Sam isn't quite sure how he does it, but he manages to convince Dean spend twelve hours on a plane

Summary: Sam is willing to do anything to get Dean out of his deal. Heck, he'll even go to Japan. Crossover with xxxHolic, X/1999, and others.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or xxxHolic.

A/N: This is a giant undertaking that's taken me about a week and a half to write, and I'm fairly happy with how it's turned out. This is basically my excuse to cross Supernatural over with some of my favourite Japanese fandoms.

Warnings: Angst, language, some grossness.

Extra note: This is unbeated, so if you spot any mistakes or typos please tell me about them.

Hitsuzen

Chapter One:

Sam isn't quite sure how he does it, but he manages to convince Dean spend twelve hours on a plane. It takes a lot of coercion, of course; a shitload of screaming and guilt-tripping and nearly (and god, so very sincerely) heaving a full-on breakdown, but he finally manages to do it. Says he'll give him sleeping pills for the flight, so that Dean doesn't have to really experience it, so that he can wake up once they're in Narita airport. And Dean concedes, he gives in.

Sam would feel smug if he weren't so fucking desperate. Because Dean can't go to hell, he just can't. And there are people in Japan, supposedly, possibly, hopefully, that can help him weasel his way out of that contract so that both he and Sam get to live. Sam realizes, oh so very acutely, that he may very well be making a stupid decision, that he may be chasing after false hope. But it's not like they're getting anywhere in the United States, not like they're going to be wasting any time overseas that wouldn't have been wasted equally on their home soil.

False hope, he figures, is better than no hope at all.

Ruby isn't happy about it, of course, tries to feed him some bullshit about fighting the good fight. She's hardly forthcoming with the intel, reluctant to tell him anything remotely useful, so he tells her to fuck off. All of their encounters with the demons she seems so scared of have happened as a result of a hunt, or of being hunted, and yeah, Sam is being selfish. He knows it, Ruby knows it, and maybe even Dean knows it. Still, he isn't the demon messiah that Ruby seems to think that he is, and he'll deal with that threat once he's certain that Dean isn't going to be dragged off for eternal damnation. Two weeks out of fifty two; that's a sacrifice that he's willing to make, because it may (please please please) be what ends up saving his brother.

One of the conditions for this venture was that Sam find a way to get them both in business class. Sure, Dean and him are used to sleeping in a cramped car (Sam more than Dean, because Sam is considerably larger than his older brother), but Dean doesn't want to have to deal with waking up halfway there, if he can avoid it. So Sam uses one of their fake credit cards to pay for it. Guilt, these days, is not at the top of Sam's priority list. Not anymore.

Dean conks out just before he's able to panic properly, and Sam is thankful for it. He looks out the window as the plane taxis onto the runway, taking in the gray dampness of the airport, of the road, and what he can see of the sky, and is almost glad that he's getting out of the United States, glad for a change in scenery. It seems kind of funny, when he really thinks about the fact that he and Dean have never actually been out of their home country. They haven't even gone to Mexico or Canada, for all that they've zigzagged from sea to shining sea at least three times. Sam tries to console himself that even if Dean does go to hell (not gonna happen, never, I''ll die if that happens), he'll at least have had a truly novel experience; one that didn't only involve booze and women (even if both would become involved at some point, knowing Dean).

Although he doesn't have the same neuroses about flying as Dean, it's not an activity that Sam particularly enjoys. Even in business class he can feel the press of people all around him, is acutely aware of how vulnerable they all are, fifteen thousand feet above sea level. His training always makes him paranoid that some poltergeist or demon has snuck onto the plane, and he has to resist the urge to lay down salt on all the windows. And then there are just the people, people of all different shapes and sizes and ethnicities, and he's almost certain that at least one of them has some homicidal urges that are just below the surface, waiting to be released in a flurry of blood and guts and fire.

He tries to distract himself by watching his mini-tv, one of those special luxuries that the chumps back in economy class are deprived of, and almost succeeds. The airline has a pretty good selection; cerebral comedies and documentaries that are right up Sam's alley. He goes trough the list, which lasts him about four hours, the anxiety a sort of dull thrum in the back of his mind; never gone, but not acute enough to cause his pulse to quicken or his hands to become clammy. Food comes around at some point, and it's not as disgusting as most of the airplane food he's had in his life (which, admittedly, is not all that much). He wonders if he ought to wake up Dean, but decides that it probably isn't a good idea. If his brother even managed to wake up at all, he was liable to throw up anything that went into his stomach. Sam keeps his dinner roll aside, though, and asks for an extra one. Just in case.

Sam dozes off at some point, after getting fed up with the crappy book that he had purchased at the airport, and the endless blue of the Pacific loses its appeal. He wakes up when the captain announces that they'll be arriving at Narita airport in approximately forty-five minutes. Beside him, Dean stirs, eyes opening slightly, groggy and half-mast.

"We there yet?" he mumbles.

"Almost," says Sam. "Go back to sleep."

Dean smacks his mouth together several times, running his tongue over pale, dry lips. "Need some water," he says, blinking hard. Sam reaches for his half-empty cup and hands it to him, and Dean swallows it in a single, mighty gulp, some of the excess dribbling down his chin. He doesn't seem to care. "Thanks," he says, and leans back to close his eyes.

Dean wakes up, really wakes up, when they're starting to land. Largely because Sam has to get him to adjust his seat into an upright position, and partly because the air pressure is starting to hurt like a bitch. Once he's fully regained consciousness, he proclaims loudly that he needs to take a piss, and rushes to the bathroom just before the seatbelt signs come on. He returns with a look of muted horror on his face, and sits down shakily, gripping the armrests so hard that his knuckles turn white.

"Fuck," he says. "Fuckfuckityfuckfuckfuck."

"We're almost there, dude. Calm down."

"Fuck you, asshole. If we die, I'm never gonna forgive you."

Sam doesn't mention how ridiculous that statement is, given that Dean is usually more than happy to die for pretty much anything, so long as it doesn't involve saving himself from dying. He wants to say it, feels a sick sort of vindication at the way Dean's are set dead ahead, his pupils wide and mouth slightly open, if only because it's like Dean is finally starting to understand how Sam's been feeling for months now. But he holds his tongue, because, more than anything, Dean's terrified face is filling Sam with cold dread; this is the way Dean's going to look the day that he's dragged off by the hellhounds. Sam's sure of it.

When they finally land, both of them are equally anxious to get off of the plane, and forfeit politeness to shove their way into the terminal. The look on Dean's face shifts as he collapses on a stiff terminal chair, making him look like he's holding in a giant shit. Sam knows that look.

"Christ, dude. Are you gonna puke?"

Dean nods.

"Okay. Just...try to hold it in until we get to the bathroom." Sam stoops down and manuevers Dean's left arm around his shoulder, hoisting him onto his feet. There's a bathroom just across the walkway. "Can you walk on your own?"

Dean swallows. "Don't think so."

Sam begins to walk both of them to the bathroom, all the while hoping that Dean doesn't end up vomiting before they get there. Fortunately, he manages it, and when Sam gets him into a toilet stall, he falls to his knees and wretched. Sam does his best to ignore the way his stomach churns in sympathy. After the forth or fifth time that Dean has heaved, Sam asks, "You done?"

Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah."

Sam leaves the stall, waiting by the paper dispenser as Dean pushes himself to his feet. He watches as Dean heads over to the sink, splashing water on his face, drinking directly from the tap to gargle away the taste of upchuck. Once he's finished, he levels Sam with a glare. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this shit," he says. "You owe me a mountain-load of pie."

Sam smirks, glad that Dean is providing an outlet for the tension. "You just threw up for ten minutes straight; how can you even be considering the prospect of pie?"

"I'm special like that."

Sam walks over to the door. "Yeah, well," he says, opening it. "I don't even know if the Japanese have any pie."

After they pick up their luggage, they catch a shuttle to their hotel. Sam has bought them both phrase books, but the chauffeur seems to understand enough English that they don't need to use them. He's a friendly middle-aged man, with graying hair and an easy grin. Sam can tell that Dean is holding back the impulse to make some quip about how the man sounds like the instructor from Karate Kid, and he throws him a glare to make sure it stays that way. Dean just gives him a look of innocence, raising his hands to shrug with feigned incredulity. It makes Sam smile, just a little, and he goes back to looking out the window.

"You two been Japan before?" asks the driver, turning onto a busy street.

"Nope," says Dean. "This is the first time."

"Japan is good country," says the driver. "You see soon. You like Japan."

"I'll bet we will," says Dean, grinning. "Though I'll have to see the women, first, before I can decide if I really, really like it."

The driver laughs. "You no worry! Women here very beautiful."

Sam, meanwhile, is taking in the view from the window. It's far more interesting than the Pacific, to be sure. People literally swarming around the sidewalks, beneath buildings that stretch so high up that the window cuts off before he can see the tops of them. He'd be freaking out right then if he didn't have the address of his destination all ready to go and stowed safely in his carry-on luggage (and in his pocket, and in his main luggage, and, for extra good measure, on his cell-phone). Sam had done his homework.

They arrive at the hotel, which is fancier than the sleazy motels that they usually gravitate to on the road, but not as fancy as it could have been. Three-star, at best, because the upscale places tend to pay more attention to their patrons. The hotel is fancy enough that it has a busboy, though, which Sam can't bring himself to be upset about. He may have slept on the plane, but it wasn't a restful sleep; his muscles feel achey and lethargic, and the last thing he feels like doing is lugging around their luggage. He can only imagine that Dean is feeling even worse.

Their hotel room, for all that it has cleaner sheets, softer mattresses, and doesn't smell of mildew and lingering cigarette smoke, is in the same format that they're used to. Twin beds and an on-suite bathroom. Dean wastes no time, flinging himself bodily onto the bed in the far right, next to a window that gives them a view of the roof below them, and not much else.

"Still tired, Dean? You slept for twelve hours straight."

Dean groans dramatically and stretches his arms above his head. "Can't blame a guy for appreciatin' a soft bed after bein' faced with a life-or-death situation, Sammy."

"There aren't any magic fingers here, in case you were wondering."

"That's a real shame, right there," says Dean, entirely sincere. "But hey, this place is pretty buff, so it could be worse."

"You hungry? I mean, you haven't eaten since before the flight."

"I'm fuckin' starving, dude."

"I figured," says Sam, who is pretty hungry himself. "Alright, we'll grab something to eat, and then we'll catch a cab."

Dean's face falls just a little at the mention of the cab, and Sam almost wants to grab him by the collar and shake him. Sam knows that Dean doesn't want to be here, that he doesn't want to be doing this, and that knowledge gives Sam a sick, ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach. But he fakes a smile, which probably doesn't fool Dean in the slightest, and says, "So, we off?"

"Yeah," says Dean, faking a grin of his own. "Let's go."

The restaurant in the lobby is obviously catered to Western tourists, so Dean orders the all-you-can-eat buffet. Somehow, between shoving his face full of bacon and pancakes, he still finds time to flirt with one of the waitresses. Sam just watches, working his way slowly through a bowl of pea soup.

After they're done eating, they go out onto the street and hail a cab. Sam hands the cabbie the address (written out in both Japanese and English), and searches through the phrasebook until he finds a way of saying 'take us to that place'. The driver, far more somber than their chauffeur, gives Sam a curt nod and begins to drive.

"Dude," says Dean, looking at the electronic register in the front. "Is it just me or is that tally getting really high, really fast?"

"It's not just you, but there's no way that I'm taking my chances on the Tokyo subway system, unless you want to take a chance that we'll get lost in one of the largest cities on the planet."

"Yeah, I see what you're sayin'. But still, this guy would get lynched if this was New York."

Sam doesn't bother to remind Dean that this isn't New York, and lets his mind wander to what he's learnt of their destination. Supposedly, they're going to visit a sorceress who's capable of granting wishes. He had learned about her when he had spoken to a local psychic on one of their hunts; a Japanese-American who called herself a dreamseer, and said that it was Sam's destiny to go to the so-called Witch of Dimensions. He had been skeptical, at first. After all, the woman was not mentioned in any of the esoteric texts or scriptures that were the staples of Sam's research, but the psychic had attributed this to the fact that this witch was of the modern variety, and therefore not ancient enough to appear in any folklore. The psychic's credibility had been aided by the incredibly apt description she had relayed to Sam about the day the Azazel had been killed; the same day that Dean had made the deal to have Sam revived.

So there they are, headed to the woman that may very well be the answer to Sam's prayers. That's what he hopes for, anyway. Provided that she's not in league with the very demons that Sam is trying to save his brother from.

They finally arrive at their destination. Stepping out of the cab and onto a surprisingly deserted sidewalk, they find that on either side of them there are tall, official-looking buildings. But in front of them, completely out-of-place in both its size and archetecture, is what appears to be a house of some kind.

"The psychic who gave me the address said that only people with wishes can see it," explains Sam, noting the awed expression on his brother's face.

"But that doesn't make any sense, dude. Doesn't everyone have a wish?"

"Well, I guess you have to have a certain kind of wish. Maybe she only caters to people whose wishes deal with the supernatural, or something."

Dean takes a breath, then grins. "Well, let's go inside. We got nothin' to lose, right?"

"Yeah," says Sam, following Dean through the gate at the entrance of the plot. "Nothing to lose."

As Sam steps onto the path that leads up to the house, it feels as though his legs take on a will of their own, like he's being lead to the house by some external power. He doesn't know if Dean feels the same way, but before he can ask, they're already inside. The room they enter is thick with the combined smells of tobacco and something sickly sweet, like incense. It's cloying, and Sam finds himself getting light-headed. Maybe his eyes are playing tricks on him, but he's pretty sure that there are two little girls standing at the back of the room gazing at him and his brother with wide, unblinking eyes.

"We have guests," says one of them, with long pigtails.

"We have guests," echoes the other, who has shoulder-length, pink hair.

"That...is one of the creepiest things I've ever seen," says Dean, backing away slightly.

The two girls cock their heads at the same time, and then smile cutely. "Creepy!" they shout delightedly, and begin to dance, incorporating the word into an obnoxious little song as they clap their hands together.

"And that's even creepier," says Sam.

"H-hello," says a voice, in perfect but accented English. Sam turns away from the little girls to see a young man, no older than sixteen, standing at a sliding door. The boy looks apprehensive, and a little bit annoyed, and is carrying a jug on a tray filled with little clay tot glasses. "Please just ignore those two; they're always like that." Upon second glance, the boy definitely looks like he's pissed off about something, even if it doesn't show in his voice. "Come this way, please."

Sam turns his head to Dean, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. Dean answers with a nonchalant shrug, and walks towards the boy. The boy nods, and opens the sliding door that leads to yet another room. It's even stuffier than the last one, which is understandable, considering that, within, there is a woman lounging on a rather opulent couch, smoking a cigarette with an old-fashioned pipette.

A woman with very long, black hair. And long legs. And come-hither eyes.

Simply put, a busty Asian beauty.

"Well he-llo," says Dean, eying her with zero discretion.

"I've been expecting you," she says. Her voice is entirely befitting of her appearance, rich and velvety with a hint of mystery. Sam finds himself mesmerized. "Please, have a seat." She sweeps her hand to the table in front of her.

They both sit. The table is low-lying, without chairs, so they end up cross-legged on the floor.

She slides off couch, joining them at the table. "Watanuki-kun," she says, obviously addressing the boy who had greeted them earlier. "Please bring that sake over here so that I can share some with our guests."

The boy obeys, although Sam can hear him muttering angrily under his breath as he sets the tray down with a soft clink. He then lifts up the jug, pouring clear liquid into three of the clay cups.

"So," says the woman, lifting up one of the cups and taking a petite sip, her pipette held aloft between the middle and index fingers of her other hand. A languid smile stretches across her lips. "You've both come here for a reason. Why don't you tell me your names?"

Dean takes a cup for himself. He's still leering at the woman's rather impressive cleavage, but Sam knows his brother well enough to understand that, as much as Dean finds this woman attractive (and Sam can relate; she is very, very attractive), he doesn't trust her, even though he's hiding it more carefully than he normally does. "Dean Winchester," he says, downing the entire cup in a single gulp. "And this is my little brother, Sam."

"Winchester, hmm? Well, my name is Yuuko Ichihara." She leans forward, on her elbows, as if to deliberately push her breasts together, and looks directly at Sam. "Now, why don't you tell me your wish, Sam Winchester?"

Sam is surprised, and it must be showing pretty plainly on his face. He should have figured that she was some kind of psychic, as well. "My brother made a contract," he says, not bothering with any pretense. He doesn't trust her, but there's something about her, something compelling, that makes him want to tell the truth. He wonders if there's some kind of mojo at work here; it wouldn't surprise him. "My life for his soul. He was given a year to live before he's dragged off to hell, and we're running out of time. Do you know of a way to break the contract without either of us dying?"

The smile on Yuuko's face recedes. She looks older, then, like a kindergarten teacher reprimanding little children. "The price for that is one that I cannot ask of you," she says.

"What do you mean," asks Dean, frowning.

"This wish that your brother has," she says, taking a drag of her cigarette and blowing out the smoke in a graceful, billowing stream, "It is one that asks for an incredibly heavy price. So heavy, in fact, that it transcends death. It is for this reason that it is beyond my power to bring somebody back from death, or, as in this case, to meddle with a previous wish that has resulted in such an unnatural reversal." She takes another sip of her sake. "I am no demon, Sam and Dean Winchester. They care nothing for the repercussions of their contracts, so long as they do not affect themselves. Nor do they care for equivalency."

Sam feels a lump forming in his throat. "So...there's no way that you can help us."

Yuuko's eyebrows quirk ever-so-slightly. "If that is what you wish to believe," she says.

Sam doesn't miss the hidden meaning behind those words, and he's sure that Dean hasn't, either. She's telling them to ask for something else, something smaller.

"Information," says Dean, surprising Sam. "What would we have to pay in order to find out the name of the demon that holds my contract?"

Sam's eyes widen, and he feels something warm and pleasant expanding in his chest. Dean is finally showing an interest in saving himself; he's finally showing that he's not nearly as cool about the whole hell deal as he's been putting on.

That feeling, however, is short-lived. Because Yuuko says, "That too bears a heavy price, but one that I am capable of charging you."

"What is it?" asks Sam, swallowing hard. "What's the price."

She looks him directly in the eye. "All of the memories that you have of your brother," she says. "In other words, he would become a stranger to you."

"No way," says Dean. "Don't you even think about it, Sammy."

A world without Dean, thinks Sam, looking at his brother's horrified expression. Where both of them are alive, but Dean his to live with the knowledge that Sam doesn't even know who he is.

"I'd rather die than have that happen, Sam."

A world without Dean; the thought makes Sam want to throw up.

"Never mind," says Sam, getting up. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Ichihara, but it looks like you really can't help us."

Dean breathes a relieved sigh and follows suit. Sam can see from the look on Dean's face that he's going to gloat about this later (however weird it is to gloat about your own inevitable demise), but he's just too upset to care. He's all for getting out of that strange house, for going back to their hotel room to sleep off the crushing disappointment, but a hand stops him as he's about to step out onto the front patio.

"Whoa there, Sammy, slow down. I just thought of something."

"What?" he snaps, wrenching his arm out of his brother's grip.

"We've already paid for a two-week stay in Japan, right? So, we're hunters. Let's hunt."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Uh, in case you haven't noticed, Dean, we can't speak Japanese. It's going to make the whole information-gathering thing a hell of a lot more complicated."

"But there's a lady in there who might be able to help us in the language department, right? I mean, it probably won't come with a price as high as all the cosmic life and death bullshit."

Sam furrows his eyebrows. "Are you being serious? Since when have you been into using magic?" He makes a noise of frustration. "Dude, isn't this freaking you out?!"

"Yeah, okay? It is freakin' me out, but..."

"But?"

"There's somethin' about this place, about that lady...I just -- she seems trustworthy. Maybe she's put a whammy on us, but that doesn't explain why she was all but talkin' us out of makin' those deals with her. A demon would never do that, Sam, not even to get your trust. I'm not askin' her to do some crazy hoodoo curses, or anything. And we can always say no to her asking price."

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, okay. Just...try to make it quick, alright?"

When they come back, Yuuko is apparently waiting for them, her enigmatic smile back in place. "And here I though I had scared you off," she says.

"A lady as gorgeous as yourself?" says Dean, grinning crookedly. "Not a chance."

"So, my dear boys, what can I do for you this time?"

Sam wonders if they should sit down again, but Dean remains standing, so he does as well.

"Can you give us the ability to speak Japanese?" asks Dean.

Yuuko's eyes twinkle as her smile widens. "Yes," she says. "But it will cost you that watch on your brother's wrist."

Suprised, Sam looks down at the watch in question. It had been a birthday gift from Jessica, and Sam has come to think of it as the symbol of his life Before, of the life that he could have had. He looks back at Yuuko, notes the knowledge that seems to be reflected in her eyes. He then looks to Dean, to the person who means more to him than anything else in the world, and makes his decision. Sam unclasps the watch and hands it to Yuuko; there's no more use in pining after what might have been. Dean is all that matters, now.

"Watanuki-kun," says Yuuko, holding out the watch. Sam hadn't even noticed that the boy was still in the room. "Please go put this in the storeroom. And, while you're there, I would like you to retrieve two necklaces for me. You shouldn't have trouble recognizing them; they're both in the shape of Mokona, one black and one white."

The boy, Watanuki, takes the watch gingerly, and scrunches up his face as though he's smelling something perticularly disgusting. "Yes, Yuuko-san," he says, and heads out a sliding door to Sam's left, holding the watch at arm's length as if to keep it as far away from his face as possible. Sam's not entirely sure what to make of it.

"You never did have any of your sake, Sam-kun. Why don't you sit down and have some?"

Alcohol sounds very appealing right then, so Sam obliges, as does Dean.

"This is some good stuff," says Dean, reaching for two cups, which must have been filled while they had left the room. He gives one of them to Sam, and they drink at the same time. The sake is bitter-sweet, and burns pleasantly going down Sam's throat.

Yuuko lets out an enthusiastic laugh. "There, see? I bet you feel better already." She leans in, saying, "I have a knack for aquiring the best liquors."

"I'll bet you do," says Dean, once again eyeing her cleavage. Before he can continue flirting, though, Watanuki returns with two trinkets dangling from his hands.

"Here, Yuuko-san," he says, and lays them gently on the table.

"Thank you, Watanuki-kun." She picks both of them up, holding them out to Sam and Dean. "As long as these are aournd your necks, you will be able to read, write, and speak Japanese. But I must warn you: while you wear them, you will be unable to speak or understand any other language, including English."

They both take one, only to notice that the trinket appears to be some kind of mutant rabbit. "Whoa," says Dean, holding it up so that it's level with his eyes. "This thing is gonna do all that?"

Sam runs his thumb over the creature's face, which is made out of some type of porcelain, and attached to a string of leather. "What is it?" he asks

Yuuko lets out another laugh. "That's Mokona," she says. "We have a live Mokona here, but she's been taking a nap. It's a pity; I would have liked for her to meet you."

"Mokona..." says Sam, but decides not to investigate any further. He slips the necklace around his neck, and notices Dean doing the same.

After exchanging goodbyes with Yuuko, they exit her shop. Sam tries to ignore the way that her eyes follow him as he leaves.

The necklaces are quickly proven to work, when their cabbie asks them politely where they would like to go.

"The Golden Swan hotel," says Sam, before stating its exact address.

The man looks surprised. "Your Japanese is very good," he says. "Have you been living in Japan long?"

Sam and Dean exchange a meaningful look.

"Yeah," says Dean. "We've been livin' here for about five years now."

"In Kyoto," adds Sam. "We're here in Tokyo on business."

"Ah," says the driver, nodding in understanding. "Well, your accent is very good."

"Thank you," says Sam, feeling a little awkward. As if sensing this, the cabbie begins to drive, leaving the two of them to their conversation.

"Well," says Dean. "This is pretty fuckin' cool."

They arrive back in their hotel room, and Dean shotguns the shower. Sam doesn't protest, slumping down onto his bed as the weight of their encounter hits him full-force. Yuuko had pretty much told them that saving Dean was impossible, and that, if they wanted to find out who held Dean's contract, they would have to find out on their own. Dean is obviously trying to distract himself with the novelty of a new place, with new monsters to hunt; but Sam just can't. He can't.

Sam must have been lying there for quite a while, the anxiety churning inside of him, because Dean comes out of the bathroom fully clothed, and Sam doesn't remember the time going by.

"Shower's all yours, Sammy."

"Yeah," he says. "Thanks."

"Way to be enthusiastic there, dude. Come on, we're in Japan."

"Yeah, Dean, we're in Japan." Sam pushes himself off of the bed. "After the shower I think I'm gonna turn in, okay? I didn't sleep much on the plane."

"Okay," says Dean. "I'll stay up and look into our next hunt."

As the hot water beats down on his back, Sam does everything within his power not to scream.