So, I'm rewriting this from before. Same name, same summary, just better quality writing and I'm veering from my original plan just a little bit.

The bar was buzzing happily, conversations mingling with the old school jukebox in the corner, playing Paint It Black to anyone who happened to be listening. The neon sign over the bar flickered, making the stained and cracked bar top seem shiny and new. The unoccupied barstools showed off their tattered covering, the edges frayed and shabby. The screen of the jukebox was cracked where something had hit it heavily. The glass windows were smeared, leaving a blurred picture of the setting sun outside, the last remnants of light glinting off the various cars and motorbikes assembled in the makeshift parking lot. The bartenders were polar opposites, one a huge man wearing a grubby wife-beater and jeans, his face almost completely obscured by a thick brown beard. The other was a petite blonde woman; she couldn't be more than twenty two. She was wearing a fitted plaid shirt and skin tight jeans, her long hair braided down her back as she handed out drinks and smiles to everyone.

Dean Winchester sipped his beer, eyes flickering around the crowds, apparently looking for someone. His eyes landed on a young woman, maybe twenty four, twenty five and he smiled. She had brown hair, pulled out of her face with a tortoiseshell clip, and thin, wire framed glasses as she flicked through the newspaper sitting on the bar in front of her. Glancing at his brother, sitting beside him staring into his beer morosely, he shrugged and finished off his own beer, setting the empty bottle on the table with a clink.

Edging around people and dodging one incredibly drunk looking man dancing in a cramped space, Dean reached the bar and sidled up to the woman, his trademark Winchester grin on his face. He slid onto an empty bar stool next to her and turned to face her. She looked up, smiling back hesitantly.

'Hi,' he started, signaling for another beer. 'I'm Dean. Can I get you a drink?'

She smiled properly, taking her glasses off. Dean noticed she had piercing cobalt blue eyes that seemed to burrow into his. 'Hi Dean. I'm not interested.' And with that she replaced her glasses and dived back into the newspaper. Dean raised an eyebrow before climbing off the seat and grabbing his beer before heading back to the booth Sam was occupying currently.

'She told you where to stick it, didn't she?' said Sam suddenly, the first words he had spoken all evening.

'Nope. She doesn't swing that way,' lied Dean smoothly, taking another swig of beer.

'Liar.'

'Bitch.'

'Jerk,' countered Sam, and Dean laughed suddenly, causing Sam to look up. 'What?' he asked, and Dean's face became serious again.

'I miss this, you know. Since Stephen, well, I haven't seen you this bad since Jess. You don't talk to me, you barely eat, you come here every night and drink yourself into a stupor. And, you've been having nightmares again.'

Sam looked at him again, frowning slightly. 'How did you-'

'I'm not the heavy sleeper everyone thinks I am,' chuckled Dean, taking another drink, Sam mirroring him. There was silence in the small booth, the only sound the bar life and the jukebox, ticking over to Who Wants To Live Forever.

'I could have saved him,' Sam said quietly. 'He didn't have to die.'

'Yes, he did. He couldn't live, not like that. He asked you to kill him, and you did.'

'But I shouldn't have. Do you know what it's like to look into someone's eyes and tell them that their son isn't coming home?'

'Only a million times,' snapped Dean, getting angry. 'I've been doing it since I was sixteen, you think it gets easier?'

'Yeah, and how many times have you had to say that because you killed their son? He was twelve years old, and I shot him!' Sam stood up, towering over his still seated brother.

Dean jumped up as well, knocking the table out of the way. 'I would have done it! You wanted to do it, you chose this! So don't blame me if you're having nightmares, because guess what? You brought it on yourself!' He spun round and stalked out of the bar, knocking people out of the way before slamming through the door, splintering the wood. Sam slumped in his seat, dropping his head onto the grimy, sticky table. After a while, he noticed the song had changed again, and he ordered another beer, downing most of it in one huge gulp. He gazed around the bar moodily, like his brother had earlier, only this time completely missing the young woman with the newspaper, who was watching him curiously, having heard the whole exchange between the two men. She slipped her cell out of her pocket and tapped out a quick text before gathering her paper and left silently, ghosting out the now splintered door.

Dean sat on the bonnet of his car, scuffing his shoe on the ground. He hadn't meant to get so angry, but sometimes, Sammy was hard work. Winchesters felt things deeply, always had, and while Dean and his father had learnt to keep things inside to prevent them from affecting the job, Sam wore his heart on his sleeve. Always had done. So deep was Dean Winchester in his thought that he didn't notice the woman who had turned down his advances slip away into the night, the only sign she had ever existed the empty glass sitting where she had been, full of half melted ice and a mint leaf.

The sun had well and truly set by the time Sam staggered out of the bar, falling to his knees on the dirt. Dean swore under his breath and climbed off the Impala, making his way over to his brother carefully, not wanting to step in any potholes. He reached Sam and crouched down, heaving one of Sam's arms around his shoulders and hoisting him up, nearly falling himself. He may be the older brother, but at nearly six foot four and over 200 pounds, Sam outweighed him by at least four inches and twenty pounds.' You gotta cut down on the junk food Sammy,' he grunted, helping his half conscious brother into the backseat of the car, laying him down carefully and folding his legs in. Sam turned onto his side and started snoring gently. Dean stood and watched him, still amazed, even now how sleep took years off Sam's face. He looked as innocent and carefree as he had when Dean had gone to Stanford six months ago, before Jess, before Stephen, before the whole freakin' hunt. Shaking his head wearily, he got into the driver's seat and drove off slowly, not wanting to wake the proverbial sleeping giant. Arriving at the motel, he heaved Sam into the room, accidently dropping him on the bed in the process. Sam didn't stir, choosing instead to snore louder. Rolling him carefully, Dean removed his jacket and the black button down shirt he was wearing, leaving him in his jeans and white undershirt. He also took his boots and socks off, placing them by the bed before folding the shirt and hanging the jacket on the peg on the wall. He then undressed himself and climbed into the other bed wearing only his boxers and the amulet he never took off. Taking one last look at his lost baby brother, he rolled over to face the wall and dozed, keeping one ear open for Sam's nightmares.

Dean woke early, watching the slowly rising sun playing patterns across the wall opposite the window. He turned to see Sam's bed empty, and he sat up, panicked, relaxing when he heard the sounds of someone in the bathroom. He climbed out of bed, reaching for a shirt when he heard Sam retching. Pulling jeans on quickly, he had to forgo a shirt while he pushed the door open gently. Lying against the bath tub, one arm curled around his stomach, Sam looked like crap. A thin sheen of sweat covered his face and neck, and his skin was pasty white. His unruly hair was clinging to his forehead and temples, going all the way round his ears to the nape of his neck. Dean crossed silently to the sink, and found a tumbler on the bench. Filling it with cold water, he brought it to his brother's lips and tilted it. Sam drank obediently until Dean took the glass away. 'Small drinks Sammy, unless you wanna upchuck again.'

''M still mad at you,' he mumbled, his eyelids flickering. ''N it's Sam, not Sammy. 'M not twelve.'

Dean rolled his eyes and offered the water glass again, letting Sam's incoherent protests and curses roll off his back.

After Sam had enough strength to stand, he walked shakily over to the sink and washed his face and neck in icy water. He took a quick shower as Dean went for coffee and breakfast.

When Dean returned with bacon sandwiches and freshly brewed coffee, the smell turned Sam's stomach, and he bolted for the bathroom again. When he returned, Dean handed him a cup of extra strong black coffee, deciding that the bacon sandwich would be pushing it. Trying not to breath it in, Sam gulped down the coffee, scalding his throat as the liquid hit his empty stomach. As the caffeine worked its magic, he felt much better, although his bloodshot eyes and pale complexion said otherwise. He dug through his bag for his sunglasses and slipped over his eyes, just in time, as Dean flung the door open, letting the bright sun flood in. 'Come on, we're heading to Nashville, Tennessee.'

'Why?' groaned Sam, squinting at the silhouette.

Dean tossed a pile of print outs at him. 'Three people have been found dead. Rebecca, Catherine and Daniel Vincenzi were found dead in their home. The doors were locked from the inside, as were all the windows. There was no way anyone could have got in or out, which is why they're suspecting the father. Eric Vincenzi.'

'So, how do we know he didn't? Seems pretty standard,' Sam asked, rifling through the sheets.

'Because,' said Dean, taking the sheets off him and handing one back. 'of this.'

Sam's tired eyes focused in on the photo, before wishing he hadn't. His stomach roiled angrily, threatening to empty itself again.

It was the three bodies, only they had been autopsied. The heads and limbs had been removed from the torso, and placed in piles; heads in one, legs in another and arms in another. The torsos had been split in the Y shape popular in post mortems. The internal organs had been removed, the hearts, lungs, kidneys, livers and intestines placed in piles as well, before the torsos had been placed in a triangle shape, top to tail.

'Well, that's fairly disgusting,' he said, dropping the picture face down, not willing to look at it any longer than he had to.

'Pretty much. Eric Vincenzi has MS, there's no way he could do that on his own. It's worth checking out, it gives us something to do until we hear from Dad again.' And you won't drink while we're hunting. The thought hung between them, unspoken by both, but still there.

'Let's go then.' Sam heaved himself off the bed, stooping to grab his backpack off the floor, snagging his jacket on the way past. He flinched as he entered the Miami sunlight, but kept his eyes on the ground, away from the sun reflecting off the waiting Impala. He heaved his bag into the back seat and his jacket in the trunk, he wouldn't need it in this heat. Dean brought out the rest of the bags and threw them in the trunk before slamming it shut and getting in the driver's seat. Sam slumped into the passenger seat, closing his eyes. It would be hours before they reached Nashville, and he planned to sleep his hangover off.

They arrived in Nashville as the sun set, driving through a deserted town towards the motel they would be staying at. Dean pulled into the parking lot of The Red Motel, nudging Sam awake. His colour had returned now, and his head was no longer spinning. He unfolded himself from the cramped passenger seat and stretched, his joints popping as he straightened out. Dean got out as well; his hands and hips stiff from driving all day. They checked in quickly and set up in their room. Sam plugged his laptop in and flipped through his dad's journal. They were pretty sure it was a vengeful spirit, but he wanted to be sure. Meanwhile, Dean cleaned the guns and sharpened his and Sam's silvers knives, bitching about how they were low on salt and lighter fluid. The atmosphere was still tense between them, and Sam was loathe to say anything that would aggravate his brother. Dean complained for about fifteen minutes before leaving the room, muttering about a twenty four hour supermarket. Sam listened to the Impala disappear into the night before turning his attention back to the history page he was studying.

I think I have something, he thought, flipping his own notebook open and scribbling down notes. In 1928 a prominent surgeon lived in the house the Vincenzi's lived in now. Arthur Howell was the best at what he did, until 1927, when he developed a crippling disease. From the accounts Sam thought it was probably MS, although there was no such thing back then. Anyway, Howell became a recluse, shutting himself up inside his house, only his son and the son's family visiting him. On June 16th 1928, the son, Gavin and Arthur's grandchildren Sophie and Alexander entered the house, and never returned home. Gavin's wife Susanne went to the house and found Arthur cutting up her husband. Her children were already been disemboweled and sorted. The story said that Susanne went insane and killed Arthur before killing herself. Sam checked the illustration of the bodies on the website against the photograph Dean had given him. It was a match. This guy Arthur must have become a vengeful spirit, slaughtering the family. But why wouldn't he kill Eric Vincenzi?

The motel door creaked open and Dean came in, carrying a paper bag full of salt and lighter fluid, plus a huge bag of peanut M and M's. 'Now then, let's kill this son of a bitch,' he said through a mouthful of chocolate, once Sam had explained everything to him. 'Where was the sucker buried?'

'It doesn't say, although I tracked down a Lucy Howell, Arthur's niece. I'll go talk to her in the morning, you go look at the house, make sure we haven't missed anything.'

Sam cleared his bed of papers and his laptop, sweeping them to the floor before undressing and climbing under the covers, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He hated sleep nowadays, sleep brought him Jess, and Stephen, and on one awful night, his mother. He tried not to sleep, but sometimes, as in the case of today in the car, his body was so tired he slept dreamlessly.

He rolled his head sideways, watching his brother sleep, the covers tangled in his legs. One arm dangled over the side of the bed, and a foot hung off the end. Motel beds were too small for his brother, and way too tiny for his huge frame. He watched his brother's chest rise up and down evenly, and marveled at how easily sleep came to him.

So, there should be a chapter a day until I get caught up (roughly 10) and by that time I should have a new chapter for ya.

Let's see, some pimping, I believe…

Bee Winchester David-Your Guardian Angel

Bee Winchester David-Blood Of A Hunter

CSI-Hunter-Wanted Dead Or Alive

CSI-Hunter-Fighting For Salvation, Fighting For Redemption

Lover-Fighter-Writer- Alone, Patient and Supernatural

Lover-Fighter-Writer- All Good People

Lover-Fighter-Writer-Marked

Hell, just check my favourite authors and stories list, I recommend everything on it!

Until tomorrow, loves!