Author:Mirrordance

Title: Home Road

Summary:The brothers were so different sometimes.Dean after Sam died was lethal silence and a sense of suicide-Let the world end.Leave me alone.That loudly unspoken I wish I was dead.Sam was different.He had murder in his eyes.Post-3.16 and Sam finds a way.

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Home Road

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2

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Elsewhere

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What am I supposed to do?

It was that one question Dean made certain sure he had an answer for.

A part of him had known, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Sam would ask him. He couldn't answer the other stuff – How can we save you? Why is this happening to us? - but that question, that he had to have an answer for.

He knew Sam would ask that, because as different as the two of them seemed, they were brothers still, and last year, almost to the day, as he beheld the still form of his cold, dead brother before him, he had asked the same thing.

What am I supposed to do... he had whispered, brokenly.

The silence was deafening. Sam was blue-gray and unmoving. The fucking town was supposed to have tons of ghosts, but why did everything just feel empty?

What am I supposed to do?, he asked, an intriguing question now, as an answer began to form in his head.

What am I supposed to do?!, he exclaimed, this time, because he had already known the answer, and the question actually meant, Is this really what I'm supposed to do?

And of course, that dead, empty night, he found himself standing at a crossroads, in front of a hungry demon and offering himself up for one more year, just one more year with his brother.

That was why that question absolutely had to have an answer. Because when he had asked it, desperation had replied, and he ended up on the unlucky end of an angry hellhound, dragged down to where he was, chained, bleeding, and of course, appropriately miserable (to say the least).

It was a fate he would never want for his brother. Sam needed direction. Sam needed an answer. And so in the days that preceded his death, he tried like crazy to find something to say, to What am I supposed to do?

Keep fighting.

Take care of my wheels.

Remember what dad taught you.

It wasn't until the strike of midnight, in that ironically beautiful house, that he thought to add, And remember what I taught you.

It was a moment of pure truth. Death made everything clear. The past, the future. He knew where he was headed. He knew where he had come from. He knew what happened in between. It was like looking back at a kingdom you've built from an incredible height. He looked at the steely-determined face of is brother, shattered-looking the way that mug of his got whenever he was really upset, but strangely undefeated.

I had a hand in that, he thought, proudly.

Remember what I taught you.

" " "

"Sam!" Dean yelled for the nth time, because he needed help, because he knew those ears would listen if they could hear, because there was nothing else to do, because he was in pain and scared, because--

This couldn't be it, could it? He wondered, bound, helpless, spread-eagled, scared-shitless, in excruciating pain and strangely bored at the same time. Is this hell? Is this it?

"Sam!" he yelled again. Just. Because.

What could possibly make a man forget that he was once human, out here? How possible was that? Who did it, and what exactly did they do?

Do you really wanna know the answer to that one, Winchester?

"Help me!" he cried, his voice breaking like it hasn't broken since his once-depressing, now-comparatively paradise-like adolescence. He was thirsty. His voice was going. His breath hitched. He felt like he was burning, inside-out. There was no relief. He couldn't move, couldn't wipe at the blood drying on his face, couldn't stop the ones that wept from his skin as if it would never run out. He shook his arms in yet another futile effort to break free of the chains that ran through him. They shot pain across his body, making him scream again. His breath was running out, but there was always breath enough to scream, here. He was weary beyond measure, but there was always just strength enough to shake, and thrash, and writhe.

"Sam..." hos voice was going. But not his heart, not yet.

You know what would make this situation absolutely peachy? If I desperately had to scratch my ass. And couldn't.

A manic half-laugh. It felt like it was getting wrangled from the very pits of his stomach. His black humor was hiding deeper and deeper, huddling in the dark along with his hope. It was getting harder and harder to wrench it out. He was hungry too, for that matter. Nauseated and sick-feeling but also desperately hungry. Hungry. Thirsty. Sick. Tired. Worse, alone.

"Sam," he whispered, licking his lips, "Somebody."

"Help me!" he screamed, louder, "Help me!"

His tears fell down the side of his face, annoying streaks that he couldn't swipe off. Now the last time those tears fell like this was exactly a year ago, when his younger brother died in his arms. The memory strengthened him, somehow.

This isn't hell, he thought, his resolve strengthening, Sam dead in my arms, that was hell. This... this is nothing.

" " "

Dean drifted off in exhausted half-dreaming. He wished he could shut off his mind, but no one granted wishes in hell. No one even listened to them. Heck, give a guy time and he never even thought of them, much less mentioned them, anymore. His voice ran out to hoarse from the screaming. He decided to shut his trap and wait for the next opportune time to use his big damn mouth. Sam was coming, he'd use it then. He'd know when Sam was near. He always knew, after all. He'd save all the ballistic screaming for then.

He drifted off...

There was nothing to do but let his thoughts run through him. Him being where he was, these were obviously dark thoughts, and he wondered if he would ever be happy again.

There were things he forgot he remembered, like the odd, consuming white color of that thing his mother wore the night she died. The way it fit over her body. It was so decidedly feminine, that night dress. He could have sworn he could now remember every crease of that white cloth against her form. Every crease. Laces and folds and hovering pieces, shadows against brilliant white.

It did not take him long to remember the smell of her shampoo, or, or feel the silk of her hair on his face. Her cool, satin skin. With its little constellations of freckles. The light in her eyes. The streaks of her hair. He could have known exactly how many strands she had on her pretty head.

His senses were heightened, in his memories. He felt like a god, seeing everything, knowing everything there was to know about his mother, that night that she died. His heart began to lighten at the thought of her. And then tighten, in suspicion.

These were not his memories.

He was seeing that night through indulgent, borrowed eyes. Eyes that lent him every beautiful bit of his mom, only to take every part of her away from him, make the pain last longer, make the loss more complete.

"No," he must have whispered, though there was no coherent thought, really, no force, no word, no feeling of any attachment to his body. He was watching his mother die. He was watching every bit of her die. Every fold of that dress lost to the fire, every freckle, every inch of flesh, right down to every fucking strand of hair.

Nononononononononono...

He gasped and returned to himself. It was almost relieving to find himself chained and alone, and hurt and tired, than to see anything like that ever again.

"Sam," he mouthed, soundlessly, "Help me."

" " "

Indiana

" " "

"What the hell?" the young doctor exclaimed, looking at the new arrival in the emergency room, laid out on a stretcher being pushed by a crew of four.

"Another one from New Harmony," one of the male nurses said, "Right, Rodge? What the fuck went down on that town? We got stab wounds, hallucinations, we got shell-shocked people, we got dead people, unharmed-confused people--"

"It's a mess," Roger grunted, agreeing grimly.

"This one looks like a DOA three times over, doc," another nurse said.

"Why the hell is he so cold?" yet another one asked, "Look at his chest, dude, something tore him apart."

The doctor's beeper chimed, and he waved the EMT and the nurses forward ahead of him, toward one of the operating rooms. No reason to rush, really, he's been doing this long enough to know John Doe was a goner--

Find a way to keep him alive, the message went, Or else little Jessie's joining mommy in heaven.

" " "

Doctor Troy Brennan lived in a painfully clean condominium downtown, a short drive away from the hospital where he worked and three blocks away from where his thirteen-year-old daughter Jessie studied. He has been a widower for the last three years, having lost his wife in a long battle with cancer. The neatness of the house was easily attributable to the precocious teenage girl, who from a tragically early age has gone on to care for her sick mother, and thereafter her grieving dad. She apparently knew how to take care of herself also. The pepper spray that had nicked Sam Winchester's left eye when he nabbed her from school was still smarting.

"What do you want from me and my dad?" she asked him pointedly, looking straight up at him, arms crossed over her chest, undaunted. Sam was in no mood to babysit. His gaze kind of just moved over her, shifted to the older hunter who was watching him disapprovingly.

The EMT they had also kidnapped, Alex, put an arm around Jessie's shoulders. "Quiet down, honey. All we have to do is sit down and wait, okay? They won't hurt us, and they won't hurt your dad."

"We don't have a lot of money," Jessie said, "We lost almost everything when mom was sick--"

"Shhh now," Alex said, somehow finding a way to glare up at Sam and smile reassuringly at the girl. She ushered Jessie to sit with her over some books in the living room, and Sam watched them with a cold eye. He drew out knick-knacks from his deep jacket pocket. The teenager's pink cellular phone was predictably ringing, and of course it was her panicked father calling. Sam ignored it. He also had EMT Roger Wallis' wallet, which contained photographs of his wife and kids, and his address on his driver's license. He wondered how long this would last.

"Bring my brother to the hospital," Sam had said to the driving EMT, "And shut your trap when you get there. I'm bringing your partner with me, and if you so much as think about turning me in or hurting Dean, she will regret it very much." He reached over the guy's coat pockets, and grabbed his wallet too. It did not take him long to find his address and photos of family.

"I guess I got this too," he said, darkly, "Don't get any crazy ideas."

"But mister-" the man protested, "I can do what you want but I'm telling you, no one will seriously bother with him! There's nothing I can do for him at that point--"

"I know," Sam said, "Just do your part. Troy Brennan..." he read about the young on-shift ER doctor's profile from the Internet on his mobile, "Will do exactly what I need him to do."

In afterthought, Sam picked up the phone.

"Jessie?!" came the panicked call.

"No," Sam told him, "How's my brother?"

"You son-of-a-bitch--"

"How's my brother?" Sam asked again.

"He's dead--"

"You'd better be lying," Sam told him, darkly, "Because if that were the case, you have a hell of a problem."

An enraged inhale. "Tell you what you fucking bastard. I got your brother. You give me back my daughter or else I'll--"

"You'll what?" Sam scoffed, "He's dead, remember? Nothing you do will hurt him. Me and Jessie, here, on the other hand..."

"Who the hell are you?!"

"The less you know the better," Sam told him, "Please, doc. Put him on a damn machine. That's all I want. I don't want to harm your daughter but I can promise you right now... I find that I really could, if I had to."

Sam felt Bobby's eyes widen, and then turn away from him.

A long, thoughtful pause.

"Can I speak with her?" Brennan asked, "Is she all right?"

"She's fine," Sam assured him as he walked toward Jessie, "It's your dad."

"I'm fine, dad!" she exclaimed, "I've heard of this guy, I don't think he'll hurt me. His name is Sam Winchester."

Sam and Bobby looked at her in stunned silence.

How would she know that...?!

"Call this number as soon as you're done," Sam said, his mouth dry, as he hung up.

" " "

Bobby was torn between dying to find out how this teenager knew who Sam was and keeping his mouth shut so he wouldn't confirm it. But she already looked so damn sure that he thought he really might as well just up and ask. Sam's eyes were on him, as if struggling with the same conflict.

It's your life, boy, Bobby shrugged at him.

"Now how would someone like you know something like that?" Sam asked, standing over her as she sat on the couch. Bobby imagined how daunting and tall he must have looked from her view.

Her thin brows furrowed. She wasn't one of those beautiful children with gentle faces. She had sharp features and she tended to look like a smart-ass. She also seemed to be hesitating, and Bobby could almost see the thoughts racing in her little head.

Would it get me in trouble?

Her eyes narrowed. Curiosity, Bobby read in her blazing eyes.

Crazy kids.

"All my friends know," she said, shrugging, "Don't you ever Google yourself?"

"Not for awhile," Sam replied, glancing up at Bobby, "You keep tabs at the 'Wanted' bulletins and it gets kinda old."

"There's this website," Jessie told him, "Ever heard of the Ghostfacers?"

"Oh, God," Sam groaned, wearily.

"What?" Bobby asked.

"Those idiot kids just keep growing heads, don't they," Sam muttered, before clarifying, "A while back in Texas, these goofs looking for internet fame and fortune got in the way of a job Dean and I were doing. They did the same back when we were on that Morton House gig. A bunch of amateurs with cameras, looking for the big time, trying to get themselves killed."

"I think they're very good," Jessie declared. Sam kind of gave her that Like-I-care-what-you-think look. Bobby had never seen it before, but Sam just did not have the touch with kids that his older brother did. Never had the practice, he supposed, just to be fair.

"My friend Ryan told me it was a hoax," Jessie said, "But look, you're in my living room. Is all the stuff they say about you true?"

"What do they say?" Bobby asked.

"Bobby, we don't have the time for this," Sam said, sighing, "I'm curious as hell, yeah, but, but... Dean, you know?"

"I know, Sam," said the older hunter, "We gotta keep looking. Don't want him down there any longer than he has to."

"Where's Dean?" Jessie asked.

"You know him too?" Sam asked, in return.

"My friends found him cute," she replied, suddenly a little shyly, before adding, "The website said he only had two months left, for some reason. It's been two months, almost to the day today, I think. So where is he?"

"I think you had better take a look at that, Sam," Bobby advised, "Sounds like a gigantic security breach to me. I'll look at what else we can do for Dean."

"Where's Dean?" Jessie asked again.

Sam pointedly ignored her.

" " "

Sam sat on the floor with his back to the wall and his legs stretched out, brooding over his laptop, trying to ignore the nosy teenager who insisted on sitting with him and who kept jostling his elbow as he worked.

"See here?" the teenager nagged Sam, "Go to that tab, the one they call Project Winchester."

"You mind?" Sam snapped, when she tried to reach over his forearms and expedite the process.

"No, I'm helping. They talk a lot and put up some really useless crap," she said, "So I'm taking you straight to the good stuff. See this one..." she pointed at the screen, "Is the introduction to the project. Ed and Harry talk about how you messed up their video files for the Morton House, and they were trying to hunt you down."

"Hunt us down," Sam said flatly, "'Fedex Ed' and... and a guy named 'Harry.' Are you kidding me."

She wasn't. "They thought maybe you sabotaged them to do the Hollywood thing yourself. They were determined to find you. They put up photos of you and your brother from video footage from Texas, and some footage from the Morton House, and asked people to post any information they had on you or your brother."

"But we destroyed all the footage from the Morton House," Sam pointed out.

"They said that too," she replied, "But there was one set that hadn't been destroyed. Remember that dead guy, Corbett? He had several cameras on him when he went on that Morton House thing. All of the Ghostfacers did, and the footage from their individual cameras got sent to the master computer, right? But each of their hardware also contained the separate memory. Your virus bomb destroyed the master file and the memory in the equipment that was within the radius. Corbett's equipment, on the other hand, was buried with him as tribute by his friends."

Jessie wrinkled her nose. "They dug it up, and have been getting a lot of buzz and traffic on their website from that footage. Someone recognized you, named you as Sam Winchester. I guess things got easy after that. The Ghostfacers dug up your mug from the FBI wanted list. They had newsclips and obits of you and your brother. When they heard you were supposed to be dead months before they ran into you again, and when they got weird feedback from all these people saying you helped them on the comments section, they gave you a special file."

"Great," Sam muttered.

"See here?" Jessie pointed, "That's the first guy who commented and recognized you."

"'That's Sam Winchester,'" Sam read aloud, "'Went to high school with him for a little while. Nice guy, but they moved around a lot. - Chuck, New Jersey.'"

"Know him?" Jessie asked.

"Maybe if I see a photo," Sam said, distractedly reading a few more posts, "But not off the top of my head, no. We really did move around a lot."

"A whole lot more former schoolmates affirming your nice guy-ness and smarts," Jessies said flippantly, "So when I saw you I wasn't too worried."

"So why'd you hit me with pepper spray?" Sam asked.

"It's just reflex," she replied, "My dad taught me to shoot first and ask questions later. Anyway, are you reading, are you reading?"

"You are a pain to be around," Sam muttered at her as he tried to concentrate. "I hate kids."

"I'm thirteen," she corrected him, primly.

" " "

It took Sam a good two hours to read through the posts. Some were informative and interesting threads, while others (especially the ones posted by the moderators themselves) were seldom productive. There were posts from people he was sure he had forgotten, from schools they attended or the neighborhoods the Winchesters have stayed in. There were embarrassing comments from total strangers talking about their looks. The ones he found most interesting were the posts from people they have saved, and they weren't few. Sam wanted to tear himself away, concentrate on Dean's situation, but he couldn't; he was too riled up about Dean's surgery to be productive as he waited for Doctor Brennan's call, and many of the posts allowed him to take a breath and just think about his brother. Besides, as Bobby said, having information on him and Dean for the world to devour was a security risk, and he might as well take a look. And so he read on.

Lilian, Florida said: "I went to High School with Sam too. He had the highest GPA in the class. I heard he went to Stanford on a free ride or something."

Ed: That punk jerk couldn't have gone to Stanford.

" " "

Ed, Ghostfacers Team Leader, said: "That punk jerk couldn't have gone to Stanford."

Spruce: I checked it, Ed. He was even headed to Law School. Hey... didn't you try to get into Stanford, once?

" " "

Spruce, Ghostfacers Team Member, said: "I checked it, Ed. He was even headed to Law School. Hey... didn't you try to get into Stanford, once?"

Harry, Ghostfacers Team Co-Leader: If that's the kind of guy they churn out, Ed wouldn't have wanted to go there anyway.

" " "

Harry, Ghostfacers Team Co-Leader, said: "If that's the kind of guy they churn out, Ed wouldn't have wanted to go there anyway."

Ed: Well he's a drop-out. I checked too.

" " "

Dante, New York: I ran into these guys like, late last year, they're officers with the Department of Homeland Security.

" " "

Casey, Missouri: They were really bad waiters at my local Taco Bell.

" " "

Amy, California: This is weird, I met them months after those obits came out. The tall one's really bad at Karaoke, and his name isn't Sam Winchester, it's Ritchie Sambora.

" " "

Amy, California, said: "This is weird, I met them months after those obits came out. The tall one's really bad at Karaoke, and his name isn't Sam Winchester, it's Ritchie Sambora."

Dutch, Idaho: I don't know who Sam Winchester is, but Ritchie Sambora's a guitarist for Bon Jovi, dude.

" " "

Dutch, Idaho, said: "I don't know who Sam Winchester is, but Ritchie Sambora's a guitarist for Bon Jovi, dude."

Amy, California: Who?

" " "

Amy, California, said: "This is weird, I met them months after those obits came out. The tall one's really bad at Karaoke, and his name isn't Sam Winchester, it's Ritchie Sambora."

Haley, Colorado: Are you sure it was them? I read they died, and my family was devastated. They saved our lives.

" " "

Amy, California, said: "This is weird, I met them months after those obits came out. The tall one's really bad at Karaoke, and his name isn't Sam Winchester, it's Ritchie Sambora."

Matt, Oklahoma: They saved our lives too. Are you sure they're okay? The guys you met, it was really them?

" " "

Matt, Oklahoma, said: "They saved our lives too. Are you sure they're okay? The guys you met, it was really them?"

Rebecca, California: They're alive ? Has anyone heard anything?

" " "

Gabe, Massachusetts: I'm trying to come up with a timeline. When's the last time anyone ever saw them?

" " "

Gabe, Massachusetts, said: "I'm trying to come up with a timeline. When's the last time anyone ever saw them?"

Ed, Ghostfacers Team Leader: The Ghostfacers have the most recent encounter at February. Who the hell are these people?

" " "

Amy, California, said: "This is weird, I met them months after those obits came out. The tall one's really bad at Karaoke, and his name isn't Sam Winchester, it's Ritchie Sambora."

Gabe, Massachusetts: When was this?

" " "

Haley, Colorado, said: "Are you sure it was them? I read they died, and my family was devastated. They saved our lives."

Gabe, Massachusetts: When was this?

" " "

Matt, Oklahoma, said: "They saved our lives too. Are you sure they're okay? The guys you met, it was really them?"

Gabe, Massachusetts: When was this?

" " "

Sam took a deep, shaky breath. He, Dean and their father have always felt this was a thankless job, so it was strange, reading post after post of people actually concerned about him and Dean.

He remembered some of the people, like Haley and the Wendigo from Colorado, Matt and the fricking bees from Oklahoma (it was an interesting case, sure, but it was the bees he couldn't seem to get over), Rebecca, of course, seemed back to school in Palo Alto. He read through comments from Laurie in Iowa, Charley in Ohio, Cat and Gavin (for god's sake, they're still together?!) from Illinois. There were many, many others. It seemed that every teenager or college-aged person they saved was on that ridiculous Ghostfacers website. Defending them. Seeking them.

Come to think of it, he shouldn't have been surprised that the people they saved knew who they were, or that they somehow found the Ghostfacers website. First of all, he, Dean and the Impala were hard to miss. Separately, sure, it was possible. But mix in the very distinct threesome to very special circumstances, like hauntings and violence and monsters, and there was just no mistaking them for anyone else. If you ran into the Winchesters, you remembered them, whether you wanted to or not. Secondly, the special circumstances the Winchesters stood by them with were life-changing; these people would have found themselves researching the supernatural afterwards, and undoubtedly finding one of the most popular new websites about it. That they should defend the Winchesters, or find community in others who did the same, though... that touched Sam to the core.

Wish Dean was here to see this--

He tore himself away from the crippling thought.

There were a few threads damning them too, to be fair, and not a few of them were women wondering why Dean Winchester or whatever-his-name-really-was never called back. Some of the most insistent ones were Tina, Las Vegas and Tina, New Mexico. These were Dean-adventures he'd rather not know about.

Even these small, ridiculous thoughts hurt him. The things he read about that damn neared unbearable were comments from Ben, Indiana, and two boys from Wisconsin, Lucas and Michael. Kids singing his punk brother's praises as if he hung up the sun.

Do your mothers know you're on-line in an R-rated website?

He ran a weary hand over his face.

Brennan, call me.

" " "

Alex drummed her fingers on the coffee table, feeling confused and out-of-place. She watched Sam – the tall, psychotic one – shift uneasily against the weight of the precocious teenager who had somehow fallen asleep against his shoulder as he sat on the floor of the living room. He had a very intelligent gaze, sharp but focused when he was on edge but also very, very lonely. Once in awhile, she would catch him drifting from the things he was reading on his laptop, just kind of lost in himself. He looked like an orphan. It was hard, looking for a spot of sympathy in her heart for her kidnapper, but she also had no doubt by now that he was also deathly desperate.

The older man – Bobby, she learned – was downing his nth cup of coffee (the owner of the home was a doctor so he had more caffeine than food), looking over an old book. She was getting weirdly intrigued by them.

"So, ah..." she said, softly, "You're supposed to be famous."

She was expecting the old man to answer; Sam had, after all, thus far limited himself to simply ignoring or threatening her. She didn't expect him to wearily look up from the laptop. She had that suddenly strange and sinking feeling, God, he's really gonna answer, isn't he?, as if something inside her already knew she was going to regret hearing his reply.

"I can't think anyway," he muttered to himself, before turning toward her. When he looked at her straight, and tiredly, she felt as if it was the first time he really looked at her. Not like she was just some tool he could use against, say Roger or, toward saving his beloved brother. He looked at her and he seemed to look through her. It was an unnerving feeling.

"More infamous, really," he said, quietly, glancing at the girl sleeping on his shoulder, and lowered his voice all the more. He had a distinct sensitivity, she noted, despite all the unhappiness and inextricable anger simmering in his eyes.

"I heard her mention the FBI," Alex said, warily.

"Wanted in a number of states for murder, credit card fraud, identity theft, vandalism," Sam said, "So yeah, the FBI would have been on our tails."

"But..." Alex hesitated, "But Jessie wasn't scared of you."

"We're the good guys, believe it or not," Sam said, "Me, Bobby and... and Dean. We hunt demons. Monsters. Bad things. I know how it sounds. I know how it looks like from the outside. You kill something that looks human and it's murder. You dig up a body and salt and burn it, it's vandalism. You steal a cursed object and destroy it and it's theft. Sure."

"The other stuff?" she asked.

"We gotta eat," Sam shrugged, "Our car needs fuel. Our guns need bullets. On bad jobs we needed hospitals and medicine. Never took anything more than what we needed. But if we're being technical, sure. Guilty, as charged. It's a thankless job, and I hate it, and now my brother's dead."

"People seem to appreciate what you have done for them," Alex pointed out.

Sam shrugged, noncommittally. She found him more glum, than threatening at this point.

"It was," he hesitated, "It was so easy to take him for granted, sometimes."

"What do you mean?"

"He made it so easy," Sam gulped, "For me, my dad...to take him for granted. He did everything for me, you know? It was never about him, not even when he was hurting or scared or...he just laughed it off or shrugged it off, and... never mind."

She didn't understand what he was saying. He was talking more to himself than to her, with all these internal references she just could not be privy to.

"I was going to give you the Dr. Phil talk," she stammered, "About, about loss and dealing with it. But you guys are different, aren't you? You think you can bring your brother back to life?"

Sam glanced up at Bobby.

"We are different," he said, veiling his eyes in that dark, flat, determination again, and it felt as if he physically stepped away from her, even if he moved not a muscle, "And I will bring my brother back."

Jessie's cellphone rang, making all of them jump. Sam answered it midway through the very, very first ring.

TO BE CONTINUED...