When they pull up next to Ellen's place, she's outside waiting for them. Goddamn Bobby; Dean is filled with gratitude. He isn't sure he has it in him to repeat the whole story.

"Finally! Get over here, you ass. Why didn't you call me right away?" Ellen wraps her arms around him, squeezing tight, but it's her hand on the back of his head that nearly does him in. There's nowhere safe, and their mother is dead. This is NOW, he reminds himself.

He thinks of Jo, of those two horrible days before Ellen found out for sure what had happened, that she was gone. He pulls away.

"Sorry I had you worried. We - - I should have called last night. Did you sleep?"

Ellen watches the Impala behind him, already distracted.

"Yeah. No. How is he? Any change?"

Dean looks down at his boots. There are dried specks of dark blood near the sole; maybe human, maybe not. Despite what you'd think, most creatures bleed the same. "He's still not speaking, not making eye contact. But last night it seemed like he... like he was looking at something. And he ate - - I mean I fed him, but-"

It sounds so pathetic now that he's said it out loud, denial at its worst.

"It's a start," he adds, and is instantly filled with self-loathing so palpable he nearly gags on it. Will you just shut the fuck up, Winchester.

Ellen walks over to the Impala's passenger side, bends down to look at Sam through the open window. Dean sees her shoulders tense before she speaks, softly.

"Hey there. You planning on getting out and sayin' hi to me like a decent person?"

Sam doesn't seem to hear her. His head is slumped to the side and his face remains blank, dull eyes staring at nothing in particular. If there was any sign of awareness last night, it's gone now; he appears as hollow as he was in the cabin. The silence that follows Ellen's question seems to last forever.

"Sam," she says, then stops.

Dean has no reassurances to offer, to Ellen or to himself. He just stands there in the sun, his head aching and his hands empty, suddenly as mute as his brother.

Ellen studies Sam's face for another moment, then reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. Her voice has the same alarming quality as Bobby's on that second call.

"Let's get you inside."

Sam follows Dean once prompted, getting up the steps slowly. They've only been to Ellen's current home once, a fact for which she never fails to scold them whenever one of them calls for advice. Sam took the few stairs in one or two jumps then - not really a challenge when you're a giraffe, as Dean was quick to point out, but still. The younger Winchester was excited to see Ellen's library, a fact which also provided Dean with material for his Nerds Will Be Nerds routine as he headed straight for the fridge in search of beer. Ellen nearly slapped him upside the head for his bad manners, telling him he wasn't at Bobby's and to "keep his goddamn hands to himself for one goddamn minute."

It hurts to watch Sam now, as he obediently shuffles into the house, oblivious to Ellen's hand on his back guiding him past the living room – past all those bookshelves – towards the kitchen table.

"Hey."

Ellen's voice is sharp, and Dean blinks. He realizes he's wandered over to the old fridge, is leaning heavily against its scratched surface.

"You doin' okay?"

He nods, suddenly embarrassed. "Yeah, it's, I'm just - - "

His head is throbbing, and the last 24 hours seem to be catching up with him since the moment he got out of the car. He squints uneasily and stands up straight. "Just tired, is all. 'm fine."

Ellen shakes her head, keeping her eyes on him as she herds Sam towards a chair.

"A-ha. Well, I'll get some food into you in a minute, and then you're gonna go lie down for a while, because you look like week-old roadkill. But I'm sure you're fine. Hang on, okay?"

Dean nods, wordless again. He watches Sam's face as his brother lowers himself into the chair at Ellen's prompting. Sam's gaze seems so far away and lost that something in Dean's chest tightens painfully, so hard he can feel muscle coil around bruised ribs. He swallows, blinks hard.

The feeling of being lost is a memory that's all too easily accessible; the bitter, ashy taste always on his tongue in purgatory (he later thought it might have been hunger or adrenaline or both, though he doesn't recall ever actually missing food there). The drums of panic beating behind his eyes, loud and wholly independent of his heartbeat, separate from the high-pitched note of blood singing in his ears. He wonders if Sam is feeling the same things, and finds himself hoping that he is, because the thought of the calm surface of his brother's expressionless face hiding nothing and no one is beyond what he is able to comprehend.

"There. Good, Sam. Thank you." Ellen gently squeezes Sam's knee as he leans back in the chair and lets his hands drop to his sides, and Dean knows exactly what she is doing; he remembers a documentary he and Sam half-watched one night in a motel room while they were cleaning their guns, something about the way longtime POW's are sometimes treated on their first days back – every willful action addressed to re-teach a battered body and an abused mind the concept of choice.

He shudders.

The phone rings, but Ellen ignores it. "Has he been eating? Drinking?"

Dean frowns.

"What? 'Course."

"I mean, has he initiated that? You said 'I fed him.' I know he eats when he's told, but - - "

Dean watches the ground intently.

"He ate and drank some when I told him that he could. But I had to get the fork up to his mouth, and the cup, too, otherwise he wouldn't budge. I don't think he remembers."

Ellen frowns. "Remembers what?"

"That he can do that stuff. And that he... I don't know, that he's here. He doesn't really LOOK at things, except for a couple minutes last night, and even then, he wouldn't look at me. I think he was staring at something across the room. I don't know where he is in his head."

Ellen nods. "What'd he eat?"

Dean chews on his lip before he answers, sounding so unexpectedly young and apologetic she is taken aback.

"Some - - some pie."

She studies his face, thinks about Dean's years of feeding his kid brother cereal in motel rooms, about John's long hunts and late mornings after Mary.

"Long as he kept it down, we're good. I can cook something more nutritious today, and we'll see how it goes." She hesitates.

"And... the rest? I mean, uh - - hygiene?"

Dean sighs.

"He can take care of pretty much everything if you talk him through it. I yelled instructions from outside the bathroom."

"You - - what?"

He snorts. "Not going in there with him."

Ellen smiles in spite of herself. "Okay. Not gonna push you on that one."

The phone rings again. Dean gestures towards Sam. "I got him. You better take the call, might be important."

It's Bobby, with zero good news. Most spells do end when the person who casts them dies, which of course she knew; either way, by all accounts, Sam should be fine by now. So no answers, just more evidence to suggest that they're in over their heads.

When she hangs up and gets back to the kitchen, Dean is seated next to Sam, talking to him quietly. She hears "promise" and "please", spoken with a softness that isn't meant for her ears, and she has to unclench her fists before she opens her mouth to speak. "So – "

Dean turns to look at her, his face so tired and pale and his eyes so haunted that saying what she has to say hurts even more.

"Bobby doesn't know what's causing this. He's tried everything, but he's out of ideas."

Dean nods. He says nothing, just places his hand on the top of his brother's head, watches unfocused eyes staring into the middle distance. Ellen wants to cry for the Winchesters, but that would not be appreciated. She suspects it would drive Dean right out the door, dragging Sam along with him.

So, instead, she pulls up a chair and says nothing, her thoughts drifting. Neither of John's boys ever knew what to do with themselves when faced with her attempts to take care of them - especially Dean, maybe because he actually remembers Mary, keeps that space in his heart sealed. Sam has always been more open, painfully so, the way children missing a parent they never knew sometimes are without realizing it.

But need doesn't mean familiarity; the look in his eyes whenever she wrapped her arms around him, or insisted that he take some food on his way out, was always one of blank surprise. Like being casually cared for wasn't something he could process. Even when John was alive - especially when John was alive, though she did love the man - there was no one to teach him that except his brother. Dean didn't even have that much once Mary was gone, and he never betrays any sign of anger at that particular injustice. But she does know with chilling certainty that he can't survive without his brother – she would never tell Sam about what happened when he left for Stanford, and Dean would swallow his own tongue before ever letting on how thoroughly destroyed he truly was back then. Certainly not after what they've been through in recent years. The younger Winchester's attempt to run was useless anyway, forgiven anyway.

Sam's empty eyes across the table are impossible to look at when she thinks about that.

"Sweetie," she says, careful not to step too close and break the brothers' personal bubble, not while Dean is trying to come to grips with the absence of Sam, "how about you take a shower and maybe rest for a bit? I'm here, and you know you can trust me to watch him. I won't even turn my back while I make coffee, okay? I'll watch him like a hawk. You just go."

Dean begins to shake his head no, sees the look on her face, hesitates.

"Go, Dean," she says, leaving no room for argument.

Miraculously, he gets up.

"I'm just gonna wash up real quick and come back," he says, as much for Sam's benefit as for hers. "Give me five minutes."

She knows he'll make it in three. "You go do that."

Dean squeezes his brother's shoulder before he leaves the room.

"Be right back, Sammy. Better not talk Ellen's ear off while I'm gone."

He doesn't look back as he makes his way to the bathroom, and she knows it's because he won't be able to keep moving if he does. His shoulders are stiff as he disappears down the hallway. A few moments later she hears the shower running.

Sam's breathing suddenly hitches; Ellen wonders if he knows Dean isn't there. Probably wishful thinking. The vacant stare doesn't change as she talks to him softly, sits down next to him to brush an errant strand of hair away from his eyes. "He'll be back in a minute, okay? I'm here with you. Sam? It's - it's Ellen, honey. I'm here."

She isn't sure what makes her reach over and take his wrist to feel his pulse, maybe just instinct, but she does.

His heart is racing.

She opens her mouth to call for Dean, but somehow she doesn't; instead she just holds Sam's hand in hers, gently squeezing to remind him that she's there. See, we're okay, we're good.

Sam blinks, then blinks again, tilting his head a little. He doesn't make eye contact, staring at the sink instead. His eyes roll slowly up and down, like he's fighting sleep. Something is pulling him under.

Ellen hates the way her voice shakes. "Sam, can you hear me? Hey."

Sam doesn't turn his gaze to her or give any indication that her voice is registering at all. His eyes drift across the kitchen, like he's trying to assess where he is but can't quite process what he's seeing.

"Sam," she says more forcefully, taking his face in her hands. "Sam, try to focus. You can hear me, right? You're at my house with Dean. Come on, now. Look at me."

Another long, slow blink.

"Sam, look at me. I'm right here." She presses her palm against his cheek."Do you know where you are? Come on, sweetie. You can do this. Talk to me."

Sam's eyes don't meet hers, but he sags in his chair, his face impossibly pale and small despite his size. He moves his head from side to side in what she thinks might be an attempt at saying no no no, and his eyes seem different now, not so much empty as - -

It suddenly occurs to her that she and Dean and Bobby have all been wrong.

Sam isn't lost. He's been hiding.

He hasn't been fighting to come back, hasn't been struggling for a way out of whatever mental wasteland they assumed he's stranded in; Sam is running for his life. That is fear she recognizes on his exhausted face, nothing other than pure terror, buried deep and clawing its way up the more they push against his surface.

Sam twitches as she shakily, hurriedly says, "it's okay. It's okay, you don't have to talk. I'm sorry. Shhh, okay."

She watches the color slowly return to his face as she lets go of his hand, and for some reason she thinks of Jo. Not that she ever needed a reason.

"I think consciousness is a threat to him," she tells Dean after he rushes in and sees - though she suspects he had already felt - the change in his brother. It doesn't last long; Sam appears to recede back into himself less than a minute later, once again vacant and unresponsive as they sit by him, Dean's hand on his knee. "See? His pulse is down. He was sweating, too, and now he isn't. He's not in distress."

Dean looks right at her, which he hasn't done since entering the house. His bloodshot eyes look like they must burn.

"Why would he - - "

He stops himself, turns back to look at his brother.

"Sam?"

Next chapter: Sam's POV. I'll be moving between his and the others' after this.

A voice in his ear now, in his head. It feels like it's emanating from his own cells, echoing through him the way wind tears through a dark, empty tunnel. He is hollow, his lights are out; were there lights to begin with? It feels like he was always this, waiting. Empty.

He listens.