Among Us: A Supernatural Novel written by Carver Edlund

Sibling Cavalry

"Hey, Dean. Look at—" Sam started to say, but that was as far as he got.

His brother, eyes closed like he was in some kind of trance, half dancing and half shadowboxing to a Steppenwolf tune, nearly punched him in the ear.

Sam ducked. "Watch it!"

They'd parked on the dirt shoulder of a back road beneath the spreading branches of an oak to stretch their legs and work the kinks out of their backs before it got too hot. For miles, there was nothing to be seen but cotton sprouting in fields.

"Oh. Sorry, Sammy," Dean said, not sounding sorry at all. He turned on his heel and plopped next to Sam against the trunk of his car, a black sixty-seven Impala. "You know what? I feel good today." He twisted the cap off a Lone Star Lager with a flourish.

The way Dean had been running them the past full month, Sam thought he'd have been happy at the chance to work another job. He repositioned his laptop so that they could view the screen without glare from the low sun, brutal even in May. He cleared his throat. "Okay, as I was saying—"

"Naw, I mean it," Dean interrupted. He tilted the bottle, taking a long pull. "I don't mean just okay. Or fine. I mean good."

"Great," Sam said, not sure how he was supposed to respond to that, "but would you look at this? I found—"

"This place is awesome," Dean went on. "Best steak in the States. Everything in Texas is huge. It was this big, Sam. This big." He measured a space between his hands about two feet apart and then began air drumming.

"Dude. I was there. You're exaggerating. Now, would you get off your food porn channel? I'm trying to—"

"You missed out, little brother. What was that rabbit nonsense you were eating? I bet I could yank up tastier stuff from the side of the road."

"Dean."

"Man, I'm getting hungry again. When's lunch?"

"Dean."

"What can I do for you, Sammich?" he asked in the most unconvincingly innocent tone imaginable.

Sam clamped his mouth shut. He glared at his older brother, working to keep his lips sealed while he waited for Dean to get the bug out of his ass.

Staring directly at him, Dean took another pull of his beer, his eyes—the same color, though not the same shape, as Sam's—catching the sunlight so that they twinkled. Daring him to say it.

"Are you done?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean grinned like a satyr. "Not even a little."

"Look, if this is about Christine—"

"This is absolutely about Christine."

"I couldn't help it! She was taking one of us home and you know it. She just preferred not to go home with a . . . shortie."

Dean leaped upright. "I am not short!"

"From up here you are," Sam said.

It was Dean's turn to scowl. He finished his beer and then stuffed the empty bottle into their dad's ancient metal cooler. The ice crunched and popped. He said something under his breath that sounded like, "Four frickin' inches."

"Still feelin' good, Dean-o?" Sam taunted.

"All right, whatever, you douche," he muttered. He locked the cooler and wiped his hands down his jeans. "Just you wait until I tell your little Hell-buddy."

Sam laughed softly through his nose. "So, you plan to inform a demon that you don't even like that I'm, what, cheating on her?" He'd already won, he didn't need to rub it in, and there was no use trying to explain Ruby when complicated didn't even come close. "No, you know what? Never mind." He shook his head, grinning, and pointed at the laptop's screen, where he'd opened three separate articles. "Colorado. There has been a string of disappearances from nightclubs in the three major college towns, all within three days of each other. Nine vanished from Fort Collins last Thursday, six from Boulder on Friday, and then five from Golden, Saturday."