A/N: Hope you enjoy the next installment!

All the Little Children
Chapter Two

They'd spent a whole day and the better part of an evening trying to determine if Sullivan might be connected to someone with psychic abilities. Eric Sullivan hadn't worked with any twenty-three or twenty-four-year-olds. He had no hidden, illegitimate children. No nieces or nephews, blood related or through marriage. Hell, even the barista at the café where he usually picked up his morning coffee was well into her thirties. If she had fit the bill, apparently the man had stood out as a really great tipper and all around nice guy; she had appeared genuinely sad over his death. Nothing about him spoke to anything other than randomness. There was no impetus for the killing. Of course, they were assuming a similar mindset and mentality to Andy's long lost evil twin, because they had nothing else to go on. Still, Sullivan had never wronged anyone in large or small fashion.

All of those dead ends brought them to the van.

Sam had a very strong feeling Sullivan's death had been a lure to get them (him) to Lawrence, the value of a human life diminished to that. He rubbed at his temples surreptitiously, barely listening the conversation Dean was having with the parking garage shift supervisor. He couldn't get rid of his headache any more than he could get any of this to make sense. Andy had died months ago. There was no way a van with such distinctive artwork would go unnoticed for that long. A quick search of the vehicle revealed nothing inside had changed, barring a few new books and a missing bong. He refocused his attention to the here and now.

"Like we explained on the phone earlier, this is just a routine check, ma'am," Dean was saying to the tall, defensive-looking woman. "We want to make sure protocol is followed, that things are running smoothly here."

"I assure you," Sally, according to her nametag, said, "We do it all by the books. Our security system does all the work, so even the monkeys I work with can handle things. It records and backs up everything online."

"How long do you keep the feeds?" Sam said seriously. She looked frazzled, making him almost feel bad for putting her to the false test.

"Uh. We're supposed to clean them up once a week or so, unless there's an incident, you know, like we had the other, uh, night. But…."

"But you don't."

"As easy as it is, it's a pain in the ass to get anyone to cooperate with that particular rule. It's not like we don't have tons of space in the memory," Sally said, clearly embarrassed that she had to admit any breach in policy immediately after stating they followed rules.

Sam smiled at her, trying to show that he and Dean understood and weren't holding anything against her.

"It probably only happens once a month."

"That's all right, don't worry about it. You're right about having ample space," Sam said easily. "Do you mind if I take a look? I'd like to test and make sure all the cameras are functioning properly."

"Be my guest. They are, but if you want to see for yourself, that's cool. Let me get you into the system."

"Thanks."

"No problem. Oh, here's a car." She pointed. "You guys all right alone for a second?"

"We're fine, Sally," Dean said with a charming smile. "It's good to see you're so diligent."

Sally smiled back at him, blushing slightly.

Sam rolled his eyes and waited until she'd turned away to start working. He searched quickly, knowing what he was looking for and how to find it. He counted on the parking attendants to be less computer savvy than he was. Even if they'd dumped the feeds like they were supposed to, it was possible they hadn't completely wiped the cache. Bingo. He and Dean finally had a stroke of luck – the format was one he could use without much effort. He singled out the footage from the fourth floor cameras and traced it back nearly three whole months. That was all he could get. He hoped it would be enough. With a few quick keystrokes, he emailed to himself what he needed and backed out of the system.

"Everything good?" Sally said, returning her attention to Dean and, as an afterthought, Sam.

Dean looked over to him, and he nodded in return.

"Perfect. We really appreciate how cooperative you've been, Sally," Dean said.

Sally blushed again and Sam rolled his eyes again.

"Just one more question, though. How long do you let vehicles stay parked in the garage?"

"Well, most people are in and out same day, but there's a two-day maximum for any spot not leased. That is a rule we do enforce."

"Huh," he and Dean said simultaneously. Sam cleared his throat, and continued, "What about the van on the fourth level? I noticed it on the recordings for more than a few nights."

"What van?" Sally blinked at them.

Sam exchanged a raised-eyebrow with Dean, then looked back to Sally. The woman seemed genuinely confused and clueless about what they referred to. Sam gave her another smile, though for some reason his head started hurting more.

Sally started to smile back slowly. "Oh, I get it. You're trying to fool with me. Good one. Van on the fourth level, hah."

"We can't sneak anything past you," Dean said.

"Keep up the good work," Sam added.

Sally nodded at them absently, distracted by another exiting car.

Sam's mind raced. She really had no idea about the van. He wondered if it were possible for someone to make people not see what was right in front of them. It could be as simple as casting a glamour, but Sam didn't think they were looking at ordinary witchcraft. He and Dean could see the van. By the time they got to the car, Sam was fairly well worked up. He knew Dean would call him on it if he wasn't careful.

"Okay, she really had no idea what we were talking about," Dean said, "Did she?"

"No. The van must be masked somehow."

"Then why can we see it?"

Déjà vu.

"I don't know, Dean, but it has to mean something." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "I just have no idea what."

"Man, this thing is getting weird."

"Because our lives are otherwise so normal," Sam said dryly.

Dean snorted once, and then they fell quiet. There wasn't a whole lot to say until they could take a look at the footage. When they got back to the room they'd booked after finding the van last night, Sam headed straight for the laptop. He hoped the tape would give them something to work with, like maybe a shot of whoever had driven the van into the garage. Actually, he first hoped that the van would show up on the video at all. It seemed impossible that no one had seen it and reported it, not just the employees but also the people who frequently used the garage. Dean stood behind him as he pulled up the feed, starting with the oldest date.

"It's not there."

"No kidding. Fast forwarding," Sam said.

He chewed on the inside of his lip and watched the screen closely. He paused a couple of times, mistaking another vehicle for the one they were looking for. Minute after minute after minute went by and he started to worry that the van would never show up or that for some reason they wouldn't be able to see it.

"Stop. Stop. There it is," Dean said, jabbed a finger at the screen.

Sam let the video resume normal speed. They watched as the van was driven slowly into the parking space, backing in and out several times before the driver apparently found his job satisfactory. A kid – who looked remarkably like the owner of the vehicle, Sam noted with a cringe – strolled around to the back door. For a minute all that could be seen were legs, one of them lifting off the ground every once in a while. Finally, the guy emerged with Andy's giant bong. Then he shut the door and walked away. That explained the mystery of the missing bong. Sam tried for a clear shot of the guy. Luckily, the cameras were digital, making the images pretty crisp. He hit pause when the man's face was mostly visible.

"Now that is just plain freaky." Dean sounded a bit shaken, something Sam hadn't heard in his brother's voice in a long time. Well, aside from back in that bar's disgusting bathroom. "Tell me I'm not the only one who thinks that looks just like Andy. What's the date on this?"

"It's after Andy was already dead." Sam mentally flashed back to Cold Oak, Andy on the floor, a mess of blood and gore. Poor Andy. "There's no way it's him."

"I knew it, but it's just … damn. Someone is messing with our heads, right? The question is why."

He had no answer for that, or not one he wanted to say out loud. This was about him. It had to be. The more details they uncovered, the unhappier Sam was to have Dean so close to danger. This kid couldn't hurt him unless he let his guard down, which he'd never do again after Jake, but Dean was an easy target. Sam frowned. There was no way he'd talk Dean into taking a backseat now. His brother had never been one to give up a fight, not when it came to the day-to-day anyway. Sam wasn't sure Dean still didn't harbor a fatalistic view of his own life; for a time after his deal with the demon had been revealed, Dean had all but embraced the idea of dying. When Dean had finally stopped being so painfully overt about it, Sam was grateful on one hand, but on the other he maintained his worry. A Dean ready to give up on life in any degree wasn't a Dean he knew.

"I mean, it's too dramatic," Dean said. "As weird as it is, it's also stupid. We know what we're up against and the vision was enough to get us here. The van alone is over the top, but the clone is just ridiculous."

Sam had to agree. It did smack of ha-ha, look what I can do, which fit into Azazel's own attitude and might have been handed down to his trainees.

"But still, that guy has to know something. He parked the van," he mused with a nod, and squinted at the Andy doppelganger on the screen. "It looks like he's wearing a uniform. Let me see if I can zoom in a little."

"Dude, he works at the parking garage. Can you catch his nametag?"

"It looks like … something something CK."

"Fuck."

"Funny. Jack, maybe? Dack? Mack?"

"I'll call Sally."

Sam bobbed his head again, leaned back in the chair and stretched. He'd been hunched over more than he thought, his muscles tense and his eyes slightly dry. He heard Dean flirting on the phone with Sally and headed for the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, hoping it would help him focus. His mind was still filled with images of Sullivan's death, of thoughts he didn't like about things he thought he'd never have to face again.

He'd tried reasoning with Jake and all it had gotten him was a knife in the back. He didn't feel remorse about killing Jake, knew he could kill again, knew he'd have to, and it was the certainty of those things that freaked him out the most. They hadn't ruled out other possibilities, but if whatever was behind all of this truly was someone like him, that meant it was just a person. Sam didn't think he'd ever hesitate because of that again. He eyed his reflection in the mirror. He didn't look any different. Mostly, he didn't feel different. But, mostly, he was.

"Hey, Princess, going to hang out in there all night?" Dean called through the door. "Sally said the guy's name is Buck Zeise, works the swing shift tomorrow. Unusual name, should be easy to track down. We'll catch up with him in the morning. I'm sure we can find a bar around here somewhere, knock back a few tonight; relax a little. What do you say?"

"Sure," Sam said.

He ran a wet hand through his hair and reached for a towel. Something warm dripped on his upper lip. Sam looked back into the mirror, caught sight of a trail of thick blood trickling from his nose. He cursed and reached for the toilet tissue, blood spattering as he moved. He pinched the bridge of his nose. The bleeding stopped after a few seconds, but for some reason Sam was shaky.

"Sometime tonight, man?" Dean said.

Sam rinsed the sink, cleaned up his face and tucked the bloodied tissue into his pocket. One quick check in the mirror and he opened the door, faking normal expertly.

*

The neighborhood wasn't bad, filled with older homes and dated apartment buildings. Dean pointed at the duplex. They jogged up the steps and knocked on the door on the left. From out on the porch, they heard muffled curses and a few thuds. When the door finally opened a crack, it revealed a bleary-eyed man who squinted when the daylight hit his eyes. At about five-six, two hundred pounds, with thin blond hair, Buck Zeise looked nothing like Andy Gallagher.

Dean had half expected the image they'd seen had been manipulated somehow, but it was still strange. He was mostly relieved; he didn't think either he or Sam would have been able to handle even a passing resemblance. Dean had genuinely liked Andy. Some very small part of him was actually disappointed there wasn't a resemblance, even if he wouldn't have been able to take it.

"Buck Zeise?"

"Like, that depends. Who are you and what do you want?" Buck drawled at them. He gave a dopey grin.

If there had ever been any question about why Buck took the giant bong from Andy's van, it had just been answered. He sounded a lot like Shaggy from Scooby Doo and had a stoner's sloppy glow radiating off him. Regrettably, so did an unpleasant mixture of marijuana and body odor. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam take a slight step backward. Dean thought this conversation was probably going to be a whole barrel of laughs, and hoped like hell Buck was a functional pothead.

"I'm Detective Rather and this is Detective Cronkite. You can call me Detective, and you can call him Walter," Dean said, aiming a thumb at his brother. He could sense Sam's urge to smack him. He bit back a grin. "Do you have a few minutes, Buck? We're interviewing all employees at the Eighth and Vermont parking garage about the incident the other night."

"Oh, man, again?"

"We need to be thorough," Sam said.

"Yeah, okay, man. You're just not the guys who I talked to before. I was working that night. Poor dude," Buck said with a grimace. He didn't ask for ID, just stepped to the side and waved them in. "C'mon in."

Sometimes it was absurdly easy to get into homes. He and Sam flashed their fake badges anyway.

It came as no surprise that the duplex was a mess. Buck had to knock two pizza boxes and some junk mail off of the sofa before Dean and Sam could sit. Sam teetered uncomfortably on the edge. For a guy who spent life on the road in dingy motel rooms and dirty clothes, Sam was really prissy. Dean took the chance to give Buck a closer look. They'd thought maybe, just maybe, Buck would end up being the special kid they were looking for. Like things ever came that easily for them. No, Buck looked to be in his late thirties, and quite possibly too influenced by pot to let some evil yellow-eyed son of a bitch harsh his mellow. Just like Andy, Dean thought, unhappily making a connection between the two.

"I don't know what else I can tell you. I was on a smoke break when all of a sudden this guy busted up on the sidewalk. I mean, splat."

Buck didn't look troubled at all by that memory, but Sam's face took on the classic pinched expression telling Dean he was reliving the events of his vision once more. He knew deep down it was jacked up for him to find some amount of relief at Sam's pain, and that it wasn't a small amount. He wanted to feel bad about it, but he just couldn't. Any sign Sam gave now that he was still his Sam was something Dean really needed.

"The guy must have been nuts."

"Suicidal people generally have some problems with mental health," Sam said softly. "That doesn't make them nuts."

"No, man. That's just it, he didn't sound particularly depressed," Buck refuted. "I'm telling you, the guy was singing freaking R. Kelly at the top of his lungs until he went, y'know…."

"Splat," Dean said.

"It was like he was happy to plant his face on concrete. And who the hell goes around singing R. Kelly? Freaking nuts."

Sam had neglected to include the singing tidbit. Dean glanced over to his brother, who avoided looking at him. He frowned, though it probably didn't matter that much. He couldn't help but wonder if there was anything else Sam might have omitted. Though even if there were, it wasn't like Dean could call him on it. Somewhere along the way, they'd both started telling lies. Hell, apparently no one in the world told lies with as much skill as their father. They'd learned from the best without even knowing they were studying.

"You said you were on a smoke break." Sam paused for an affirmative nod. "Was that regular tobacco or…?"

Buck blinked a couple of times, his eyelids out of sync with each other. He looked like a giant, grubby guppy. That might have been funny to Dean once, but it was just somewhat gross and disconcerting now. Sam's prissy ways had rubbed off on him a little.

"What, like, are you implying, dude … er, Walter?"

"Cut the crap, Buck," Dean said. "We could smell the marijuana from half a block away. We're not all that interested in what you do on your own time and we're not here to bust you."

"Oookay," Buck said. "I don't smoke at work. I could get fired. No job, no money. No money, no recreational activities."

That made sense. It was downright logical, in fact. Dean thought of Andy again, the boy genius who apparently found it preferable to live a stoned life than to maximize his brainpower. He'd bet Andy would approve of Buck owning and getting lots of use out of his bong. He smiled to himself.

"Tell us, Buck, have you been to Oklahoma lately?"

"No." Buck looked puzzled, and Dean couldn't blame him. Sam hadn't segued at all with that one. "I thought you guys were here to ask me about the suicide guy."

"We're following up on a lead," Dean said, hoping like hell that would be a good enough explanation for the strange shift in questions. "Several months ago, you drove a van with Oklahoma plates into the garage and parked it. It's still there, or it was until we impounded it."

Sam looked at him. He shrugged. So neither they nor the police had impounded the van. They couldn't have Buck going to the garage to see for himself, and run into an invisible hunk of metal.

"That can't be right. I've never even been to Oklahoma."

"Okay, fair enough, but someone else could have driven it to Kansas, yeah? But you're on the surveillance camera feed from the garage," Sam said. "We saw you park the vehicle, take something – and I think you know what – from it and walk away."

Buck stared at Sam open mouthed. His placid demeanor was almost gone, except now he was just plain stupefied. Dean was sure they wouldn't get anything helpful out of the guy; like Sally had been about the van, he appeared baffled by it all. When Andy had messed with his head, Dean had known it was happening and sure as hell remembered it after the fact. Whoever the punk they were after this time was, he was a big threat. It made Dean nervous. Very, very nervous.

"You're being serious," Buck said. He frowned, still looking at Sam oddly. "You have to believe me…. I don't know how that's possible, man."

"You have no memory of how you came into possession of the world's biggest bong, do you?" Dean said.

Buck finally pulled his gaze from Sam and looked at Dean, but only for a second. His attention returning to Sam for some reason, with fleeting, anxious glances now and again.

"You took it from the van. Think, Buck. Think about it. Maybe you'll remember something."

Buck nodded, scrunching his brows together in concentration. Dean barely refrained from telling the guy not to hurt himself. Sam leaned forward a little and then Buck made a very strange sound, almost a groan, which made Dean think maybe he really had hurt himself thinking. He frowned. Buck scrambled to his feet, arms waving a little.

"Dude, uh," he said. "Detective, something's wrong with Walter."

Dean shot a look over to Sam. His brother's face was partially obscured by his hair, but what was visible was alabaster, so pale his veins shone bluely through the skin. The utter lack of color made the blood streaming from his nose all the more vivid. Dean lunged toward Sam, who groaned again, swayed and then just went scarily limp. He was on the floor, face first into filthy carpet, before Dean had even moved an inch.

"I'll call for help."

"No, don't," Dean had the wherewithal to bark. His knees hit the floor, and he wrestled at Sam's shoulders. "Just give us a minute here."

"What should I do?"

"I don't know. Get water or something."

Buck stumbled away. Dean managed to flip Sam first onto his side and then onto his back; his limbs were heavy and lifeless. He shook Sam slightly, reached for his face and gave a little slap to his cheeks. Nothing. Sam was completely, scarily unresponsive. He looked dead. Dean's heart beat staccato with panic. He shook Sam again, horrified at the way his brother's head wobbled, leaving a messy blood trail along his pale skin and into his hair.

"Sam," he said more with more firmness than he felt. "Sam."

Sam remained completely limp and out of it. Dean hated to do it, knowing firsthand how uncomfortable it was, but he rubbed his knuckles along Sam's sternum. That, finally, got a response – a deep, throaty moan and slight head turn. It wasn't nearly enough, considering the discomfort the action should have produced. Still, a small reaction was better than continued stillness. Dean swiped at the blood on Sam's cheek. All it did was make the red smear worse.

"I have water."

Dean looked up at Buck, who fidgeted at the door separating the kitchen from the living area. The guy looked almost as pasty as Sam, which only accentuated his greasiness.

Buck held up the water glass, and then also raised his other hand. "And paper towels."

"Well, bring them over," Dean said. When Buck didn't budge, he gestured. "Now would be good."

"What's going on with him?"

"Don't worry, he's not contagious."

Buck stayed in the doorway. Irritated, Dean gestured again, this time rudely, and returned his full attention to his brother. Beyond the initial moan, Sam hadn't shown any other signs of waking. It had probably only been about two minutes since he collapsed, about a minute and a half too long without substantial improvement. He could see Sam was breathing, but checked his pulse anyway. He found it unsurprisingly rapid, and that Sam's skin was clammy. Buck's feet appeared in his line of sight.

"Are you sure we shouldn't call an ambulance?"

Honestly, Dean wasn't sure at all, but he didn't answer. He just wanted Sam to wake the hell up already and to get out of there. He took the glass of water and paper towels. He tore off a sheet, dunking it into the glass. He used the damp sheet to dab at the blood. Hoping the water would arouse Sam as well as clean him up, he let a few drips hit his brother's forehead. No movement.

"Come on, Sam," he said under his breath.

To say he was freaked out was the understatement of the century. Dean slapped Sam's cheeks gently, splashing more water on his forehead. Sam reacted with a feeble turn of his head and this time didn't resume his stillness. His eyelids fluttered a few times, and his fingers started twitching. It wasn't much, but at that point it was a whole hell of a lot to Dean.

"I thought you said his name was Walter," Buck said slowly.

"I told you to call him Walter, not that his name was Walter," Dean said, sparing Buck a glance.

"Oh. Right." Buck still looked vaguely confused and horrified. "Is he going to be okay?"

"Yeah, this happens from time to time. It's no big deal."

That was a particularly bad lie. Buck didn't say anything else, but shot a look at Sam and cringed. When Dean looked back down, Sam's eyes were open a crack and, from what he could see, glassy and vacant. His heart feeling like it was lodged in his throat, Dean leaned close to his brother. Sam's eyes didn't track him at all.

"Sam? Hey." For long moments, there was nothing and then Sam blinked. On the inside, Dean melted with relief. On the outside, he grasped Sam's shoulder and hoped his brother understood just how scared he was. "You back with me?"

Sam said something that sounded like mmmph and could mean any number of things, but which Dean read as no, not really. As much as he wanted to give Sam time to recover from the worst vision experience ever, Dean was aware of Buck hovering in the room. They couldn't really delve into whatever Sam had seen that made him fall like eroding sand while he was lying, face still covered in drying, sticky blood, on some stoner's dirty living room floor. He wished they had gotten something out of their discussion with Buck. It would have been a small victory, but at least he'd have more to show for it than a broken brother.

"Buck, do you mind?" He gestured for the guy to get Sam's other side. "I don't think he'll be able to stand, but I want to get him to the car and then we'll be out of your hair."

Buck nodded and twitched a few times. Dean figured the second they were out of his house, the guy would hit the bong again. He kind of envied the escape. Alcohol and women were his drugs of choice, and lately even they were more temporary stopgaps than usual. Half the time he wasn't even sure if he was trying to live his short life to its fullest, avoid thinking about dying or to escape Sam's worrying by boozing and whoring. It was probably a mix of all three, with a bit of desperate hope Sam would give up his quest to save him tossed in. He shook himself out of his miserable reverie. Buck crouched next to Sam, looking ready to pass out himself when he looked at the small smear of blood on the carpet.

"Really, he's okay. Low blood sugar, that's all," Dean said. He needed the guy's help, and wasn't going to get it unless Buck shaped up. "On three. One, two, three."

It wasn't easy to control a six foot four, limp and damned heavy body. Their attempts were hindered by Buck's short stature and general lack of fitness as much as they were by getting no help from Sam. Sam did, however, mutter some more once he was upright (if it could be called that), which was a good sign overall but the content Dean could make out was troublesome. Judging from Buck's faltering when Sam let out a distinguishable word or simple plaintive cries for something to stop, he heard them, too. Fortunately, they were a little too busy for Buck to demand clarification. Chances were Buck wanted them gone more than he wanted to know what was really going on.

Five minutes of pushing, prodding and tripping later, they finally got Sam to the car. It felt like longer. Dean could see Buck shaking from the exertion. Shoving a floppy person in the back was slightly easier than trying to fold him into the front seat, so that was what Dean opted for even though it meant he might lose visual on his brother during the drive to the motel. It had never been like this. Sam used to just go into a vision and come out fighting.

Sam's head thumped on the edge of the car door, eliciting a soft moan but nothing more. His brother did seem to have more motor control, helping to slide himself onto the seat. It had been nearly fifteen minutes since his collapse, so the effort was way too small of an achievement. Dean made sure Sam's legs were tucked inside before he shut the door. He had to keep pretenses with Buck, but all he wanted to do was drive.

"Thanks for your help," he said. Dean pulled out a fake business card. "I'm going to give you my direct line. If you remember…."

"Actually," Buck said, taking the card. "I do. Kind of. It's not much, but I think I remember some kid."

Dean bent slightly and looked at Sam's crumpled form, heartened to see him move. He didn't know if he wanted to stick around for Buck's story, but he couldn't take the chance the guy had something important to tell him. Sam shifting around slightly gave him a small amount of peace.

"You think?"

"Yeah, man. It's the weirdest thing. I don't remember that van you guys were talking about, but the bong … some kid pulled up to the booth in the van and said I could have what was in the back if I did what he wanted."

"Did this kid have a name? What did he look like?"

"Young. Too young to drive legally, I think. Maybe, like, twelve or something." Buck looked relieved to have something to focus on other than Sam. "When I try to remember anything else, it's like … it feels like someone's scooped out my brain with a giant scoopy thing and then stuffed it back in."

Dean knew that feeling. He frowned. The new information wasn't exactly groundbreaking, but it was something. Or nothing at all, really. Some days Sam looked like a twelve-year-old, and that was to people who weren't stoned. Like Buck probably was all the time.

"That all?"

"Yeah," Buck said. He looked deflated, unhappy he couldn't recall anything else. Buck looked into the backseat, at Sam. "Tell Walter or Sam or whatever his name is that I hope he feels better."

"I will. Thanks, Buck, you've been a big help."

Dean clapped Buck on the shoulder and moved around to the driver's side. Buck stood on the sidewalk and watched as Dean started the car and drove away. Dean glanced in the rearview mirror, tilting it so it was pointed more at the backseat than the street. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know what his brother had seen, but he was positive he would rather drive them the hell out of Lawrence than stick around to find out. Sam shifted, and shakily sat up, with his eyes still mostly closed. Dean clenched his jaw. Yeah, how he wished he could leave the whole frigging state of Kansas in the dust.