"Is Lenore your real name?"

"You're smiling. Why do you ask?"

"It's not, is it? And now you're smiling."

"You're well read, Sam."

"Comes with the territory."

"I've had many names, lived many lives, and read many books myself. You are correct. Lenore is not my real name."

"But an excellent choice, given you're a vampire."

"I find the irony appealing."

Bram Stoker borrowed the line from Gottfried Burger's poem Lenore...

For the dead travel fast.

It was nearly dawn. Sam didn't know how he, on foot, covered the same distance as the Impala in nearly the same time, but he arrived at their destination not long after Dean and Bobby. It was a house, an old, abandoned house about halfway between Bobby's place and Cold Oak; one of John Winchester's many bolt-holes he had scattered all around the country. There was a common room, a couple of bedrooms, and a secret compartment beneath the floor boards containing extra ammo, a first aid kit...

And whiskey.

Sam slipped in through the door as Bobby exited. If he'd been paying attention, the older Hunter might have noticed the cold chill in the air, and the draft where there had been none before. He didn't hesitate, but left the house and shut the door behind him. Sam sighed. He heard the sound of Bobby's car starting. He would be back, Sam knew. Bobby would never leave anyone who had gone through what Dean had alone for very long.

It was like watching a machine.

"Dean," Sam murmured. "Don't do this."

He started out with a shot glass. He'd fill it, toss it back, fill it again, toss it back. Dean did this over and over and over again until he realized there was a quicker, easier way to gain access to the whiskey's pain numbing effects. The glass was abandoned. He took a long pull from the bottle.

Sam made a few attempts to manipulate the shot glass, to hurl it across the room, or simply knock it off the table. He couldn't grasp it. It might as well have been an illusion, and maybe it was, for all that Sam could touch it. He tried shouting like he had before back in Cold Oak, but again, that failed.

"What do I have to do to make you hear me! DEAN! Please!"

He gave up, slumping down into a corner, his arms resting upon his knees, hands dangling limp between them. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening."

Dean gave up on the whiskey for a while. He paced back and forth several times, before heading for the door to a nearby bedroom. There he stopped and sagged heavily against the door-frame. Sam got up and went to him, standing as close as he could to peer over his brother's shoulder. His heart, or whatever he had now, ached at the sound of Dean's broken whisper.

"Wake up, Sammy. This isn't funny anymore." Tears filled his eyes. "Please...Sammy...please..."

"Don't do this...Dean. Come on. Shake it off! You've got to get back out there!"

"Sam..."

Dean didn't move other than to wipe his eyes. He stood there leaning on the wall, staring blankly at the body lying on the bed before him. Sam wondered if he weren't in some sort of shock.

"It's not your fault. You did everything you could."

There was no reaction. Dean simply stood, and stared, sometimes letting the tears fall, sometimes not.

Sam moved away from the door, unable to look at himself lying there any longer. He lingered nearby, however, sometimes pacing, always keeping a sharp eye on Dean. If Dean were to do anything crazy, like attempt to shoot himself, Sam didn't know how he could prevent it.

It was over an hour that Dean stood there in the doorway between rooms. He did nothing but stare, lost in his own dark thoughts, his grief now silent and brooding. Sam's watch had stopped. He kept time by looking at Dean's.

An eternity in limbo, he decided, was going to be damn boring. No wonder so many spirits went loco and started haunting – even killing – people. Sam hadn't even been dead six hours and he was already going stir crazy. His frustration at his inability to communicate was eating at him mercilessly. He'd have given anything for a medium.

There was a sound at the door. Both of them turned, Sam quickly, Dean slowly, as if he didn't care who had come, nor what would happen to him if it were an enemy.

It was only Bobby.

"I brought you this."

Sam had to smile. Bobby remembered. When they were kids Dean's favorite had been fried chicken, greasy, fast food type fried chicken. The bucket slid across the table.

"You should eat something."

"No thanks."

Sam knew from Dean's tone things were going to go sideways. Grief had turned to anger, fueled by whiskey. Dean was on the edge. Angry, hurt, raw inside – he was searching for some way to relieve his pain. Right now, there was only one outlet. It would be turned on Bobby.

"Dean. I hate to bring this up but...don't you think it's time we...we buried Sam?"

Dean turned away, but Sam could see the tension increase across his shoulders. "No." The whiskey was in reach. He took a drink.

Sam glanced over toward his body. So did Bobby.

"Well maybe we could..."

This time Dean rounded on the older man as Sam had predicted he would, but instead of shouting his voice was soft, and cold. That was perhaps even more unnerving.

"What? Burn his corpse? No. No. Not yet."

"Dean..."

"I said not yet!"

Both Bobby and Sam flinched.

Sam frowned. "Not yet? What the Hell does that mean, not yet? Dean!" Dean turned away again, again heading for the whiskey. Sam followed him, redoubling his attempts to make contact. "DEAN! What are you going to do, then? Huh? Just let me lay there and rot? Have you gone mental?"

Bobby was treading on thin ice and he knew it. He spoke very calmly, very slowly. "Dean. I want you to come with me."

"No. I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh, that's great." Sam growled. "I swear to God if you prop me up in a chair and serve me chicken and biscuits I'll really haunt your ass."

He could only watch helplessly as the disagreement escalated. Dean's breakdown had come. Grief became anger and anger became recklessness only barely reigned in before it gave way to violence. Sam had seen this play out before when they'd lost their father. He retreated to a far corner to indulge in a bit of grieving of his own – for his father, for himself, but mostly for the one left behind. The urge to cover his ears, to drown out his brother's agony, was strong.

"Haven't I sacrificed enough?"

To Sam's relief Bobby did not react in anger. He did not abandon Dean entirely, speaking with heartfelt concern as he turned to leave...

"You know where to find me,"

When the door shut, and he was alone, Dean sat down at the table. He sat in silence, continuing to drink, until the whiskey was gone and exhaustion finally overwhelmed him. He put his head down into his arms with a sob. Sam saw his shoulders shudder. The tears, however, did not last long. Within only a few minutes he had fallen asleep, finally relieved of his pain – at least temporarily.

Sam only hoped he would not end it permanently. There was a loaded gun on the table beside the now empty whiskey bottle. It lay within inches of Dean's fingers with only two reasons why it would be there – one would be if Dean thought he would need it to protect himself from something. The other...

"Don't do it. Don't even think about it," Sam paced, trying to get his thoughts together, trying to figure out a way to make things right again. "Bobby is right. He's going to need you. The world needs you, and I don't, not anymore. Let go." He paused, feeling a glimmer of hope. "Let me go, and maybe..."

What will happen to me? I guess that's the question, isn't it? What's beyond this in-between space? Where did Dad go? Is Mom there too, waiting?

He ran his hands through his hair and reclaimed his spot on the floor. As Dean had watched him, Sam now watched Dean, the only difference being that Dean would eventually wake up again.