I had a lecture on nuclear fission/fusion the other day and that somehow led to the completion of this chapter. Maybe that's an omen?

Anyway, tell me what you think. I do love complements, they are good for my ego, but I prefer constructive critiques. Sometimes even flames can be useful, too.

Have fun and hope you like it!

LL

P.S. This is veeerryy unedited. Sorry for any mistakes

The motel the O'Tooles were staying at, the Bluebird, sat about twenty minutes west of Burkitsville. It was the typical affair, two levels, blue siding, and blue doors with little iron bird knockers just below the room number.

As Dean carefully pulled into the parking lot, he saw a figure on the second floor. He couldn't quite make out the figure's features with sun in his face, but they weren't being visibly hostile, so he pulled the Impala to a stop in front of the building and stepped out.

"Oi! Winchester?" The figure called down, voice croaking slightly. It wasn't enough to discern an accent, but Dean was willing to bet it was an O'Toole brother.

"You Jackson? Or Craig?"

The figure let out a bark of laughter. "Craig! Up, ye git!" The figure shoved the door behind him open with his foot and swaggered in. He left the door open behind him.

Dean shook his head. He grabbed his new journal and phone and locked his door. He swiftly climbed the stairs, following Craig inside.

The brothers were seated inside at the little blue table, one of those new apple laptops in front of them. A few books and papers were scattered over the rest of the table, accompanied by empty coffee cups and fast food wrappers.

The brothers themselves weren't what he expected. Though his impression of Irish people was more short and ginger with lots of freckles, than was probably realistic.

The older one, or at least the one he assumed was older, was large. He was even taller than Sam at maybe 6' 7" and definitely larger, even sitting down. Where Sam was long and lanky, O'Toole was thick and burly. His head was shaved smooth and was heavily tanned with only barest hint of freckles. Sparkling brown eyes peaked out from behind his thick, heavy brows. His arms visible from the elbow down were completely tattooed, and from the peak of ink at his shirt collar, he figured the rest of him was as well.

The younger was shorter than his brother, maybe even shorter than Dean, but it was harder to tell with him seated. He was not as large as his brother, though just as tattooed, but Dean could still see corded muscle on his forearms and biceps. He possessed a full head of thick black hair, pulled back in a short ponytail with an equally thick black beard. His eyes were blue-grey and very large, set high on his face over a recently broken nose. It was still an ugly purple-green mess, but there was no blood and it hadn't been set.

"Oi, Winchester. Ya gonna stare at me brother's ugly mug all day?" The larger one asked, a bit of a tease in his words. "I know he's got a face like blind cobbler's thumb, but mine's so much prettier."

"Arse." Broken-nose griped back, knocking a fist into his brother's shoulder. "We share a feckin' face."

Dean smirked and sat across from them, shoving his things on the table and swiping his hat off. He leaned over, placing his elbows on his knees.

"So, Craig and Jackson?" He pointed to the large guy and the broken-nose respectively.

"'n yer Dean, yeah?" Jackson asked nasily. "Ol' Bobby rang, said you'd come."

"He said you guys ran into Sam lookin' for a hunt."

"Aye we did. Dunno if it's this Sam, though. Failed to introduce 'imself, he did. Right rude." Jackson complained. His eyes squinted in annoyance.

Craig rolled his eyes. "Barmy git. My brother's just sore 'cause he got it in the nose from your man." Said brother muttered what was probably a few choice words under his breath. "He did the tests an' passed 'em with flyin' colours."

"But..." Dean prompted.

Craig obligingly continued. "But, he was off. Looked completely knackered fer one-"

"Fer another," Jackson interrupted, "he's mad as a box o' frogs."

Craig gave the other O'Toole a look. "Jack's a right ponce 'bout it, but he ain't wrong. Reason we made 'im do all the tests was, after he gave me brother a right good dig in the face, he were talkin' to 'imself. Mutterin' like a right loon."

It took Dean a few moments to decipher his words, but what he translated didn't sound good at all.

"Did you hear what he was saying? Any part of it?"

"Mentioned a sword." O'Toole the younger glanced at his brother. "Aidonis or somethin'."

"Aidonis." He repeated. "Thanks. Is there anything else you can remember? His car, which direction he was heading, anything like that?" He glanced at both of them, searching for any reaction.

He was rewarded with a head shake from Craig but Jackson tilted his head to the side.

"Ye feel like sharin', little Jacky?" Craig asked, eyebrow raised.

Jackson responded with a glare and punch to the shoulder. Craig barely moved, and Dean wasn't really sure he even felt it seeing as the giant was still smirking questioningly at his little brother.

Finally, though, Jackson responded. "He were headed to town, I reckon."

"Thanks again." Dean responded. It occurred to him at that moment, that the brothers were doing this pro-bono if you will. Quickly, he tore a corner out of the journal Bobby gave him and scribbled his number down. "If you need help with a hunt, some research, or even a drink, that's my number."

"Ha! Might take you up on that drink offer some time!" Craig crowed, snatching the paper out of his brother's reach. Jackson just rolled his eyes.

"If yer ever lookin' fer a drink, we hang round the Roadhouse. Bobby knows where it is." The younger O'Toole added.

Dean and the two brothers exchanged goodbyes, then he was on the road to town.

He thought he liked the brothers, something that he was honestly surprised with. Dad had always told him hunters were just as paranoid as him and Bobby, but the O'Tooles were positively outgoing in comparison to those two.

A rather unsettling opinion was forming in the back of his mind, he knew, so he quickly shook off those thoughts and refocused on the road ahead.

The first place he came upon, was a diner. The sign declared it "SCOTTY'S," though the lights were off and it seemed to be empty.

He pulled into one of the tight parking spots and climbed out. He peered in the darkened window, noting the blinds seemed to have been ripped off the frame, dangling limply from a lone bracket. Some of the tables inside were toppled on their sides, chairs upended with few legs snapped off.

There was a pool of dark liquid pooling behind one of the tables.

Dean's eyes were riveted on the pool. He could not tell the color of the liquid - it was simply too dark to tell - but he feared that it was blood.

He tested the door, noting with some relief that it opened easily. He pulled his gun out, and began a careful search of the room.

He couldn't hear anyone moving behind the counter, nor could he see any lights in the kitchen or office. Nothing seemed to be powered, even the fridge. The air was stale and stagnant, days old. As he approached the liquid on the floor he saw that shattered jar that had been hidden behind the upturned table.

With a huff of relief, he holstered his gun and bent down tabbing a bit of the liquid to his mouth.

Wow. That was amazing.

He blinked at the jar, formerly full of a delicious apple jam. His eyes roamed the shelves for any more jars. He was sorely disappointed.

"Hello?" He finally called through the room.

There was movement almost immediately, and what sounded like exhausted grumbling coming from the ceiling. There was some shuffling and then the sounds of feet on wooden stairs. He saw kitchen light flick on under the door. Then the door swung open.

The figure back-lit from the kitchen was short and slouched and appeared to have something on their head.

"The lights in here are broken." The shockingly young voice told him. He strode into the kitchen, not quite understanding the obligingness of his feet.

The lit kitchen was in just as much disarray as the dining room, but it looked like someone had attempted to clean it. The broom and dustpan tossed into the middle painted the picture of frustration. The teenage girl standing in the midst of such a mess seemed to fit that picture just as easily, tussled bed head, plaid flannel pants, and an Indiana State Sycamores jersey.

"Are you a local? What do you want?" It was strange but she seemed to become more standoffish when she was wondering if he was a local.

"Um, I'm not a local." Her shoulders relaxed visibly, slouching down once more. "I'm looking for someone, actually. Sorry for the breaking and entering, by the way." He added. "It looked like a fight happened."

"Something certainly happened." She muttered waveringly, rage cleared in her eyes. She seemed on the verge of screaming for a moment, then took a heavy breath. "Sorry. It's been a long few days."

"Did someone break in?"

"In a way." Her reply was just as cagey and vague as before. She shook her head. "Anyway. You said you were looking for somebody? You a PI or something? And it wasn't really breaking anything, was it? The lock's busted."

He peered reflexively back at the door, though he couldn't see anything save the light through the windows.

"Uh, no, I'm looking for my brother." He replied, turning back. "He disappeared a few weeks ago. I'm hoping you've seen him."

She gave him a heavily analytical stare. It didn't seem to match her age at all.

Finally, though, she seemed to judge him worthy. "Do you have a picture?"

He pulled the slightly crumpled photo out, and handed it over. He pointed at the tallest figure standing in it.

"That's him. Sam." She nodded, looking the picture over. Her eyes were riveted on it.

"You're his brother?"

"Yeah, older brother." He confirmed. She looked at him with furrowed brows.

"You're Dean." She wasn't asking. She looked from the picture, to Dean's face, and then the picture once more.

For the first time in years, Dean wanted to look more like Sam. Though he may have more of Mom's features, Sam had a strength about him, similar to what he saw in Dad.

But the teen apparently deemed him similar enough, nodding her head decisively. She fished a slip of paper out of her pocket, handing it and the photo to him.

"He asked me to give that to you when you showed up." Dean blinked.

"He knew I was looking for him?" He really wanted to be angry at his little brother for worrying the shit out of him but at that moment, all he could feel was relief.

"He seemed pretty certain." She shrugged. "He took care of everything like he knew what was going to happen before he got here."

Filing that away for later, he asked, "What exactly did happen here?"

Her fury returned with a vengeance. "This fucking town is nuts." She paused, sweeping a hand at the mess on the floor. "My aunt, uncle, and half this goddamn town were sacrificing out-of-towners to some pagan god in the orchard."

Dean's eyebrows shot up his forehead as he let out an low whistle.

"Yeah." She agreed, twitching in agitation. "My aunt and uncle run the gas station. When the last couple they tried to sacrifice escaped, they decided they needed to sacrifice me and one of the local boys."

"But…?" he prodded.

"Your brother swung in like some kind of knight and saved me and Tony, the boy." She informed him, a smile alighting at the mention of the boy. "He told us to run and when we saw him again he'd done something that killed the orchard. My aunt and uncle were screaming about him being a god killer." She shrugged.

Dean frowned and glanced around again. "What made all this damage, then?"

She shrugged. "Maybe Tony and I were a little pissed off. We grabbed some bats from the back and just started smashing the place up. Scotty tried to clean at one point." She shrugged again.

"Why aren't you staying with your aunt and uncle, then?" She scoffed.

"I'm not staying in the same building as family that's try to kill me. Anyway, Scotty left town after we started smashing this place up, so I figured, why not?" She frowned and added, "I'm Emily, by the way."

He took her hand and shook it, offering her his signature charming smirk. Not quite blue steal – she was fifteen for christsake – but enough that she smiled back.

"Thanks, Emily. For all the help."

"Anytime." She grinned.

He was heading out when his eyes alighted on the smashed jar once more. "Hey, Emily? You really want to piss Scotty off?"

She cocked her head in interest. He pointed at the mess on the floor.

"Mind if I take a few? For strictly professional purposes, of course." She beamed.

He walked out of the broken shell of a diner and plopped the several jars of apple jam into his passenger seat. Then he pulled out the slip of paper from Sam.

It was torn from some sort of journal, probably. The paper was stiff, discolored, and slightly curled at the corner. When he lifted it to his nose, it smelled of coffee, gun powder, and alcohol. It seemed that a small piece of someone else's writing had been captured along with Sam's, only the last few letters of a few words but messily stenciled in with a pencil.

The note from Sam was more important, of course, but Dean didn't like what that same analysis told him.

The words were written with a shaky hand where Sam's had always been neat and steady. The words trailed down slightly, not in neat and even lines like they used to. The pressure varied on each letter as though they were written with different hands.

He might have been able to pass this off as simply a change in hand writing, were it not for his stuff, essays and notes, stored at Bobby's.

The words were just as obscure as the writing. Not like the Sam he knew at all. Little to no emotion in the phrasing, rather impersonal, as well. It could have been a note for anyone if Emily hadn't said anything.

Find Aidoneus Sword.

Watch out for the all father's blades.