SUMMARY: Post Out With the Old and Pre Born Again Identity: Sam's not sleeping. Anything's better than sleeping. It's bad enough when he's awake. Cue hallucinations, fluff, angst, big bro Dean and everything in between!

DISCLAIMER: Just playing. Language and a little more language thrown in for good measure.

A/N: Story is twofold. Will post the final chapter within the next day or so. In the meantime, enjoy!

Four dead. Two missing.

Even numbers. Good odds. Even meant good odds.

Kind of ironic. Did he just laugh…kind of? Dean's looking at him weird. That's not funny. Even though it sort of is.

Fuck. Focus.

Two missing kids and unexplained explosions of black goo twenty miles outside of Portland. Definitely their kind of thing. Leviathan thing. Bastards weren't exactly big on subtlety.

Dean's still packing. They'll leave in fifteen.

He shouldn't be driving, though. Dean'll drive. Of course. Almost got killed the other night. He fucking hates eighteen-wheelers. Death on wheels…

He didn't tell Dean about that. Probably should've.

Focus. Okay.

Lucifer's whining at him to pay attention. Pay attention or else. Sam ignores him. Or the hallucination...or his brain. Whatever. Focus.

He needs coffee. Hasn't had a caffeine fix in almost an hour. Too long. That's way too long. He can feel his gritty eyes growing heavy and dull. Dangerously close to sleep. Or whatever passes for sleep these days. The computer screen is fuzzy. It's shimmering in and out of focus. His head's killing him. Focus, dammit.

But how the hell is he supposed to focus when his fucking brain won't shut up about ninety-seven bottles of fucking beer on a fucking wall?

Ninety-six bottles to go, Sammy-boy…

Shut up. Shut up.

His eyes are stinging. It takes a few seconds before he realizes he's digging his fingernails into his eyeballs and that's why they hurt. He looks down and he's holding two bloody masses of flesh that used to be eyeballs. He's flashing back to when he had to dissect a cow eyeball on some weird-ass field trip in high school. The rubbery black iris looked like a sliced olive. He couldn't eat black olives ever again. It sucked because they used to be his favorite pizza topping.

"Sam?"

Dean was supposed to come back with coffee earlier but he'd forgotten. Been too excited to ditch the motel and get on the road. Sam had settled for a coke from the vending machine. Hardly counted as a pick-me-up.

He needs something. Soon. Or he's gonna go crazy.

Sam, you're already crazy.

Shut up.

"Sam."

This limbo shit isn't gonna cut it. He needs to be awake. Alert. They have a case. And he needs to wash his hands. Fuck, he really needs to wash his hands. There's little pieces of slippery iris falling away from the gelatinous goo coating his fingers and…

"Sam!"

"Huh? What's wrong?"

"Yeah, I'll say. What's goin' on?"

"I-" Sam gulps and settles back into his chair. Dean's hands are wrapped around his wrists, pulling them away from his face. His brother looks worried. "I need to wash my hands," Sam finishes weakly. Dean finally releases him.

"Well," Dean says like he knows something's up but doesn't feel like dealing just then. "Wash your hands then. Hurry up. I wanna head out."

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm comin'." Sam packs away the laptop, grabs his own duffel and reaches for the motel door. Dean looks at him like he's got "moron" tattooed on his forehead.

"I thought you wanted to wash your hands."

"Oh," Sam thinks maybe he was freaking a second ago. And maybe Dean noticed. "No," he stutters. "I'm good. Let's go."

"Whatever, weirdo." Dean's tone is light but Sam can feel his brother's eyes boring into his back like laser beams. Watching. Waiting for Sam to crack.

Sam thinks maybe Dean's a little late to the party.

oooooooooo

Lucifer yanks the string on a party popper right next to his ear. Sam flinches. Dean frowns but doesn't say a word.

Looking out the window doesn't help at all. His body feels like it's melting into the leather. He's had an awful headache for the last three days and it's getting to the point where he can barely think straight. His newfound coffee addiction probably isn't helping matters any. But what else are you supposed to do when sleeping is out of the equation? The scenery swims by like a scene from 20,000 Leagues and he can't shake the paranoid feeling that maybe this isn't real at all.

Ignores the voice telling him he's right on the money...

They've only been driving for a few minutes before Dean announces Baby needs fuel. There's a station about a mile ahead. Sam nods and refuses to flinch when his brother's head explodes.

oooooooooo

They've only been driving for a few minutes before Dean notices how Sam's trying to crawl out of his own skin. He can't sit still. His hand – the one that's still healing – keeps rubbing against his leg in a way that makes Dean really anxious. Sam seems to be keeping himself awake with the constant movement.

Dean wishes like hell the kid could just sleep. He knows it can't be easy or even appealing when you're watching Hell in HD behind your eyelids every time they close.

But Sam's exhausted. Five miles in and his hand isn't moving so fast anymore. His eyes are drooping, his chin is almost bumping against his chest and his mouth is lax which means in t-minus ten seconds there's gonna be drool to worry about. Then his whole body jerks as he snaps back to attention. Red-rimmed eyes, shaking hands and Dean doesn't miss the way the air catches in Sam's throat like the oxygen is being wrung out of his lungs.

They don't really talk about it. All the crap that's going on inside Sam's head. Not since the warehouse when Dean pulled his brother back from the brink. What's the point? Dean can't make it better. Can't kill imaginary monsters. Doesn't change the fact that he's scared shitless. Maybe that's what prompts him to initiate a freakin' therapy session.

"Hey, Sam?"

Sam's eyes bounce open and he blinks a few times before responding to Dean's voice. "Hmm?"

"You'd…uh," Dean trails off. He's not exactly sure what he's trying to ask. He clears his throat and continues awkwardly. "You'd tell me…if…if there was anything wrong, right? I mean like really wrong."

Sam gives his brother a curious once over.

"'Cause everything's so peachy right now?" Sam's lips grimace into a kind of twisted smile and Dean feels shivers run up and down his back.

"No. I mean, I know everything's pretty fucked up right now but I just…" Again Dean loses track of his words. His fingers reflexively tighten on the steering wheel. He takes a deep breath. "I want to know. Okay? I want to know when…"

When…what? When Sam's brain turns to soup and his sanity decides to take a leap off the deep end and there's nothing anybody can do about it? When Sam needs Dean to help and he won't be able to? When fucking what…?

"Sure, Dean," Sam's voice is quiet and bitter. "I'll let you know before I check out and head off into the hellfire sunset."

Dean feels kind of guilty for bringing it up. So naturally he goes on the defensive.

"Look, all I'm saying is –"

But Sam cuts him off before he's even gotten started. "Dean. I'm handling it fine. I'm fine."

Yeah, the emphasis is really reassuring. But if Sammy's gonna be a stubborn bitch about this then there's not a whole lot to be said now is there?

"Sure," Dean lets out the breath he's been holding. "Sure you are. But if you need my help…or, you know, anything…just...you know." Then after a moment, "Got me?"

"Yeah," Sam sighs tiredly and closes his eyes, deliberately - Dean notices - and turns his body away to curl against the window. "Thanks, but I'm managing it."

And Dean feels a tick start along his jaw because now Sam's starting to sound like a broken record and it's pissing him off.

Sam's bobble-head act goes on for another seven miles before Dean can't stand it anymore. Decides maybe coffee and food couldn't hurt. Sam will probably say he isn't hungry. But Dean's already decided his brother's gonna eat something.

He's surprised when Sam volunteers to grab the grub while Dean fuels up the car. He returns a few minutes later with two plastic bags and a small white bottle he seems to be inspecting. Dean quirks an eyebrow.

"What'chu got there?"

"Huh? Oh," Sam shoves the bottle into his pocket, suddenly self-conscious. "Just something to help me focus. Keep me awake. I mean, somebody's gotta watch out for your dumb ass."

"Well," Dean says, curiosity spiking. "What the hell is it?" He reaches to pull the bottle out of Sam's pocket.

Sam takes a step back and looks sheepish. "Caffeine."

"What, like – like pills?"

"No, Dean, I bought a bottle of coffee beans. Yes, pills."

"You think that's safe?"

"Jesus, it's not like I'm popping Dexedrine. It's just a boost."

Leave it to Sam to start rattling off drugs like he was a freaking pharmacist. Dean had no clue what that was but he figured if Sam knew what he was doing than what the hell could he say about it?

"I guess," Dean didn't know this sleeping thing had become so serious. Apparently serious enough that his brother feels he needs the extra help. Sure, Sam's been on edge the last few days. And Dean knew he wasn't catching as many z's as he should be. Okay, none, really. But it's true, they're on a case. If these'll keep Sam alert… "And they're safe?" he repeats, still unconvinced. He doesn't really know anything about caffeine in pill form. But when has the liquid stuff ever killed anybody?

"Foolproof," Sam rolls his eyes like he thinks Dean's being ridiculous.

"Whatever," Dean says, deciding to drop it for the moment. "Get in, I'm starving." Dean relieves his brother of the two bags and starts digging. "You get the Doritos?"

"You wanted Doritos?"

Sam laughs when Dean's eyes flick up from where he's concentrated on rummaging in the bag. He's betting his face looks like someone kicked his puppy. Or his car.

"Dude. Kidding." Sam shakes his head and sifts through the second bag for a moment before tossing Dean his Doritos.

oooooooooo

Dean glances over at his brother and frowns. Sam's fidgeting, his hands are practically vibrating and he's rigid with tension. It's freaking Dean out so he gives Sam a shove.

"Hey, you up for this?"

They're standing at the front door of Martha Landers, auntie to one of the missing kids. It's the kind of neighborhood where everyone knows everyone else's business because the houses are too damn close together and the local bar hosts Bingo night every other Thursday. Fucking suffocating. It makes Dean nervous.

He kind of snaps because apparently Sam didn't hear him the first time.

"Hey," he waves his hand aggressively in front of Sam's face. "Anybody home?"

Sam's head jerks and he nods a little too quickly, absently pulling at his jacket sleeves for the tenth time.

"Yeah, I'm good."

"Right, then pull it together."

"I just…" Sam runs a hand through his hair and pops the cap on the small bottle he's been carrying around for the last day and a half. Dean notes with a hint of concern that it's less than half full.

Christ, Sammy. This isn't Real Housewives...

Oblivious to his brother's scrutiny, Sam hurriedly shakes out two of the tablets and stuffs the bottle back in his pocket. "I just need to wake up a little."

Dean shakes his head and wonders if he should be more than a little concerned. But he brushes it off and rings the doorbell. Ethel Mertz answers the door, complete with a floral moo-moo and curlers.

"Mrs. Landers?" Dean inquires, reaching into his jacket for his badge, all sugarcoated politeness. The woman immediately looks upset.

"Look," she says, voice ragged. "I've already gone over everything with the police. They have my report. Good afternoon." She moves to close the door.

"Ma'am, please. If we could just have a moment of your time? I'm Dean McCartney and this is my partner," Dean jabs a thumb at Sam and flashes her the badge. He hates all of this official preliminary crap. "Department sent us down to follow up on your report. There were a few discrepancies that require clarification. The sooner we get that information the sooner we find the people who took your nephew."

She looks hesitant. Wary. Dean doesn't blame her but it's been a crappy morning and he's not feeling especially patient. Fortunately, Sam picks up the slack.

"Mrs. Landers we just want to help. We're doing our best to track down the people who did this. We're trying to bring Stephen home. But we need your help. Please."

Smooth, Sammy. Especially considering the missing kid was more than likely minced meat by now. Nothing like a little false hope to spice up reality.

"I don't know what else I can tell you," the woman sighs, shaking her head. But she opens the door and steps aside. Sam thanks her with one of his stupidly sincere smiles and Dean does his best to follow suit.

"Cream and sugar with your coffee?" Mrs. Landers asks as she gestures towards the couch on her way into the kitchen.

"Black," they answer, almost in unison.

"Thank you," Sam finishes for the both of them and Dean rolls his eyes.

Sam gulps most of his coffee the moment it's handed to him. Never mind the first sip nearly scalds Dean's throat going down.

"Fresh cup?" Mrs. Landers asks politely.

"He's fine," Dean answers for his brother, placing his own cup on the table as an excuse to lean forward. "Mrs. Landers, what can you tell us about the night your nephew –"

"Stephen," she interrupts with a quivering voice.

Christ…

"Stephen," Dean forces an apologetic smile. He's the first to admit that he's not the most tactful investigator. "About the night Stephen went missing? Anything you can remember that was unusual or out of the ordinary?"

"No," her bottom lip wobbles and Dean scoots over a box of tissues resting on the table. She ignores the gesture and continues. "He came home from school. Always took the bus. I work most mornings. Veterinary clinic down on fourth. You wouldn't believe the amount of money people spend to get their pets looking like a celebrity accessory. It's absolutely ridiculous in my opinion."

Sam clears his throat, "I'm sorry. About Stephen? He came home that evening and everything was normal? No changes in behavior or –"

"Yes," she says quickly. "Yes. Except…"

"Except what?" Dean prompts.

"Well, I don't know whether I mentioned this to the police. Probably just slipped my mind. It's odd that you should mention his behavior."

Dean has a feeling a lot of things probably slip this broad's mind if her scatterbrained mannerisms are anything to go by.

"What about –" Sam pauses to clear his throat again and tug at his collar. "What about his behavior? Something seemed off to you?"

"He was distant. Withdrawn." She smiles sadly as if remembering. "He's usually so energetic when he gets home. Always excited about what's for supper and talking about anything and everything that happened in school. Always so talkative…"

"So," Dean interlaces his fingers to keep from tapping. "He wasn't acting like himself."

"No. No I suppose not." She shakes her head. "But I guess I just thought he wasn't feeling well. Getting sick maybe. Flu's been going around you know."

"Did he say anything?" Dean asks.

"About not feeling well? No. But he did snap at me a few times. That's not like him at all. He went up to his room and that was the last time I…"

At this point the woman can barely contain her sniffling. She reaches over and snags a tissue, dabbing at her eyes.

Dean hates this part, too. He looks over and frowns when he notices Sam staring at the floor, not paying attention at all. His brother's right knee is bouncing a little too rapidly and he's starting to sweat. It's like negative twenty degrees outside. Sam's tugging at his tie and collar as if it's trying to choke him. He releases a shaky breath and starts rubbing his hands together like a nervous witness on the stand.

If Sam doesn't calm the fuck down Dean's gonna make him sit on his hands. He figures he's probably glaring because Sam abruptly stops jiggling his leg, realizes he's being watched.

"Um," Sam stumbles for a moment before faking a tedious smile. "Do you have a restroom I could use?"

"I suppose so," Mrs. Landers looks a bit confused before pointing Sam down the hall. Dean notes the way his brother sort of skitters like a newborn colt before righting himself. He's jittery and nervous and it's really starting to freak Dean the hell out.

"Is he all right?" the woman asks with knitted brows after Sam takes his leave.

"Yes," Dean answers immediately, irritated because Sam's little potty break is costing them time and information. He doesn't want to be here any longer than he has to be. "Getting over a bug himself."

"Damn flu," Mrs. Landers shakes her head again in motherly sympathy. "Takes it out of the best of us. My late husband was lucky. Never got sick. Excellent immune system. Too bad about the drinking."

"So no one else saw Stephen the night he disappeared? Besides school he wasn't seen with anyone out of the ordinary? Anyone suspicious?"

It was a real chore to keep this woman from rabbit-trailing.

"No," she answers, noticeably irked. "I thought I already told them all of this in the report." The suspicion's back.

Awesome.

"Just confirming and following up, Ma'am. Protocol." Dean wishes Sam would hurry up his primping.

"I see." Mrs. Landers doesn't look like the kind of woman who enjoys having her yarn jerked. Dean smirks to himself because…well, dirty. But that wasn't how he meant it. Geez, focus.

Sam chooses that moment to stumble back into the living. He doesn't look any better. If anything, he looks paler and shakier than before. Dean decides it's time to leave. Before Sam has a freaking seizure or something.

Dean grimaces with the realization of how unfunny that is.

Sam sits back down and looks confused when Dean stands and holds out his hand towards the woman. But he follows Dean's lead and rather unsteadily pushes himself to his feet.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Landers. We'll be in touch," Dean smiles.

"Of course," she answers, also seemingly surprised by the abrupt end of the conversation. She shakes Dean's hand – Sam seems to forget to offer his – and leads them outside.

"What's wrong with you?" Dean hisses after they're out of earshot.

"Nothing," Sam breathes. "I mean – I don't know. I think I..." he glances nervously back towards the house and then to Dean. "I just need something to eat. I need food."

"Well that I get," Dean catches his brother's forearm when Sam nearly slips on the icy pathway. "But you probably freaked her out. I wasn't done."

"I know," Sam mumbles, eyes downcast with something resembling shame. "I'm sorry."

"Not a big deal," Dean mutters, trying to be understanding, even though he's still kind of pissed. He knows Sam's had it rough the past few days. Well, years actually, if anyone's counting. But he doesn't think professionalism is too much to ask. "We'll get you some food, all right? Then you're gonna try and get some rest. You look like shit."

"We're on a case," Sam protests, glaring at Dean like he's crazy for even suggesting a nap.

"Exactly."

Sam's silent the entire drive back. Silent and nervous.

When they get back to the motel Dean announces that he could eat a friggin' elephant and suggests they grab a few burgers. Sam looks like he totally forgot he was supposed to be hungry. Looks like he doesn't even want to think about eating. He's too wound up. Too busy thinking about anything and everything else more than likely.

"Hey, I'm gonna head over to the library for a bit. See if I can dig up anything else."

Dean's skeptical and doesn't bother hiding it. "I thought you said you were hungry? Besides, we already know what's most likely going on."

"I was…I am," Sam amends. "I'll eat when I get back. There's a few things I wanna check out first. Process of elimination, you know? Can't be too careful."

"You sure that's a good idea? You were kinda wigging earlier."

"Yeah. Just making up for time I wasted. I'll be back in an hour," Sam continues before Dean has a chance to stop him. "Make sure mine has Swiss cheese, huh?"

"I'm not your caterer!" Dean hollers as Sam dashes out the door.

oooooooooo

He can't be in that motel room. Not right now. He feels like he's suffocating. Can't think straight. God, it's freezing.

He pushes his hands inside his jacket pockets, fingers brushing over the smooth plastic bottle inside. They'd help. He needs to focus. Make up for lost time…time he lost.

He pulls out the bottle and wrestles with the cap before shaking out two tablets.

Sam, I'm disappointed. Drugs? Really? I'd always thought better of you. Always the Girl Scout. Well, most of the time…if you know what I mean.

A passerby walking her dog smiles at him. Her fluffly, sweater-clad pooch promptly morphs into a fucking hellhound, chomping at the bit for his throat. Fuck.

Sam shakes out four more tablets because what the hell….

He feels the effects kick in about forty-five minutes and one and a half Red Bull's later.

By then he's settled in a dark corner of the town's library. But for some reason it doesn't feel like before. It's different. Something feels off and he can't quite put his finger on it. Sure he's awake, taking in every detail of the scene around him, but he can't focus. Can't seem to concentrate on one thing for more than two seconds at a time. They've had the opposite effect in the past, usually helping him to steer his brain down the straight and narrow for two or three hours at a time.

He attempts to focus on the textbook in front of him. The letters slip and slide, looking as if they're skittering across the page like black insects. But Sam knows that's impossible. Just some weird-ass hallucination. Except he doesn't hear or see Lucifer anywhere and that's kind of freaking him out more than the psychedelic letters.

He massages his temples, shakes his head, trying to clear the crazy. The movement doesn't help at all. Now he can't hear much of anything. Nothing except a muffled, high-pitched whining. Sort of like his brain's trapped in a giant beehive…underwater…and somebody stuffed his ears with cotton balls.

He can feel the panic beginning to clog his throat. He can feel himself starting to sweat. He can…he can feel his fucking heart beating. Like a sledgehammer banging a Conga drum inside his chest. Over and over and again and again…it's so fast. Way too fast. It's getting really hard to breathe and maybe he's having a heart attack.

Is this what it feels like? Like your heart's about to implode inside your ribcage? Probably.

Oh, Jesus…

He's trembling all over. Can't stop shaking. His hands are so bad he can't even hold the pen anymore. It's stifling…suffocating.

Too hot…

The heat in the library is fucking unbearable. He can't stand it…has to get out. He wants to run. Can't though because his heart will definitely explode. It's just so loud…

What's happening to me…?

He can't breathe and he's definitely panicking now…feels himself starting to hyperventilate - rasping, rapid-fire gasps in time with the rush of blood fueling that deafening heartbeat. He's sick to his stomach and wonders if he can make it outside before he completely loses it….his sanity that is.

He wonders if other people are watching. But that idea doesn't help him calm down so he tries to ignore everything and just focus on standing. Just get up. Please…

His heart hurts. Physically hurts. And it's only beating faster. Fuck…why won't it stop? Why's it so loud…?

What the hell's wrong with me…?

A moment later he's forced to stand because it's not really an option anymore. He feels weak and everything's spinning and he's about to throw up. The room wobbles and quivers around the edges…settles into focus before blurring out again in a sea of dusty colors and jerking, withering shapes.

Definitely gonna throw up.

He staggers to his feet, realizes he doesn't know where to go. Can't remember where the exit is. He doesn't know what to do…and his heart is just so goddamn loud…a chaotic orchestra of drums.

Curious, questioning faces swim into his line of vision. A few look genuinely concerned. Someone touches his arm. He jerks reflexively. It's a girl. She's seems worried. Sam thinks maybe she's asking him a question but he can't hear her. Can't hear anything except his heart thundering too fast and too loud. Sam wonders if she can hear it too…

For some reason, his eyes focus on the pair of dangling earrings she's wearing. They're shaped like ice cream cones. Swaying gently from side to side when she moves her head, sunlight through the window glinting off the metal and highlighting the cheerful colors…

He's hysterically frantic for an escape route. Gotta get out of here...

It's dumb luck when he spots the door leading to the exit, searches dizzily to find his feet and make them move towards it and he's almost there…so close. And then it's too late and his heart drowns out every last decibel of discernable sound.

He slaps a hand over his mouth, struggling against the sickening lurch of his stomach, can't help gagging as hot liquid scorches his throat, threatening to spew any second.

Then again, his luck's always been a grade-A bitch. He won't make it. He scans the room. There's a recycle bin sitting against the wall.

Well, fuck…

He stumbles, manages to curl over the bin before throwing up. He imagines the collective gasp of revulsion as he heaves. It doesn't last long because he hasn't really eaten anything. He coughs, retching again for good measure before staggering out of that goddamn coffin of a library.

"Bitch of a hangover, dude! Sucks to be you."

Sam hears some asshole laughing on his way out. Hopes the ground stops moving soon because he doesn't think the stagger-step thing he's doing right now really counts as walking.

You have no idea, pal.

He slumps against the icy brick, trying his best to breathe the frozen air. Wonders how long he can survive with his heart leaping a hundred miles per second…realizes that doesn't make much sense. But he's obviously dying so who the hell cares about what makes sense?

His stomach's probably empty but he doesn't feel any better. If anything he feels even more nauseated than before. The cars are flying instead of driving. The world looks like a fucking Dr. Seuss book. He knows he's got to be tripping…hallucinating.

Not real…not real. But why does it hurt so bad…?

Goddammit, he's dying for real this time.

Nausea wells up again without warning. He can't do much except hold himself up over the concrete when his stomach forces more bile up his throat, out his nose and mouth. He can't move, just waits for it to pass.

Why's it red? Why am I throwing up red? Holy shit…

The throbbing ache in his temples matches his furious pulse – keeping time like clockwork. His undershirt is soaked through with cold sweat and he thinks maybe that foreboding blackness flickering in front of his eyes isn't a good sign. Maybe he's gonna pass out.

Dying…

Sam can't see him…'cause he's not real, he's not…but somewhere, somewhere close, he can hear him. Hear that horrible, godforsaken sound even amidst the thunderstorm of his blood. Lucifer's laughing. Having a fucking ball.

Sam's maybe two seconds away from completely losing his shit. He just wants it to stop. Shut up…SHUT UP!

He wants it all to be over.

He wants to not feel like he's dying.

He doesn't want Dean to know.

He doesn't want to be the screwup...again.

TBC...

More explanation and lots of frantic Dean to come. Love to hear your thoughts so far :) Cheers!