Author's Note: Thanks for all the lovely reviews one and all. So, after fighting and fighting with this chapter, it eventually took on a life of its own and didn't leave me with a good place to break it. Hence, super long chapter ahoy. Enjoy! Oh, and please feed the author!

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.

Chapter 2

Dean shrugged and opened his mouth but shut it when he heard his phone ringing in his pocket. He frowned and accepted the call without checking the caller ID, eyes never leaving his brother's face.

"Dean Winchester," a familiar voice said before Dean answered, "I can feel your brother's psychic pains from here, so why don't you get yourselves over here so I can help." A beat. "And tell Bobby Singer he's welcome, too."

Dean's eyebrows shot up in recognition. "Missouri?"

"Who else would it be, boy?" Missouri replied impatiently; Dean could just picture the woman waving a hand dismissively and his lip twitched despite himself. "You're nearby, aren't you?"

"In Bootback, so a couple hours out from Lawrence."

"And Sam?"

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "It's a long story, Missouri."

A huff. "I'm sure. But he needs help." It wasn't a question and Dean was surprisingly grateful for that. Winchesters weren't known for their ability to ask for help, even when they knew it would be freely given.

"Yeah," Dean replied, his voice shaking as he kept his eyes on his brother, "he does."

"Then get your behinds over here and we'll see what we can do," Missouri said, not unkindly.

"Yes ma'am," Dean replied, feeling a slight lightening in his chest. Having a goal, a direction to go from here to help Sam, was good, was what he needed.

"Good. And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

Dean nodded, figuring Missouri had gotten the message even though she couldn't see him. As he hung up the call, Bobby's startled expression caught his eye. "Did you say Missouri?" the older hunter asked.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Yeah."

"Missouri Moseley? The psychic?" Bobby pressed.

"That's her. Why, do you know her?"

"Know of her, sure. Ain't too many hunters that haven't heard o' Missouri. She's one of the best around. Knew John had talked to her, though I never met her," Bobby replied.

Dean frowned at that. He'd had no idea Missouri was renowned with hunters. The very idea made him wary, considering the last few times they'd had run-ins with other hunters.

"We met her when we were looking for Dad. Haven't seen her in years. But she knew."

"Knew?"

Dean shrugged uncomfortably, looking back down at Sam, who hadn't so much as flinched during the entire exchange. "That Sam was in trouble. She said she could feel his pain and wanted to help." Whatever that meant.

"Well isn't that convenient," Bobby grumbled, clearly not sold on the idea. But considering one of their closest allies had just turned on them, Dean couldn't begrudge the hunter his suspicion.

"She's only a few hours out. We should be able to make it by dawn if we leave now." Dean blinked. "Ah shit."

"What?" Bobby suddenly looked alert.

"The Impala," Dean groaned, memory of crawling out of his crushed baby coming back to him with gut-wrenching clarity. God, that felt like a lifetime ago. "She was trashed by those demons. We won't be able to drive her to Lawrence."

"Then we find whatever Sam drove," Bobby supplied simply. Dean stared blankly, not making the connection. "What, you think your brother walked her from Sioux Falls, ya idjit?"

"Oh, yeah." That would make sense. "I guess we gotta carry him outta here."

Bobby grimaced at that and Dean couldn't help but agree. The warehouse had turned out to be more maze-like than they had anticipated coming in, and Sam wasn't light. But Sam was trapped in memories of Hell, unable to escape the horrors Dean had only gotten a glimpse of during that brief stint in the Cage; if Missouri could help, Dean would do whatever it took to make it happen, including lugging his Sasquatch of a brother through a labyrinthine building.

Dean cast around the room for anything that might be useful as a makeshift stretcher but nothing stood out. Just a bunch of heavy medical equipment whose prior uses he really didn't want to think about. He pushed himself to his feet and Bobby mirrored him.

"You wanna, I guess, grab his feet?"

Bobby nodded. "On three?"

Dean placed himself at Sam's head and gripped under his brother's arms. "One."

Bobby grabbed Sam's booted feet. "Two."

"Three."

Together the two hunters leveraged Sam off the ground, but a wave of searing pain jolted through Dean's arm. He gasped and nearly dropped his brother but tightened his grip just in time. What with Cas becoming a god, killing Raphael, and sending them to Hell, he'd pretty much forgotten Crowley throwing him off the balcony; he didn't think his arm was broken but it definitely didn't need to be carrying two hundred-plus pounds of Sam.

"You good?" Bobby asked, watching him carefully.

Dean ground his teeth. "I'll get back to you on that. Let's move."

It was slow going through the tangled corridors, but Bobby seemed to know where to go, directing their path. That was great as far as Dean was concerned; it took all his concentration just to keep supporting Sam when his arm felt like it was being electro-shocked with every step.

"Dammit Sam," Dean grumbled, "I'm starting to think your lazy ass is enjoying all this sitting around." Snarking at his unconscious brother was easier than thinking about what might be going on in that big brain of his.

By the time they reached the exit, Dean was drenched in sweat and his vision was graying in and out. The cool air prickled against his skin and he took in a deep, steadying breath—he hadn't been this happy to breathe fresh air since he'd climbed out of his grave nearly three years before. As they lay Sam back down on the ground, Dean very nearly collapsed next to his brother.

Bobby's stiff movements and the lines etched at his eyes signaled that his back was killing him from Crowley sending him tumbling down the stairs, but the older hunter took pity on Dean anyway. "Wait here with your brother. I'll go find whatever Sam drove and bring it over."

Dean nodded and Bobby headed off into the darkness. Dean slumped bonelessly to the ground and put a hand on Sam's leg as an anchor. They were far enough away from the road that the site of the accident wasn't visible, but Dean imagined he could see his wrecked baby overturned on the road, waiting for him to come and fix her.

Sorry baby, he apologized to his car, wherever she was. It might be a little while, but we'll get you taken care of. First he had to take care of his brother then he'd take care of his girl.

With a sigh, Dean turned back to Sam. "Come on, Sammy. I can't lose you, too. Not again. Not after everything." But his brother gave no indication he'd heard him. Dean scrubbed his face through his hands tiredly, wincing as his arm flared up rebelliously at the movement.

He looked up when he heard the faint growl of an approaching engine. He stumbled back to his feet as Bobby steered an faded blue four door junker toward them; it must've been the first car Sam found in the salvage yard that he could hotwire back to life.

They steered Sam's limp form into the backseat, though his legs ended up dangling off the seat in a manner that made Dean wince as they shut the door, careful of Sam's loose limbs.

Dean slid into the front seat and immediately turned to look back at his brother, hoping against hope he might shoot a bitchface in Dean's direction and complain about how uncomfortable the backseat of this piece of crap car was. He searched Sam's lax face for something, anything.

Come on, Sammy. You know you wanna complain, stubborn little bitch that you are.

He deflated as Bobby dropped into the driver's seat and turned the keys in the ignition. Nothing.

"We'll get this figured out, Dean," Bobby said softly.

Dean nodded, though he wasn't so sure this time. But he didn't dare voice that, didn't dare give life to that possibility. "Yeah." He swallowed and turned back to face the front as Bobby put the car in drive.

"Yeah, I know we will."

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Dean pointed Bobby to Missouri's house. The two-story structure didn't stand out in any way; the neatly trimmed hedges and artfully crafted flower garden in the front fit right in with the row of manicured houses along the block.

Dean shivered. The freakin' Apocalypse had been averted in a cemetery not a handful of miles from here almost two years before. But Missouri's neighborhood looked the same as it had when they'd been looking for their Dad—when things had been so simple. Everything and nothing had changed, and the thought made Dean dizzy.

Or that might have been the exhaustion behind his eyes and the pain throbbing through his arm. Who was counting, anyway?

As Bobby pulled the car into the nondescript driveway, Dean looked up to see Missouri walking toward them. She must have been waiting up. He gave her a once over and allowed himself a weak smile; she hadn't changed either. For some reason, that was a small measure of comfort.

Dean and Bobby pulled themselves stiffly from the car. Dean rounded the front of the car as Missouri reached them, and the psychic pulled him into a giant hug.

"Dean Winchester," she murmured into his ear, "it's good to see you, boy."

"You too, Missouri." And, Dean realized with a small jolt, it really was good to see her. The list of people Dean could trust had shrunk so much over the last few years that having someone from his past he could turn to took him by complete surprise.

Missouri pulled back and gave Dean a sad smile. Oh yeah. She could read minds from a touch. But that was just as well; he didn't think he had the energy to fill her in anyway.

The psychic turned to Bobby and held out a hand. "Bobby Singer, it's nice to finally meet you."

"So you're the renowned Missouri Moseley," the older hunter replied, taking her hand.

Missouri chuckled. "I see our reputations precede us."

Dean cleared his throat. As great as the introductions were, he had an unconscious brother in the backseat who hadn't so much as made a sound since going down in the warehouse hours earlier.

"Right," Missouri said, turning to business. "We need to get Sam inside."

"Won't your neighbors be suspicious if they see us carrying a body inside your house?" Bobby asked.

Missouri shook her head. "Honey, the sun's barely coming up. No one's gonna see you if you move your butts quickly." Her lips twitched upward. "Besides, anyone that's up will still be in desperate need of coffee and wouldn't believe what they were seeing anyway."

Dean snorted, recognizing the universal truth there. Missouri went to open the front door and between them, Dean and Bobby maneuvered Sam's dead weight from the backseat. Dean bit back a string of curses as his arm flared up when he gripped Sam's upper body. He knew better than to let those fly around Missouri, though she undoubtedly heard them anyway.

He glanced up at her and she clucked her tongue. "Will you two hurry up? That poor boy isn't suffering any less just lying there."

That spurred the hunters into action despite their aches and pains. They managed to carry Sam into Missouri's living room and deposit him on the couch in the living room, where the psychic had already laid out a pillow and some blankets. After pulling Sam's boots off, Missouri spread a blanket over his lower half while Dean pulled a chair from the kitchen into the living room so he could keep vigil over his brother.

Bobby dropped into the armchair where he could keep an eye on the proceedings. Missouri disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two steaming mugs. She handed one to Bobby and one to Dean. Dean accepted it without looking at its contents, never taking his eyes off Sam's face. His brother could be sleeping for all it looked like.

But Sam had never found peace in his dreams, not since he was a kid.

And he might never wake up now.

Dean shoved the thought as far from his mind as he could, but its presence still taunted him—and he wondered if that was what the wall had felt like in Sam's mind for all those months, like some itch he'd tried desperately to ignore but constantly goaded him to scratch, scratch, scratch.

He shook his head to himself and another thought hit him. He looked up at Missouri, who stood at his shoulder, watching Sam.

"On the phone," he said, "you said you could feel Sam's pain from here. What'd you mean?"

He felt Bobby straighten up in his seat.

Missouri nodded. "You know your brother has strong psychic powers."

Dean frowned. "He hasn't had visions since Yellow Eyes died, and he hasn't used his freaky demon exorcising powers since—" Dean trailed off, thinking of Famine, thinking of Detroit… He swallowed thickly. "Well, he hasn't for awhile."

"Just because he hasn't used them doesn't mean he doesn't have them, Dean," Missouri replied gently. "The day you came to my house, I recognized your brother as one of the most powerful psychics I'd ever seen. And he's only gotten stronger since." She paused. "I can only assume Sam's been keeping his powers under wraps, forcing them to remain dormant within him."

Dean nodded. "He said he didn't like what they turned him into," he mumbled, remembering the third night of Sam's second detox. The panic room had been quiet for hours, though Dean hadn't known if Sam had screamed himself hoarse—or if the silence was something more permanent.

"The worst should be over," Cas said from his unmoving vigil next to the panic room door when Dean voiced his concern.

He didn't know why the angel felt the need to watch over Sam's entire detox, but he couldn't bring himself to ask, not when he'd spent the majority of the last three days going through bottle after bottle in the salvage yard rather than listen his brother scream reminder after reminder of all his failures in looking after him, in protecting him.

Dean nodded mutely and opened the peep hole. Sam was cuffed to the bed—he'd asked Dean to tie him down the moment they'd gotten back to Bobby's and Dean hadn't been able to meet his brother's pleading, agonized eyes as he'd clicked the cuffs into place. After that, he'd fled into the basement, and eventually into the salvage yard—and his head was turned away.

He frowned, looking for any signs of life in his brother and sighed in relief after a moment when he realized Sam's entire body was trembling weakly. His chest was rising and falling so slowly he'd barely been able to tell that Sam was even breathing.

Dean closed the peep hole and opened the door. He looked over at Cas. "I got this. Thanks for…you know, watching over him."

The angel nodded. "I'll see if Bobby requires any assistance."

"Yeah."

Dean stepped into the panic room and made his way to Sam's side, careful to make some noise as not to startle his brother. He didn't think Sam was still hallucinating, but that didn't mean Sam was aware of that yet. His brother gave no indication he'd heard Dean's approach. Dean frowned as he looked over Sam; his skin was pale and coated in sweat, his clothes reeked from sweat and vomit, his wrists were bloody from chafing against the cuffs even though Dean had made sure to pad them, and his hair was plastered across his face, obscuring his features.

"Hey," Dean greeted gently, sitting down on the cot.

For a moment, Dean couldn't tell if Sam was conscious until he noticed the tension in Sam's shaking frame. He was awake but refusing to look at Dean.

"Cas says the worst is over. You can come up any time, bro."

Sam didn't reply and Dean supposed he shouldn't be surprised. He pulled the handcuff key from his pocket and set to freeing the side of his brother closest to him. He unlocked his ankle and when he'd freed Sam's hand, Sam turned away from him, pulling his wrist into his chest.

"Sammy?"

No response. With a shrug, Dean unlocked Sam's other ankle and his brother shifted completely onto his side and curled his legs up into himself as well, as if he was trying to make himself as small as possible.

Oh. Well, Dean could relate to that.

Dean pushed himself to his feet and walked around the cot. He knelt in front of Sam, whose glazed hazel eyes were pointedly looking at a spot on the wall beyond him. Dean unlocked the last cuff but grabbed Sam's arm before he could pull it in on himself as well.

Sam frowned but still didn't look at Dean or say anything, though his muscles were still tense.

"Let's get your wrists cleaned up," Dean said simply, still holding Sam's arm but waiting for his brother's permission to do anything else. Finally, the tension eased out of Sam's body and his arm went limp in Dean's grip.

Dean nodded and let go. He grabbed the first aid kit from across the room and returned to his brother's side. He toweled off the blood from Sam's wrist before covering the raw wound with antibiotic cream and wrapped it gently but firmly with gauze and tape.

"Lemme see the other one," he said. For a moment, he thought Sam might ignore him, but Sam pulled his bandaged wrist into his chest and held out his other arm, though he still wasn't looking at Dean.

As Dean toweled off the blood from the other wound, Sam's voiced startled him so hard he jerked. "M'fine, Dean," he whispered.

God, his voice was absolutely wrecked. He sounded like his throat had gone a few rounds with a meat grinder and lost. But the exhaustion and resignation behind the hoarse words were what really hit Dean.

"Like hell you are," Dean retorted, composing himself and returning to work.

"You don't have to," Sam swallowed roughly, "do this."

"No," Dean agreed. "I don't. But I want to. So don't be a bitch."

And that's when Dean felt Sam's gaze on him for the first time. He spared a glance to see half-mast hazel eyes on his face.

"Dean…"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean replied simply, switching the bloody towel aside for the antibiotic cream.

"Dean, I…" Sam trailed off.

Dean simply worked the cream over the lacerations on Sam's arm and waited.

"I screwed up," he said at last. His voice barely made it above a whisper, but Dean heard it loud and clear. "Again. And I'm sorry." He winced. "I feel like…" He trailed off, but Dean didn't press. He put the cream down and grabbed the gauze and started wrapping.

After a moment, Sam spoke up again. "I feel like that's all I can say anymore."

"Sammy…"

But Sam kept going as though Dean hadn't spoken. "All I do is fuck up, apologize, and then fuck up again." He barked a harsh laugh that sounded worse through his grated throat. "I hate it."

Dean grabbed the tape to secure the gauze around Sam's wrist.

"I hate that I can't do anything but fuck up and cause you problems. I hate that you can't trust me."

Dean blinked at that. "You think I don't trust you?"

Sam snorted. "Why would you? I don't trust me." He sighed and slumped back—or as much as he could since he was already curled pretty deeply into the mattress. "I just…"

"What?" Sam blinked and Dean squeezed his arm gently as he put the tape aside. "What, Sam?"

Sam shut his eyes behind the curtain of his hair. "I just wanted to make something good out of these powers, you know? They're not natural, but I still had them and was so sure I could use them to help instead of what Yellow Eyes wanted." He grimaced and opened his eyes again. "Guess he got the last laugh after all, huh?"

Dean didn't have anything to say to that. Instead, he let go of Sam's arm and pulled himself onto the cot at Sam's hip.

"I hate what these powers turn me into," Sam whispered after a long silence. "They make me feel so strong, like I could take on anything, like I could save anyone, Dean." A cough racked Sam's frame and he wheezed painfully before collecting himself again.

"But they scare the hell out of me," he whispered in a small, vulnerable voice that made something that had been buried deep in Dean's chest since he'd learned about Sam's dealings with Ruby ache.

Sam tilted his head and looked at Dean. "Dean, I swear to God, I'm done. I'm done letting these powers control me, make me their puppet."

They looked at each other, neither willing to break the gaze for what could have been seconds or hours as far as Dean could tell. But finally, something inside him loosened and his lip quirked. "Swear to God, huh, Sammy? You sure about that?"

Sam's eyes widened before he snorted and shut his eyes wearily. "You know what I mean, jerk."

"Even though he was suppressing them," Missouri said, breaking Dean's reverie, "they'll always be with him. Psychic powers are tied to both the mind and the soul."

Dean's eyes widened at that. "The soul?"

Missouri nodded and frowned at Dean's tone. "Yes. Why?"

"So without a soul, psychic powers would, what, be gone?" Bobby asked and Missouri looked back at him.

It made so much sense that Dean couldn't believe he hadn't thought about it before. Robo-Sam wouldn't have had any qualms about using psychic powers if he'd had access to them, especially once Dean had told him to stop pretending to be Sammy.

Missouri frowned. "Theoretically, I suppose. But I've never heard of anything like that happening before." And then her eyes widened and she looked back to Dean, then at Sam, and back to Dean again. "You mean…?"

Dean shrugged and Missouri took it for the confirmation it was. "Oh. Well." She had to visibly collect herself. "Without a soul, there would be nothing to anchor the powers within the mind."

"But as soon as Sam got his soul back," Dean deduced, "his powers returned with it."

"Again, theoretically," Missouri replied. "I never thought anything like that was even possible."

"Welcome to my life," Dean grumbled. Bobby grunted his agreement.

Missouri shook her head before continuing her explanation. "Anyway, Sam's no longer in control of his power."

Dean's eyebrows shot up at that and his stomach clenched. He'd seen what those powers were capable of, aimed at both demons and Sam himself in detox. Nothing good could come from a lack of control in that department.

"What d'ya mean?" Bobby asked gruffly.

"Sam's suffering is soul-deep," Missouri said. "It's so intense that he can no longer keep his abilities at bay."

Dean frowned, thinking of the violence that manifested when Sam's powers were out of control. "But nothing's…happened. Yet, anyway."

"He's projecting," Missouri replied.

"Projecting?"

Missouri nodded. "He's projecting his pain and suffering on a psychic level because he can no longer control it. It's completely instinctual, especially when pain runs that deep."

Bobby's brow creased as he frowned. "Instinctual? What do you mean?"

"It's a survival mechanism for psychics," Missouri replied, crossing her arms. She had a thoughtful look on her face as she looked at Sam. "When a person with abilities feels deeply threatened, it's instinctual for them to reach out to others like him or her for help. They project their fear or pain to those in tune with the psychic wavelength."

"But Sam's been 'deeply threatened,'" Dean replied with air quotes and earned a smack on the back of his head for his trouble, "a lot since we last saw you," he finished with a wince.

Missouri nodded, eyes slightly narrowed. Dean slouched slightly in his seat, the mug resting between his legs. "From what I know about Sam, he's never fully accepted his abilities."

Dean thought about Ruby and Lilith and shook his head. "There was a time…" But he trailed off, not able to finish the thought.

Missouri, though, was smiling wanly. "If a psychic on Sam's level were to ever fully 'flip the switch,' so to speak," she said, "I would've felt it. And so would many other powerful psychics."

"But…"

"Dean, honey, just because he used his powers doesn't mean he ever fully accepted them."

Dean opened his mouth but shut it again. He considered what he knew about the other psychic kids Azazel had been recruiting—and the bits of the All Hell Breaks Loose book he'd been able to bring himself to read. Ava and Jake, even Andy, sounded as though they'd accepted their power. Jake hadn't shown any strain using his power to control Ellen in that cemetery in Wyoming. Yet Sam…Sam had always struggled with his power, never able to use them with ease from what Dean could tell now that he thought about it.

He remembered storming into the convent to find Lilith dead and Sam on the ground. He'd looked betrayed but also completely drained. He hadn't given it another thought at the moment since he'd been focused on killing Ruby, but yeah, his brother had been completely on empty.

"Huh," was all he managed to say.

"That's right, Dean Winchester," Missouri huffed. "Anyway, if he never fully accepted them, then he never would have tapped into that innate instinct to reach out on a psychic wavelength."

"But now that the hell wall's down and all his memories are back," Dean concluded, "he's suffering on the soul level to the point that he can't keep his power shoved down anymore."

Missouri nodded, prodding him to continue.

"So, when you said you felt his pain, it was because his powers were reaching out on that," he continued, waving his hands as he cast about for the right words, "wavelength or whatever."

"That's my best guess. And I doubt I'm the only one who felt it." Dean's eyes widened again but Missouri put a hand on his shoulder. "But I'm sure I'm the only one who recognized the source."

"Huh," he repeated wearily, slumping back against the chair and looking at Sam. This stuff scared the shit out of him and it went against every protective instinct just to watch his brother, especially knowing the depth of his pain. "You said you could help him?" he asked.

"I have a few ideas, yes," the psychic replied.

"So what are we waiting for?" Dean demanded.

Missouri shook her head. "You're no good to me or to Sam in that shape, Dean," she said sternly. "You need some rest."

Dean rounded on her. "I can't rest, not when my brother's mind is locked up in Hell, Missouri."

Missouri's eyes widened slightly and Dean shoved his irritation back down. "M'sorry," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I just…I just can't stand to see him hurting."

"I know," Missouri replied. She glanced over at Bobby a moment before looking back to him. She nodded at the mug in his lap. "Drink some of that. It'll help. Not with what's most important," she amended at his look, "but with the pain."

Dean raised an eyebrow and Missouri smiled. "It's tea. I mixed in some painkillers. You both look like the walking dead."

Dean huffed a weak laugh and took a long draught of the tea. He choked slightly. "Ew, s'cold."

Missouri snorted. "Should have drank it sooner," she said. She turned from Dean to Bobby and nodded toward the stairs. "I've got some books upstairs that might be useful. Do you mind?"

Bobby pushed himself to his feet. "I guess my reputation really did precede me." Missouri headed for the stairs and Bobby put a hand on Dean's shoulder as he passed. "Keep an eye on your brother, son."

"Always," Dean murmured around a yawn.

As Missouri and Bobby headed up the stairs, Dean grabbed his brother's hand. "Come on, Sammy. I'm here, man."

After about half an hour of sorting through Missouri's library, Bobby followed the psychic back down the stairs. For a moment, Bobby felt a surge of panic in his gut when he saw Dean's chair empty. And then he stepped into the living room after Missouri, who was smiling slightly.

Dean had moved from his chair to the couch and had cradled Sam's head in his lap in lieu of the pillow. He was fast asleep with his injured arm thrown over Sam's chest protectively and the other gripping his brother's shoulder.

Bobby's eyebrows went up and he looked over at Missouri. She titled her head. "What?"

"I didn't think that boy'd be sleeping for days," he replied, still astonished.

Missouri smiled. "Oh, well I figured as much."

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "What'd you do?" He frowned. "The drink?"

The psychic chuckled. "Don't give me that look, Bobby Singer. I did put painkillers in yours."

"And in Dean's?"

Missouri went into the kitchen and brought out a pair of pill bottles. Her eyes had widened innocently. "Oh my, it seems I may have mixed sleeping pills into Dean's on accident."

Ahhh, Bobby thought. Devious woman. But he couldn't help smiling anyway.

"That would be the only way to get him to sleep," he granted.

"He's going to need all the rest he can get," Missouri said, "and Sam's going to need him well-rested."

Bobby nodded at that. Missouri knew the Winchesters better than he'd anticipated. And she was devious enough to deal with them, too. No wonder John had respected her so much.

"I take it you have something in mind, then? For Sam?"

She nodded. "I do. But there are no guarantees."

Her gaze had gone back to the brothers on the couch. That could have been a picture of any number of times Bobby had found them conked out in his living room, one of them hurt or sick. It pained him to think what had happened this time, though. He swallowed and shook his head.

"There never are." He nodded toward Sam and Dean. "But I've learned never to bet against the Winchesters."

tbc…