Michael (Cont.)

Adam sleeps on his back on a bed. It's uncomfortable. But he dreams. A man in a black suit. Many men. All the same. He turns his head to the side and Adam walks down hallways. Brick. Steel. Sunlight. Winter. Water under covered bridges where he grew up. Caught tadpoles. His mother with a fishing line better fisher than most people's daddies. Her room is dark. Big bed. Pink comforter. Dark red. And he walks from there. Like a child. Down a hall. Down a hall. Down a hall. Walls are blue. Geometric light. And stairs. He's down. His room. Blue walls. Covered in thumbtacks. Metallica poster. Computer. His bed is soft. Childhood bed. Power rangers. And he rolls over onto his bed in the hospital. He blinks. The air is stale. He's awake. He groans. He needs sleep. He pulls the covers up over his head. They smell like detergent. He closes his eyes and dreams.

…

Miles away. Night sky huge and full of stars. Cold enough to turn breath to fog. Dean Winchester sleeps. Sitting straight up in the driver's seat of '67 Chevy Impala. It's uncomfortable. He shivers. But he dreams. He deals blackjack on a river-boat. Silk vest. Red lights. Laughter. Drinks clinking. Pretty girl in a slinky dress. She holds her glass to her lips. She whispers something. Dean Winchester gives her a Dean Winchester smile. Patented. For you, darling, anything. She laughs. They all laugh. His eyebrows go up and he deals a hand. Hands on his hands. Rough hands. Calloused hands. Dean looks up into the eyes of a man, bearded; hat on his head. Bobby. What does he want? Desert sun. Arizona? No. New Mexico. Gen-Mod raid. Knife in hand. Things falling from the sky. People. Used to be people. Monsters. Sound of plane engines. Knife in hand. There's a thing with fangs. Slit its throat. There's a thing with fangs. Slit its throat. They never stop. He can feel his throat. It's burning? Bleeding. His eyes are full of sun. He can't see. Thing with fangs. Slit its throat. And a good man goes down next to him. Jo. Dumb girl. Young. Could fight like anything. Dead. Her face. A thing with fangs. Slit its throat. He's in a shack. Walls are moldy. Blood on the walls. Heads. Jo's. Bobby's. Daddy's. Thing in a chair. No fangs. It speaks. Eyes black. Cut its throat. Electric light. But it said. How's your brother? Sammy. Crouched in the corner. White clothes. Yellow sweat on the chest under his pits. Black eyes. Slit its throat.

Dean starts awake. It's morning. It's cold. Through the windshield he can see the hood of his car is open. He grunts and steps out the driver's side. He can see Sammy leaned over the engine. He's heating water for instant coffee. Shitty. Grit in your teeth.

"Morning."

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty. Didn't mean to wake you. This thing starts like a damn gunshot." Sam nudges the Impala with his foot.

Dean raises an eyebrow, "Don't talk about, Baby. Baby's a kitten. Baby purrs." He breathes. The air is cold. "And you didn't wake me, I just—woke up. Just natural. After four hours." He rubs his eyes. He opens them wide. He holds, he blinks. He puts his hands in his pockets and leans against the hood.

"Really? Those sounds you were making—just natural?"

"Yep." Dean looks at Sam. He knows the rules.

Sam puts his hands up defensively, "Alright. No chick-flick moments." He rolls his eyes.

Dean licks his lips and scratches his nose. "We got anything to eat?"

"We've got some granola bars and an old shoe."

"I'll try the old shoe."

Sam smirks, "Coffee's coming up."

"Damn, I'm hungry. Do you think there any mooses in these woods? I could eat me a fucking moose burger." Dean stretches his arms, pops his back.

"No, I'm afraid there aren't any "mooses" in North Carolina. Probably get a deer though."

"Shit, when did we get to North Carolina?"

Sam looks up. "Last night."

"Jesus, I must have been asleep at the wheel."

Sam's eyes widen. "That's reassuring."

Dean shrugs. "Where're we meeting our guy?"

"Diner a few towns on."

Dean's ears twitch. The corner of his mouth curves up. His eyes and his hands go wide as he turns to face Sammy. "Sammy, what the hell are we waiting for?"

Sam looks sadly at the almost boiling water. "Coffee?"

"That is not coffee, Sammy. That is ass. Ground Ass in hot water. Ass-water." Sam looks disappointed, "We can get real coffee. And pancakes. Pancakes are like breakfast pie, Sammy. And bacon—"Dean makes a guttural sound. He really likes bacon.

Sam takes the pot off the engine and tosses steaming water over his shoulder. It sizzles and melts the frost on the grass. "Actually, I think quiche is breakfast pie."

Dean raises his eyebrows.

"Right: No chick-flick moments."

…

Shake and Bake Diner. Best Flapjacks on the east coast. That's what the sign says. Award-winning blueberry maple syrup. The interior is faux-fifties—mostly faux—and there's a jukebox in the corner playing "Rag Doll." The plastic tabletop is cool against Dean's wrists. He touches the silverware absently. He spins the knife. He purses his lips. He looks at the kitchen.

"We just ordered, Dean."

"I'm not saying anything."

"I can see it in your eyes."

"What?"

"You've got the Donner-Party Roseanne Barr I'm going to eat you alive look."

"I don't have a look."

"Dude, you've got madness in your eyes."

"Shut up." He spins the butter knife one way, stops it, spins it back the other. "Speaking of—"Sam looks left then down. "How's everything on the western front?" Dean smiles. Sort of.

"It's quiet."

"Sleeping good?"

"Sleeping alright."

"Hearing voices?"

"No."

"Hallucinations?"

"Nope. Solid as a rock." Sam illustrates by rapping his knuckles against his skull.

"Good. We'll need your rock-like head in the game." Sam rolls his eyes. The waitress—an older woman, thin yellow hair, pink face, thick waist—comes to the table with two mugs and a pot of black coffee, steaming. She puts the mugs down. They clank. She begins to pour.

"Do you boys take cream or sugar in your don't look up, don't even breathe different." Her voice becomes suddenly harsh. Dean looks up. Her eyes flicker black. He puts his hand in his coat where he's hidden his knife.

She rolls her eyes, "I guess 'don't even breathe different' is inexact. We've got demons, boys. The drop is compromised."

Sam's eyes go wide and he looks at the waitress, "Meg?"

"Gee, you two have mastered all of the finer points of subtlety. Like pointing and gasping."

Dean's look is smoldering. He growls, "What do you want to do?"

'Well I was hoping we could leave quietly without any killing but it looks like that idea's—"she turns suddenly and puts up a pink hand. An old man, wearing flannel and denim, standing in the middle of the diner, bowie knife raised, flies sideways into the window, "Off the table."

"Sam," Dean stands pulling a jagged steel blade—about the length of his hand—a little longer—out of his coat.

"Right," Sam slides out of the booth and stands behind Meg.

"Big and Tall got any juice?"

"Sammy?"

"Maybe. I need to focus." He licks his lips and blinks his eyes.

"Well, you focus your ass then" Dean says walking forward. The old man, slumped against the window, rather effortlessly picks himself up. He cracks his neck and his eyes flicker black. He grins.

At other tables patrons begin to rise. Two older women with flyaway hairs in the far corner, three rather burly looking gentlemen in trucker-caps and mud-flap tee shirts at the table just behind the old dude. Closest to Dean a guy who might be an accountant rises from his seat at the counter. Meg steps forward, raises her hands and drops the two burlier looking trucker-caps to their knees. It's clear it's taking considerable effort. The muscles in her face and arms contract. Dean steps towards the accountant. Slashes him across the face. There's a sound like a bug-zapper and the accountant slaps his hands to his face and screams. Dean is about to slash him again but is suddenly thrown over the counter by an invisible force. Knocks his elbow. Grinds his teeth. Slides a little and feels the grit of the unwashed floor against his face.

"Any time, Sam!"

Sam puts his hands to his temples. He rubs them vigorously. He tries to black it all out. Think of nothing. Be nothing. Let it happen. He scrunches up his face tight.

Dean stands up behind the counter just as the fry-cook—pot-belly visible under his apron—steps out of the kitchen. "Any time like now, Sam!" he swings his knife at the cook only to get back-handed across the face. He hits the countertop. Cook has him by the throat. Meg glances his way. In a split second the trucker-caps are up and Meg's being launched across the room. When she hits the floor Sam can feel it through the bottoms of his shoes. He opens his eyes. He closes his eyes. Black. Think of nothing. Be nothing. His eyes are shut so tight black begins to spiral red. He can hear something slam against the table. The sound of a bug-zapper. Meg saying "Anytime, Quick-draw." Black. Black. Think of black. Dean saying, "Sam!" "Stairway to Heaven" begins to play on the Jukebox. There's a feeling like a baby-tooth coming loose. Sam's heart skips a beat. He opens his eyes. The room is filled with black smoke. It's pouring from the mouths of the diner patrons. Sam turns around, it's pouring out of Meg's mouth. They're doubled-up and make a sound like gagging. The smoke begins to seep out through under the door frame and the creases in the windows.

Dean is standing behind the counter. He's breathing heavily. His lip is split. His nose is bloody. He looks Sam in the eye and gives him a thumbs up. One by one the diner patrons shoot up, straight as a ruler and blink. Dean hastily slips his knife back in his jacket and jumps over the counter. As he does his waitress looks at him and blinks twice. "Pancakes will be out in a second. Do you like syrup?"

"Yeah," Dean swallows, "I would like some fucking maple syrup." She blinks twice. What did she say?

…

Hours later. Sunny-Side Up Motel just north of Raleigh. Dean's leaning back into an uncomfortable looking bed. He presses an icepack against his elbow. He's got a bit of toilet paper in his nose. It's bloody. His eyes are on the TV Anchorwoman. Asian. Busty. He presses a button on the remote. The image changes to a medical drama. Across the screen in pink are the words, "Doctor Sexy, MD." He presses another button and the image flips back.

Across the room by the window Sam is pacing. He reaches into his pocket to check his cell. He puts it back. He reaches into his other pocket to check his other cell. He puts it back.

"She should have been here by now."

"Yeah, well." Dean raises his eyebrows and puts his chin out a bit. That's what demons do. They fuck you. They're built to fuck you.

"She might be hurt."

"I'm hurt."

"She's got info we need."

"There are other ways to get intel, Sammy."

Sam stops pacing. He looks at Dean, "That's Hunter talk."

"I am a Hunter."

"You were a Hunter. Now you're a fugitive. And we need all the friends we can get."

Dean breathes through his nose. This isn't an argument he wants to have. There's a knock at the door. Dean looks at Sam, on the other side of the room from the door. "You get it."

"Why do I have to get it?"

"Because it might be a well-endowed pizza delivery boy looking for a horny co-ed and I know you'd love that."

Sam rolls his eyes. His nostrils flare. He walks to the door. He makes sure to cross in front of "Dr. Sexy, MD." Dean makes a face. He opens the door to reveal a slender blond in black leather. Her skirt is lacy and comes to her knees. She puts her French-manicure onto Sam's face. His eyes widen. His mouth opens. He moves his pelvis back. She struts in. Dean's on his feet his knife in his hand.

"Dean, Dean, Dean…I got all dressed up for this."

She indicates her body. He lowers his knife, softens his grip but his jaw is still tight. "Meg."

"In the flesh. Well, someone's. Can I sit? I'm feeling a little woozy since my consciousness was forcibly expelled from Brunhilda this morning." She takes a seat on Dean's bed and crosses her legs.

Sam shuts the door gently. "Sorry about that. It's kind of hard to aim."

"I'm not complaining—scratch that I am complaining—but I'm not pissed. You saved our lives back there. Notwithstanding it was your stupidity that almost got us killed."

Dean glares. "Last time I checked it wasn't our idea to meet in that diner. And we didn't show up with a demon posse."

"You think I did? I want as little to do with Demons as you two. Demons aren't a side. They're tools. And those particular tools were being used by Carver-Edlund whom I especially don't want to know I was consorting with wanted terrorists and escaped science experiments."

"How can you tell they were Carver-Edlund?"

"Government doesn't do civilians. Fortunately for us the current regime is more stupid than corrupt. All of their eggs are in one basket. The pretty boy FBI agent—"

"Novak," Dean swallows.

"Yeah, him. Have you met him?"

"Once."

"He's basically a high-functioning autistic but I could break a diamond on that joy. And lose my lunch in his blue, blue eyes."

"Yeah, he looked especially sexy with a gun to my head."

"Maybe you shouldn't have tried to blow up that building."

Dean breathes through his nose. Sam walks back to the beds and takes a seat across from Meg on his own rented bed. He sighs. "What have you got for us, Meg?"

"Two things. Priority Number One: Carver-Edlund and / or the US government—not sure about this one—has a demon planted in the mayor of a small town in Wisconsin. Coincidentally Carver-Edlund has just started work on some sort of facility within the town borders. Can anyone else say exhortation?"

"And you think we should what—kill him?" Sam puts his knees together, puts his hands on his knees.

"Expose him. If we want to take down Carver-Edlund we need to show people that they're more than GI Bills and Apple Pie. With all of its involvement in China and Korea people forget that Carver-Edlund is still an independent player with its own agenda. We just need to give them a little friendly reminder that the angels aren't necessarily their friends."

"So that's priority number one," Dean leans back on his haunches, his bow legs come forward a little, he crosses his arms, "What's priority number two?"

She looks at Sam. She smiles. Every line in her face curves up. "They've found a replacement for Sammy."

Sam swallows, "A replacement?"

"Honestly people like you and me are basically hamsters to Carver-Edlund. One mushy, gooey cut-uppable brain is as good as another."

"So it's another angel? Big fucking whoop. We bring 'em down fast enough Clarence will never get his wings." Dean shifts his weight.

"Well I just thought you'd like to know seeing as it's your brother they're going to be slice-and-dicing…"

Sam and Dean look at one another. They pause. Sam blinks, "Meg—we don't have another brother."

Meg's smile grows two-sizes, "Oh, this is too good."