Author(s): Mercury & Tate

Rating: PG-13 to be safe.

Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Eric Kripke and The CW network. No copyright infringement intended.

Summary: On the lonely road sometimes you need a break, but do you ever really get one?

Notes: Tate and I wrote this story quite awhile back. We've decided to post it here. Please drop us a line and let us know what you think. Also, the story is complete and chapters will be posted once a week. Thanks!

Big thanks to kgstor for the beta. Awesome job, thanks!

Chapter 1

Sam leaned his head back against the tile and closed his eyes. The steady drip of the faucet gave him a focus, something other than the pain in his chest and the cold concrete floor beneath him. Drip. Drip. Drip. It came from just off to his right. For more than a minute it lulled him into a near stupor. That was until an intake of breath spiked the pain up a notch. He bit his lip so he wouldn't cry out.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice made him wince as it echoed loudly around the enclosed space.

His own was a mere whisper. "Yeah, Dean."

"Stay awake." Dean was using his 'that's an order' voice. Their father's voice.

Sam cracked his eyes open, shifting his focus toward his brother who was standing beside the doorway. Dean gripped a shotgun in both hands, and Sam knew nothing was getting past him without a fight. "Just resting my eyes," Sam told him.

"Sure you are." Dean spared him a worried glance and nodded to the floor beside him. "I need you ready, remember?"

Sam felt for the second shotgun that Dean had put there, blood stained fingers closing around steel. Who would have thought that gripping cold metal would be comforting, Sam thought. Only in the Winchester family. At the same time, he wondered if he'd have the strength to even raise it if he needed to.

"You with me, Sammy?"

For his brother's sake, the younger Winchester quipped, "It's Sam."

Dean half-grinned. "Whatever, geek." His attention turned back to the entryway.

Sam's pretense faded when his brother looked away. He closed his eyes again, succumbing to the exhaustion he felt tugging insistently at him. Staying awake was more than a chore; it was nearly impossible. But he had to, if they were going to make it out of this, he had to stay conscious. He had to be ready. When Dean said move, he would get up and move.

And suddenly, the drip of the faucet was gone. Replaced by darkness and silence. And Sam knew he was almost out. Knew that his consciousness was fading. With a monumental effort, he jerked himself awake. His cry of pain echoed in his own ears. It startled himself and his brother apparently, because when Sam opened his eyes, Dean was leaning over him. Dean, with small cuts marring his face. Dean with worried eyes. He'd never admit it, but Sam knew that what Dean saw scared him. It was a six-inch piece of metal protruding from his brother's chest.

"Hey, Sam." Dean tried to sound casual, but Sam heard the fear in his voice, as he checked his wound.

If the warmth sliding down Sam's chest was any indication, he was bleeding again. Damn. And that meant . . . sure enough, Dean was standing up and yanking more paper towels out of the dispenser. Dean knelt again, amid a scattering of already discarded and red-tinged towels, and carefully pressed the new ones around the metal. Sam squeezed his eyes shut at the pain, his fingers tensing around the shotgun as if it were some sort of lifeline.

"Sorry," Dean grimaced, "but we can't have you bleeding out in this shit hole of a restroom now, can we?"

"This women's restroom," Sam reminded him.

Dean grinned. "Yeah, well, I can't help that it was closer than the guys', now, can I?"

"You weren't hoping there'd be a girl in here you could conveniently 'save'?" His words were strained, but Dean played along like a good brother, even though they both knew the rest stop had been closed.

"Hey, I'm offended," Dean retorted. "Just because--" His reply was abruptly cut off when the lights began to flicker. "Shit," Dean muttered. "Hold this."

Sam put his hand over the towels pressed to his chest.

"And be ready."

Sam's other hand was still gripping the shotgun, though how he was going to lift it was anyone's guess. Before he knew it, Dean was already standing in front of him. Gun up and pointed at the doorway. Damn these rest stops without actual doors -- just hallways leading into the darkness beyond. Into the night where the spirit waited.

And then the lights flickered out.

"Dammit," he heard his brother mutter.

A phantom wind whipped around the restroom. Ripping up to a gale almost instantly. The sound of glass breaking as the row of high windows shattered above them. The loud clink of metal on concrete and water gushing into the pitch black room. Sam cringed as the ice cold spray hit him. His body tensed, the metal in his chest scraping against bone. It was agony, but Sam knew they had to make a move now. He dropped the towels and tried to stand. And sure enough, he felt his brother at his side. "Come on, Sammy, were goin'." In the dark, his brother somehow managed to get a shoulder under his arm and lift him off the floor. With a grunt of pain, Sam came up still holding the shotgun limply at his side. He might need it later.

Beside him he could almost make out Dean's profile from the moonlight coming in through the broken windows above. The room became frigidly cold. And then, Dean became suddenly, eerily clear as they were both enveloped in a white glow that emanated from the doorway.

Sam turned his head to see the ghostly figure of their attacker standing there. And he said it without having to, and maybe just to hear something other than the pounding of his heart in his ears. "It's here." His words came out in a white mist of breath, followed closely with an exclamation of surprise. "What the--?!"

Tune in next week...Comments welcome!