Spoilers : To be safe, everything in seasons one and two, but especially Skin, Everybody Loves a Clown, The Usual Suspects, and Night Shifter. Spoilers also for second season Boston Legal especially the episode Truly, Madly, Deeply.

Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Kripke and Co. Boston Legal belongs to ABC and David E. Kelley. No infringement intended.

Warnings: There's some bad language here. Also, all episodes after Night Shifter will not apply to this story.

Chapter 3

"Damn it, Sam. Where are you?" Dean looked at his watch, and then turned to the motel clock sitting on the nightstand just to verify the time. He didn't know why he bothered. The sunrise was all the confirmation he needed. His brother should have been back hours ago.

"Fuck." He ran a hand over his face, briefly hiding his eyes behind his palm. "This is the last time I listen to you, little brother."

Leaving Sam had been a big mistake. Separating had never worked well for them. They seemed to get into more trouble when they were apart, if that was even possible. He never should have left his brother. It made him uneasy that he wasn't there to watch Sam's back.

Dean paced the length of the motel room, his feet passing over worn gray carpet. "We're so screwed," he muttered.

He came to a stop in front of the small table in the kitchenette. The laptop sat there, the screensaver dotted with Superman symbols flashing up at him. It had been Sam's idea of a joke. "We just need to change the 'S' to a 'W' and it would be perfect," he remembered Sam saying.

Dean tapped the mouse pad and sat in the chair. He couldn't do much of anything until he had some answers. With a few quick keystrokes, Dean opened the Internet browser and clicked on a link that Sam had saved under the Bookmarks tab. Arrest records as well as criminal records were available to the public. All he had to do was type in Sam's name, the city, and the state. In moments, the answer was printed in bold relief on the screen.

Detained in Philadelphia County jail with pending federal charges

"Shit!" Dean slammed his fist onto the table. He'd known this was going to happen and still he'd left Sam to fend for himself. What the hell kind of big brother was he?

"Fuck this." Dean grabbed his keys and headed for the door. His hand was on the knob before he remembered his promise to Sam. Then he thought about it, he never actually promised Sam that he would stay away. In fact, he quite clearly remembered nodding his head and nothing else. Unfortunately, Sam wouldn't see it that way.

Dean sighed and dropped his keys back onto the table. Sam's expression had been intense, his words forceful. His brother had a valid point, and Dean had to respect that. This was not the time to go off half-cocked. He needed to tread lightly, think things through. It wasn't just his life on the line, but Sam's as well. In Dean's book, that was infinitely more important.

Although he felt the need to take action, Dean took a seat on the bed. He stared hard at the cracked linoleum of the kitchenette. Dozens of scenarios raced through his mind and he tried to work out a plan for each one of them. His hand twisted in the grungy yellow comforter as no viable solution offered itself.

"Think, Winchester, you have to find a way." He leaned forward, head bowed. He took a few deep breaths, hoping to calm his racing thoughts. There had to be an answer.

Dean wasn't a very patient man. Stalking a beast or ghost was one thing. It was much harder, though, to sit around, waiting, having no idea what to do. When it was Sam in trouble, the waiting was agony. Panic urged him to take flight, to swoop in and save his little brother.

The laptop still sat on the table, the text still visible. The words were stark against the bright white of the background and they accused him of betraying Sam, of not doing anything to help him.

With a growl, Dean jumped to his feet. His gaze shot across the room, looking for inspiration. For a moment his eyes lighted on the duffle bag of weapons. The idea of grabbing a gun, busting into jail, and demanding his brother's release held a certain thrall over him. He shook his head. That didn't even work in the movies.

He ran an agitated hand over his hair. If only his dad were here. He was sure that together they could figure something out.

Dean frowned. His dad wasn't, but that didn't mean he still couldn't help. Walking over to the table, Dean picked up Sam's backpack from the floor.

"It's worth a shot," he muttered. He rummaged through the sack and pulled out his father's journal. His hands trembled as he gripped the worn leather in his hands. Dean hadn't touched the journal since their father had died. He hadn't been able to bring himself to do it and so he had let Sam become the keeper of the journal.

Now, as the scent of old leather wafted to his nose, Dean knew he had been wrong to refuse this last legacy of their father's. Just holding it seemed to calm him. It was as if his father's very presence was soaking into his fingertips. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the connection.

With careful, precise movements, he turned the pages. Every few lines, his eyes would focus on the words. Memories came unbidden and he took a shaky breath, blinking the wetness from his eyes.

Toward the end of the book, he found it.

It was a business card, a crease down the middle. His father must have, at one time, had it folded in half. Bringing it up to read, Dean caught a whiff of beer. His lips bent into a smile of their own accord.

"There's almost nothing a man won't tell you over a few beers, son." John Winchester's words of wisdom would be forever etched into his brain. "Don't you forget that."

The front of the card read: Alan Shore, Attorney-at-Law. It gave a Boston law firm address and phone number.

Dean flipped it over. The ink was still sharp and the words were clear. And they gave Dean some hope.

Don't forget, if you're ever SOL, call me.

Dean reached for his cell phone.

TBC

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