First, a few orders of business. Most importantly, this story will contain spoilers for the Season II finale. Be warned, and bitch not if thou spoilest thyself.

Secondly, Stella will eventually make an appearance here. If you don't know who she is, check out my first fic, Normal.

Finally, I cannot for the life of me remember who made the quote that begins this story. If you know, help a girl out. I do not take credit for it, and I do not take credit for Sam, Dean, or the Impala.

As always, please review. I answer all reviews at my stupid low-tech blog. Thanks!

If you kill one person, you're a murderer. If you kill thousands, you're a conqueror. If you kill everyone, you're God.

Red eyes in the dark, like flaring embers in a coal-black face. A crumpled body in a pile of trash, arms and legs askew like a puppet with severed strings. Blood, thick and coppery, in a growing puddle on the cold concrete. An amulet, broken and powerless, grasped in a cold, dead palm.

Sam woke with a start, his heart pounding away in his chest like a jackhammer on overdrive. Damned if he wasn't going to start another day fresh out of a nightmare. Whoopdi-fucking-do, ain't life grand. With a grunt, he rolled over onto his back and mashed his palms against his eyes, raging against the daylight that was creeping through a crack in the curtains. The sounds of the street whispered in from outside, car engines, pedestrian voices, dogs scrapping over territory in an alley. But the room itself was silent.

When Sam finally summoned the energy to sit up, his first sight was that of his brother seated in a chair, shrouded in a shadowed corner. Dean's face was expressionless, lit by the flickering blue glow of the television; his eyes were distant as though his soul had fled and left an empty shell seated in a ratty motel room recliner. That look used to scare Sam, but he had grown accustomed to it. Dean had started to wear it after their dad's death, but he seemed to be wearing it more and more since that night in Cold Oak when Sam woke up from what turned out to be death.

Sam watched him for a long minute, an ache building in his chest. He felt that ache every time Dean wore that look now. The ache was knowledge, knowledge of the sacrifice that Dean was going to make for him, and fear that there was no way to stop it. Finally, he couldn't stand the silence any longer. "Did you sleep at all?" Sam's voice was thick with fatigue, crackling in his throat.

Sam could almost see the barriers slam shut behind Dean's eyes, just as they always did when Dean realized he was being watched. "I caught a couple of hours. Ran down to the bar and made a few bucks and got a little piece of tail, so the night wasn't a total bust." Dean's voice was casual, with that flippant tone that sometimes set Sam's teeth on edge. It irked him because he knew it was dishonest.

"You know, one of these days you're going to kill us both by falling asleep at the wheel." Sam groaned and set his feet on the floor, his toes automatically curling at the touch of the motel carpeting. Even after all these years, it never failed to make his skin crawl, the knowledge that thousands of filthy feet had shuffled over these floors, with only a half-assed vacuum job in between.

"After all the work I had to do after you smashed her up? Never." A grin without glee crossed Dean's face, all teeth and no feeling. Nothing in the eyes but wariness. Dean stretched in the recliner, arms waving around over his head as if trying to distract Sam from the face below. "Besides, I don't need beauty sleep like some people. I'm naturally pretty."

"Right. That's why the raccoon eyes." Sam stared pointedly at the shadowy bruises of fatigue that marred the pale skin under Dean's eyes, his annoyance underlined by a niggling of concern. Dean pursed his mouth and waved a dismissive hand at his brother. Sam gave a sigh. "Man, you have to stop pushing yourself so hard. We haven't made any headway finding a way to break the deal, and we'll waste even more time if I have to nurse your sorry ass back to health."

If Dean had been evasive before, the mention of the demon's deal shut him down entirely. "Man, I could use some coffee, though. You want to drag your well-rested ass out of the bed and make a diner run?"

Sam just stared at him, frustration gnawing at his insides. "Don't you ever get tired of this?" The question popped out of his mouth before he could stop it and he knew immediately that it was a mistake, but it was too late to stop now.

"Tired of what, Sam?" There was a warning in Dean's voice.

Fatigue and fear pushed Sam forward when he knew full well that he should let the matter drop. "Tired of the strong and silent routine. This would be a lot easier if you would stop being so stubborn and admit that you're scared."

"And exactly how does being scared make this easier?" Danger in Dean's eyes.

Sam raked his hand through his hair and gusted a sigh. "I don't know, man. I just don't know what to do. We've got no ideas, no leads on how to get you out of this."

"Maybe that's because there isn't a way, Sam." The tone in Dean's voice made the hair on the back of Sam's neck stand up. "What if we're just chasing the wind here?"

"There has to be a way, Dean." Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and tenting his fingers under his chin, his body fairly thrumming with tension. "We'll talk to every hunter we can find, every psychic, every scholar. Bobby's looking, Ellen's looking. We'll find a way."

Dean smirked a half-smile and shook his head. "Sammy, I just want you to be prepared, is all. We'll keep looking, but you have to accept that we might not find the answer this time." He leaned forward, mimicking Sam's posture. "And just because I don't want to talk about it doesn't mean that I'm scared."

An involuntary bark of laughter escaped Sam. Leave it to Dean. Never admit weakness; never give in to defeat. "You should have that tattooed on your ass, man." Sam stood and dug through his duffel for a clean pair of pants. "Maybe if you keep saying it you'll start to believe it." He gave a few sideways hops as he pulled some jeans over his hips, and slid into a not-too-smelly t-shirt. "You want cream and sugar?"

"Did I suddenly become a girl overnight? When did I ever take cream and sugar?" Dean chucked a handful of crumpled money at Sam. "And bring me back an omelet."

Sam shook his head as he stepped into his shoes, and bent to collect the bills from the floor. A glance at them caused his eyebrows to rise almost to his hairline. "Jesus, Dean, it doesn't take three hundred dollars to buy an omelet."

Dean shrugged. "My winnings from last night. Hang onto it for me, or I might go spend it on that hot little number from the bar."

Sam grinned and shoved the money into his pocket. "You're such a whore."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

The door clicked shut between them and Sam squinted in the sunlight. He actually enjoyed these morning food runs. It just felt normal, like going out for breakfast after an all-night study session back at school. His tennis shoes slapped the pavement as he ambled across the street to the dilapidated diner with the neon "op n" sign. The waitress managed a half-hearted smile as he ordered his food to go, disappointed in the knowledge that she was losing a tip.

Sam took a scalding mouthful of his coffee (cream and sugar included, thank you very much) and stepped back out into the street, Styrofoam boxes balanced in his free hand. With a hunter's practice he scanned the street, searching almost unconsciously for danger. What he found, or rather what he did not find, nearly stopped his heart.

The Impala was gone. And right away, Sam knew. So was Dean.