A/N: So here's the second part! Thanks so much to everyone who's read and reviewed part 1 - especially those of you who've already suffered this once over on the VS site! Oh and to the anon reviewer who didn't like my publicising the VS site here, that's actually the whole point... And I'm proud and honoured to have been associated with every single writer - past, present and future - who's contributed to the VS. If you think you can do better, then I look forward to reading all 22 of your episodes. And feel free to leave your name next time.

Disclaimer: Sucks to be me.

LET GO

PART TWO

"So," Dean said, cautiously lifting the bun off the top of his grease burger, as if he expected a pickle to jump out at him, guns a-blazing. When it didn't, he shrugged, picked up the sandwich and vaguely considered taking a bite. He glanced across at Sam, who was gazing distractedly out the diner window, a solitary French fry poised helplessly between mouth and plate. "Victim number nine," the older brother continued, still amazed Sam had taken the junk food option when the diner actually had green stuff on the menu. "Hardware store guy."

When Sam continued to stare out the window, completely oblivious to the fact that his brother had even spoken, Dean reached across the table, snatched the French fry out of his kid brother's fingers and swallowed it whole.

"Hey – !" Sam protested, attention snapping back to his brother, a dazed scowl crumpling his face.

Dean wasn't grinning like he should have been. "What were you looking at?" he demanded, Sammy Defense Mode firing on all cylinders. "Sam?"

Sam shrugged, sighing. "Nothing," he admitted, glancing one more time across the street to the soda machine outside their motel room. He could have sworn… "Nothing," he repeated, shaking his head.

Dean glanced involuntarily in the direction Sam had been staring, but all he saw was a chick in a purple Civic trying to reverse into the parking space next to the Impala. As he watched, he found himself squeezing his burger so tightly the slice of suspicious-looking pickle shot straight across the table, where it landed with a splat on the lid of Sam's laptop.

"Nice," Sam muttered, lifting the offending vegetable pincer-like between thumb and forefinger before depositing it back on Dean's plate.

He opened the laptop absently, just to give himself something to focus on.

Dean shrugged, relaxing as the chick in the Civic disembarked from her vehicle without incident. "Hey, man, my baby's been through a lot lately," he explained, eyes lingering over the Chevy. "Don't want her messing up again."

"Uh-huh," Sam wasn't even listening, having heard it all a thousand times. "Victim number nine," he said instead, just to prove to Dean that he had been listening earlier. "Hardware store guy. Ran the business with his two older sisters, just like Cindy said."

Dean raised an eyebrow, grinning. "Chicks in glasses," he said, shaking his head. "Always dig you, man."

"Shut up," Sam replied, more out of habit than anything else, picking at another fry as he perused the screen in front of him.

Dean shrugged again. "So, the victims haveanything in common?"

"Not really. Twenty-four-year-old waitress; fifty-two-year-old accountant; gas station clerk. The last victim was a lawyer – "

"So not all bad news then. "
Sam just gave him a look over the top of the computer screen.

"Sammy," Dean announced, his voice as serious as he could make it. "You need glasses."

Sam frowned at the non-sequitur. "Huh?" he said.

"So you can glare at me disapprovingly over the top of them," Dean explained. "Like the schoolmarm you were born to be."

Sam didn't even dignify that comment with a response. "Joseph McKenzie," he began reading. "Older brother of the deceased, stated 'My sister had everything to live for…'. Yada yada yada… Jason Vasquez, 34, took his own life last night by jumping into the path of an oncoming freight train…"

"Ouch," Dean commented.

"…He leaves behind two older brothers and an older sister…" Sam continued searching the Clifton Chronicle website almost lethargically, chin resting on the heel of his hand. "Emile Tannenbaum, 42, survived only by his sister Eloise, 54…"

Again, a fry was poised midway between plate and mouth, and Dean could have sworn he saw a light bulb go on above Sam's head.

For a second Sam just stared at the screen, before turning his stare on his brother.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Younger siblings," Sam said slowly, eyes widening.

Dean dropped his burger. "Wait…" he said, catching on to what Sam was saying. "No way!" he burst out. "All of them?"

Sam was tapping on the keyboard feverishly, lunch completely forgotten. "Younger sister, younger brother, youngest of six, youngest of three…" He looked up at Dean, expression half way between triumphant and… something else. "All of them," he confirmed finally.

The expression on Dean's face didn't seem to alter, but Sam knew his brother well enough to notice that little muscle tighten in his cheek, and half expected him to just grab hold of him, throw him in the Impala and drive the hell out of Clifton as fast as the old Chevy could take them.

But for once, Dean didn't move, didn't say a word, just nodded his head and tensed his jaw.

Not for the first time, Sam found himself wishing he could read his big brother's mind.

"So…?" Sam tried to coax something – anything – from his brother. He wanted – needed – to know what Dean thinking right now.

Dean took a half-hearted bite out of his burger, obviously still considering his response, before eventually announcing with a degree of chilling finality, "We need to get this thing. Quickly. Before it kills anyone else."

And Sam didn't need to be able to read Dean's mind to know exactly what he meant.

"So – victim number seven, right?" Dean confirmed, pulling the Impala into the pump area of a decrepit-looking gas station and expertly maneuvering the big car into a space beside one of the pumps.

Sam nodded absently, fingers pressed into his temple with one hand as he juggled his rough notes with the other. "Craig Carter," he replied, screwing up his eyes as his headache made the notes swim in and out of focus.

Dean frowned, door half open, one foot out of the car. He paused, carefully examining the pained expression on his brother's face before asking tentatively, "Baby's back, huh?"

Sam didn't look at him, just nodded ever-so-slightly, the infant's incessant wailing reverberating in his ear drums.

Sam knew Dean wasn't stupid, no matter what image he often tried to project to the outside world. And he also knew that he'd probably cottoned on to the fact that this baby thing wasn't his kid brother demonstrating superhuman hearing abilities, even before Sam himself had figured it out. Dean was just like that. The slightest thing going on with Sammy, Dean knew about it. Usually before Sam did. "I'm okay," Sam said quietly, inadvertently glancing in the back seat as he caught a suggestion of blackness moving in the rearview mirror.

There was nothing there. There'd been nothing there all day.

"You wanna sit this one out?" Dean asked, resisting the temptation to follow Sam's glance over his shoulder. If Sam was seeing freaky vision stuff, Dean didn't think he wanted to know…

Sam shook his head and instantly regretted it, wincing as his brain seemed to rattle in his skull. He swung his legs out of the car reluctantly, pulling himself up to his full height just as, once again, the screaming in his head stopped abruptly.

He glanced behind him.

Across the roof of the car, to where Dean was standing watching him.

Back into the rear seat.

Back at Dean.

The older Winchester frowned. "No baby?" he hazarded, seeing the pain lift visibly from Sam's eyes.

Sam tried to smile reassuringly, but only succeeded in a weak grimace. "No baby," he confirmed.

Dean nodded, like that was perfectly normal. "So," he recapped slowly. "Car. Motel room."

Sam nodded right back.

Dean returned his brother's grimace. Sure, what was one more bit of weirdness in their already weird lives? Who'd even notice? "That could be awkward," he pointed out. "You know. If you want to go anywhere; sleep anywhere…"

Sam nodded again. "Yeah," he agreed. "Awkward. One way to describe it."

Recognizing Dean's "you're not freaking me out one bit, little brother" face, which was about as convincing as his "no really, I don't mind you driving" face, Sam tried again for the reassuring smile, and this time he almost nailed it.

Dean relaxed slightly. "We actually need gas," was one of his less subtle changes of subject, but he headed off towards the pump regardless.

"Okay," Sam tried to keep his tone light. The last thing he needed right now was Dean all skittish and over-protective. "I'll be inside."

Screaming baby or not, there was some über-weirdness going on in this little town, and that had to be Sam's top priority. So what if all the victims of – whatever the hell this thing was – were younger siblings? Didn't mean a thing. Didn't make a scrap of difference. Probably had nothing to do with his auditory wailing rug-rat hallucinations anyway.

Keep telling yourself that, Sammy, he heard Dean's voice echoing in his head, and glanced backwards to where his brother stood pumping gas.

Watching him.

Sam turned back quickly, like he'd not even seen, shoving open the convenience store door with a tinkle of bells that for some unaccountable reason irritated the hell out of him.

He headed for the register, where a stocky youth in a bright orange vest that made his pale complexion seem positively deathly was staring fixedly at something to the side of the register, an odd look of fascinated wonder on his face.

Figuring he was probably just watching some crappy daytime soap, Sam followed the guy's gaze to a couple of monochrome CCTV monitors, one showing a grainy view of the pump area outside, where Sam could see Dean finishing up refueling, while the other showed a slightly clearer image of the blindspot to the rear of the store.

Shrugging at what passed for entertainment in these parts, Sam found his most winning smile and strode on up to the counter. "Hey," he said brightly, slightly perturbed by the clerk's delay at registering his presence.

The youth turned to look at him, mouth slightly agape and a dazed expression clouding his big brown eyes. "I help you with somethin'?" he asked, seeming to come back to himself at Sam's second attempt at a smile.

"I hope so," Sam replied in as friendly a tone as he could manage. The clerk continued to gaze at him a little vacantly, and Sam found himself uncomfortably shifting from foot to foot. "My name's Sam – " he stumbled over the alias again. " – Williams," he managed. "I'm a Psych student at NYU."

The clerk continued to stare at him unblinkingly, and if it hadn't been for his initial greeting, Sam might have wondered if he even spoke English.

He cleared his throat before plowing on. "I – uh – we're here researching the string of suicides you've had in town," he said slowly. "You know, to see if there's some kind of environmental cause, or an outside influence at work…" He trailed off at the blank look on the clerk's face.

"Yeah," the guy said eventually, tapping short fingernails with just a trace of black nail polish still clinging to them on the counter top. "Bad stuff going down around here…" He broke off, eyes drifting to the door, where the bell tinkled to signal Dean's entrance.

Slightly encouraged by the fact that the clerk actually did seem to possess some language skills, Sam briefly nodded an acknowledgement in Dean's direction, as his brother scuttled off down one of the aisles, no doubt scavenging for sugar and carbohydrate.

"He with you?" the clerk asked suddenly, causing Sam to glance back in his direction, the young man looking more animated than he had throughout this whole sorry excuse for a conversation.

If Sam hadn't known better… He brushed off the idea, merely answering, "Uh. Yeah. My brother. He's helping me research…" he trailed off again, as the clerk leaned an elbow on a stack of National Enquirers piled on the counter top, balancing his stubbly chin in the palm of his upturned hand and inclining his head to better follow Dean's progress down the aisle.

"Brother, huh?" the clerk echoed, a rather inane smile breaking out on his face as he finally turned his attention back to Sam with glittering eyes. "He's kinda –wow," he finished the sentence with an embarrassed snort, and Sam had to fight to keep a straight face, forcing down the guffaw of laughter trying to escape his throat.

Payback could so be a bitch sometimes…

Failing miserably to suppress a wicked grin, Sam nodded his head in agreement. "Yeah," he said, not entirely untruthfully. "He gets that a lot."

The clerk's eyes darted quickly back to Sam, an almost apologetic look on his face. "Not that you're chopped liver or anything," he added, almost as an afterthought. "But he's…" he trailed off again, eyes sliding back in Dean's direction.

" 'Wow'?" Sam supplied, the wicked grin growing steadily more wicked by the second.

"Exactly," the clerk agreed, nodding.

Sam cleared his throat again. "So," he said, trying to take advantage of his brother's unintentionally distracting presence. "These people who died…?" The clerk's gaze returned somewhat reluctantly to Sam. "One of them worked here?"

The youth's face scrunched up, although Sam couldn't quite figure the emotion displayed there. "Mmm…" he mumbled noncommittally.

"Craig Carter, right?" Sam added, eyes finally locating the clerk's name tag, which seemed to have come loose and was currently hanging sideways off his vest. "Huh, Pete?"

Pete seemed surprised at Sam's use of his name, eyes darkening suspiciously. "Yeah," he said slowly, breaking eye contact to glance down at his well-bitten nails. "Threw himself off of North Road Bridge."

Sam nodded sympathetically, sensing Dean's approach from the crinkling sound of the family-sized packet of M&Ms he had clutched to his chest, and the way Pete's gaze had suddenly shifted to a point a couple of feet behind Sam's shoulder. "So. Craig," Sam pressed on. "Was he depressed? Upset about something? Any major life changes recently, or…?"

Pete fidgeted nervously. "You know," he said, suddenly very interested in his fingernails once again. "I'm not really comfortable discussing this with strangers…"

Sam continued the sympathetic nodding, turning briefly to Dean as he juggled the M&Ms with two bottles of Coke, a pack of Twinkies and enough chocolate bars to keep an entire school on a sugar high for days. He grinned broadly at his brother, who froze in his tracks, so attuned to Sam's facial expressions that he knew instantly that the kid was up to something.

"What?" he demanded, tacitly insisting to be let in on whatever it was Sam had going on.

"Pete, this is my brother Dean," Sam said, turning his grin back to Pete, who just stared at the both of them, before smiling goofily at Dean.

To his credit, Dean's expression didn't falter, and his voice was low enough that only Sam heard him growl, "Sammy, you're a dead man," through clenched teeth.

"Pete doesn't feel comfortable discussing the suicides with strangers," Sam explained, clapping his brother on the shoulder gleefully.

Dean squinted sideways at him, not insensible to the fact that the little squirt was enjoying this. "That so?" he muttered, before turning a lighthouse-bright smile on Pete and heading for the counter, making a point of stepping on Sam's foot on the way.

Sam managed to hide a grimace of pain beneath his own amused grin, intrigued as to how Dean was going to handle the situation. After all, Dean was nothing if not an expert at charming information out of people. Granted, usually female people. But it wasn't as if he'd never had a guy hit on him before. It was just… Well, this was going to be entertaining. And Sam felt a little guilty for taking pleasure in his big brother's well-disguised discomfort.

But only a little guilty.

And it wasn't as if Pete looked like he was going to need a whole hell of a lot of charming.

Trying his best to ignore Sam's increasingly irritating grin, Dean sauntered up to the register and unceremoniously dumped his sugar fix in front of the dazed-looking clerk. "So Pete," he said evenly, leaning on the counter as casually as a guy making rude hand gestures at his brother behind his back was able. "There's some freaky stuff happening around here, huh?"

Pete nodded his agreement, eyes never leaving Dean's as he fiddled absently with his dangling name tag. "Craig was a good guy," he said, obviously more comfortable opening up to Dean than your average stranger. Like Sam, for instance. He leaned forwards slightly, and Sam could swear he saw Dean fight the urge to take a step back. "Craig was real understanding," Pete continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Didn't judge."

Dean nodded, smile still plastered across his face. "You and he were friends then?"

Pete inclined his head sadly, an odd shadow passing across his features. "He was always nice to me," he insisted.

"So not the sort to – you know – kill himself?"

"No way. Happiest guy I ever met. Just got engaged. To – to a girl," Pete clarified quickly, and Dean nodded, aiming for sympathetic-yet-encouraging.

"You know any of the others? The other people who've died?"

"Mr. Tannenbaum," Pete admitted, eyes sliding back to Dean's almost shyly. "We lived opposite him and his sister over on Chestnut when I was a kid. And I went to school with Krista Page. And everyone knew Marvyn Hayes…"

Dean continued to nod encouragingly. Although he hoped not too encouragingly.

"And then there's that poor kid from last night…"

Sam's eyebrows shot up at that. "What kid from last night?" he asked, forgetting for a second to let Dean's "Wow" Factor handle the situation.

Pete looked uncomfortable, as if only just remembering Sam was there. "Gina Newton's youngest, Catie," he said.

"A kid?" Dean asked, genuine concern etched into his features.

Pete nodded. "Yeah. She's, like, twelve I think. Maybe thirteen. Slashed her wrists up good."

Dean swallowed hard. Always had trouble with jobs where there were kids involved. "Is she – ?" he left the question hanging, as if unable to complete it.

Pete shook his head. "Gina's a nurse at Clifton General," he explained. "Got to her quick enough. But I think she's supposed to be in a coma or something."

Dean nodded. "We hadn't heard about her. A survivor, huh?"

"Don't know if I'd call her that. She's gonna be pretty messed up if she ever comes round. Nice little kid too. Idolized that big sister of hers." Pete said, finally remembering to ring up Dean's purchases. He was so distracted he almost forgot to charge him for the gas, and still undercharged him by five dollars. Dean could feel Sam's eyes boring into the back of his head, but didn't turn around, instead digging in his pocket for a few crumpled bills that he tossed over the counter at Pete.

Pete dug some change out of the register, pressing the coins into Dean's hand with a little more contact than was strictly necessary, causing Dean to shudder involuntarily.

Although not the most sensitive person in the world, Dean forced another smile in Pete's direction, figuring the least he could do was not leave the kid feeling used. "Well," he began, picking up the Cokes and shoving them at Sam a lot harder than he'd meant. "Thanks for your help, Pete," he said, digging back into the recesses of his brain in an attempt to drag out the cover story Sam had cooked up for them. "You know, this paper's a third of Sam's grade, so, you know. Wouldn't want the kid to fall on his ass or anything." He tossed Sam a look that suggested this was exactly what he wanted, before turning back to the counter and gathering up the food. Pete was still staring at him. "So. Um. Bye then."

Dean turned, more than grateful for his chance to escape what was rapidly turning into one of the most excruciating encounters of his life, briefly pausing mid-stride as Pete called out after him, "Maybe see you around?"

Dean gritted his teeth, again trying to ignore the smirk on Sam's face. "Maybe," he said brightly, shoving the door with his shoulder and muttering under his breath, "Over my dead body."

Sam followed him out of the store, tossing Pete a nod of thanks before breaking into a wide grin followed by a snort of derisive laughter.

Dean was halfway to the car before he growled, "You ever do that to me again and this town's gonna have another dead younger sibling to add to its scoresheet."

Sam put a placating hand on Dean's shoulder, turning him around to face him, a mock-earnest expression on his face. "Dude," he said, seriously. "Sometimes you just gotta take one for the team."

Dean scowled at him, causing Sam's grin to widen.

"Hey," he added. "It could have been worse. I could have given him your number…"

A brief look of panic passed across Dean's face, before he realized that even Sam wouldn't do that to him. He slapped the kid across the back of the head, before grumbling, "Get in the car, Matilda…"

"Okay then," Dean said, sparing Sam a quick glance as he negotiated a particularly evil bend in the highway, where the road just seemed to twist away from him like a ball of string that had just come through an encounter with an overly-energetic kitten. "Hospital?"

Sam nodded, once again sifting through his notes. "Looks like Marvyn Hayes was actually victim number ten. We need to talk to that little girl. If anyone can tell us what's going on around here, she can."

"Not if she's in a coma, or catatonic, or whatever," Dean pointed out. "But I guess we might get lucky. Her Mom or her sister might know something." He shrugged, fixing his eyes back on the twisty road just as Sam let out a sudden gasp of pain.

"Sam – "

"The baby won't stop crying," Sam said, again in that weird, strangled voice he'd used earlier when he'd been talking in his sleep.

But this time, he was wide awake.

"Make the baby stop! Make him stop!" Sam's voice was high-pitched and urgent, laced with a sheer terror that turned Dean's blood to ice water. He was clutching at his head with both hands, face completely obscured by his long fingers.

"Sam!" Dean grabbed Sam's arm, shaking him none-too-gently as he tried to pry his hands from his face.

Slowly removing his shaking fingers to reveal ashen skin, Sam's eyes stared wildly out the windshield, before suddenly widening in alarm.

"Dean, look out!"

Dean's attention snapped instantly back to the road, where the back end of a black SUV was skewed across their path, hood facing downwards into the ditch running by the side of yet another treacherous bend in the road.

Heart doing a tango against his ribcage, Dean slammed on the brakes with both feet, yanking at the wheel and sending the Impala into a skid that threw it right across the road and straight into the ditch opposite the stricken SUV, driver's side tilting down at a crazy angle, causing Sam to slide down the seat and smash into his brother.

"Son of a…" Dean growled, tasting blood in his mouth where his jaw had smacked against the steering wheel. "Sammy – ?"

"I'm fine," Sam said quickly, massaging the back of his neck as he twisted to look over at the SUV. "But I'll bet that guy's not."

He crawled back up towards the passenger door, wrestled it open and jumped up onto the road, sprinting across to the SUV before Dean even had the chance to climb out of the ditch.

"Sam!"

Sam tugged at the driver's door of the SUV, eyes landing on a pale, blond-haired guy who sat staring out of the front windshield and straight down into the ditch. He clutched at something small and silver in his right hand, which was raised awkwardly away from the dashboard.

The man blinked once, as if that were the only way he had of acknowledging Sam's presence.

"Hey man," Sam said cautiously, doing a visual check of the guy for injuries. A bruise was starting to purple its way across his forehead, made more visible by the receding blond hairline, and his head seemed scrunched down in the collar of his jacket, inexplicably reminding Sam of a turtle. "You okay?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Dean appear at the edge of the ditch behind him, but waved him back. I got it.

Dean balled his hands into fists, but stayed where he was, figuring Sam had the driver covered and he'd call if he needed help.

He dug his cellphone out of his jeans pocket and busied himself calling 911, wrinkling his nose at the almost overpowering smell of gas emanating from the SUV.

Sam turned his attention back to the sandy-haired driver who still hadn't returned his concerned gaze. "Listen man," he said slowly, recognizing that the guy was most likely in shock. "We need to get you out of there. I think your gas tank might be cracked – "

"I know," the man said suddenly, still staring fixedly ahead of him as he slowly opened the fingers of his right hand. "It's what I deserve."

Sam glanced from the man's distressed face to the silver object glinting in his hand, heart missing several beats as he realized what the guy was holding.

A lighter.

"Hey," Sam's tone became more urgent, and he glanced back at Dean, who was pacing back and forth at the top of the ditch, cellphone pressed to his ear. "Hey, you don't want to do that," Sam said quickly, eyes sliding back to the guy in the car as he made a sudden grab for the lighter.

But the driver was too fast, snatching his hand away and sliding easily down into the passenger seat thanks to the vehicle's severe list.

"Don't!" he warned, thumb hovering over the flint as his startled blue eyes finally met Sam's. "Don't," he repeated, a little more softly. "It's what I deserve. It's what I have to do."

Sam held up his hands placatingly, clearing his face of anything resembling guile. "Okay, okay," he said. "Listen," he continued, eyes drawn to the lighter. "My name's Sam. What's yours?"

"I don't wanna talk," the man insisted, waving the lighter in Sam's direction threateningly, the gas fumes almost overpowering them both.

"Okay," Sam agreed. "How about I talk? Okay? You wanna tell me your name first?" He repeated the question, left hand moving slowly towards the open door as he lifted one foot onto the running board.

The man sighed, running his left hand over his tired-looking face, the stubble on his chin sounding rough as sand paper under his fingers. The whites of his eyes were tinged with red, dark circles marring the skin below. "Adrian," he admitted eventually, holding Sam's gaze and not flinching as the younger man eased himself further into the vehicle.

"Hey Adrian," Sam tried to smile, but only grimaced as sudden pain flared right between his eyes and the unmistakable howl of an infant began to reverberate in the back of his head.

"You hear her too, huh?" Adrian said, a trace of desperation in his voice.

Sam managed to regain the use of his vocal cords long enough to ask, "Hear what?" in a slightly startled voice. Could this guy hear the baby too? Were they sharing an hallucination? Was that even possible?

"Her," Adrian said bitterly. "You hear her."

He glanced briefly into the back seat, where Samalmost saw a smudge of black in his peripheral vision.

But there was nothing there.

Just like the Impala.

Just like the motel.

"Who do you hear, Adrian?" Sam asked, trying to ignore the empty back seat and the crackle of static suddenly bursting from the radio. He inched himself up slowly into the driver's seat, making no sudden movements apart from one involuntary shake of the head, as if that could dislodge the incessant wailing echoing around in there.

Adrian wiped at the cold sweat on his brow with the sleeve of his denim jacket, gaze once more sliding to the empty back seat. "She's right," was all he said. "She's right. I have to do this!"

He brought his thumb down against the flint, just as Sam blurted, "Why? What did you do that was so terrible?"

Adrian paused at the question, biting his pale lip nervously, eyes tearing up as he thought about the answer. "I never meant to be a burden," he said, voice thick and tearful. "I never meant to hurt her. But he says it's him or me, so I have to go."

"Who says?" Sam asked, eyeing the lighter warily as the baby's screams became even more insistent.

"Luke," Adrian returned, as if Sam should know who that was. "He says he'll leave her if I don't move out."

"Leave who?" Sam managed to ask, barely able to hear his own voice over the howl of the baby, but figuring he needed to keep the guy talking, at least until the cops got here.

He silently prayed that Dean had actually called the cops…

"Nicki," Adrian replied blankly.

"And Nicki's…?"

"My sister," Adrian frowned, as if not understanding why Sam should need this explaining to him.

Sister.

Suddenly Sam got a cold feeling the length of his spine. "And Luke's going to leave her?"

Adrian nodded. "Unless I leave first. Says he can't stand me in his house any more. And with Nicki pregnant, I can't…"

"You live with your sister and her husband, huh?" Sam asked, eyes still lingering over the lighter as the smell of gas became even stronger.

Adrian nodded. "Since the accident," he said, eyes downcast. "Since I couldn't take care of myself."

"Your big sister asked you to move in?" Sam ventured. "So she could take care of you?"

Adrian nodded again. "Nicki's always taken care of me," he said sadly. "Even when we were kids."

"Yeah," Sam said softly. "I understand."

Adrian met his gaze hopefully. "You do?" he said, and he could tell from Sam's expression that he did.

Sam nodded, causing the man in front of him to go momentarily out of focus. Maybe it was the fumes… "I got a big brother," he explained, blinking.

"And you wouldn't want to be a burden to him, right?" Adrian sounded almost eager. Desperate.

Sam thought about it for a second. Plenty of times, especially in his teens, Sam had felt like he'd been a burden to Dean. Especially when Sam had gotten to that age where he'd started answering Dad's orders with questions, questions that always seemed to end up with John yelling at Dean for some reason, when he should have been yelling at Sam.

"No," he answered truthfully. "I wouldn't want to be a burden to my brother."

The baby's screams seemed to rise several decibels at that point, and it was all Sam could do to stay upright.

Adrian was nodding. "Which is why I need to do this…" An odd strangled laugh escaped his lips as the radio suddenly burst back into life, the old theme tune from MASH crackling its way into the car. …Suicide is painless… "I hope that's true," he muttered, wiping at his eyes again. "I really do…"

"Wait!" Sam burst out. "You said there was an accident?"

Adrian seemed to have changed his mind about not wanting to talk, suddenly in the mood to bare his soul to a total stranger.

Maybe it was like going to confession, Sam thought. Unburdening himself of his guilt before he passed on.

"Seven years ago now," Adrian said wistfully. "Though I can still see his face."

"Whose face?"

"His name was Vince," Adrian said softly. "Vince Newton. It was late. It was dark. It was raining. I'd been driving for twelve hours straight, and this road's so damn twisted…"

"Here?" Sam pointed vaguely towards his feet. "It happened here?"

Adrian nodded, tears finally leaking from his reddening eyes. "He was changing a flat by the side of the road," he explained. "I didn't even see him until I caught his face in my headlights. He looked so surprised. Like, 'How can it end here? How can this be the way I go out?' He had two little girls." He met Sam's gaze evenly. "One of them slit her wrists last night."

Sam nodded. Catie Newton.

"I did that," Adrian said. "That happened because of me."

"No – "

"Just like Luke's going to leave Nicki."

"It's not your fault – "

"Because he can't stand me moping around his house any more."

"No. Adrian, you can't – "

"And she's right. I have to let go. I have to end it."

The baby's screams became so loud just then, so pitiful, so demanding, that Sam had to cover his ears, head swimming as he began to slide sideways in the seat.

Let go, Sam. Just let go. You've caused enough pain…

"Sam? Sam!"

Someone was calling him. He could just make out his name above the helplessly heartbreaking screams of the baby.

"Daddy, the baby's crying. Daddy, I don't know what to do…"

Let go, Sam. Just let go.

"Sam? Sam! SAM!"

"Sam, I'm sorry."

"Sam, I'm sorry." Adrian's thumb struck the flint.

And all Sam saw was fire.

Part Three coming soon!