Hey People! Thank You for the reviews and please keep them coming!! I don't know exactly where this thing is going, but when I started this chapter it started to write itself. It's a little long but its good…I promise!!!

Almost twenty-three years Dean had been doing this. Sure, it had changed and evolved along the way, but when the doors were locked and the guns were loaded and waiting at the bedside table, it was really all the same.

When it was Dean and John and Sam it was always the same: Kill the big bad that goes bump in the night, explain away the previous days occurrences to the fuzz, last minute instructions for the family left behind 'Stay away from it and don't touch the ashes…salt lines at the doors and windows just in case…call us if there is a problem', grab the gear and Sammy and roll out of town.

When Sam left for California it changed a little, but not much really. All of their new stories carried the same basic plot line: find it, kill it, talk your way out of a night in the lock up, pack up camp, wave off the poor souls you just saved from God knows what, and follow Dad to the closest bar and see who would drink more…always drinking to cover some pain or disappointment.

And when Dad went missing and Jess died, it evolved again. At first Dean only thought it was for the better. Beau and Luke Duke never rode solo and they always won, so Dean and Sam Winchester would ride together from now on and never lose. But minutes ticked by turning into hours that morphed into days that collided to make up weeks and months, months that blew into years. And it was not for the better it seemed. Things got hard and mistakes were made. But like all metamorphoses, even though it changed it was still the same animal, just a different skin.

Unlike before the boys didn't find the baddies, they seemed to find the boys now. Looking for Dad they would stumble across a spirit or something corporeal that needed to be dealt with. Dean would try a fictional identity on the 'client' and Sam would smooth over his brothers harsh words and rash actions with puppy dog eyes and a soothing voice. Dean would come out guns blazing 'get it before it gets them' before really thinking things out…eager to be the tough big brother for his Sammy. Sam would research for hours on end and always uncover something that would save their asses. The whole thing would come crashing down in the end, all smoke and flying bullets, before the boys would save the day. Dean would ride out the adrenaline rush while Sam took it all in and let it eat at his insides.

With Sam tossed back in the mix, edges become softer. 'After Care' instructions were given slowly, feelings were discussed, apologies and thank you's were thrown around, tearful goodbyes were exchanged and there was always a hug. But never between brothers.

Leaving a gig changed, too. Sam would want to find a cheap motel and Dean would rather seek out a dark bar. So two grown men would climb into a classic car and drive till the road got too dark. Sam would make Dean stop for food and pull off for the night when he could see the wear on his brother's face.

Down this road the brothers traveled, tolls had to be paid. The price came in the form of broken bones, tears, cuts and scrapes, loss of material possessions, and always heartaches.

Dean paid his toll and Sam's too when he could. And when he made payment he would take the feelings that would rise to the surface and shove them back down to a place deep inside that he wouldn't let them come up from. But like the design of the hunt had been altered, Dean's ability to keep his personal demons at bay had changed as well.

And so, somewhere between the Mason Dixon and Lake Michigan, those things found him tonight. Not the nightmares or voices mumbling about coming terror, visions and cold sweats, or thrashing bodies against worn motel sheets. But the things that the older hunters mind had hidden from him and his soul. Because you see, like the vigilance Dean wore like armor, it was something he did without thinking or even trying. His mind was on autopilot and it buried the late night race to the emergency room, the crash, the medi-vac ride through the air, the days spent out of his body, the distracted father, and the distraught brother. But now it had crept out in the cold February air and found him.

After eating greasy pizza and emptying two cold beers, Dean laid down to sleep. He waited for Sam to doze off first, something he had done since November 2, 1983. Something he felt sure Sam didn't know he did. Truth be told – Sammy knew. So after Dean counted the obligatory seven minutes for Sam to relax he waited for the roll and curl. Sam would start out on his back, long legs reaching for the open air at the end of the bed. But give him about four minutes and he would roll onto his side and curl an arm around his chest. It was the same every night, only to be changed when he was sick or injured, then Sam would sleep on his stomach. After the roll and curl Sam would adjust his breathing slowly, one deep breath in and a long exhale to slow things down. The next breaths would vary between long and slow and quick and sharp. But like clockwork, three minutes into the exercise, Sam's breathing would even out, measured and deep, till it matched the rise and fall of his chest and sleep found Sam. Then, and only then, would Dean give in to sleep.


When the sun pushed through fine crack between the heavy maroon curtains that covered the dirty windows of the no-tell motel, the light fell on Sam's bed and across the soft features of his face. Paw like hands made their way to Sam's eyes as he rubbed away the previous nights haze. He threw his glance to the opposing bed and saw Dean still wrapped in green sheets and slumber and checked the cat clock on the wall. 9:24 a.m.

Sam drug himself from the confines of the double bed and ambled for the bathroom. Locking himself inside, Sam stripped down and turned on the shower. After relieving himself, he stepped into the shower and began diligently scrubbing off the last four days. And as the citrus scented shampoo ran out of his hair and down his back, Sam remembered too.

The bathrooms at Shiloh County Hospital had this weird orange hand soap in all of the dispensers. It was a faint orange color with deep orange and red beads embedded in it. He had used it in the hall bathroom outside of Dean's room to try and wash some of the hell he'd been through off of his body. He'd lathered his hands and arms and his face and neck, trying to get the stench of motor oil and demon musk and blood and disinfectant off of him. It had almost worked. He couldn't smell the oil or the musk or the blood anymore. But his finger tips carried the distinct smell of spent gun powder and the disinfectant smell was so entrenched in the hospital walls and floors, that washing it off of his skin was only giving it a new place to settle in.

Standing in the safe, warm confines of the shower, Sam's heart ached a little and lump rose in his throat. Dean was okay, so why was he letting all of this get to him now? He threw his shoulders back and turned to face the cascading water head on. He just needed to get the thought and the memory out of his head so he could resume his roll as brother/friend/defender and be there for Dean, because he knew that what happened on the highway the night before was far from over.

"I was beginning to worry you were drowning in there". Dean looked up from his new spot on the squishy green couch in front of the TV. He hair was a mess and he was still clad in the t-shirt and sweat pants he had slept in.

"Yeah", Sam studied Dean for a quick second. "You gonna lay around like a lazy housewife all day, or what?" he pressed.

"Ehh…" Dean cocked an eyebrow, "I thought I'd let you run out and get us some coffee when you came out of the shower then we could start looking for a new gig when you get back".

Sam shot Dean a look. A Sam look. "Are your legs broken?" he asked the older hunter.

"No, but neither are yours and you just happen to be dressed and ready for such as excursion".

"Fine", Sam picked up his jacket and found the keys to the car resting on the nightstand. "You want anything else while I'm out? Peeled grapes, maybe?" The condescension in Sam's voice was palpable.

"No, I'm good", Dean waved him off and started to flip channels on the television then caught himself calling out to his brother again. "Wait, wait! Bring me some M&M's and maybe bagels and peanut butter if you can find it". And with that he turned his full attention back to the boob tube.

When Sam stepped out of the room he felt a twist in his gut. Dean was hurting. He didn't know it because Dean had told him or because his eyes had betrayed him. He knew by his brother's not so cryptic instructions. Coffee, M&M's, and bagels with peanut butter…all of these were Dean's comfort foods.

At 'Maxwell's Market' down the street Sam found all of the things Dean had requested. A bag of bagels, a small jar of JIF peanut butter, a two pound bag of peanut M&M's, and near the well equipped deli, two large coffees to go. If Dean chose to sulk and eat crap and watch bad TV to get through this, then Sammy would buy the crap, pour the coffee, and pay the extra rate for HBO.


When the youngest Winchester got back to the motel he found his brother exactly where he had left him on the couch.

"Coffee's hot", Sam warned as Dean rushed to evacuate the steaming cylinders from his brother's hands.

Dean took the top off of his cup and lifted it to his lips, sipping slowly at first, testing the heat of the brew. Then, as the liquid passed his lips and filled his mouth and ran down his throat, he smiled.

"Ahh…thick like sludge and black as the night. Just the way I like it".

Sam dropped the bags on the table near the small kitchenette, and started to empty them of the provisions inside: candy, bagels, peanut butter, beer, microwave popcorn, soda, deli meat, poboy buns, granola bars, chips, and bagged salad. He lined up the boxes and bags on the counter top and crammed the rest of the junk in the mini fridge before he grabbed his coffee and joined Dean on the opposite side of the couch.

Dean was seemingly wrapped up in a comical rerun of M.A.S.H. and talking back to the television. He scoffed at the balding doctor on the screen, "Charles Emerson…huh. Dude's not a real Winchester".

Sam stared at Dean, who was either completely oblivious to his presence or really good at ignoring his little brother. He had thought about what he would say to Dean when he got back, but being there now, none of the anecdotes or prying questions he had come up with seemed to fit the situation. So he stuck to the script he had been running with since they had left the hospital, altering it according to the current circumstance.

"So do you want to talk about it Dean?"

Dean looked up from his program and laid a questioning eye on the younger hunter. "Talk about what?"

Sam huffed. He should have known Dean would drag this out and make it more difficult than it had to be.

"Talk about what?" he demanded. "Talk about what happened to you. Talk about last night".

Dean's eyes had been drawn back to the TV and he didn't even bother looking at Sam when he responded.

"What happened last night?"

A/N: So I thought I'd give the story a little twist there…ya' know…leave you waiting and wanting to hear more. Now far be it from me to demand, but I need REVIEWS!! I'm not entirely sure where this thing is going, but getting the reviews I did get sent my brain into over drive and I couldn't tear myself away from this computer till I got another chapter out!! The reviews drive me to continue, so if you want more, let me hear it!!

Thank you to those who did review. My next chapter (If you guys want it) should be up by Thursday night. Happy Hunting!!