Second chapter, hopefully you'll enjoy-tell your friends! Any feedback is appreciated. Not quite as mature in this one.

Something cool was lying atop Dean's forehead. It was soft and juicy, the occasional water droplet leaking from his temple, down his neck and pooling along his collarbone. The sensation was uncomfortable. Dean tried to shrug his shoulder to disperse the gathered puddle, but it stubbornly remained where it was. Groaning with agitation, he brought his left arm across and brushed it away, forcing his eyes open in the process.

The dingy, cracked ceiling of the motel room stared mockingly back at him. A moment of anger flared up within him; he just wanted to break the plaster in half for laughing at him the way it did. Balling his hands into fists, the last thing he remembered suddenly flooded rudely back to him.

"Dean! You're awake!" A smart, southern drawl spoke from the far side of the room. Bobby's head popped into view over him, his eyes bright. A rough, calloused hand was clapped to Dean's face as Bobby's mouth broke into a wide grin.

"Bobby? What's goin' on?" Dean raised his other hand and swiped the cloth off his head. "Am I feverish?" He looked at the white towel—compliments of the motel, of course—with some disdain. Tossing it away, he covered his eyes with the same hand.

"Ah, no," Bobby answered. "But you were awfully flushed so I figured…" he cleared his throat awkwardly. "But, uh, I should be asking you what's going on.

Snickering to himself, Dean tried to sit up, but immediately stopped. An intense pain was coursing through his lower half, fully intent on blinding him, it seemed. He cried out a little, settling back onto his pillow where the world didn't want to spin. "Where's Sam? You see him?"

Shaking his head, Bobby answered, "he wasn't here when I got here."

Dean sighed. "When did you get here?" he was going to play it off, even if the older man had found him the way Dean thought he did.

"Uh—about an hour ago. When you didn't show up at the restaurant I came looking for you. Found the hotel manager in the process." Bobby smiled and shook his head again. "Said you were late on check-out. No—don't," Dean started to get up, but a strong, gentle hand on his chest pushed him back down. "Don't worry. I took care of him. But…that still doesn't explain what happened." Mustering up his most stern look, he waited for the young man to answer.

"I was attacked," answered the Winchester, clearing his throat.

"Attacked? By who?"

"I-I don't know—I didn't get a good look at him." Eyes cast down Dean refused to acknowledge the fact that Sam, of all people, had been the one who attacked him. Well, ravaged was probably the better word.

"Do you think it has something to do with the investigation?" Bobby asked, glancing nervously around the room like someone was going to burst through the window.

"No," he said a little too quickly. Dean cleared his throat again. "No, I don't but uh…what did you find?"

"Um," clapping his hands together, Bobby rose and walked to the window. He pulled aside the curtain and peered out for a brief moment. "Well, it seems rather clear-cut that you're dealing with a banshee. House was built by Irish immigrants, very superstitious people and I haven't found anything else that makes the horrific noise you described. The only thing that doesn't make sense is the killings themselves. Banshee's don't do the actual deed, they just warn of it."

Closing his eyes and nodding, Dean took a deep breath; holding, it he sat up and swung his legs out of bed in one motion, wanting to take the pain like that of a Band-Aid. He let his breath out sharply through his nose, gripping the sides of the mattress hard. "Right. Well, thanks for your help, Bobby, but I think I got it from here." Unsteadily, Dean rose, walking as slowly and gingerly as he could to the bathroom. He used the doorframe for support as he shut the door behind him.

"You sure, Dean?" You don't look so good—maybe I should wait 'til Sam gets back…"

"No! No…he'll-he'll be back soon, Bobby. I got this. Screamin' chicks ain't nothing' I can't handle, huh?" he tried to put a smile on his face to make his tone sound convincing enough for Bobby. Their dad's friend had been more than kind enough by helping out, but now he needed to go. Dean thought the matter was a little too personal for the man to get involved with, anyway. He could hear Bobby hesitate right outside the door.

"You sure you're okay? What if they come back before Sam does?"

"Don't worry. I think they got what they wanted the first time around." Dean swallowed hard when he said that, pushing the dull ache of his lower body to the back of his mind.

"Alright…just—call me if you need me, okay?"

"Don't we always?"

There was a soft chuckle. "Take care, Dean." A few muffled footsteps later and the door was opened and then shut again.

A sigh of relief escaped him. Bobby had probably already helped a little too much, judging from the fact that his pants were properly buttoned and resting on his hips once more. Saying that he was grateful the man had saved him some dignity by not mentioning anything was an understatement.

Anger flashed through him and he did everything he could to quell it. Something told him that Sam was just not himself.

Stripping down carefully so as to not agonize himself any more than was absolutely necessary, Dean turned the shower on. Waiting for the water to turn hot and then stepping in, he reveled in the soothing feeling.

Sam was so eager to die…there was no way that could have been him in there. Possession, maybe? Blackmail? An alien chip in his head? When could any of that have happened? I've been with him the entire time. A million unknowns raced through his head, each one more absurd than the last, but with one certainty: Sam—his Sam—had not done anything to him. It would take some rather hard proof to convince him otherwise. He was going to get the son of a bitch responsible for all it.

Though he didn't want it to, his mind replayed the events. He remembered how warm Sam had been at first; gentle, sensual. Maybe if he had been really drunk…

Ah, you banish those thoughts right now! That kind of thinking'll get you in trouble. Focus now—you need to find Sam before something else happens—ah, shit.

Dean could hear his phone ringing in the other room. Reluctantly he peeled himself away from the shower and grabbed a fluffy white towel from above the toilet. Wrapping it loosely around his waist, he walked stiffly into the room, some of the ache alleviated from the hot water. His phone was blaring at him from the nightstand next to the bed. Checking the caller ID, he flipped it open but was never given a chance to even say 'hello.'

"You goddamn Winchesters! I'm going to kill every last one of you!"

"Hello to you too, Ellen," Dean said after he was able to put the receiver back to his ear. "What did we do now?" he had a sneaking suspicion of which Winchester Ellen really wanted to kill and Dean was silently hoping he was dead wrong.

"You know good and well what Sam did to my daughter. One of you doesn't move without the other right behind. If you ever come near my family again, I swear there'll be no safe place for you to hide because I'll have every hunter alive out looking to skin your asses. Dean, you hear me?" and the connection went dead.

"Good talkin' to ya Ellen." Dean snapped the phone shut and put his face in his hands. At least now he had a lead, right? Sighing in frustration, he packed as quickly as he could, going through a mental checklist of his arsenal. Did he have a Kevlar vest anywhere in his trunk?

Last bag packed, Dean took one final look in the mirror. His cheeks were bruised and his eyes were dark. Gently he ran his fingers over the stubble growing longer on his face. That's not a bad look at all…maybe I should grow a full-on beard. Ladies do love them beards, after all…Ah, c'mon Dead, you're wasting time. Ellen's still going to shoot at you, beard or no beard.

With a heavy sigh, Dean left the room, determined to put it all behind him. He walked slow and deliberate, the soreness in his lower half being more detrimental than he would have liked. I'm comin' for ya, Sammy. I will find a way to save you.

As quickly as he was able, Dean checked out and started up the Impala. Nine hours was long way from Otter Creek, Iowa to Nebraska.

Too soon was the drive over with, Ellen's bar looming up in front of him. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself out of his car and stood at the door, not quite ready to open it. There was no way he'd possess the luck of having a bullet-proof vest in the trunk of the Impala, so he was going to have to handle things the Dean way: with a silver tongue.

He could hear voices coming from the other side. When he pushed open the door and stepped in, all noises ceased and he heard the sound of a shotgun cocking. Oh boy. Immediately raising his hands into the air, Dean moved to stand up against the wall, trying to look as non-threatening as possible; he had come unarmed just to complete the look.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't blow you into a million pieces." Ellen stood behind the counter with a towel slung over her shoulder. She had red-rimmed eyes and her bottom lip was quivering oh-so-slightly. The rest of the bar around her was completely empty—who had she been talking to?

"Because you don't want to get my handsome face all over your clean walls?" answered Dean with a shrug and a winning smile. Ellen steadied the gun against her shoulder and peered down the sight. "Whoa—whoa—I just came to talk."

"Little late for that, don't you think?"

"Well, it's not like you gave me an opportunity over the phone. Look, all I want to do is talk to Jo. Find out what happened. Then I'll leave and you'll never have to see this good-lookin' mug again, hm?" Puppy eyes always seemed to work for Sam and so Dean tried them now, hoping they weren't going to land him buckshot in the chest.

Ellen lowered the gun just a little, but it gave Dean some hope. "No. I'm not going to give you the chance to finish what your brother started." Her words were harsh and final.

"That wasn't Sam!"

"How can you be sure?"

"I—because…he attacked me. That's how I know it wasn't Sam." A tremor was visible along Dean's jaw; his determination not to say more.

Ellen was contemplative for a moment before: "Jo says it was." Tears were starting to form in her eyes.

"Yeah—okay—it's Sam's body but it's not Sam. I—think he's been possessed, Ellen, and I need Jo's help to find him and stop him before he hurts anybody else!" Dean was getting desperate now. The longer he stood there arguing, the colder the trail was going to get. "You can stand behind me with that damn gun pointed at the back of my head if it'll make you feel better. But—please—I need to talk to her."

The length of silence that passed between them was torturous as Ellen evaluated the Winchester's sincerity. Finally, she said: "you've got five minutes." Dean started to relax, lowering his hands. "But you touch her…" the shotgun was raised to attention again.

"Yeah—my brains the new wall décor." With a harsh looked, the blonde woman eventually lowered the gun and motioned for Dean to step into the back room. Dean obeyed, noting that Ellen's eyes tracked his every move.

"Room to your left," the woman commanded. Dean paused and turned the brass knob slowly. What he saw inside damn near broke his heart. Aw, jeez Sammy…

Jo lay on her bed, barely recognizable. Bruises and swelling covered her entire face. Both eyes were black and blue and her lips were cut in several places. Scabbed-over lacerations ran down her arms and hands. The rest of her was covered in a blanket, but Dean was pretty sure he could conjure up a good image of what it looked like. He resisted the impulse to comment on how she looked like she had gone a couple rounds with Rocky. Levity might be good for the situation when there wasn't a large gun pointed directly at him.

Instead he cleared his throat and ignored the hateful look given to him from the woman on the bed. "Hey, Jo," he started softly. "I'd ask how you're doing but I think I'd be killed for it."

Jo said nothing, but didn't turn her head away, either.

"Jo…I know how this looks." Boldly, Dean stepped closer to the bed, hands stuffed in his pockets to show he wasn't going to touch anything. "But you gotta believe me—that wasn't really Sam. You don't even have to tell me what happened. I just need to know where he went." Dammit, Sam. I'm not good at the touchy-feely stuff. I'm already regretting not shooting you in the kneecap, at least.

"He said this was all your fault," Jo said after a minute. "Said you could have stopped it." Her tone was defeated and flat, which made Dean feel all the worse.

"He was lying! There's a demon in him, I just know it. It's making him…do things—"

"It's not a demon." A shocked silence befell the room and the Winchester could only stare in disbelief.

"That's impossible. Sam would—how do you know?" he demanded. Jo was wrong. There was no way his little brother was capable of doing anything as malevolent as what Dean had witnessed.

"I threw holy water on him." Jo's voice started cracking. "He started laughing and threw me into a wall." Tears were now rolling down her swollen cheeks. Her eyes were full of hate, hurt and betrayal as they stared at Dean.

Dean's entire body went numb. "I—I'm sorry, I must've misheard you—" the words came tumbling out so fast, almost tripping over themselves to be heard.

But Jo interrupted their flow. "I did, Dean. And it did nothing."

Heart now thudding in his chest, Dean didn't know what to do. It didn't matter, though. The important thing was that he had to find Sam, had to figure out what was really going on. Nothing made any sense. "Where was he going, Jo?"

"I don't know. He didn't say. He can go climb back into the hellish pit he came from for all I care."

Biting his lip, Dean nodded. "Thanks, Jo—and for what it's worth: I'm sorry. I'm going to do everything I can to stop him." He turned on his heel and started out of the room.

"What are you going to do?" Ellen asked softly. The shotgun was now at her side.

Without looking back, he said: "I'm gonna kill him." And then he was gone.