Chapter 1

"Pete, come on man, it's beer-thirty, time to lay off." 

Pete turned at the sound of a beer being opened.  Wearing a slight grin, he headed toward the kid that was now brandishing a second beer.  He was tempted, it had been a hot miserable day, one of many in a hot miserable week, and the condensation dripping off the can made it hard to resist.  Removing his hard hat, he swiped a hand across his sweaty brow.  Sighing he called out, "Can't kid, I've still gotta get these forms placed."  Pete gestured towards the last two forms lying near him.  The concrete for the foundation of the high-rise they were working on was due to be poured tomorrow, that is of course as long as the last two forms were placed. 

Dropping down into the hole he had been working in for the last week, Pete began to heave the last form in place.  Tomorrow if all went well a concrete truck would pump tons of concrete between the forms, creating the footers on which the foundation would be built.  As he worked, Pete listened to the kid's ramblings.  He'd been working with the young guy for a month now, and had come to enjoy the kid's chatter.  At sixty-three Pete's kids were grown and gone and it wasn't often he got to shoot the shit with someone under the age of fifty, hell to be honest it made him feel young again.   

As he worked he couldn't help but grin as he heard the hiss of another can being opened.  It had become the Friday routine, each week the kid brought a cooler with a six pack nestled in ice.  Hell, sometimes Pete even joined in, after all what was better than kicking back after a hard days work with some lively conversation and a couple of cold ones. 

Pete placed the last form, hammering the rebar in with a few deft strokes.  He'd been laying forms for over thirty-five years and he counted himself lucky that he could still handle the work, after all construction was a young man's job.  Pete stood straight, stretching to loosen a knot in his back.  It was then he noticed that the kid's normally, non-stop chatter had ceased.  Hoisting himself up and over the rim of the hole, Pete called out, "What's the matter pretty girl got your tongue." 

Pete's blood froze in his veins, stumbling he moved towards the open cooler.  Trembling, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket.  Unable to tear his gaze away from the horror before him, he fumbled with the phone, trying to dial 911.  His hands shook so bad he had trouble pressing the tiny numbers, finally as he hit send a pain shot through his left side, numbing his hand.  He was unable to stop the phone from falling uselessly to the ground.  Gripping his left side, he dropped to his knees, a silent scream on his lips. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam sat across from Dean, a scarred wooden tabletop between them, a Jimmy Buffet song blaring from an old radio perched high above the bar.  A breeze wafted through the bar's open windows offering a slight reprieve from the stifling midday heat.  Sam wrapped his hands around the beer in front of him enjoying the icy chill.  Leaning back, he absently listened to his brother list the reasons for his sudden interest in some hunt.  Finally, he couldn't hold back and longer, "You're kidding me right," Sam asked unable and unwilling to hide his disbelief.  

"No, Sam actually I'm not.  I think it might be something." 

"Really, we've got less than a year to break the deal you made and instead of research you want to head off and go gamble at Atlantic City," Sam said, a look of disbelief crossing his face. 

Dean arched an eyebrow. "I'm not stupid Sam, I made the deal.  I know exactly how much time I've got left.  What do you want me to do; we've got no leads on how to break that deal, no place to even start.  So I'll tell you what Sammy a hunt seems to be the only thing we can do right now." 

Dean watched as his brother sat, jaw clenched, anger written all over his face.  He knew that Sammy was worried, hell Dean was worried himself.  However, that didn't stop the fact that there were still monsters in this world that needed to be killed, and Dean was planning on killing as many of the son of a bitches as possible before his year was up.   

Drawing a deep breath, he again set about trying to convince his brother to go on the hunt.  "I'm telling you Sam, something's up.  This first guy Pete, whatever he saw scared him so bad, he had a massive heart attack, and the kid that was working with him disappeared.  All they found was blood, and lots of it.  Now nine months later, someone falls out of a window the day after the building was opened.  That's two violent deaths in less than a year.  I'm telling you this is our kind of thing." 

Sam leaned forward his eyes skimming the newspaper in front of Dean, quickly picking out the facts.  "Hmm.  One of the other office workers said the guy was pushed out the window."  Sam looked from the paper to his brother's expectant grin.  Unable to resist Sam smiled a bit himself, truth be told Sam was at a loss as to how to break the deal his brother had made.  Nodding his head, he accepted the fact that until he found a way to break it Dean was right.  Better to be on the move, working than sitting around driving each other crazy.  

"Fine if you want to check it out we will." 

Dean leaned back and signaled the waitress.  Grinning, he said, "Let's go, surf city here we come." 

Chapter 2

"Come on honey, you know it makes me hot.  Say it for me." 

Mark licked his lips as he eagerly took in the sight before him.  Lying on his desk, amid the paperwork, was his secretary.  Wearing only a bra and panties, her firm body laid before him in offering.  He had been having an affair with Carla for the past three months, ever since he had fired his last secretary at the ripe old age of twenty-five. 

Carla, a firm and beautiful twenty year old, was everything a man could want in a mistress.  Aggressive, ambitious, and imaginative, she stirred his senses like none of the others ever had.  

As she gestured him forward with one perfect, red tipped nail, he couldn't help but grin.  Climbing onto the desk, he moved to cover her body with his own.  Her hand pushed against his naked chest stopping him.   

"Say it," she demanded.  

Dipping past her hand, he nipped her shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.  At her gasp of pleasure, he whispered, "Your wish is my command." 

Mark Walker sat forward at his desk, sorting through the paperwork he had so carelessly scattered earlier.  A glance out the window showed him a dark and windswept beach.  He had to admit, ever since the business had relocated to the Inlet, his stress levels had decreased dramatically.  The calming sound of the surf, and the relatively deserted location was soothing to say the least.  Well, he thought at least for now.  A new high-rise, a twin to this one, was being constructed on the south side of the building.  Luckily for him, he wouldn't have to deal with the noise or the unsightly construction, being a VP had its benefits. 

The phone began ringing, glancing down he saw that it was his private line.  Knowing it was his wife, Mark grabbed the receiver and answered, "Hey, sweetie." 

Crystal Walker smiled at the sound of her husband's voice.  They had been married for nearly fifteen years now, and his deep voice still sent shivers down her spine.  Speaking softly, she said, "My mom just called, she asked if the kids could stay at her place tonight.  I thought if you were almost finished we might meet and have dinner, who knows," she continued, "Maybe we'll have desert too." 

Mark smiled "Sounds great honey, I'll be home in fifteen."  Hanging up the phone, Mark began to whistle as he straightened his tie.  One last glance around the office showed him that everything was in place.  Heading out the door, he snapped off the light and headed for the bank of elevators at the far end of the hall. 

As Mark made his way to the car, he enjoyed the slight breeze coming in off the bay.  Juggling his briefcase, he tried to pull his keys from his pocket.  Dropping them instead, he bent to pick them up.  Unaware of the shadow behind him, he fitted the key in the lock.  His only warning that something was wrong was a reflection in the window of his Mercedes.  Turning, he never made it fully around, before a silver blade sliced down in one smooth arc nearly severing his head from his neck.  

The shadow dissipated as it had appeared, born of an ocean breeze; it was carried away on the wind.  Only a whisper remained, fading into the night sky.  "Traitor"   

"Dean, at least take off your jacket.  It's gotta be at least 85 degrees out." 

Dean snorted as they approached the building, "No way am I going in there without protection, Dude."   

"Its broad daylight, exactly what do you need protection from, the secretarial pool?”  Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's instance that he keep his suit jacket on, to cover his gun and god only knew what else. 

Dean ignored Sam's snit.  Although the dark blue suit he wore was hot as hell, there was no way he was willing to walk into the high-rise with only his good looks to his name.  With their luck, it always paid to be prepared, he thought, as he patted his inside suit pocket and felt both his EMF meter and his gun.   

They had arrived on Brigantine Island late last night; originally, they had planned to hit the local library for some research.  Those plans had changed when the waitress at the diner, they'd eaten breakfast in, had informed them that someone had been found dead at the building they were supposed to be investigating.  Yeah, Dean thought with a snort, it was all well and fine for Sammy to be walking around in a simple shirt and tie, but he was taking no chances. 

"So what's the scoop?" 

Sam stared in appreciation at the beautiful, ten story building that rose before them.  Set on the south side of the island, the all-glass building reflected every element of its environment.  The bay, the boats, even the clouds in the sky, were reflected in its inky black reflection.  "Well, apparently it's a blight on the town.  The local historical society did everything they could to shut down the construction and nothing worked.  Too much money behind it, the city council approved it and its twin, that's in its beginning stages of construction." 

Dean glanced up at the giant eyesore that rose before him.  The building blocked what would have been a beautiful view of the bay.  "Big surprise money talks." 

Sam's gaze shifted to his brother.  "Yeah, pretty much.  Anyway, last night was the third death on record.  Guy was working late, got a call from his wife, said he'd be right home and instead was found nearly decapitated in the parking lot.  No murder weapon, no clues, the only other person here was a security guard and he claims he didn't see a thing." 

Upon entering the building, the lobby lay in front of them.  Shining black marble floors led to a shining black desk.  A listing of the businesses that occupied the building was mounted on the wall behind the desk.  Sam gazed at the listing, looking for and quickly finding.  Mertz and Co.

"Sixth floor, let's go."  Turning, he headed for a bank of elevators that lined one wall.  Pressing a button, he waited for the doors before him to open.  It actually took a minute for him to notice that his brother hadn't followed.  Turning, he couldn't help but roll his eyes at the sight of his brother. 

Dean was leaning against the front desk, chatting with the security guard, he was probably spinning a month's worth of bullshit.  He met Sam's gaze, a slight nod was the only sign Sam needed to turn his back on his brother and continue upstairs. 

"So weird man, I mean hacked in the parking lot.  Kinda makes you wonder, huh." Dean said, in an encouraging tone. 

 "I'll tell you what, the guy was an asshole, but no one deserves to be done like that.  I was the one that found him, wife called about an hour after he left the lobby complaining that she couldn't reach him.  I offered to run outside take a look around.  I got out there, and just about puked up my lungs.  Never seen so much blood." 

Dean nodded sympathetically.  "Yeah, I read the police report.  They said the guy was knifed, they're thinking it was a robbery gone bad." 

"A robbery, I'll tell you what wasn't in that police report, Mr. Walker's keys to his Mercedes SL500 were in the door to the car.  Not to mention his briefcase was found lying next to him.  All in all, I gotta say if it was a robbery it definitely went bad."   

"Old Mark, he wasn't stabbed; no, he was beheaded or so close to, as to make no difference.  NO knife could have done that, no way."  Here the security officer glanced down at the bank of monitors in front of him.  Noting that everything looked right, he returned his attention to Dean.  Joking, he said, "Maybe poor Mrs. Walker finally got fed up." 

Dean cocked an eyebrow, and asked, "Fed up?"

Sam stepped off the elevators and headed for a suite of rooms visible at the end of the corridor.  Opening the door, he smiled at the receptionist, sitting behind the desk, in front of him.  "Hi, my name's Sam Barret, I'm with Liberty Mutual.  I need to speak with Mr. Mertz."  The redhead behind the desk smiled, her bright green eyes alight with appreciation. 

"Certainly, Mr. Barret, he's expecting you."  Carla Summer didn't bother to hide the appreciation she felt for the tall, dark haired, young man, that had just entered the office.  Practically purring, she stood, smoothing the dove grey skirt she wore.  She had been feeling down this morning after hearing the news about Mark, and had worn the skirt in hopes of catching Walter Phillips eye.  He was next in line for the vice president position, or at least that was the rumor.  Breathing deeply, she deliberately brushed against the young man, allowing her breasts to rub suggestively against him.  Heading towards the hall, she glanced over her shoulder, pouted her lips a bit, and crooked a finger, "Follow me." 

Sam hated the blush that rose in his face in response to the secretary's blatant flirting.  Trying to ignore the way she swung her hips, he resolutely kept his gaze fixed on the back of her head. 

Carla reached old man Mertz's office, knocking lightly on the door; she waited for a response and swung it open.  Standing in the doorway, she forced the handsome man to brush past her once more. 

Sam ignored Carla and moved past her, resolutely keeping his focus on the man at the far side of the room.  As Sam entered, he took in the plush office, complete with a view of the bay.  Atlantic City's casinos were just visible in the early morning light. 

"Quite a view, eh?" 

Sam simply nodded, relatively sure that the man standing before the wall of windows wasn't expecting an answer. 

"Yes, as soon as I learned the towers were being built, I was determined to move the office here.  No matter what the bleeding heart, tree-hugging, hippies say.  So, what do you need to know.  It's in no way the company's fault he's dead, and I won't have his death besmirching our good name." 

Sam was surprised to say the least at the abrupt manner in which Mertz was discussing his former employee.  Scrambling for a reply, he said, "Of course not.  Any ideas as to who may have killed him?" 

If Mertz was at all put off by Sam's bluntness, he hid it well, "Of course not.  I'm sure it was nothing more than a robbery gone wrong.  Happens all the time, being so close to the city.  From time to time we get undesirables, they come here expecting an easy score, and then they return to where they came from."

Sam nodded at the simple explanation.  "Hm, yes, well, what I would like, is to speak with the last person to have seen him that day.  You know just to clear up any loose ends." 

Mertz turned his back to the window once again and waved a hand.  "That would be Carla, feel free." 

Sam knew a dismissal when he heard one.  "Thanks for your time."  Turning around, he headed for the door.  Upon opening it, he was surprised to find the secretary waiting for him.  

"I'm Carla, what can I do for you?"  

Sam very nearly rolled his eyes at the blatant invitation in the young girl's eyes.  Smiling slightly, he asked, "I understand you were the last person to see Mark Walker alive.  Can I ask what you were doing here at the office after hours?" 

Carla grinned, leaned forward, and said, "Dictation." 

Sam leaned back.  "Dictation?" 

"Yup, he was dictating for me.”  Carla's inflection of the word left no questions as to what they were doing. 

Sam nodded.  "Well then can you tell me if he said, or did anything unusual?" 

Carla's grin widened.  "What you want details?  Cause if you'd like, I could re-enact the whole meeting." 

Sam again ignored the blush that was creeping up his neck.  Smiling grimly he said, "That won't be necessary, just a general idea will do." 

Sam turned at the sound of a door opening; glancing towards it, he noted a dark haired man step out into the hall.  The man gestured to a younger man dressed in dark blue coveralls,  

"You can just leave that stuff at the end of the hall." 

Sam watched in interest as the man in the coveralls carried a box toward the front door.  "Um, Carla, I think I have enough for now.  If you'll excuse me, I'm going to head out."  Not bothering to give the woman a chance to protest, Sam took off down the hall intent on catching the janitor.

"So you gonna go first or do you want me to?" 

Sam rolled down his window, breathing deeply; he couldn't help but feel relaxed.  Job or not the sight and scent of the ocean brought back good memories.  "I'll go first."  Sam gathered his thoughts and began telling Dean everything he had learned. 

"So, no one seems overly upset that old Mark bought it eh." Dean grabbed his sunglasses off the dash, before putting them on, he shared a glance with Sam.  "You know he was having an affair with a secretary, right?  Apparently it's not the first time, though and rumor has it that Mrs. Mark had no idea." 

Sam nodded in confirmation.  "Yeah, the secretary made it pretty clear, just what they'd been doing there alone, after hours." 

"Yeah, well Tom also told me that Walker was nearly decapitated.  This was no stabbing; whoever did it had a grudge." 

Sam mulled that over a bit.  "We need more to work with.  I mean we know that the land is clean.  No burial sites, no violent deaths, at least not until now.  The building is brand new and the materials used check out." 

"Well, let's go see if we can track down Pete, he was there when the first guy bought it, right?" 

Sam nodded.  "Yeah, also there's the jumper though, I'm not sure how he fits the pattern.”  Sam frowned in thought, as his brother guided the big car out of the parking lot and onto the street.  "Maybe he doesn't, maybe it was a suicide." 

Dean let out a snort, "Come on, Sam, when are they ever suicides?" 

Sam couldn't help but smile wryly.  "Yeah, well one can hope."

Chapter 3

Sam couldn't help but be charmed by the small cottage before him.  Located on a street full of condominiums and townhouses, the small structure looked inviting.  The house, painted sea-foam blue with bright white shutters, and a surrounding white picket fence, house was located on the bay.  Sam was guessing that there was a dock behind the house, complete with a fishing boat. 

Exchanging glances with his brother, Sam reached out and knocked on the door.  A few minutes later, a woman answered.  Smiling, she looked up at the boys.  "Yes, can I help you?" 

Dean stepped forward, smiling confidently, he said, "My name's Dean and this is my brother Sam.  We were hoping to speak with your husband about the accident.  Michael Walker was our cousin." 

The petite woman's smile vanished at Dean's words.  "My husband's in no condition to visit.  You'll have to come back some other time."  Closing the door, the woman looked up in surprise as Dean's hand whipped out, preventing her from shutting it. 

Sam stepped back a bit, trying to appear less threatening.  Smiling softly, he kept his eyes focused on the woman.  "I can only imagine how hard the past weeks have been for your husband, but if we could just speak with him for a few moments."  Sam held the woman's gaze, keeping his expression empathetic. 

The woman gazed up at Sam for a moment more, before finally pushing the door open.  "Please come in, I'll see if my husband's up to a visit."  Leaving them in the living room, she moved right, disappearing down a hallway. 

Dean and Sam stepped into the tiny living room.  The room had a definite nautical feel to it, every item displayed added to the tone.  Several large paintings, depicted sailboats in varying settings, even the pillows on the couch bore tiny embroidered sailboats.  Exchanging glances, the brothers remained silent, content to wait and see if Pete would talk with them. 

"Pete, now mind me.  I won't have you becoming upset." 

"Angie, I'm fine."  

"Don't you I'm fine me, old man.  You nearly died, that's not fine.  Not in my book." 

The harsh voice relented a bit, "I know Angie, I know.  But, really I'm okay.  I'm just going to talk to these boys, not challenge them to a foot race." 

As Pete rounded the corner, the Winchesters were shocked by the older man's appearance.  Although they knew Pete had suffered a massive heart attack, they still weren't prepared for the man that was shuffling toward them.  He leaned heavily on the walker he pushed ahead of him.  His once bronze skin had faded, leaving him looking sallow and sickly.  He'd obviously lost a great deal of weight, as his clothes hung on him.  His eyes though, were still bright blue, piercing Sam and Dean where they stood. 

Before arriving on Pete Shepard's doorstep, Sam had done some research.  He had learned, Pete had spent the last thirty-odd years working construction.  He also knew that Pete's statement to the police had been sketchy at best.  He had been unconscious for nearly ten days after Michael's death.  When he had finally awoken, he had been weak and unsure of what had happened.  At least that's what he'd told the police.  Sam was betting Pete knew more. 

Pete made his way into the living room, his gaze drawn to the two men that stood by the front door.  Staring intently, he couldn't help the snort that escaped him.  Turning slowly toward Angie, he said, "Honey, me, and these young men, are going to step out onto the deck.  How about a couple of ice-teas and a plate of your cookies.  I've had a hankering for those cookies all day." 

Angie rested her hands on her hips, frowning she wagged a finger at her husband.  "Don't you go getting yourself upset, Peter.  I'll call Dr. Levine if I have to, and you know it'll be back to bed." 

Pete nodded.  "Of course dear, I'll stay calm I promise."  Gesturing the men to follow him, Pete began the slow process of moving toward the back of the house.

Pete settled back in his chair, his gaze resolutely turned away from the sailboat docked behind him.  Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, Pete couldn't refrain from saying, "That was supposed to be my retirement.  Now instead of sailing down to the Caribbean with the wife, I'm going to therapy twice a week." 

Sam nodded in sympathy.  "I'm sorry; I know it must be tough." 

Pete's shrewd gaze slid toward the two men seated next to him.  "So you're Mike's cousins, huh?" 

Sam nodded.  "Yeah, we're not real happy with the police's explanation as to what happened.  We thought maybe you might be able to give us more insight as to what went on." 

"So are you on his mother's side or his father's?”  Pete asked.  His bright blue gaze focused on Sam. 

"His mother's.  So, I know you told the police you weren't with Mike at the time of his death, but I wondered about how far you were from him," Dean asked. 

Pete leaned back in his seat, hands folded across his lap.  He looked right and left, his gaze moving from Dean back to Sam.   

"His mother's, huh?  Did your Aunt ever tell you I met her once?  She stopped by the site not too long before Mike was killed." 

Dean nodded, his gaze focused on the older man.  "Yeah, that sounds just like her.  So how far did you say you were?" 

"Yeah, pretty lady.  I was impressed by how well she spoke English, having been born in Vietnam, and all."  Pete sat back, liking the effect his words had on both the young men. 

Dean and Sam exchanged glances, finally Sam nodded.  "I'm sorry, sir, we meant no disrespect.  It's just we really need to know what happened that day and we felt you'd be more likely to see us if you though we were family." 

Pete nodded.  "Alright then, let's start again.  My name's Pete Shepard, what can I do for you fellows?" 

"My name's Dean and this is Sam.  We're investigating the deaths over at Ocean Towers; we're hoping you could answer a few questions in regards to Michael Walker's death." 

Pete nodded in approval.  "I'll do my best.  Now, what is it you want to know?" 

"Maybe it'd be best if you could just tell us in your own words," Sam said, pulling his notepad from his pocket. 

"I'll do my best."

Dean maneuvered the car away from the curb.  Glancing toward Sam, he couldn't help but say, "I told you there was something going on." 

"Yeah, well stow your ‘told you so's' for a bit.  There's definitely something going on in that building." 

"You've got that right; voices carried on the wind, never a good thing." 

Sam frowned in thought, Pete's description of Michael's death was nagging at him.  He went over the details again. 

"So, there Michael sits having himself a beer." 

"Yup, and next thing Pete sees is Michael lying on the ground, his hand severed, in a pool of blood," Dean supplied. 

Sam nodded, and gestured for Dean to turn right at the stop sign.  "Yeah, then as he goes to dial 911, he collapses." 

"And as he hits the ground, he hears a voice whisper ‘Thief'.”  Dean made the right, noting the restaurant on the left.  Pulling into the lot, he parked.  Turning towards Sam, he said, "So where does that leave us?" 

Sam bit his fingernails, his face screwed up in concentration.  Sighing, he looked at his brother.  "Got me, maybe some type of vengeful spirit?  Maybe it's a ghost that's a stickler for the rules, like Nurse Glockner."  Climbing out of the car, Sam continued.  "After all, Mark Walker wasn't exactly on the up and up." 

Dean leaned against the car for a moment, tapping his fingers on the roof.  "Yeah, but where's the damn thing coming from, the building is clean.  And how does the jumper fit in?" 

Sam smiled grimly.  "Well let's get a bite to eat and then see if we can find out.  The maintenance worker at the Towers, said the jumper worked for the glass company.  The building was still under construction at the time." 

Dean nodded, "Alright, we'll head there next."

Walter Phillips looked about in satisfaction.  Leaning back, hands laced behind his head, he admired his new office.  He felt a thrill of excitement move through him.  Though he'd always intended to become the vice president of Mertz and Company, he'd thought it would take longer to steal the position from Walker.  After all, the man's penchant for young secretary’s aside, he was good at what he did. 

Walter snorted, was good, being the optimal phrase.  Now, instead of having to cheat his way up the corporate ladder, the job he so desperately wanted, had fallen into his lap.  Standing, Walter walked toward the window, peering out at the water beyond.  Watching the last of the evening light abandon the night sky, he heard a noise.  Turning, he expected to find the janitor.  Ready to order the man away so he could enjoy his conquest, the words instead, died in his throat.  

Unsure of what he was seeing, Walter took a step back, coming to rest against the glass behind him.  "Who are you and what are you doing in here?"   

Gulping down a scream, Walter pushed harder against the glass, as a waft of rancid breath caressed his cheek.  A rough voice, whispered in his hear, "Mutiny".  Walter never felt the thick rope slide around his throat; he never noticed the pull as it tightened.  Unable to tear his gaze away from the creature before him, he offered no resistance even as the rope jerked him off his feet, cutting off his air and crushing his windpipe.

Dean played with the dart in his hand, focusing on the board in front of him, he aimed and tossed the dart.  A smile lit up his face as he looked in satisfaction at the bulls-eye.  "You know I hope you realize I'm wasting my god given talents hanging out with you.  I could be making us some money right now, instead of sitting in your pocket." 

Sam grimaced, ignoring the irritation in his older brother's voice.  "We don't have time for you to play, Dean."   

Dean walked forward, jerking the darts out of the board in front of him.  Returning to the table, he picked up his beer and took a swig.  He had been trying for weeks now to ignore Sam's constant insistence that they remain together at all times.  He had hoped it would wear off, that Sam would relent.  Instead, if anything his brother had gotten worse.  Earlier today, when Dean had offered to drop Sam off at the nearest library while he went into the city to earn some cash, Sam had flipped.  He'd cited a dozen reasons why they shouldn't split up, including Sam's new found inability to walk the three blocks from the library to the hotel.   

Taking another swig of beer, Dean jumped in with both feet.  "I'm not going to disappear, Sam, I was given a year, I'll get a year." 

Sam kept his eyes focused on the notes before him, unable to keep from clenching his teeth, he refused to acknowledge his brother's words.  Though he wouldn't admit it, that was exactly what he was afraid of.  He awoke every morning in a cold sweat, panic clawing at his throat, unable to breathe, until he made sure that Dean was in the room with him. 

At the moment, he had two fears that battled for supremacy.  The first was that he wouldn't be able to find a way to break the bargain Dean had made.  The second and far more chilling was the thought that whatever had made the deal would renege on his word, and reach out from hell taking Dean before the year was up.  

It was that fear that made it difficult for Sam to let his brother out of his sight.  It was that fear that drove him to use every tactic he knew to keep Dean close.  Ignoring his brother's words, Sam said, "Let's go over what the guy from the glass company said again." 

Dean stared at his brother for a moment.  Though he was rarely one for self-examination, he couldn't help but worry over Sam's fears.  He had realized something was wrong a few weeks after they had destroyed the yellow-eyed Demon.  Dean had awoken first one morning, and had left the motel, in search of coffee.  He had been walking back toward the motel, when he'd found Sam dressed in only his boxers and a pair of socks, frantically searching the motel and parking lot.  That had been the first, though not the last, clue that not all was right with Sam.

Wiping his hand across his jaw, Dean sighed and dropped into the seat next to his brother.  "Alright, Sam, so what the jumper didn't jump, right, he was pushed?" 

Sam relaxed slightly.  "Yeah, that's what his buddy said, ‘He was standing in front of the hole in the wall, joking around, when something unseen pushed him out the hole.'  Can't blame the guy for telling everyone he jumped." 

"Yeah, well I'm sure it would have gone over well to say the guy was pushed out by a gust of wind," Dean countered, toying with his now empty beer bottle. 

"Yeah, and this time the voice said, "Indolent"."   

"Indolent?" 

"Yeah as in lazy, shiftless, useless..." 

Dean rolled his eyes.  "Okay, Encyclopedia Brown, I know what indolent means." 

Sam shrugged.  "Yeah, well it fits.  According to this guy, Frank wasn't exactly lighting the world on fire with his work ethic.  His supervisors all said the same thing, likeable enough but no drive." 

Dean nodded.  "So our victims so far, the first was a ‘thief', the second was ‘indolent', and the third was a ‘traitor'. 

"Seems like," Sam answered, taking a swallow of his own beer. 

"So, something is taking it upon itself to, what, pass judgment on the people it comes in contact with." 

Sam nodded, "Yeah, now we just have to figure out what it is." 

Dean continued idly turning the bottle in his hands, allowing his mind to wander over the facts.  "So, we've got a handle on Mr. Shiftless and our philandering traitor, but why call Michael a thief?" 

Sam's expression became calculating.  "What if he took something, something from the site?  He was there for the excavation after all." 

Dean grinned, flipping the bottle he neatly caught it, and stood.  "How about we visit our dear Aunt and find out what he could have stolen." 

Chapter 4

"Move it, Sammy, move.”  Dean ducked a frying pan, as it came whizzing past his head.  Shoving at his brother's back, he urged Sam on. 

Sam resisted.  "Mrs. Walker, please we didn't mean to...”  Sam's voice trailed off, as Dean shoved his head down, forcing Sam to duck the pan, wielded by Mrs. Walker.  

"Not now, Sam."  Dean again shoved against his brother, urging him out the front door. 

Sam finally seemed to realize that he wouldn't be able to charm the petite woman.  He choose to retreat instead, his long legs carrying him halfway down the sidewalk before he stopped and turned toward the house. 

Anxious to escape now that Sam was safe, Dean moved for the door himself.  As he left the house, the pan caught him on the shoulder, the blow nearly knocking him to the ground. 

"Damn, Lady, we're leaving," Dean shouted, as he practically threw himself down the sidewalk. 

Michael's mother, seeing that her quarry were about to escape, actually chucked the pan at the men.  It caught Dean in the hip, causing the older man to release a string of curses. 

Dean limped his way to Sam, rubbing his hip.  He was thankful that the frying-pan-wielding woman, seemed content to curse at them from the front door. 

"Well, that went well.  You really need to work on your spiel, Sam.  You're losing your touch." 

Sam rolled his eyes.  "I need to work on it, everything was fine until you accused her beloved son of being a thief." 

Dean backed down the sidewalk, his gaze focused on the woman that continued to shout curses from the open doorway.  "Yeah well, the kid had a record of shoplifting, who is she to pretend he didn't." 

Dean heaved a sigh of relief as they reached the curb where they had parked the Impala.  "So, what now, Geek boy?  We keep coming up with dead ends." 

Dean turned as a voice called out. 

"Excuse me." 

Dean's gaze was apprehensive as the young woman that had called out, walked down the sidewalk.

Sam couldn't help smiling a bit at the wary look on his brother's face. 

Although, Sam had to admit he was feeling a bit apprehensive himself.  After all, being chased by a frying pan wielding, woman who was a quarter of his size did tend to make an impression. 

"Yeah," Sam said, his hand hovering near the Impala's door handle. 

The pretty, dark haired girl held out a hand, and though her smile never reached her eyes, Sam had no doubt it was genuine. 

"My name's, Susan.  Michael was my baby brother."  Her eyes welled with tears at the mention of her brother.  As she shook first Sam and then Dean's hand, she said, "Sorry about my Mom.  She's taking it kinda hard." 

It was in that moment, as Sam stared at the obviously devastated young woman, he realized just what Dean had faced. 

Over the years there had been narrow escapes, times when he had really faced the fact that he could lose his brother.  In those moments, when fear held him by the throat, Sam had gone to every length possible to save his brother.  After all, he had allowed Roy Le Grange, a faith healer, to heal Dean.  At the time, he'd never given thought to how the healings worked, he'd only cared that Dean got his miracle.  Later, after they'd discovered that the healings were the work of a reaper, Dean had been furious.  Angry that he'd lived and another had died in his place.   

For Sam it was different, although he'd never told Dean, no sacrifice could have been too big to have his brother back.  As much as he wished the young man hadn't died in Dean's place, he was every bit as glad that Dean lived. 

Then the yellow-eyed demon had very nearly destroyed Dean.  Again, his brother had hovered between life and death.  Once again, Sam fell to researching every avenue for a cure.  Only this time it seemed as if there wasn't one to be found.  This time Dean's miracle had been in the form of his father's sacrifice. 

Again, Sam had rejoiced, not for his father's death, but for his brother's life.  

The difference between Dean's injuries and Sam's death was, for Dean there'd been no hope.  His brother had been left with nothing to hold onto.  Sam wasn't gravely injured, he wasn't given a few months to live, he was dead.  Dean had held Sam as his life poured out of him, he'd carried his body after the chill of death had stolen any chance of a miracle. 

So was it any wonder that Dean had made his own miracle.  That he had made a decision to exchange his life for Sam's.  That he'd considered one more year spent at his baby brother's side better than a lifetime alone. 

Sam's gaze took in the woman before him.  The dark circles of fatigue that lined her, bloodshot, eyes.  The pallor of her skin and the way her clothes hung on her thin frame. 

She was suffering, the loss of her brother a weight that was obviously drowning her.  Sam wondered if at that moment, he offered her the same deal, whether she'd be able to walk away.  From the look of her, he doubted she'd be able. 

Some of the guilt he'd been carrying since he'd found out about the deal eased.  The anger that had gripped him since he'd learned what Dean had done subsided.  For the first time, he allowed himself to stand in his brother's shoes.  He wondered what he would have done if their positions had been reversed. 

What would he have done if Roy Le Grange had been a charlatan, if his father hadn't sacrificed himself, and if Dean had died instead?  He wondered what lengths he would have gone to, to hold onto his brother. 

Sam took a deep breath, and a feeling of peace stole over him.  For better or worse, the deal had been struck, the only thing left was to hope for yet another miracle.  After all, if anyone deserved one, it was his brother.

Dean glanced once again at his brother.  Since shaking the young woman's hand, he had been strangely quiet, a frown marring his features.

Dean returned his attention to Susan.  "We wanted to ask you a few questions regarding your brother."  He couldn't help but feel for the woman before him, after all he knew what it was to lose a baby brother. 

Whether Susan reacted to the tone of his voice, or if it was simply a case of her needing to talk about Michael, Dean didn't know.  All he knew was that Susan seemed willing. 

"I don't know how much help I'll be, but I'll do what I can." 

Dean shifted his feet a bit, he had no desire to cause her any more pain.  However, if her mother's reaction was any indication, she was bound to get upset.  "I understand that Michael was accused of shoplifting several times in his youth?" 

Susan's expression crumbled and the tears that had pooled in her eyes spilled over.  Gripping a tissue in her hand, she sniffed.  "Michael was caught shoplifting three times.  Each time the items stolen were food." 

Susan wiped her eyes.  "Things used to be bad.  Dad ran out on us when we were little.  Mom always did her best, but, sometimes things were...tough." 

A flicker of movement caught Dean's attention.  He glanced toward Sam, glad to see his brother was again paying attention. 

"Every now and then, when things were at their worst, Michael and I would steal food."  Susan gave a watery laugh.  "Michael always sucked at it." 

Sam nodded his expression sympathetic.  "We understand.  What we were really wondering is if Michael might have found something at the construction site?" 

Susan's expression turned wary.  "I thought you said you were with the local paper?" 

Dean nodded and turned toward Sam. 

Sam stammered a bit before answering, "Um, well we are with a paper, just not the local.  What did Michael find?" 

Susan smiled a bit.  "Treasure, of course."

Dean left the bathroom, a towel strung over his shoulder, his hair still beaded with water.  Moving toward the bed, he dropped down and rubbed his head with the towel.  "You're turn, Sam." 

Leaning forward, Dean grabbed the remote off the TV.  His intention was to watch a really crappy movie.  Something guaranteed to take his mind off the day.  At least that was the plan, until he noticed his brother staring at him. 

Dean cast another sideways glance at the kid.  He was sitting in front of the computer, his hands resting lightly on the keyboard, his eyes boring holes into Dean.  Determined to ignore Sam and his issues, in favor of watching a giant Alligator eat people, Dean kept his gaze focused on Lake Placid. 

Unfortunately, not even the sight of Betty White, cursing a blue streak, was enough to distract him from the feel of Sam's puppy dog eyes.  Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer.  "What?" 

Sam shook himself as if awaking from a dream.  "Nothing." 

"Sam," the warning in Dean's voice was clear. 

"It's nothing, Dean, really."  Sam dropped his head, avoiding Dean's glare. 

Dean sighed and edged his way to the end of the bed.  Sitting, he leaned forward.  Arms resting on his knees, he was only about a foot away from Sam.  "Spill." 

Sam's eyes met his brother's, and he took a deep breath.  "I know why you did it.  I understand why and I forgive you." 

Dean felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest.  A weight that until a second ago, he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying.  Up until this moment, he hadn't appreciated just how much he needed Sam to understand what he'd done.  Dean's head dropped to his arms and he took a couple of deep breaths.  

Once he had himself back in control, he lifted his head and met his brother's eyes.  "It's about time you figured it out." 

Sam grinned faintly and shrugged.  "I can be a bit slow at times."

"Yeah, you can, Sammy."  Dean reached out and slapped Sam on the knee.  "Yeah, you can."

"Huh, so that's it," Dean said, cocking his head to one side.  "That's what the kid found." 

Sam mimicked Dean's pose.  "Apparently."  

Dean stared at the glass case for a moment more.  "Hm...it doesn't look very...." 

"Piraty," supplied Sam. 

"Yeah." 

"Well, it says here that it's a bucket from the pirate ship, Comoros, the Captain was William Kidd.  It was found by Michael Walker, at the Towers construction site." 

Dean stared for a minute more.  "A bucket.  How the hell is a bucket haunted?" 

Sam scanned the plaque a moment more.  "Um...  Says he killed a man with it.  Huh." 

Dean looked a bit impressed.  "With a bucket?  Okay then, so what, we sneak back in here tonight steal, the bucket and burn it?" 

Sam nodded.  "Yeah that sounds like the best bet.  Security should be pretty easy." 

Dean snorted and jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the museum's security. 

Sam couldn't help but grin.  Earlier they had met the Brigantine Historical Society's security team, it consisted of Walt Fischer.  Walt was an eighty-five year old retiree, he was also the janitor and the curator.  At the moment, he sat in a chair by the front door, his feet propped on another chair, sound asleep. 

"Tonight it is.”  Dean turned to leave, leading Sam out into the bright sunshine of early morning.  As he glanced at his watch, a smile lit his face.  "I know how we could kill a couple of hours."

Sam took one look at his brother's face and smiled.  "Fine, we can go to Atlantic City, but I'm telling you, Dean, we have to be back tonight to get that bucket." 

Dean grinned and held up his hand.  "Scouts honor, Sam." 

Sam rolled his eyes, and headed for the car, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

Chapter 5

"Aw, Sammy.  Isn't it beautiful?" 

"Are you crying?”  Sam's voice echoed the disbelief on his face. 

The two men stood, side by side, at the entrance of the Borgata, an Atlantic City casino, a cacophony of sound assailing them from every direction.  The dim light was broken only by the flashing strobes of the winning slot machines. 

"It's just been too long, Sam, too long."  Clapping his younger brother on the shoulder, Dean made no effort to subdue his mega watt smile.  As he stepped up to a bank of slot machines, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar.  Feeding the machine before him, Dean quickly hit max bet button and pulled the lever. 

"Dean, come on, man.  We don't have money to spare, and Mr. Hasselhoff's nearly reached his limit. 

Dean's eyes remained locked on the machine, watching as the tumblers spun, slowed, and stopped.  Letting out a whoop, Dean grinned and pointed to the display.  "See that, Sam.  Seven's straight across."  As the machine began displaying Dean's winnings, he shot a glance at his brother.  "That's the way to win, seven hundred and fifty-three.  Money does you no good, if you aren't willing to risk a bit now and again."  Pushing the cash out button, Dean asked.  "Get me one of those cups, Sam.  I'm gonna take my winnings and move on." 

Sam glanced at the machine.  "Dean that's seven hundred and fifty-three quarters, that's like $189.00.  And I don't see any cups." 

Dean glanced about a frown marring his face.  "Yeah, well did you win $189.00, Sam?  No, I did.  Where the hell are the cups?" 

Sam studied the machine for a moment.  Reaching out, he gripped the white piece of paper that had just slid out of the machine.  He glanced at it and then handed it to Dean, a slight smile on his face.  "Congratulations, Dean, there's your winnings." 

Dean took the paper from Sam and studied it for a moment, his face reflecting his disappointment at the ticket he held in his hand. 

"Man, you look like you just found out Santa Clause isn't real.  Come on, it's every bit as good as quarters you just cash it out before you leave the casino.”  Sam couldn't help but laugh a bit at just how upset Dean looked. 

"It's not the same, Sammy.  What's the point if when you win, you don't get to hear the coins strike the metal pan?  You don't get to scoop up the change and fill bucket after bucket with your winnings."  Turning to face Sam, he mumbled, "What a load of crap, technology sucks." With his voice full of disappointment, Dean left the bright flashing lights of the slot machines, heading instead for the more subdued gaming tables. 

Sam followed gamely intent on enjoying himself for a change.  Lately he'd been so caught up in Dean's deal and the aftermath of the hell gates opening that he'd forgotten just what it was to relax.  "So what are we playing first?  Black Jack, Roulette, Craps?”  Sam looked eagerly about, watching people crowd around the various tables, their shouts of triumph and despair fighting for supremacy over the general din. 

"You ever gamble before, Dude?”  Dean asked, his eyebrows drawn in doubt. 

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels.  "Yeah, well a kid at school used to host gaming nights in his dorm."  At Dean's skeptic look, Sam insisted, "I know how to play, just because I haven't made it a habit to detour every trip I take past Nevada through Vegas doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing." 

"Alright, big guy, I can see you know what you're doing.  You have fun, I'm gonna see if I can't scare up a poker game.  A little Texas Hold'em is just what I need to get us a little working capital."  Dean gave Sam a little shove toward the tables and turned to find where the poker games were located.  Turning at the last moment, a small smile playing around his mouth, he asked, "You have any cash on you? 

"I'm not twelve, Dean.  You don't have to give me spending money," Sam snapped, not appreciating Dean's big brother routine. 

Dean held up his hands and stepped back a step.  "Sorry there, Sam," Dean said, emphasizing his brother's name.  "Just thought I'd ask, seeing as you bought breakfast." 

Sam shot his brother one more annoyed glance and melted into the flow of people.  Still fuming over Dean's attitude, Sam wandered among the tables.  Although, he hadn't wanted to admit it, he only had about twenty dollars to his name. 

As he moved among the Black Jack tables, he kept shooting glances over his shoulder, to where the poker games were held.  He could just make out his brother's leather clad back.  Though he felt better about leaving Dean since they'd talked, he still wanted to keep him in sight.  When his brother gambled, trouble was never far behind.  Apparently, people didn't appreciate having to listen to his smart ass comments while losing their money to him. 

Sam chose a five-dollar table that was in view of poker tables.  As he handed over his twenty, he shifted his focus to the game at hand.

"Sorry, boys, but I am on a roll."  Dean grinned, and swept his winnings toward him.  Cashing out his chips, he excused himself from the next hand.  He wanted to check on Sam, no matter what his brother would admit, he knew Sam couldn't have had more than twenty dollars to his name. 

Spotting his brother's tall frame at one of the blackjack tables, Dean ambled over.  He was curious as to how his brother was making out.  As he neared the table, he noticed that Sam had a pile of chips sitting in front of him.  Quickly counting, Dean figured the kid was probably up about eighty bucks.  Approaching Sam from behind, Dean pounded him on the shoulder.  "How are you making out, Sammy, you tearing it up?" 

Sam turned at his brother's words, and grinned proudly.  "Doing pretty good actually, I've won seven out of ten hands."  Sam laid down his bet and waited for the other players to do likewise. 

Dean watched for a moment as Sam, again, won his hand.  Shaking his head, Dean couldn't help but grin.  "Sam, you planning on betting anytime soon?" 

Sam frowned over at Dean.  "What do you mean?  I'm betting," Sam said, as he laid down another five-dollar chip. 

Dean held up his hands in surrender.  "Nothing man I just thought maybe you might like to actually win some money." 

"Just because I choose not to ‘bet it all' Dean doesn't mean I'm not winning.  Besides, unlike you, I'd rather not walk away empty handed.  How much did you lose?" 

Dean felt the wad of cash in his pocket that he'd won and simply smiled a bit.  "Enough, so you ready for a break, I was thinking I could use a beer.  You can treat with your winnings." 

Sam stared hard at his brother for a moment, feeling as if he was being left out of some kind of joke.  Finally, he stood and stretched his long arms overhead, satisfied only when he heard his back pop.  "Yeah, sounds good." 

As the men made their way toward the bar, Dean asked, "So we about ready to go burn the bucket." 

Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise.  "You ready to go?  I figured I'd have to drag you out of here." 

Dean sat on an unoccupied bar stool and ordered two beers, he shrugged.  "I won some money and what I want to do next you can't come, so I figure we might as well split.”  Dean said, as he caught the eye of one of the waitresses.  Winking at her, he gave her a grin as she went past. 

"Fine, we can head out.  It’s after ten o'clock, I'm sure the place is locked down for the night.  If you want, maybe after the job's over we could spend some time here, you know take a break?”  Sam offered. 

"Sounds good to me, maybe we'll try out one of those swanky rooms.”  Dean sipped his beer, waiting for the question he knew wasn't far behind. 

Sam thought about Dean's words for a moment, and then asked, "How much did you win?" 

Dean shrugged.  "It's really not important, Sam.  So we ready?" he asked as he stood and dropped a twenty on the bar. 

Sam stared at the money, took a few sips of his beer, and followed his brother out of the room.  "Dean, Dean, come on man how much did you win?" 

Dean just grinned, and kept walking. 

Sam glanced at the backseat, and satisfied that the bucket still sat there, he faced forward once more.  It was a little after one o'clock in the morning and they were already on their way to the Towers, to burn the bucket.  Dean had been the one to suggest they burn it there, given the building's isolation. 

Luckily, Dean had managed to find a replacement bucket in a local antique shop.  Though it wasn't a complete match for the one they'd taken from the historical society they were hoping it would at least give them time to get out of town.  Sam couldn't help but voice his fears.  "You do realize this is never going to work, right, Dean." 

Dean, eyes peeled to the road ahead, let out a bark of laughter.  "Oh, yeah, Sam.  This is so not going to work." 

"Yeah, I know we're missing something, I just can't figure out what."  Sam frowned, his frustration evident on his face. 

Dean nodded.  "I know, Sam.  But for now it's all we got." 

As they arrived at the Towers, they found the parking lot lit up like a light parade.  Two police cruisers, and ambulance and the Atlantic County Medical Examiner SUV filled the parking lot. 

"Looks like we're too late, damn it.”  Dean pounded a fist against the steering wheel. 

Sam studied the crowd.  "Let's find out what happened."

Sam and Dean moved toward the crowd of law enforcement that were gathered around the ME's car.  ID at the ready, Dean considered the group for a moment before moving toward the local sheriff.  Flashing his badge, he stated firmly, "I'm Detective Mulder and this is Detective Scully, we're with the Atlantic County Sheriff's Department, I'd like to ask you a few questions?" 

The officer in charge, a tall, imposing blonde, looked down at Dean, and his face twisted into a snarl.  "What you don't have enough to do in your own little sin city, now you have to come here and throw your weight around?" 

Sam immediately set about trying to placate the officer, when Dean interrupted, "Yeah, that about sums it up, now who was the victim and how did he die?" 

Dean could see the officer was now certifiably pissed.  The man took a step toward Dean, trying to use his size to intimidate him.  That lasted only a minute, just until the man took a really good look at Dean.  Swallowing audibly, the man began to outline all he knew about the death.  

 Fifteen minutes later, Dean walked away from the officer, tucking his ID back inside his coat pocket.  Glancing at Sammy, he grimaced.  "So the police have decided, Walter Phillips is given the job of his career, and he hangs himself in despair.  It's a wonder the cops can manage to tie their own shoes." 

"Ease up, Dean, what else are they supposed to think.  After all, the guy's found in his office with a rope around his neck, strung up in the rafters.  To them it seems pretty cut and dry."  Sam slid into the passenger seat.  

Dean settled himself behind the steering wheel and started the car, pulling out of the parking lot, he kept his eyes peeled for a place to wait out the crowd that surrounded the Tower.  An access road, leading off into some scrub would have to do.  Backing in, he was surprised to find he had a pretty good view of the building. 

Leaning back in the seat, he cast a wary eye toward the bucket in the backseat.  Although his gut feeling was that something else was causing the haunting, he couldn't help but feel that destroying the bucket was not going to be easy. 

Unable to do more than sit, and wait out the parade of city vehicles, Dean actually nodded off a couple of times.  Finally, after three hours, he felt Sam nudge him awake.  Instantly alert, Dean studied the now dark building.  "Everyone clear out?" 

Sam rubbed a hand across his eyes, and said, "Yeah, about twenty minutes ago." 

Dean started up the car and pulled out onto the road, heading toward the Tower, he couldn't stop the feeling that they were in for more than they bargained for.

Chapter 6

"I have a bad feeling about this, Sam."  Dean crouched low, his sharp gaze taking in the dark, imposing building before them. 

"Yeah, you think?  We're about to salt and burn a bucket that may or may not be haunted by a pirate, a pirate that so far has killed four people."  Sam glanced about the parking lot, his gaze taking in the deserted building before them, the bucket hanging by his side.  "Okay, near as I can figure everyone that's died, has been on the northern side of the building."  In unison, the two men began to run across the shadowed parking lot. 

Sam couldn't help but smile as he glanced over at his brother.  Dean ran beside him, his stride lengthened to match Sam's, his breathing steady.  It was Dean's expression that made Sam smile.  The moonlight reflecting off his brother's eyes combined with the slight grin that lifted the corners of his mouth, betrayed just how much Dean was hoping to encounter Captain Kidd.  "Dude, and you call me the geek, look at you, you're chomping at the bit to meet up with this thing." 

Dean glanced over at Sam and arched a brow.  "What, I can't get a little stoked when we're about to see a pirate?  I mean come on, Sammy, fess up, you're not a little starry eyed over it?"  Dean's grin became wicked.  "After all, you're the one that saw Pirates of the Caribbean five times." 

Sam shook his head in irritation.  "You saw that movie with me, and you loved it." 

"Yeah well, I only saw it cause of that Knightly chick, and the special effects.  I mean, I just loved it every time the moon shines down and you could see the...." 

Sam warming to the subject interrupted, "Yeah, and I mean how funny was it when Jack tricked the British Navy out of the Interceptor." 

Dean came to a halt, his eyes suddenly narrowed in concentration.  "Shh... listen, do you hear that?" 

Sam skidded to a halt beside Dean, the bucket thumping his leg as he took stock of his surroundings.  They'd crossed the parking lot and had been following the building's foundation, moving toward the northern most corner.  Dean had stopped just before rounding the corner of the building.  At this point, they were closest to the nearby bay, the water was probably about fifty feet away. 

Sam following his brother's instructions listened intently.  The sound he picked out first was the water lapping at the shore.  Sure that there must be something more, Sam quieted his breathing and cocked his head, straining to pick out any noise that didn't seem to belong in the night air.

There, he could hear it now.  Intermingled with the sound of water was a rhythmic creaking noise.  Sam was still trying to place the sound, when Dean whispered, "It's a boat, someone's rowing toward the shore."  Dean carefully cocked the shotgun he held.  Easing around the corner of the building, he prepared to take aim. 

"Dean wait, what if it's just some fisherman?  You can't fire off a shot unless we know for sure."  Sam jerked his head toward the corner indicating to Dean that he was going to take a look. 

Sam slid around the corner of the glass building.  Carefully, so as not to draw attention to himself, he risked a glance toward the water. 

"Holy Crap," he whispered, when he saw the boat that floated in the bay.  Sam stared transfixed, barely noticing his brother had joined him.  His entire focus was on the sight before him. 

There cutting through the black bay was a weathered, wooden rowboat.  Sitting in the moonlight with a set of oars firmly gripped in his hands was a scruffy looking man.  His face was darkly tanned, his skin leathered and worn, his head was topped by wild mane of grey hair, his chin covered in a short beard.  A shaft of moonlight highlighted a sprawling black tattoo that climbed from the man's wrist up his forearm.  He wore a billowy shirt that looked ragged and worn with age.  A black strap crossed his chest, suggesting he carried weapons of some kind.  He pulled on the oars with an ease that contradicted his silver hair.  Forward and back, he rowed bringing the small boat ever closer to the shore. 

"Shit," Dean breathed softly bedside him, as the sight before them flickered in the moonlight. 

Now the figure in the rowboat was no longer alone.  Now his boat carried another man.  Try as he might Sam could make out no more than his back.  His dark heavy coat looked newer than the other man's clothing and was better fitting.  Silver hair hung in curls down the man's back and a tricorn hat capped with a feather was perched on his head.  Between the two men, just visible over the edge of the boat was a large battered trunk.  

"Dean, that's got to be Kidd.  He must be here to bury his treasure.  Damn, he really did bury it here.  The rumors were right."  Sam was incapable of pulling his gaze from the boat that had just made land. 

Within moments, the man that Sam assumed was Captain Kidd's first mate stowed the oars and leapt agley from the boat into the ankle deep water.  His white cotton pants billowed from a light breeze as he set about dragging the boat onto shore. 

Moving in harmony, the two men set about mooring the boat and removing the trunk from the hull.  The leather bound trunk, had brass buckles that gleamed in the moonlight, and a large padlock held the trunk closed.   As the captain turned to face the brothers, they caught their first glimpse of the famous pirate, Captain William Kidd. 

Long silver curls framed his smooth shaven face.  He looked to be in his mid forties, his features were refined and soft looking.  He was well dressed in a dark navy colored coat, covering a snowy white shirt.  On his finger, a large heaving looking ring glinted in the moonlight. 

"Well he's no Jack Sparrow, that's for sure," Dean whispered, referring to the captain's clean cut appearance. 

"What did you expect Dean, a parrot, a patch and a peg leg?  Captain Kidd was part of the British Royal Navy until he began pirating.  Plenty believed he was only ever a privateer and never an actually pirate, though he was charged and hung as one."  Sam continued to watch as the Captain and his first mate carried the trunk up into the marshland. 

"Well, the fact that he's in the process of hiding a trunk full of loot pretty well proves he was.  You figure we'll see where they ended up burying it?"  Dean asked eagerly as he noticed the shovel in the first mates hand. 

Sam nodded.  "Looks like, I mean, there's a lot of rumors claiming he buried treasure on Brigantine Island."  

"Well, I think we can be pretty sure now," Dean answered as they watched the two men labor to bring the trunk toward the building.  Both men ignored the looming tower of glass that rose up and out of the marshland. 

The two ghosts, finally, settled on a spot no more than thirty feet from Sam and Dean.  At once, the first mate began to dig, throwing shovelful after shovelful of dirt onto the ever-growing pile. 

"Dean, should we do something?" Sam hissed, as the hole the man was digging became deeper and deeper. 

Dean frowned, unable to tear his gaze from the pirates.  "No, I think we should hold tight.  See what happens next."  Moments later Dean was rewarded for his patience, when the two spirits set the trunk inside the hole. 

It was then that everything went to hell.  The Captain, without warning, reached out and grabbed hold of the revolver that rested in the first mate's holster.  Before the man realized what had happened the Captain shot him dead center in the forehead.  In the blink of an eye, the first mate dissipated in a cloud of black dust. 

Sam, not thinking, darted forward with a cry, the moment before the shot was fired.  The Captain fired, then turned at the sound of Sam's cry and roared in anger.  As he dropped the now useless revolver, he pulled his sword from it's sheath, brandishing the cutlass the Captain approached Sam. 

"Sam," Dean cried out, as he took off after his brother.  Quickly catching the younger man, Dean couldn't help but ask, "What the hell, man?  What were you thinking, it's not like it was gonna hurt, the man was already dead." 

Sam watched as Kidd approached him slowly but steadily.  Holding his gun at the ready, he gave Dean an apologetic shrug.  "Honestly, wasn't thinking.  It just looked so damn real.  Where do you think the first mate went?" 

"How the hell do I know.  I'll tell you what, though, Captain Crunch looks seriously pissed.  I'm thinking he's not too happy to see us," Dean snarled, fingering the shotgun in his hands. 

The pirate continued advance.  His loud, authoritative, voice boomed, "You were to remain on board the ship.  You've disobeyed a direct order and you will be punished for it," Kidd rasped, as he moved ever closer to the two men. 

Before Dean had a chance to react the pirate flickered out of sight, a second later he reappeared only a step away from Dean.  Dean was barely able to defend himself, grabbing the Captain's arm at the last moment, just before the blade descended.  Struggling to maintain his grip, Dean yelled out, "Shoot the damn thing, Sam." 

The Captain no longer appeared alive, instead, he was a putrid, foul smelling pile of rotting flesh.  His clothes hung in tatters, rips and tears making up the majority of what had at one time been expensive cloth.  The wrist that Dean gripped in his hand felt bloated and spongy, the wig that the Captain had worn, was now simply a rat's nest of straggly-yellowed hair. 

As the creature leaned forward, it breathed, "You dare to lift your hand to me.  My word is law and you will pay." 

"Dude, you definitely need a tic-tac cause your breath stinks," Dean snarked, as he struggled to hold onto the spirit.  Hearing the faintest breath of noise behind him, Dean dropped to the ground, grateful for the sound of Sam's shotgun blast.  Captain Kidd dissipated with a cry of anger. 

Dean accepted the hand that Sam held out to him.  Rising up, he nodded toward where the hole once was.  Instead of the four-foot square hole, the marshland was once again unbroken. 

"Dean," Sam said, his voice filled with shock.  "Look." 

As he turned toward the bay, Dean found he could barely believe his eyes.  There making its way toward the shore was the rowboat, the first mate at its helm.

"So what, Sam, you figure this is what they do all day.  Only, every now and then the Captain makes a little detour to punish his crew?"  Dean stood watching the now familiar scene.  The first mate and Captain were in the process of carrying the trunk. 

Sam's eyes kept straying to the pirates.  "Seems like, but, how the hell are we going to dig up the treasure, without being drawn and quartered." 

Focused on the problem at hand, Dean didn't even flinch at the sound of the gun being fired.  As he began to formulate a plan, he couldn't help the grin that spread over his face.  "I know just what we have to do to send him to Davy Jones' Locker." 

Sam couldn't help but roll his eyes at his brother's infectious grin, "You know, you're really digging this whole pirate thing just a bit too much."

Chapter 7

Sam yawned and stretched, trying to work the muscles in his back.  Yet again, he glanced at his watch, shaking his head he cast his eyes over the scene that continued to unfold before him.  Identical to last night, both pirates were in a caught in an unending cycle of burying Kidd's treasure.  Also like last night, they seemed to take no notice of Sam as long as he remained fairly unobtrusive and quiet. 

Earlier this morning, as the sun had begun to rise, Dean had sent Sam home.  As it was Sunday and the office was closed, the brothers felt there was little chance anyone would come across the pirates and their booty.  That ‘little chance' is what had kept Dean on site, his bloodshot eyes, and drawn face at odds with his assurances that he was good, and Sam should take the first watch. 

Sam, knowing there was no point in arguing, had gone back to the hotel to rest up.  When he'd returned at two, feeling a bit more clearheaded and armed with his laptop, he was more than ready to take over for Dean.  The opportunity to get some much needed research done was too good to pass up, after all killer pirates or not, breaking Dean's deal was Sam's number one priority. 

Sam glanced once more to the scene unfolding before him, any minute now the first mate would be killed and the tableau would start over.  Sam's gaze shifted to the parking lot, willing himself to hear the familiar sound of the impala.  As dusk had approached, Sam had assumed Dean would be on his way.  Now that darkness had become complete, he was actually beginning to worry, after all the last thing his brother had said was he had a plan.  A plan, Sam snorted, that was never good, he could only hope that at some point his brother had managed to grab some sleep.

Sam heard, the now familiar, gunshot echo through the night. Resuming his search, he quickly lost himself in the information before him.  He'd been working for a while before a low drone penetrated his consciousness.  Glancing around in confusion, he couldn't find the source of the noise.  The pirates seemed unaware of the growl of the engine, Sam relaxed a bit, after all, it wouldn't be unheard of for someone to be boating in the bay. 

As the sound of the engine cut out, Sam stood.  Careful to keep an eye on the rowboat that was making it's way to shore, Sam edged around the building.  There he saw a flicker of light, bringing his weapon up, he made his way toward the glow.  

Faintly, he could make a long, yellow boat being pulled to shore.  Careful to remain in the shadows of the building, Sam waited to see what was going on.  After all, he couldn't very well approach the man that was now in the process of dragging the inflatable boat onto the bank of the bay. 

Sam was in a near panic at the thought of another innocent person running into the captain and his twisted form of vigilante justice.  It was only as he heard a familiar voice call out to him, that he breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Sam, where are you?"  Dean called out in a low voice. 

Sam stepped out of the shadows as he approached the boat, his brother all dressed in black materialized out of nowhere by his side.  "Dean, what the hell, man, where've you been?"  Sam questioned his brother, as his flashlight traced the lines of the boat. 

Though the boat resembled a speedboat, it was an inflatable.  The large outboard motor had been lifted and now rose out of the water.  Inside the sleek yellow boat were a couple of seats and a large platform. 

"It took me nearly all afternoon to find a boat that would work.  I think I've done it.  This little guy ought to be plenty fast enough and it's draft is shallow enough I had no problem bringing it onto shore." 

Sam stared at the boat, trying to sort through everything his brother had said, "You stole a boat, and how exactly does that help us?"  Sam tamped down his anger, hoping his brother's idea wasn't as harebrained as Sam thought. 

"You wanna join me sometime today, Sam.  I just said I stole the boat, now come on we have to get rid of the Pirates of Penzance over there before dawn breaks.  This boat's gotta be back by morning and the treasures buried pretty deep." 

"You want to dig up the treasure, and do what with it?  It's not going to burn, Dean."  Sam questioned his brother still feeling as if he was a step or two behind. 

"Of course it's not, that's why I got this little beauty.  I figure we'll load up the treasure, drive it out to sea, and dump it." 

Dean looked so proud of his idea, that Sam, for a moment, was actually dumbstruck.  "Your plan is for one of us to dig up the treasure, then we're going to load the cursed treasure into your blowup boat, head out to sea and dump the trunk."  

Even in the pale moonlight, there was the unmistaken gleam of Dean's smile.  "Yup." 

"Are you friggin' nuts?"  Sam questioned, his voice rising in octaves at every word.

Dean seemed to seriously consider his answer.  "No, I don't think so." 

"It's a haunted trunk full of pirate treasure, not a stray cat.  You can't just head out to sea, dump the damn thing off, and then hightail it back here and hope it won't find its way back."  

Dean's grin became forced as he crossed his arms over his chest.  "Well, excuse me.  You're so god damn smart, you tell me, what should we do?"  

Sam stared at his brother, irritation flooding him at the thought that Dean had a valid point.  No matter how he wracked his brain he was unable to come up with something even marginally better.  Unable to admit that his brother had a point, Sam searched for something to say.  "Pirates of Penzance, Dean, really man, can't you turn anything off, it's like a sickness." 

Dean's grin widened at his brother's words.  "Hey, what can I say, I saw the dude from A Fish Called Wanda was in it, I can't resist Otto, man." 

Sam snorted, and shook his head.  "Yeah, so who's digging and who's the bait, cause I know you Dean, someone's always the bait." 

Dean grinned, and said, "I'm the bait.  I'm gonna draw the Captain away while you dig." 

"How the hell are you going to draw the Captain away?”  Sam frowned at his brother, he could tell by the sparkle in Dean's eyes that he had an idea.  He blew out a breath, whatever the plan, Sam was sure it would end up with Dean bloody and bruised. 

Dean thrust a hand into his coat pocket and removed a spray can with a black lid.  Smiling brightly Dean, said, "I figure I'll tag the building, It'll drive the Captain nuts." 

"Great, because driving the homicidal pirate into a blind rage is a grand plan.”  Sam stared out at the moonlit water, watching the ripples caused by the wind. 

Dean nodded as if glad that Sam was being so agreeable.  "Exactly.  I've got a shovel in the boat, we need to get moving." 

"Dean" Sam said, allowing the tone of his voice to convey his feelings regarding Dean's plan. 

Dean held up one hand, shaking his head.  "Don't, Sam, it is what it is.  We've got to stop this thing and this is the only way." 

"Yeah, but, come on, Dean, this things going to kill you before I can get that treasure dug up." 

"Maybe, maybe not, either way we're pretty much out of options." 

"I know," Sam's reply was so low it could barely be heard over the sound of the lapping water.  "It's just...." 

Dean cut him off before he could get any farther.  "I know." 

Sam drew a breath and forced himself to move.  Dean's simple acknowledgement of the pain and emotion Sam was drowning in was enough.  Reaching his brother's side, Sam elbowed the older man at Dean's softly spoken, "Bitch." 

Sam's reply was automatic and heartfelt, "Jerk."

Sam waited for the gunshot, his every sense focused on the pirates in front of him.  He stood gripping a shotgun in one hand and the shovel in the other.  At the sound of the shot, Dean was to begin distracting the Captain.  The idea being Sam would have time to get the hole dug, before the first mate made it back to shore. 

Sam snorted as he watched the Captain shoot the first mate yet again.  At least that was Dean's theory, Sam's theory was that Dean wouldn't last the night, putting an end to the should you or shouldn't you sell your soul to a demon debate. 

Sam clenched the shotgun even tighter when a mere moment after shooting the mate, the Captain abandoned his well rehearsed act and instead turned toward the building.  In a flash the pirate transformed into the rotting corpse he was, flickered, and disappeared.  As he vanished, Sam could have sworn he heard a low raspy voice utter, "Defile."  Sure that Dean had gone to work, Sam rushed forward intent on digging up the treasure as swiftly as possible.

Dean was careful to stay on the north side of the building.  The array of glass offered a clear view of the scene below.  Popping the black lid off the spray can, Dean waited, his finger on the white button.  As he waited, he found himself hoping that he was right.  He was relying on the pirate's hate of any infraction to draw it away from Sam and the treasure.  As the sound of the shot echoed through the still night, Dean gripped his shotgun a bit tighter, aimed the tiny white nozzle toward the pristine wall before him and sprayed. 

Before he could finish his first letter, Dean felt a whisper of air, and smelled something rank, a pungent mix of smells, conjuring images of rotten fish and unwashed bodies.  As the hair tried to stand up on the back of his neck, Dean instinctually ducked, just feeling the bright silver blade sweep past his head.  As the pirate leaned forward, gathering himself for another attack Dean fired, taking the spirit in the back. 

As the Captain disappeared with a shriek of anger, Dean turned to face the window once again.  Patiently he watched hoping for a shaft of moonlight to show him what he needed to see.  There, off the coast, the rowboat was making its way toward land.  A glance at the ground showed Sam up to his elbows in dirt as he dug into the sandy soil, the strain of throwing shovel full after shovel full of sand over his shoulder beginning to show, in the slowness of his movements. 

Not wanting the Captain to head for Sam next Dean once again, took up the can of paint.  Taking only a moment to admire the black scrawl before him, he set himself to the task at hand.

Sam glanced up for a moment as the sound of Dean's shotgun reverberated through the night, even as he kept shoveling.  Time was critical and unfortunately, neither Sam nor Dean had given thought to the fact that they would be digging in loose sandy soil.  At the first couple of shovelfuls, he'd been buoyed by hope, that they would make it out of this one after all.  Then he'd hit the water table and each scoop become wetter and heavier, so heavy in fact he was unable to toss it over his shoulder and was instead having to dump it awkwardly off to the side.   

Not willing to give up, he was comforted by the occasional sounds of Dean's shotgun blast that came from the building behind him.  After each shot, Sam would pause for a moment, wipe the sweat off his forehead and glance at the boat that was coming ever closer to the shore.  Although the Captain flickered in and out of it, the first mate seemed content to go about his usual business.  Sam could only hope that he remained content, otherwise, Sam would be forced to stop digging in order to destroy the older man.  

Lifting the shovel yet again, Sam cursed as the sides of the hole caved in slightly.  A glance toward the water showed him that he had very little time left.  As two shots followed each other in a fury of noise, Sam shot a look toward the building.  Certain he saw a flicker of movement in one of the third floor windows, Sam focused his attention on the glass. 

It was then Sam heard the roar of rage, and felt something slam against his shoulders.  The pain that rocked him to his knees, made him loose his grip on his shovel.  Dropping fully to the ground, Sam managed to miss the follow-up swing.  As he twisted about, he reached for the shovel that he'd dropped, grabbing hold he brought it up in an arc, catching the side of the first mates head.  Not bothering to check and see what damage if any Sam had caused, he rolled toward his shotgun. 

His hand closed around the familiar, and at the moment, much loved weapon, pulling it up and around he aimed and fired at the pirate.  As the buccaneer dissipated, Sam closed his eyes for a moment, trying to assess just how much damage the spirit had done.  Other than the pain that still radiated through his shoulders, he was fine.  A glance up at the window where he'd last seen Dean was the most he would allow himself before he lurched to his feet, and resumed his now frantic shoveling. 

The one good thing that had come out of his interaction with the spirit was it was now forced to restart it's loop.  As Sam shoveled he could easily make out the boat once again, making it's way toward shore.  With each heavy shovel full of sand and shell, Sam's shoulders protested.  As he continued to work, the sounds of silence began to press down on him like a weight he couldn't throw off.  He hadn't heard a shotgun blast from inside the building, since he'd shot his own attacker.  Concern for his brother, drove him to shovel faster, to go deeper. 

He was roughly four foot deep, when his shovel thumped against something solid.  Praying to god it was the trunk, Sam dropped to the ground and began to feel around the edges of what was undoubtedly a wooden box.  He worked carefully to widen the hole, he didn't want to risk breaking the wood apart, scattering the contents would end any hope of ever destroying the captain and his mate.  As he began to work the box to the surface, his gaze was caught by the boat that was nearing the shore.

Chapter 8

Dean ducked low as Captain's silver blade passed above him with barely an inch to spare. Swinging his own empty shotgun like a club, he hit the spirit square, knocking the pirate back a few feet.  Dean had been content to go with his first plan, simply calling the Captain's spirit to him and then blasting him into oblivion again and again.  Content, at least, until the moment he'd seen the first mate attack Sam, as his brother tried to dig up the treasure.  After that, he'd quickly realized that more than vandalizing the "ship" was going to be needed as Sam got closer to the treasure.

That left Dean to keep the Captain occupied.  Occupying the spirit of a pirate Captain was actually a lot easier than Dean had expected.  It turned out the pirate was suicidal in its rage over what it considered Dean's mutinous behavior.  In fact, it was so violent in its pursuit of Dean, he wondered if the crew had at some point betrayed the captain.

Careful to stay only steps ahead of Kidd, Dean raced down the hall.  He made a quick left, ducking into an office.  He circled around the large glass partition, and threw a quick glance out the window, relief flooded him as he noted Sam trying to heft the box out of the sandy soil.  Duck left, he thought, reacting out of pure instinct, he ducked the swipe of the blade once more, grinning as the Captain's blade embedded itself in the wall beside him.  A quick glance showed Dean the countless jagged cuts that adorned the once pristine wall.

Sprinting, Dean took advantage of the spirit's stuck sword and began to head for the stairs.  He would have preferred the elevator, but really there was no way to defend himself in such small quarters.  Anxious to keep the good Captain's attention away from Sam, at least until his brother could load the treasure into the boat, Dean began loading the shotgun as he flew down the steps.

Reaching the third floor, he took aim at the tiny window set high above the staircase and fired.  Feet pounding, he continued down the steps, he was on the last landing when he felt something ram his back, sending him flying.  Unable to stop himself, he hit hard, his back making contact with the concrete floor, causing him to lose his breath in one swift exhalation.

Sam struggled to get the oversized box out of the ground. While he worked to lift the box, the sound of Dean's shotgun made him nearly lose his grip. With a groan of effort, he heaved one last time, pulling the treasure free of the sand pit. It came free Sam, already overbalanced, tipped over practically flinging the box away from himself.

He lay on the ground, his cheek resting on the coarse sea grass, his breathing labored. As the moon came out of the cloud cover, bathing the area around him in a pale white light, he watched a swarm of tiny little crabs scurried away from him.  Not much bigger than the size of a cockroach, Sam found himself wondering, with a bit of disgust, just how many he'd killed when he'd hit the ground.  He now understood the havoc Gulliver must have wrought when he landed in Lilliput

Clearing his thoughts, he forced his body to begin moving again and gained his feet.  The treasure had landed, free and clear, a good two feet away.  Not bothering to examine the wooden box, other than to ensure it was intact, Sam went back toward the hole and dropped to his knees.  Plunging his hands into the opening the treasure had come out of, Sam began searching.  It had been on his mind for the last hour, and really, it made perfect sense.  If you were going to go to the trouble of killing someone, and you needed to stash the body, why dig a grave when you have a hole ready to go.

At last, Sam's seeking hands closed around something long smooth and hard. Breathing a sigh of relief, he bolted for where their supplies sat near the building's foundation. The first mate was now making his way up the beach, with no Captain and no trunk to bury, he moved faster than Sam could follow, his low growl filling the night air.

As Sam reached the supplies, he found himself saying a short but heartfelt prayer to his father for insisting, no matter the job, that the brothers always had the means for a salt and burn. Without thought for the angry pirate that was nearly on top of him, Sam grabbed the salt and accelerant from the bag.

The first mate was upon him, only a moment after Sam grabbed the supplies. Luckily, he'd anticipated the blow, ducking right, he sent a kick toward the spirit's body. The blow missed, but the pirate staggered trying to avoid it. Sam used the time to his advantage, scrabbling through the bag, he breathed a sigh of relief as he found what he'd been searching for. Gaining his feet in one smooth motion, Sam turned and faced the first mate, a knife made of wrought iron held loosely in one hand.

A slight smile played around Sam's mouth as he beckoned the spirit forward, his hand held out, palm up he gestured with his fingers. Dean would be so proud, Sam thought as he waited for the spirit to make his first move. Still filled with a blind rage, the spirit seemed to swell with indignation at Sam's gesture. With a roar, the pirate rushed Sam intent on destroying him, heedless of any danger to itself.

Sam stood his ground when the spirit rushed him, the knife held tight in his hand. He'd been taught hand to hand combat by the best and he knew the exact moment to lunge. The iron blade worked exactly as it was meant to. As the knife plunged into the first mate's body, the spirit dissipated within the blink of an eye.

Sam took only a moment to tucked the knife into the waistband of his pants. Once he'd returned to the grave, he carefully exposed the body and what small fragments of clothing were left, soaking everything with salt and accelerant he lit a pack of matches and tossed it into the hole. Not bothering to see if it worked, he moved toward the treasure.

Grasping one of the old brass handles, Sam began dragging it toward the boat Dean had confiscated. He hurried as fast as he could, a part of his mind marveling at what was inside the box that would make it so heavy.

As he moved across the marshland, Sam noted the rowboat was gone, gone from the beach, and gone from the water. Careful to keep his shotgun at the ready, he redoubled his efforts, picking up speed as he dragged the treasure across the beach. As he began his trek toward the dingy, he hoped Dean was keeping the Captain occupied.

Dean came to with a gasp, his cheek pressed against the cold linoleum floor. For a moment, thoughts of his current hunt, the danger he was in and even his brother were forgotten in the simple but pressing need to re-learn how to breathe. Gasping, he worked to draw in air and force it back out again, hoping the oxygen would help to clear his vision.

A shotgun blast forced him back to reality, cursing for all he was worth, he pushed himself to his feet. He allowed himself no more than a single groan before he turned and limped his way out of the stairwell and into the darkened lobby. He had no doubt Sam was the one that had fired on the Captain. Dean was sure Sam had freed the treasure from it's resting place by now. He was also, pretty damn, sure it was Sam, was now the target of Captain Kidd, psychopath extraordinaire. Dean drew another shallow breath and picked up speed as he shoved open the main entrance door, and headed out into the moonlit night.

It took only minutes for Dean to find his brother, lying on helpless on the ground, the Captain standing over him, his silver cutlass already on it's descent. One well aimed blast of the shotgun prevented the blow, and with a scream of rage and a cloud of black dust, Kidd disappeared. Dean took only a moment to reload, his eyes scanning the beach watching for either the Captain or the first mate.

"If you wanted a haircut Sam, you should have asked, I would have been happy to cut that mop?" Dean knew his voice probably sounded harsh in the in quiet of the night, but he was beyond his endurance. His back was a hot white blaze of pain and he'd just watched his brother nearly loose his head because Dean hadn't been fast enough, he was more than ready to put this mother down.

Careful to keep watch, he sucked up the pain and jogged to Sam. Not bothering to slow, he grabbed the far side of the trunk, trusting that his brother would follow suit, and lifted. Crap, it was heavy, much heavier than he'd expected. "What the hell's in this thing?"

Sam laughed a low tired sound that made Dean want to speed up even more. "You got me, but it's heavy, I'm just hoping you're blow-up boat can handle the weight."

"It'll hold it's a diving boat, meant to carry scuba tanks. Where'd they go?" Dean's back protested every step he took as the brothers moved swiftly toward the moored boat.

"I salt and burned the first mate, he was under the treasure chest." Sam snorted, "under the treasure chest, this whole job's just unbelievable."

"Good, that's one down. We're almost home, just get this thing into the boat, take her on out to sea, and dump it."

Sam stopped so suddenly, Dean staggered under the weight of the trunk. "What the hell, Sam. Are you trying to make this take longer?"

"What do you mean ‘out to sea'? You don't mean you're planning on sailing the Barbie Boat into the Atlantic ocean? Tell me that's not what you meant?" Sam asked, as he dropped his end of the trunk.

Dean sighed and began dragging the trunk. "We can't just dump it in the bay, Sam. Water's not deep enough."

Sam turned toward the bay his brows lowered, a grim look on his face. Dean knew he was arguing with himself over what they were about to do. Confident that Sam would fall in line, he kept dragging. Dean was in a race, a race in which the goal was dropping this damn trunk into the deepest water he could manage. It was a race Dean intended to win, with or without his brother.

Hunting had become a near compulsion for him. He new his time was limited, so he no longer let himself think in terms of the future. For him the only future that existed was keeping Sam alive and killing off every last bit of evil he could. What was the point of worrying about anything else when he was a dead man walking?

Sam eyed the boat once more, before jogging to catch up to his brother. He knew this wouldn't end well, but short of letting Dean go alone, he also knew there was nothing more to be done. What worried Sam was Dean's complete disregard for his own life. His brother had always been gung-ho, but lately it seemed as if he had no interest in even finishing out the year he'd been given.

Determined to keep Dean around for as long as possible, Sam caught up with his brother. Hefting the one end of the trunk, he said, "Fine, but we're staying within sight of the shore, at least that way when you're raft sinks we can pull a Jaws and swim to land." Dean stopped so suddenly, Sam almost rammed the trunk into his brother's back.

"Shit, Sam, did you have to go and bring up Jaws. I mean come on, Dude, like killer pirates aren't enough." Dean stared hard at the water for a moment. "You don't really think there's sharks in there do you?"

Sam rolled his eyes, though, he was sure in the darkened night it the gesture was lost on his brother. "No, not at all Dean, I'm sure there's no sharks in the ocean. Really."

"You're just a ray of friggin' sunshine, Sam." Dean turned back to the boat at hand, grumbling under his breath about sharks.

It took only a moment for the brothers to settle the trunk inside the dinghy. Thankfully, as Dean predicted the raft had no trouble carrying the weight. Sam resolutely refused to call it a boat. In his mind, in order for it to be labeled a boat, it had to be made up of something more than rubber and air. No matter Dean's reassurances, Sam hesitated to follow his brother into the bright yellow craft. Finally, out of options he carefully climbed in and settled himself on the white chair, next to Dean.

Dean used a long handled paddle to push out from the shallow water, before dropping the engine and starting it. Sam had to give Dean credit as the boat's engine started, it was obviously powerful enough to handle just about anything. It was simply the rest of the boat that was giving Sam nightmares.

Dean set the boat at full speed, his gaze fixed on the mouth of the bay. Dean gestured toward the trunk. "What do you think's in it?

Sam sat sideways, eyeing the trunk with interest. "Gold coins, maybe, jewelry, who knows."

"Open it," Dean said, his gaze once more focused on the water before them.

Sam looked up at his brother. "Open it, are you serious?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, why the hell not, we're going to throw it overboard, it'd be kinda cool to see what's inside before we toss it."

"Yeah, why not...."

The words were barely out of Sam's mouth when Dean, called out, "Sam, drop."

Sam didn't think he just reacted, slipping off his seat he ducked low as something passed over his head. Twisting around, he saw Dean draw his shotgun and fire. The shot hit the captain square in the chest. The apparition immediately vanished in a cloud of black smoke.

"Captain's back," Dean said sourly as he pushed the boat to go faster.

"Seems like," Sam replied, pushing himself back up and onto the seat. "You might wanna remember we're basically sitting in a bag full of wind before you go firing that gun again, Dean."

"Fine then," Dean snapped, "Next time I'll just reason with him, that always works so well."

Sam looked across the water once more, unsure of just how they would stop the captain when he came back, and Sam had no doubt he would be back. 

Chapter 9

"Gun it, Sammy." Dean's hoarse shout was barely noticeable compared to the roar of the boat's engine.  He stood at the prow of the boat, shotgun held in hand as he waited for the Captain to make yet another appearance.  It had taken only moments after the pirate's second attack, on the occupants of the small boat, for Dean to give up the Captain's chair in favor of blasting the bastard pirate away every time he made an appearance. 

Sam had reluctantly taken control as they headed out of the bay toward the coast.  Once they were in open water, he had chosen to head diagonally away from the beach.  Even now, like clockwork, Sam turned every five minutes to adjust the boat's trajectory, insuring he didn't lose sight of the beach. 

Dean staggered a bit as they hit a wave.  It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to stay on his feet.  However, he didn't have much choice.  If he sat, he'd end up peppering the boat with buckshot.  That was a risk Dean wasn't willing to take.  No matter what he'd told his little brother about the sea-worthiness of their boat, he couldn't help but silently agree with Sam's sneer.  After all, Dean's dinghy, as Sam liked to call it was made to run the coast, not to absorb buckshot while being pushed to warp speed. 

As Dean kept his eyes peeled for any sign of the captain, he couldn't stop his gaze from straying toward the water that rushed along the boat's bright yellow hull.  Damn, Sam and his talk of sharks.  I mean really, who the hell brings up Jaws while heading into open water.  Crap, Open Water was a shark movie also.  Dean rolled his eyes at the thought of him and Sam floating side by side as the sharks circled just waiting to pick them off.  No way man, not him, he'd drown himself before he'd spend countless hours listening to Sam bitch about everything from the way he ate to his taste in music.  Hell, come to think of it, getting eaten by a shark would be a better way to go. 

"Dean, I think we're far enough out.  Water should be deep enough, here."  Sam slowed and then shut down the engine, and grabbed his own shotgun. 

Dean looked toward where the shore should have been and saw nothing but a dim line of lights from the houses.  The lights were so far away they resembled low-lying stars more than a sign of civilization.  "Alright, Sam.  Let's heave it over the side."   

Dean eased his way over to Sam, careful to maintain his balance in the small rocking boat.  As he knelt beside his brother, he gestured toward the old iron padlock that was nearly rusting off.  "You gonna do the honors or should I." 

Sam shook his head with a frown.  "I really don't think we should Dean. Besides, most historians believe that one of Kidd's crew members came back to Brigantine and stole the treasure.  So there may not even be anything in it." 

"Come on, Sam, you have to be curious, I mean, it's a pirate treasure. Let's just open her up and see---” Dean never got to finish his thought.  One minute he was kneeling next to Sam and the next he was in the water.  

Dean hit the water hard, the sting in his back quickly numbed by the water.  The cold so surprised him he very nearly gasped as he was pulled under.  His next realization was that it was pitch black, he could no longer see even a faint glow that would indicate the surface. 

He could feel himself sinking fast, at first he'd thought it was his boots dragging him down.  Now, however, he was pretty sure something held him by the foot.  Whatever that something was, it seemed bound and determined to drag him to the ocean floor.  Already, the pressure was beginning to build in Dean's ears and his chest was starting to protest his lack of air. 

Dean was balanced on a knife's edge, on one side he could only free himself if he fought whatever was pulling him down, on the other he knew any struggle would quickly deplete what time he had remaining.  Dean reached for the knife tucked into his jacket, really who was he kidding, better to have tried than to just sit back and let it happen. 

Lungs burning, head swimming, Dean gripped his knife and kicked.  For a split second it seemed as if the grip on his leg eased.  Quick to take advantage, he kicked out once more.  This time his leg was released, not bothering to question why Dean kicked his way toward the surface.

Sam wasn't sure what had happened, one moment Dean had been by his side and the next he was flying backward and over the edge of the boat.  Sam scrambled to the far side of the small craft, his gaze searching the black water looking for some sign of where his brother had gone under.  At first, Sam was able to hold back the panic simply because Dean was a strong swimmer.  In fact, Dean had been the one to teach Sam how to swim.  Sam had been seven at the time and they'd spent two months at a decrepit apartment building in North Carolina.  Hampered by their father's admonishments to stay close to the apartment, they'd had little else to keep themselves occupied. 

Sam had forever been amazed at the length of time that Dean could hold his breath.  At first, he had timed his brother and then later after he'd gained confidence himself, he'd attempted to beat Dean's record.  He had never managed, Dean still held the record and Sam didn't doubt he always would.  The world surrounding them might be out of Dean's control, but his own body was something his brother had learned to master years ago. 

Sam stared hard at the water, searching for a bubble, a ripple in the water, something.  Lacking a direction, he stood and scanned the area surrounding the boat.  It was then his gaze fell on the treasure.  With a curse, Sam reached the trunk in seconds.  Confident that the Captain was in some way responsible for Dean's impromptu swim, Sam began struggling to heave the box into the water. 

It was then the Captain struck with no warning.  The blow hit Sam square in the face, knocking him back into the bottom of the boat.  As he laid there, the Captain stood over him, his empty eyeholes black bottomless pits, his lips were nearly rotted away, exposing the gaping holes where his teeth once resided.  Sam just barely managed to kick out hitting the Captain in the knee knocking him down. 

As the Captain fell back, Sam dove for the shotgun.  When faced with the Captain's gleaming blade he was willing to over look the fact that firing the shotgun could sink the raft they floated in.  One blast of the shotgun was all it took and the pirate was gone, exploding into a cloud of black dust. of black dust. 

Sam heard a splash, diving toward the sound, he leaned over the edge of the boat in time to see Dean surface about ten feet away.  His brother, floated for a moment, gasping for air, his face turned toward the sky.  At last, he began to struggle toward Sam, his strokes slow. 

Sam breathed a sigh of relief and picked up Dean's shotgun.  Eyeing the boat, he wondered just how much of a reprieve they'd earned themselves until the Captain came back.  As Dean neared the boat, Sam turned to him, holding out his hand he grasped Dean's wrist, intending to get him back on the boat. 

"Thanks Sam," Dean rasped as he grabbed hold of Sam's hand.  "Did you dump the loot?"  Dean asked as he rested for a moment, content just to float. 

Sam glanced over his shoulder at the box that had tipped over in the struggle between Sam and the pirate.  "No, I'll do it now.  Just get in the---"  Sam never finished the sentence as his brother was suddenly jerked back under water.  Sam struggled to hold on, arms straining, he pulled on Dean's wrist.  

As his head broke the surface once more, Dean gasped, "Let go, Sammy." 

Sam ignored Dean's order and continued to hold on.  Dean went under once more, as Sam lost his balance and nearly toppled into the water himself.  Holding on became near impossible as Dean let go of his hand.  With Dean no longer making an effort to hold on, he slipped even farther out of Dean's grasp.  Then with a mighty jerk, Dean freed his hand, leaving Sam to watch as his brother disappeared. 

Shit, Sam cursed, turning around to face the pirate's treasure once more.  Determined to draw the Captain's attention once more to the treasure, Sam righted the box and pulled his knife.  It took next to nothing to pop the rusted padlock.  Sam never bothered to look inside, he stood shotgun at his side, praying that the Captain would come.  He wasn't disappointed, before he could fire, Kidd was right there on top of him.  Stinking of rotted fish and flesh, the captain swung his blade with an inarticulate scream of anger.  Sam staggered back, drew up the shotgun and fired on the Captain at point blank range.

Luckily, for Dean, he was only underwater for a moment, before the drag that was pulling him down disappeared.  Making his way to the surface once more took longer than he expected.  The only thing that kept him going was the thought that Sam was most likely facing the Captain at the moment.  Unable to leave his brother to the mercy of the homicidal spirit he did what he always did, he fought.  He fought his way to the surface and then forced his tired, aching muscles to propel him toward the boat. 

"Sam," Dean called, his arms felt like lead and as he stared at the mile high side of the boat, he wondered if he would in fact be able to get back in without his brother's help.  "Sammy, you okay."  Dean put a little more effort into his words, hoping for a response.  Just as he decided he was going to have to pull himself into the boat.  Sam appeared the relief on his face evident. 

"Shit, Dean, why'd you let go?"  Sam reached down to help haul Dean back into the boat. 

Dean chose to ignore the fact that Sam did nearly all the lifting, he just couldn't force his arms to be of much help.  Once inside the boat, he lay on the bottom, shivering and gasping for air.  "Didn't need you following me in.  Where's the Captain?"  Dean clenched his teeth trying to keep them from chattering. 

Sam shrugged out of his coat and draped it around his brother's shoulders.  "Hit him with a load of buckshot.  He's gone for the moment."  Sam wasted no time, but went straight to the trunk. 

Dean forced himself to go to Sam's side.  As the brothers once again knelt next to the chest, each stared in disbelief at the box.  "It's full of ...." 

"Sand," Sam finished.   

"Crap, we were nearly killed because Kidd was protecting a box full of sand." 

Sam shook his head and carefully replaced the lid, using the broken pad lock to help hold it shut.  "I guess the rumors were right.  After Kidd was taken to England to be hung as a pirate, one of the crew must have come back and taken the treasure. 

"I think we'd better dump this, Dean." Sam said, his eyes focused on a spot over Dean's shoulder.  It was then Dean noticed the sickening smell, which indicated the Captain was close.  Not bothering to face him, Dean grabbed his side of the trunk and with Sam's aid, they heaved the box into the ocean.  As the heavy chest quickly sunk out of sight, Dean turned to the pirate as it dissipated into nothing. 

Dean dropped back, stretching out full length he stared up at the ever-brightening early morning sky.  "Huh, well that was a bit anti-climatic."  As he lay, Dean couldn't help but grin at Sam's snort of disbelief.  "Drive us home, Gilligan, I'm thinking I'm done with the beach.  A week spent on an island and not even a little Ginger or Maryanne action to speak of."

 At the sound of the engine, Dean reached into his coat pocket grateful for the feel of his hip flask.  Pulling it out, he unscrewed the cap and took a hit.  As the liquid warmth stole down his throat, Dean relaxed.  Shutting his eyes he began to sing, "Show me the way t' go home, I'm tired an' I want a t' go t' bed, Had a little drink about an hour ago, An' it went right to my head.  No matter where I roam, O'er land or sea or foam, You can always hear me singin' this song Show me the way t' go home" A small smile, stole across Dean's face as Sam joined in.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck wearily as he pulled open the glass door of the Tower building.  He'd left Dean on the beach filling in the hole left by the treasure.  He only needed to grab Dean's weapons bag and they could be back in the Impala and on their way back to the hotel. 

It took only moments for Sam to find Dean's bag.  As he gathered up the bag and the spray can his brother had left behind, he happened to look up at the wall.  Unable to stifle his laugh, Sam looked at the black letters scrawled across the pristine white paint.  Leave it to his brother to make "Zeppelin Rules" his statement of choice.

Sam took one last look at his brother's artwork before heading back downstairs.  Weariness swept over him, threatening to drown him where he stood.  It seemed as if had been days rather than hours since he'd last slept.  He looked forward to crashing at the hotel for a few hours before moving on.

Dean gave the sand beneath his shovel a last pound before turning toward the building.  He could see Sam leaning against the car, his head tilted back to catch the early morning sunlight.  Dean was worn out, filling in the grave had taken that the last of his energy, and he hadn't had much to spare.  As he approached his brother, he forced a smile. "Come on, Sammy, shag ass.  I'm ready to get off this island." 

Sam nodded, and opened the passenger door, sliding into the car, he questioned Dean, "We're leaving, I thought we were going to catch a few hours sleep?"

Dean slid onto the driver's seat with a sigh.  "I don't know about you, Sam, but I have no interest in staying here any longer.  I figure we'll go back to Atlantic City and get a room."

Sam, his head already leaning against the seat, closed his eyes and mumbled, "Whatever, Man."

"Sammy, come on, man, wake up.  I swear I'm going let them take you to the parking garage if you don't get out of the car."  Despite his words, Dean's voice was gentle.

Sam awoke slowly, stiff and sore from the car ride, it took him a few minutes to get his bearings.  "I'm up, Dean."  Opening the car door, he slid out, automatically taking his computer bag and jacket that Dean was pushing at him.

He watched as Dean tipped the valet and turned to head inside.  "Come on, Sam.  I'm still damp, all I want is a hot shower, some food and sleep."

Sam followed his brother into the warmly lit lobby, hanging back, he stifled a yawn as he watched Dean move up to reception.  In very little time, Dean was back, a set of card keys in his hand. 

"Alright, we're set.  You ready?"

Sam nodded and followed Dean toward a bank of elevators.  As he did, he noticed a pretty blond walking toward them, her skimpy uniform and drink tray marked her as one of the casino waitresses.  One moment Dean was headed toward the elevator and the next he stopped dead still, a wide grin lighting up his tired face.

The waitress noticed and shot Dean a grin full of mischief right back.  Dean never missed a beat, tossing one of the card keys to Sam, he grinned and patted his brother on the chest.  "You go on up, Sam.  I think I'm getting my second wind."

Sam couldn't help but grin, "You haven't slept in days and you're coated with salt from your dip.  Don't you think you'd be better off getting a bit of sleep."

Dean held his hands out wide and grinned, "And deprive the woman of Atlantic City, I couldn't live with myself If I did, Sam"

Sam didn't bother to stifle his smile as he watched his brother, make his move on the pretty blonde, it took only moments before Dean had lifted the tray from the woman's arms and was leading her toward the casino.  Sam headed toward the elevators, waiting only a moment before the huge metal doors slid open.  As he stepped inside, he pushed the button for his floor, barely noticing where he was going to end up.  He really did not know how Dean was still standing, let alone making passes at the locals, Sam was barely able to keep his feet.

Making his way out of the elevator, Sam headed toward their room.  At last, he found the door he was looking for.  As the door swung it open his mind suddenly went blank.  There spread out before him was one of the poshest rooms Sam had ever seen.  He actually rechecked the door number to verify he was in the right place.

As Sam entered the room, he couldn't help but wonder just how much Dean had won during their last visit.

The End...