on silence. For lack of any other plan, he kept driving east.

They made about a hundred and thirty miles before Sam became too tired to go on. He'd lost his medication in the fire. His latest regimen was a muscle relaxant and a low dose antidepressant, and after ten days without any of it, all Sam had noticed was a sharp increase in his ability to stay awake.

Which was a blessing, given what he saw when his eyes shut…

Sam cut that thought off abruptly. Trees. Yellow line. Comforting roar of the engines beneath his feet. Oooh, cliff — don't drive the car off of it. Good things to think about.

Being off his meds and not in too much pain, that was no small miracle given what he'd been through the past couple weeks — No! Given the past couple days, and the hunt. Cindi would have smacked him with one of her exercise bands if she'd seen him carrying a thirty-pound duffel over one shoulder, but he'd managed it, and still felt okay.

"See, Sam? All you needed was the proper motivation." Which was exactly what John Winchester had said, the first time Sam ran a mile under five minutes. After Dad had tricked him into thinking he was being chased by a freaking werewolf.

Why exactly did he want to find this man again? Oh, right.

No. Today was a good day. Dean was alive, the Collins family was alive, a monster was dead, and he was apparently having a pretty sweet remission from his usual pain. It's a good day. Enjoy it, don't think it to death.. And that last was pure Jessica.

Maybe driving wasn't the best distraction after all.

Sam stopped and found them a room just past Colorado Springs. Tradition called for crossing a state line after a hunt, but they were both dead tired, the state line was still hours away, and this time, the cops had no reason to be hunting them.

Dean woke up just enough to stagger into the room, check the salt lines Sam had laid out, and fall into bed. When Dean let himself relax, he could sleep harder than anyone else on the planet. Sam waited just long enough to shower and swallow some Advil and Benadryl before following his example.

For once, it wasn't a nightmare that woke him. It was the tearing pain, like little ice needles being driven into every part of his body at once. As he fought his way up to consciousness and bit down the instinctive panic; he recognized the sensation-a charley horse in his neck. It had happened once before, after a round of physical therapy that his body disliked. He lay perfectly still, breathing shallowly. Dean was still deeply asleep. As usual, when the pain woke Sam out of a dead sleep, it frightened him into stealth mode, because, if he was very quiet, perhaps his enemy would think he was dead and go away.

Which said something about his hunting instincts that Sam didn't particularly like.

The deep breathing stopped the ice daggers running through his body, but the tearing pain in his neck did not abate. There was no doubt about it, if Sam wanted the pain to ease off, he'd have to stretch it out. If he was lucky, it'd break the spasm and just leave him stiff and sore for a few days, but if he screwed up the stretch, it could actually make things worse. Either way, the stretching process was going to hurt like hell.

Keeping one hand on his ear to support his head, he straightened his body and pulled the pillow out of the way. So far, so good. Then, slowly, he turned his head to the left, away from the pain. It turned about ten degrees and just stopped. Wiggling it to try to go further only threatened another wave of pain.

Of course it couldn't be that easy.

Sam lay flat again and pressed his head back into the sheets. The mattress was worn out, and he lay in a sort of trough in the middle. Probably one more reason his neck had flipped out, and, it meant he'd have to get out of bed to do his proper back exercises. Which might be tough, if he wanted to avoid yelling loud enough to wake up Dean.

He rolled onto his left side, then sat up slowly. Hopefully, he wouldn't have to actually stand. Still exhausted from the hunt, he didn't bother with the full routine, but he spent a couple minutes stretching his shoulders before he tried to pull his neck out again. It wasn't quite like having a dislocated joint reset, but the comparison popped into his head. The knotted muscles pulled, tugged, threatened to tear… and then let go all at once, leaving him achy and exhausted. He let out an audible gasp as he slumped down in relief. It was the loudest sound he'd made since crawling into bed hours earlier, and Dean finally stirred. "Go back to sleep, Sammy," he ordered the pillow.

Sam knew a question when he heard it. "I'm okay. Sleeping." His voice wasn't quite steady, but Dean would probably chalk it up to another nightmare. Which was sort of funny, because it was the first time he hadn't woken out of a nightmare.

No, he really didn't think he'd be getting back to sleep.

He wasn't looking forward to an entire day stuck in the car, and he should have taken advantage of the quiet time to do his full set of exercises, but he wound up spending most of the night on the Internet instead, fruitlessly running over the same searches he'd done back in Stanford. Doesn't matter. Without meds, his neck wouldn't be settling down anytime soon no matter what he did. And I wouldn't be sleeping right now anyway. Either way though, curling up with a laptop for hours immediately after a neck spasm was NOT what Cindi would have endorsed.

The next time, it was a sunbeam in Sam's eye that woke him. He breathed in the smell of coffee and rubbed at an aching shoulder. Clearly, it was not going to be a good day, but at least Jess had made coffee. "God, I hate mornings," he moaned.

"Yeah, well, maybe mornings hate you. Get your ass out of bed," Dean's memory answered.

Memory? No, he'd heard Dean.

The past two weeks came rushing back to him. Jericho. The fire. The Wendigo, the previous night, and drifting back to sleep over his laptop.

In the light of day, Sam was feeling every bruise from the hunt. He'd stayed in shape, but it had been a long time since he'd actually run further than the distance across a street, and he ached from neck to knees. Worse, the last two fingers on his left hand and the middle finger on his right were painfully numb. Pain Sam could live with, but he couldn't hunt if he started dropping things again. Dean had warned him to be prepared for a long chase; well, he wasn't doing a terribly good job of that.

He couldn't count on sleeping in a decent bed at night, or stretching every two hours during the day, or getting fresh vegetables to eat every day. He'd have to be prepared to hunt by day and by night, to sit on stakeout for hours and still be able to fight at the end of it. He'd get bruised up and damaged, and there wasn't much he could do about it, other than give up the hunt. Still, if he could get to a Rite-Aid, he could at least refill his prescriptions.

Dean's hair was still wet, suggesting his chances of a hot shower were slim.

"A little stiff this morning, college boy," Dean observed, watching Sam crawl out of bed.

"No more than you." Dean's face and neck were blotched with purple, and he limped slightly.

"Hey, I got attacked by a Wendigo. What's your excuse?

Sam snorted. "I rescued you, you freaking damsel in distress."

"I think you're just out of shape, bitch."

"I think I'll sit on you if you say that again, jerk."

Dean raised his fists in mock challenge, then aimed a punch at Sam's bicep. Sam almost hid the wince.

"Seriously, you get hurt?"

"Naw, just bruises."

A quick check on his new laptop revealed a Rite-Aid about five miles to the east. Now, how to get there without Dean finding out he needed medicine?

"What do you want for breakfast?" Sam asked casually, still looking at the screen.

"A diner, maybe?"

"There's one just up the highway. Named after the town it's in."

"Like I always say, a diner named after its town is a diner that makes good bacon."

"Uh-huh."

When they reached the diner, Sam pretended to notice the pharmacy for the first time. "Hey, I gotta restock some stuff, so I'm going to dash into the store. Need anything?"

"Um, breakfast?"

"I'll be along in a minute. Just, ah, order me some pancakes or something. Whole wheat if they have."

"Right, I'll tell the waitress I want health-nut pancakes for my invisible health-nut brother," Dean grumbled, striding into the diner. "That's not weird at all."

Transferring and filling his prescriptions took a little longer than Sam hoped, but while he was waiting, he picked up a pack of razor blades and some clean gauze as cover. It wasn't until he returned to the pharmacy counter to pay that he hit a snag-the prescriptions were in his own name, making it difficult to pay with a fraudulent card. Luckily, both were generics, selected with a student's budget in mind, so the small amount of cash he had left covered it all.

He swallowed his morning dose of Baclofen, stashed both bottles in his duffel, and headed into the diner to cram some pancakes down his throat. Drugs and meals together would keep him going, he hoped.

Inside the diner, Dean was browsing a newspaper.

"Find Dad in there?" Sam asked rudely, sliding into the booth.

"Nothing around here that would draw his attention," Dean answered, folding the paper as breakfast arrived.

Naturally, Dean had added eggs and bacon to Sam's simple order of pancakes. Still, the eggs were cooked just the way he liked them, so Sam took a bite of one of them. Fuel, he told himself. Gotta stay strong. Dean snatched the crispiest piece of bacon off his plate, and out of habit Sam stuffed the next one into his mouth, to protect it from Dean's wandering fork.

Twenty minutes later, Dean had cleaned his own plate and, somehow or other, most of the food on Sam's was also gone. His stomach wasn't entirely sure how it felt about being full, but the protein seemed to calm him. "Where to?" Sam asked, as they left the diner.

"Thought we'd hit North Platte, check the mailbox. We can see if Dad's passed through any time recently."

"Okay. We'll just head up I-25 to 76 to 80."

Dean slid behind the wheel this time, and Sam took the passenger seat. He still ached furiously, but he could feel his neck relaxing already. Next thing he knew, he was fighting his way out of a nightmare. He gasped, pawed at the window, but a moment later, he slipped back into sleep. By the time the car stopped, he'd been in and out of sleep three times, seen Jess overlaid on the highway in front of him, and twice startled Dean so badly he almost swerved into the other lane.

Sam fought to pin his eyelids back long enough to open the door, then flung himself out of it. "Walk," he muttered. "Have to wake up."

"Or you could, you know, actually sleep in an actual bed," Dean said, as the car rolled to a stop.

"Maybe later. Where are we?"

"Nowhere, west Nebraska."

"What are we stopping for?" It appeared they'd stopped at a gas station, but the car wasn't at a pump.

"Because you said you wanted to stretch your legs."

"Oh. Guess I was asleep."

Dean stared at him. "Are you getting sick?"

Sam dodged as his brother tried to grab his chin. "Dude, I'm not sick." His neck tried to spasm again as he twisted out of Dean's grip.

"Sure, you're fine, you're just mumbling and thrashing in your sleep in the middle of the day."

"Okay. Give me like five minutes to stretch, and I'll be good to go. We should hit North Platte in a couple more hours. Want anything?" Sam asked, heading for the convenience store.

"I'm good for now."

Sam pushed open the door, trying to think with a mind that felt like it was coated in a layer of honey. Why was he so terribly sleepy? It had to be the medicine, but even when he'd first started taking it, he wasn't this heavily sedated.

Then Sam realized what was wrong. The week or more without decent sleep, that was why he couldn't fight it off, why he kept falling into nightmares again and again. Well, it was easy enough to fix that with a good strong cup of coffee, and no more pills. A cramp ran through his shoulder, but it let off after a moment. He'd broken the spasm, he'd be fine without the drugs.

Sam grabbed a cup of coffee, then went back for a second cup for Dean. The last thing he needed right now was to defend his coffee against Dean's food snatching ways. He glanced at the local paper rack next to the cash register and stopped dead.

One Dead in Suspicious Blaze

Quickly Sam added a paper to his purchase, and rushed outside to read it. "Susan Vimes, age thirty-two, died last Friday in a blaze police have identified as suspicious." He looked at Dean pointedly.

"You know, people die in fires all the time," Dean pointed out gently.

"Yeah, but it says here that the fire started in an upstairs bedroom, and that it engulfed the building with unusual speed."

"Maybe there was a propane tank."

"In a bedroom?"

"Or maybe someone wired the house up wrong."

"Dean, if there's even a chance this is related…"

"Fine, we'll check into it. But remember, even if it is our kind of thing, it might not be the thing that killed Mom and Jess."

Sam strode rapidly through the door of the police station.

"We're interested in information about the Vimes fire," he declared, flashing a badge.

The square-jawed woman behind the desk favored him with a look. "May I ask why?

"We're investigating a serial arsonist across a few states. Just trying to find out if this one fits the profile." Which was the exact truth, as far as it went.

The woman turned. "Hey, Fred!"

A door opened behind her and a man poked his head out. "Yeah?"

"Gentlemen want to know about the Vimes fire."

"Might as well come in," the man offered.

Officer Fred (who didn't supply the rest of his name) had not gotten very far in his investigation. "Fire department is certain there was accelerant used, but thus far they haven't been able to identify the type."

"No residue?" Sam asked.

"Well, it got pretty hot."

"Any witnesses?" Dean spoke up.

"Susan was the only one in the house. A neighbor who saw the blaze called 911. Her testimony's in there. She didn't see much, though."

"Okay, we have a fire started by an unknown accelerant, no survivors, and no witnesses." Sam leaned forward. "Did Susan have any family?"

"Parents, two counties over. That's it. And as far as I can tell, no boyfriend and no enemies."

Frank finished photocopying the relevant parts of his case file. "One thing I can tell you is that we've pretty well ruled out insurance fraud."

"How so?"

"Susan was the sole owner of the property."

They left the police station only slightly better informed than they'd gone in. The coffee and excitement on top his earlier drowsiness made Sam feel a bit over-stimulated and sick.

"What next?" Sam asked.

"Fire marshal."

It was the hint of hesitation before the fire marshal explained his findings at Susan Vimes' former home. That pause, the look of confusion in the eyes of a man who has seen something that defies his understanding. Dean had gone along with the investigation thus far because his brother insisted, but, without a word, James Youngblood captured all of Dean's attention.

"Just tell us what you found," Sam encouraged. "Some of the other fires we've looked into were pretty weird. Honestly, we're not entirely sure how he's starting these."

Youngblood drew in a breath and began. "I swear I found at least three points of origin to the fire, all in the victim's bedroom. The speed with which the house went up strongly suggests accelerants. But I didn't find any chemical traces, and I looked hard. What's more, the remains were found in the bed, with the position suggesting the victim died without waking. How do you set someone's bedroom on fire without waking her up?"

"Was there any evidence of unusual heat?" Dean finally spoke up.

"No, not really. Standard house fire temperature."

"Where in the room were those points of origin?" Sam's voice was tight.

"Floor, around the bed."

Sam's head dropped forward and he swallowed heavily.

Dean took over. "That REALLY sounds like murder by kerosene."

"Yep. Without the kerosene."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Youngblood." Dean finished politely. "We'll be in touch within the next few days."

Sam climbed back into the car and slumped against the passenger door. "It's not what we're after."

"I know," Dean offered. "Floor or ceiling, the temperature is the cincher."

"What?" Sam looked up.

"I guess you missed that part of the report. Fire department in Stanford is claiming that your apartment burned at a temperature too high for the materials involved, so high there must have been something like a lighting strike. Except it was a clear night. That's one reason I was so keen to leave, they didn't entirely believe your story. Same thing happened back in Lawrence, but there the police did stock it up to lightning."

Sam frowned. Arousing his curiosity was always the way to pull him out of a slump.

"What would do THAT?"

"Wish I knew. But here's two things I do know. Whatever killed Susan Vimes isn't what we're looking for, and it's still our kind of problem."

"Come on, these small-town guys probably just can't find the accelerant. We should be trying to find Dad, not wasting time on this."

"Just check one thing for me, Sammy. See if there've been any similar deaths around here before."

A few minutes later, Sam sat back from his computer. "Okay, counting Susan Vimes, there have been eighteen fatal fires in this town over the last fifty years, resulting in twenty-three deaths. Statistically, for a town this size, there should only be about half that number, and the numbers are big enough to rule out coincidence."

"Statistically?" Dean knew exactly what his brother was talking about, he just liked to bait him.

"Sometimes it actually IS an electrical short. And up until recently, not all fires were investigated that well. It's not like we've got a profile with glaring red flags here, so we need some way of sorting out accidents and human arson from stuff that might be the work of our spook."

"So until we know what we're looking for—"

"We have to look at everything." They finished together.

Dad had tried at least a dozen times to teach Sam the basic principles of statistics as applied to hunting, and never made a dent. Apparently one of Sam's fancy college professors had finally succeeded.

Then again, it just figured Sam would learn better from somebody else. This was the boy who'd made more progress at running in six weeks on the soccer team than in three years of Dad's training. They'd never let on to Sam exactly why he'd been permitted to finish the season with his team.

It took three hours at the library, two at the town hall, one brief hack into law enforcement databases and one quick trip back to the police station, but eventually they assembled complete data on all eighteen fires.

Inside the motel, they spread out. The "possibles" covered an entire wall in a grid pattern, arranged from right to left by how closely the victim or victims resembled Susan and from top to bottom by how much the fire resembled the one that had consumed Susan's home. Fires that seemed to baffle investigators were marked with a star. On a table off to the side were a stack of files describing eight fires clearly due to lightning strike, heating system failure, or other ordinary causes.

In one corner of the board, a pattern emerged. Seven women over the decades had died in single-fatality fires that started in their bedrooms. There were no traces of accelerants or other clear causes of the fires. Six and a half of the files were starred.

"Sammy? What's with the half-a-star file?"

"Oh, um, Angela somebody. Authorities decided the fire had been caused by a lit cigarette, but her friend swore to investigators that she'd quit smoking three weeks earlier and no longer kept any in the house. It was twenty-seven years ago either way."

"Well, even without Angela, we've got a pattern. At least six fatal fires with no known cause."

"One more thing. I managed to find photos of four of the women." Sam spread them out on the table, and Dean cocked his head.

"You sure they're not related?" The victims could have been sisters from different eras: all brunettes, slender, sharp-featured, and close to thirty years old when they died.

"Exactly." Sam agreed.

"Okay, the most likely candidate here is a spirit. Which means we need to find a triggering event."

"Someone who was murdered by arson? Or someone who died in a natural fire, while pissed off at somebody who resembled these women?"

Next to the chart, Sam took out a map of the town and began circling addresses, the six with the clear pattern in red, and the questionable fire in blue.

"Looks pretty random to me," Dean commented. "What about the timeline?"

"Earliest one I've got that clearly fits the pattern is 1958. About one per decade since then, but there's no particular time of year or interval between incidents."

"Damn. I prefer monsters that can read a calendar. Lunar cycles?"

"Werewolves don't usually set fires, Dean."

"There's other things that follow a lunar cycle," Dean replied defensively. His grin didn't slip, though. Debating with Sam, working together again, Dean had missed it like crazy. All the years with Sam gone, sometimes he and Dad would go an entire case without exchanging three words.

Sam turned back to the computer, rubbed at his deeply shadowed eyes, then went on to massage his shoulder. However much Dean had missed his brother, the price of having him back was too damn high.

"No, there's no lunar cycle to the killings," Sam answered him impatiently a moment later. Again his left hand rubbed his right shoulder. Sam did that a lot lately, and most of the time he didn't even seem to be aware of it. Matter of fact, he'd been doing it since the drive down to Jericho, before Jess died. Maybe it was a new habit, maybe Sam had hurt himself.

"Okay, then, we're left with a spirit. Someone who died by fire, around here, before 1958."

"Let's go back to the library."

The next afternoon, Sam pushed back from the desk, cracking his neck and stretching his fingers.

"Okay, the earliest permanent settlement in this area was 1880. Between then and 1958, there were five fatal fires resulting in thirteen deaths. None of them match the profile."

"Sounds more natural, all those single-fatality fires were pretty weird. One of them's probably our spook."

"Dean, something just doesn't fit. If someone died by fire, wouldn't the bones already be burned?"

"Well, sometimes the fire doesn't get hot enough to consume them."

"Have you ever heard of a vengeful spirit coming out of a house fire?"

"Okay, so maybe we're looking for someone who didn't exactly burn to death, but whose life or death was somehow connected to fire."

"Someone who probably died not terribly long before Janet Grey's death in 1958."

"And someone who was connected to a woman who looked like our victims."

Suspect profile written, they went back to work. Sam started with the Lexis-Nexis database, and Dean returned to browsing the local history books. When both ran dry, they turned to the microfiche archives of the local weekly newspaper.

They started at 1958 and worked backwards, skimming front pages for nearly an hour. Sam's head ached from the reader, but he stayed focused.

"September 19, 1948. Oh, man, I think this could be it."

Quickly Sam printed off the article.

"This guy, Aaron Jefferson. A veteran, he'd been having a rough time ever since he got back. Apparently, he lost it completely, tried to set the bedroom of his house on fire, with his wife Edith in it. She got a hold of his gun and shot him with it."

"Rough way to go. What happened to her?"

"Article doesn't say. But she didn't die in a fire around here."

"So, either she died some other way, or she left town. Check the records on the sale of the house."

"Dean, it was fifty-seven years ago. Do we really have to track her down? Even if Aaron never came back for her, I doubt she's still alive."

"You know what Dad says, check everything before you assume anything."

"You seriously quoting Dad at me now?"

"Hey, easy. I just want to make sure we've got all the bases covered before we break earth."

"Fine." Spine rigid and lips tight, Sam turned back to the laptop once again.

Fifteen minutes later, he looked up at Dean, scowling. "She's dead, okay? Nine years ago. In Massachusetts."

"Hey, not bad, little brother. I mean, that's not exactly a rare name." Dean's smile widened, and he punched Sam in the bicep playfully. "You've earned your dinner."

"Can we just hit the burial records? I want to finish this one tonight."

A few hours later, they were headed for the local cemetery. Aaron and Edith were buried in the same graveyard but in separate plots, he with his parents and she with hers. They parked out of sight, near a tree that would allow them to scale the back fence. Dean opened the trunk and pulled out a pair of shotguns.

"Dean, buckshot won't do much good against Aaron's spirit."

"Yeah. We're using rock salt."

"Huh. Pretty good. You and Dad think of this?"

"I told you. You don't have to be a college graduate to be a genius." Dean grinned and handed Sam the shovel.

"Been a long time since you've dug up a grave. Let's see if you still remember how."

Sam froze as the shovel hit his palm. He hadn't really thought about this part of the job, and there was no way his back would stand for a full night of digging. A full day of sitting and researching already had him gritting his teeth in pain. Still, this really wasn't the time to explain to Dean about his little problem. He'd manage, and then grab a muscle relaxant as soon as he got back to the room to rest. With any luck, he'd be too tired for nightmares.

It took almost four hours to dig down to the coffin, with the brothers trading off every hour. Sam was grateful for the physical therapy that had kept him fit, but long hours of shoveling dirt was not an activity on Cindi's approved exercise list. His back screamed with each bend and lift. His neck had knotted so that he could no longer feel the last two fingers of his right hand. Still, given the way his forearm felt, numbness might be a blessing.

To Sam's alarm, when he picked up the shotgun for his last turn on guard, his hands trembled so that he couldn't hold the gun straight. Four years without picking up a shovel had softened the skin on his palms, and wicked blisters had formed, making it hard to grasp the trigger properly.

Suck it up, soldier.

No. If Sam couldn't hold up his end, Dean needed to know.

Just then, Sam heard the hollow thud that announced a shovel breaking through a coffin lid. No time to talk to Dean. No time for anything but watching for Aaron.

Suck it up, soldier.

Sam drew in a breath, let it out slowly. He dropped to the ground, using a nearby rock as a gun rest. Deliberately Sam calmed his racing heart, listening for the sound of an unnatural wind rattling the trees, waiting for the touch of unearthly cold.

Aaron did not disappoint. The smell of smoke first announced the spirit's arrival as a man with a blazing torch wavered into sight, just to Sam's left. Sam spun, raising the gun to shoot from a bent knee as he had when too small to support the larger guns with his arms alone. He waited for Aaron to draw closer, so that even his shaking hands could not miss.

Aaron wore his military uniform. He was smeared with dark stains, and cloud of grey smoke hung around him. At the last moment, Sam pulled the trigger back. The spirit burst apart at the touch of salt, but quickly re-formed behind him.

This time, he couldn't swing the gun around quickly enough. Aaron grabbed his shirt and held on tight, bringing the torch closer. Although the torch felt cold to the touch, his shirt smoldered and sparked when it drew close enough.

Salt spilled over man and spirit, and once again Aaron vanished, allowing Sam to quickly extinguish his shirt against the damp ground and roll back into position. This time, he stayed gone long enough for Dean to finish salting and set the bones ablaze. They both breathed a sigh of relief once the bones caught, but, to Sam's shock, Aaron formed up again, this time behind Dean.

"Down!"

Dean ducked, Sam fired, and Aaron vanished.

"What the hell?" Sam asked. "I saw him, it's the same guy!"

"I don't know," replied Dean. Quickly he lay down a salt circle a short distance from the grave, so that they could watch the bones burn down.

Once again Aaron appeared. This time, he bounced off the circle. It only made him angrier, however.

"Dean, seriously, how is this possible?"

"Burned the wrong body?"

"Then why did he show up when you broke the coffin?"

"Okay, then, we did burn the body, but he's latched on to an object or something."

"Well, how are we supposed to find it?" Sam was practically yelling to be heard over the rustling trees. The smell of smoke deepened, Jess burning… No. Not Jess. Just some two-bit spirit in rural Nebraska.

Dean whirled around, raised his own shotgun and fired again. "Damn, this guy re-forms fast."

"So, what? Are we going to stand here all night?"

Dean glanced at the time. "Dawn's only about two more hours. Figure we can wait him out."

"And then what?"

"Then we leave. Figure out what we missed. And do it fast, because I think this guy's seriously pissed off now."

Sam really couldn't keep silent any longer. "Dean?"

"What?"

"I don't think I can hold a gun any more tonight."

Dean scowled and turned to look at Sam's trembling hands. "Out of shape, college boy. Have a seat, I got this one."

Sam sank down to the mossy ground. Electric shocks ran up and down his arms, and the knot in his back seemed to hold him tight from heels to head. It's okay. I can still do this. I just need to get back in shape for digging graves. A pair of leather work gloves might help, too.

Aaron flitted in and out of visibility around the circle. Dean watched, eyes narrowed. The moon dropped lower as he ran up to the circle and bounced off, again and again.

Finally, Aaron bent and touched his torch to a branch. It caught slowly, but it caught, and it came flying towards them. "This guy thinks he's smart." Dean growled. "Thinks he's gonna play dodgeball with us."

Good thing Dean was the dodgeball champion of three states.

Over and over again, Aaron lobbed flaming branches, and over and over again, Dean caught them and handed them to Sam to smother and toss out of the circle. Around moonset, Aaron seemed to give up. Sam fought to keep his eyes open. Blackness teased the edges of his vision, and his stomach roiled. He'd only been besieged during a hunt a few times before, and he'd forgotten quite how ugly the waiting could get.

Finally, Sam caught sight of sparks rising from a pile of downed leaves.

"Dean! He's trying to burn the whole place down!"

"Ground's too wet. He doesn't have enough power to start a wildfire in November." Dean replied, much too fast. It was too dark for Sam to see his brother's expression, but he NEVER trusted a word Dean said in that tone of voice.

Sam thought furiously, or tried to. It was like running through mud.

"We need to leave the circle, Dean. Can you keep him busy for just a few minutes?"

"Where you going?"

"Irrigation system. Meet me at the car." Sam replied.

Dean could distract monsters like no one else on the planet. He sprinted down the hill to the smoldering leaf pile, insulting everything about Aarom, from his pathetic girl-murdering habit to the sorry state of his uniform.

Sam lost no time in heading off the opposite direction, towards what he desperately hoped was the facilities building. Running at night was a learned skill, keeping knees and ankles loose and feeling each step with the sole of the foot before placing the body weight on it. Sam found it came back more easily than he had expected, and, though the running hurt his feet, it seemed to ease the muscles of his back.

Once there, he risked drawing out his flashlight, just for a moment. Sure enough, there was a knob on the outside of the building that looked like it might control water.

Sam twisted the knob to the left as far as it would go, and all over the cemetery, sprinklers sprang to life.

Once they'd showered and put on dry clothes, they hit the local diner for breakfast. Neither had slept at all, but they had only ten hours until sundown once again allowed Aaron to come after them or someone else. With no idea when he might next have a chance to eat, Dean methodically worked his way through a pile of eggs and bacon. Sam appeared to be ignoring his breakfast in favor of reading something on his computer, but his left hand worked a fork absently.

"Huh. This is interesting."

"What's interesting?"

"Some sources suggest that, for a haunted object that's already closely linked to fire, a cleansing with holy water can be more effective, especially if the item is non-flammable."

"Okay, so we might need to wash it rather than burning it. Still doesn't help us find it, or even figure out what it is."

"In the coffin, did you see his dog tags?"

Dean's fork stopped halfway to his mouth and wobbled uncertainly. "No, I didn't."

Clean clothes and breakfast had Sam feeling about halfway human, thought his hands still ached and trembled. Rest when you're dead, he told himself. He turned, and a bar of fire ran up the side of his back. It's just pain. You can do this.

"Well, there's two places they could be, right?"

"His family or some historical society. They didn't have kids, right?"

"No, but Aaron did have one niece. She's still alive, lives not too far from here."

"Great work, Sammy. Let's hit the road."

No, Sam's back did not agree with getting out of the booth. It certainly didn't like the idea of getting back in the car.

"I'm going to hit the men's room," he announced, carefully levering himself upright. He could probably fit in at least five minutes of stretches before Dean came looking for him.

Luck was with him this time, and he managed to loosen up a little bit. The rest of the routine would require lying down, which he wasn't going to do on the floor of a public restroom, or enough space to swing his arms properly and raise them overhead, which was tough to find inside a restaurant. Still fantasizing about a proper gym and proper drugs, Sam headed out to the car.

When they reached the home of Aaron's niece, there was no car in the driveway, and no one answered the door.

"Time for a little B and E," Dean suggested cheerfully.

"Another felony. Joy." Sam answered.

"Nine hours to sundown, Sam."

Once inside, Dean headed straight for the basement, and killed the power at the fuse box. "Why are you doing that?" Sam asked. "Could you at least wear gloves?"

"Hey, if you and your giant feet can manage not to knock over any sculptures, she'll never know we were here."

"Come on, Dean, I was fifteen. Are you EVER going to forget it?"

"Let's see, will I forget the time you spent ten solid minutes nagging me about fingerprints, only to knock over a giant clay statue and shatter it into a million pieces. I'd say … NOT."

Dean pulled a battered piece of… something… out of a pocket and began waving it around the basement.

"What is that?"

"It's an EMF meter, measures electromagnetic frequencies."

"I know what an EMF meter is, but why does that one look like a busted-up walkman?"

"Because that's what I made it out of, it's homemade."

"I can see that," Sam replied crushingly.

Dean turned back to his scanning, and Sam headed up to the attic and began searching by eye. Three hours later, Dean found an EMF source inside a closet full of papers and knickknacks: an entire box labeled "Uncle Aaron."

The box was dusty and crumbling, and even the label was discolored. His dog tags appeared to be the only thing that gave off EMF, but they grabbed the entire box just to be sure.

Two miles away, they parked behind a bowling alley and sorted through the contents. A high school diploma, and a graduation photo. "Aaron and Edith, class of 1939," read the back of the picture. Two wedding bands, and a small diamond ring. "Edith returned her jewelry to his family," Sam muttered.

"Would you want to keep a reminder of something like that?"

Apparently, Aaron's sister and niece had plenty of reminders. A marriage license, dated June 1946, and a framed wedding photo. Honorable discharge papers, dated just weeks before the wedding, a passport, and a few more photos. One showed Aaron in uniform, smiling, along with men who must have been his unit, another showed him with a man so thin his collarbone looked like it had entirely separated from his chest. Aaron wasn't smiling there.

Finally, they unearthed a sheaf of letters, correspondence between Aaron and Edith through almost four years of war.

Sam picked up the first one.

"Sam, don't read that."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't do any good. It's not going to help you understand, and it's just going to mess you up more. War makes people crazy, life makes people crazy, and some people stay crazy even after they're dead. That's all we need to know."

"Fine. But do we have to burn everything?"

Dean sighed. "We'll start with cleansing the dog tags." He pulled out a bottle of holy water and sprinkled a few packets of salt into it. The small-crystal table salt would dissolve faster. Sam drew in a sharp breath, and Dean looked up.

Barely visible against the sunlight, Aaron hovered just outside the car. He no longer looked angry, instead he seemed to be waiting. "You got the gun?" Dean asked. Sam pulled a shotgun up from under the dashboard, but didn't raise it.

"Just douse it." Sam said softly.

Finally, Aaron dove toward the car, but before he could reach them, water seemed to splash over his head, extinguishing the torch. He wavered again, growing thinner, then was gone.

"Does it ever seem like sometimes they want to go?" Sam asked.

"Sure. But they'll still kill you for trying to help them get there." Dean turned on the car.