Hey guys. I know it's been forever. I know we are all still reeling from canon season nine's mid-season finale. I didn't intend for parts of this chapter to be as sad as they make me. And I need to tell you right now that the big arcs of this season have been plotted since June, for real. Any further odd canon/Lustra similarities are accidental and I'm probably super annoyed about them. Like even this episode here that's got a lot to do with memory loss - plotted before Zeke started erasing Sam's memories. Okay? So I'm sorry if some of this feels like a remix rather than a crafted plot. I had no knowledge of how canon would go beyond season eight's finale before I started writing this.

Thanks to everyone who reviews or faves. And special thanks to Caladrius for reading and for prodding and for writing the wonderful and fantastically plotted "The Boogeyman." And for being my Dean.

Episode Five
"Time is Gonna Come"
Chapter Three

"Okay, what the hell was that?" Dean snarled, tossing his shotgun into the trunk.

"I know. I don't think she's anything from our list-"

"I meant, what was that 'I promise' bullshit?" Dean slammed the trunk closed.

Sam blinked at him. "Uhm. I'm pretty sure that was me, saving your ass."

"Yeah. Right. You know better, Sam-"

Sam stopped with his hand on the handle of the passenger door. "What? I know better? It's not like I was gonna actually follow through, Dean."

Dean bit down on his tongue. Of course he wasn't going to follow through. But sometimes you didn't get a choice, okay? But before he could just tell Sam to get in the car and forget about it, Sam said:

"Whatever, like you would have done anything different."

"I wouldn't have let it happen in the first place!"

Sam pinned him, eyes bright with anger. "Oh really? Cuz from where I'm standing, that's exactly what you did. What was that, Dean? So worried about your unreliable little brother you almost got yourself killed." He scoffed, shook his head.

"Calm down-"

"I can't believe you're putting this on me." Sam was not calming down. "We've done this a million times, but no. You just have to check in on your frail, fragile little brother!"

"You don't seem so frail now," Dean spat.

Sam reared back in surprise, probably at Dean's tone. Yeah, he hadn't meant it to sound so accusatory, but all he could think was that he was going to get himself killed and Sam didn't even need the extra attention because he was high on demon blood.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam said, stepping back from the door.

"Nothing. Just get in the car."

"You're mad at me because I'm feeling better?"

"Don't be stupid-"

"Yeah, I'm the stupid one. Jesus Dean, make up your mind. Am I supposed to be back in the saddle, or sitting on the sidelines? Am I supposed to be your hunting partner, or the sidekick that needs rescuing? You know what? Take your time and think about it. I'll meet you back at the motel." Sam yanked the back door open, and like he had too many times before, pulled his bag out of the backseat and shouldered it, turned his back on Dean and started to walk away.

"Sam- Don't. Aw come on."

"Forget it, Dean."

Dean got into the car and crept along next to Sam at idle speed. There were no streetlights on this little stretch of highway, so Sam was a dark shadow against the slightly lighter sky, lit only along the front of him by the backwash shine of the impala's headlights. Dean leaned over into the passenger seat.

"Come on, Sammy, get in the car."

"No."

"It's three miles back to town."

"I used to run five miles every morning, Dean. I think I can handle it."

Dean rolled his eyes. He couldn't let Sam walk back. Aside from the fact that it meant Sam had won this little fight and that was a mark on Dean's pride, terrible things tended to happen when Sam went off on his own. He got kidnapped or hurt or possessed or - And anyway, Abaddon was out there, somewhere close. He'd gotten three buzzes in his pocket during their argument alone; she was watching. Sam couldn't know that part, but she was still a pretty good reason -

"Sam. I'm not letting you walk home alone-"

Sam growled out frustration. "I'm not frail enough during the fight, but now I'm not even capable of walking by myself at night?"

"Shut up already, Jesus. I'm saying Abaddon isn't going to stop looking for you. Hell, she probably already has a new meat suit."

"Abaddon was looking for Crowley, Dean-"

"And Crowley said you're at the top of the hit list. You got the keys to the castle, remember?"

Sam slowed, but didn't turn toward the car. "She's not after me," he said.

"How can you know that?"

Sam shrugged. "Everyone must know by now that I failed to close the gates. I'm not a threat."

Dean shook his head. Only Sam could turn self-loathing into a logical argument. "Then for my peace of mind, Sammy, please. In case there are demons out there who didn't get the memo. Come on. Please."

Sam didn't move.

"I'm sorry. That what you want?" Nothing. "Fine." He stopped the car, pulled the keys, got out and tossed them at Sam, who caught them without even looking. "You drive then."

Sam looked at him like he was crazy. And sure, okay, the unspoken rule was Sam doesn't drive because Sam occasionally wakes up on the floor drooling blood and dizzy, Sam sometimes can't see straight, sometimes can't aim straight - all things that were kind of no-nos when it came to driving. But.

Sam squeezed his fist around the keys, and the smile that teased at the corners of his mouth made Dean think he'd done it, saved the day, given Sam that token of reassurance he was always looking for, but then the little light of hope vanished. Sam closed his eyes, under knitted brows, exhaled breath, and when he opened his eyes again, he was resigned. He tossed the keys back to Dean without a word and got into the passenger seat.

Sam didn't talk to him the rest of the ride back, and he opted to stay in the car while Dean checked them into a new motel, flipping through the research to fit what they had seen with one of the creatures on their list. That was his story, anyway. Dean let him stew if he wanted. Whatever, if it made him feel better. Just as long as he wasn't running off on his own, just as long as he was throwing his fit in the relative safety of the car, twenty feet from the office.

"You okay, son?" the geezer at the desk said, catching his attention, and it was the third time the guy had had to repeat himself, and Dean felt bad about it.

"Yeah, sorry."

"Everything all right?" the guy said, nodding out the window toward the impala, dome light on, Sam's head bent in study. His hair covered his face, it could have looked like he just didn't feel well.

"Yeah. No. We're good. My brother's not feeling great. Guess I'm just worried."

The old guy peered at Sam through the window, but shrugged. "Flu goin' around." He said, and then he looked Dean up and down too. Dean could just guess - brothers, yeah right. King bed? Single, or...? Dean shook his head, grinning. He took the couple of keys the guy handed him out to the car, knocked on Sam's window.

Sam startled, looked up at him, a flash of fear there, and Dean didn't mean to, but he backed up a little, because that wasn't what he'd expected. Sam wasn't supposed to be afraid of him. But then it was gone and Sam was grumpy and his eyes were bloodshot and he had a hand pressed to his chest and the book he was reading when Dean left was still open to the page with the big picture of a classical siren. Sam hadn't been studying. He'd been suffering.

Dean made a face. "Come on, Sammy," he said, yanking the door open. "Let's get you into bed-"

"Uh, Dean?"

Dean looked at him, then followed his gaze back to the front office, where the grizzled fella behind the desk was on the phone, pointing at them, referring to a piece of paper. Sam had his phone in his hand and was pressing through some menus, and a moment later, they heard the fuzz of the police band:

...suspects sighted at Long Street and 3rd...

"Dammit."

"How did we suddenly get on their radar again?" Sam said.

Dean sprinted around the front of the car and threw himself into the driver's seat. "I dunno," he said, putting the car into gear and peeling out.

"So..."

Dean watched the road, looking for black and whites or those asshole crown vics, drove as non-descriptly as possible. He made the rounds, side mirror, rear view, side streets as they passed. It was almost two in the morning and no one was out. The streets were clear. The police scanner on Sam's phone crackled and Dean caught some back and forth: ...stand down... call-in confirmation...code confirmed... just let 'em have it, it ain't worth arguin'...

"Feds?" Sam said. "Seriously. How are they finding us? What'd we even do?"

"I don't know."

Sam looked up from his phone at the road ahead, looked around like he'd just noticed they were moving with some purpose. "Where are we going?"

"We can't stay in a motel. My bet is every office has our pictures tacked up somewhere with instructions to call in, and this town ain't exactly got a seedy underbelly we can hide in."

Sam relaxed back against the seat. In the wash of light from his phone, he looked pale. His hands were shaky. Probably needed another fix of whatever. "Right," he said. "So. We're squatting."

"Yeah. Lucky for us, the recession's still alive and kicking out here. Cased a farmhouse on the way into town last night-"

"Couple miles back from the highway, east of the town line?"

"Yeah."

Sam smiled there with his head back against the headrest, eyes closed. "That's two dollars."

Dean made a face. "What? I'm not giving you two bucks."

"I guessed right. You owe me, fair and square."

Dean watched him a minute. His forehead was wrinkled like he was in pain, probably a headache, but he was still smiling, breathing kinda heavy. Just Sam, sick but otherwise, just Sam. "We ain't kids anymore, Sam-"

"Yeah, you're right," he agreed with a sigh. "Two dollars is child's play. You oughta owe me twenty."

Dean grinned at the road. "Tell ya what. We'll stop for dinner on the way and call it square."

Sam chuckled. "Fine by me," he said, voice faint. He was fading fast. An hour before, he was fury-full and storming at Dean about being reckless, and now he was a slow-breathing ball of tired barely finishing his sentences. Jesus.

"We oughta go on home, Sam," Dean said quietly. Like, maybe if Sam didn't hear him, didn't argue, Dean might just keep driving until they were out of Nebraska, out of this FBI infested prairie-land. But Sam said:

"I'm fine, Dean. Look. I'm sorry. You were right, okay? I'm not as well as I'm pretending to be. But I have to keep going. We have to keep working. Just promise me-" Sam opened his eyes and caught Dean in his sincere gaze. "Please don't get yourself killed looking out for me. Please."

Dean frowned. "Okay. Jeez. Melodramatic."

Sam let his head drop against the headrest again, closed his eyes, laughed. "I'm serious."

"I know you are." Dean patted Sam's knee. "Take a little nap. You got about ten minutes."

Dean frowned at the mattress where Sam lay, scene too familiar, watched Sam's chest rise and fall like it might stop if he took his eyes off it, like Sam might be cold to the touch if Dean put his hand out to his cheek there, like Sam might have been killed in a dusty road in an abandoned ghost town -

- like it had all happened yesterday in a dream or a week ago in an alternate timeline, or years ago for real, Sam's hot blood coating Dean's hands, his eyes sliding shut as he lost a battle with consciousness, no last words, no last Dean, rubbery weight in Dean's arms the way kids had about them, the way Sam's head had lolled on his shoulders, how he'd sunk to his knees like he'd had his strings cut, pliant and springy with youth.

Not like now. Not like Sam was now, tense through every line, even in sleep. Bony jointed and thin and sharp where he'd once had deep dimples and soft cheeks. He'd once been a baby in Dean's arms, Dean had once taken care of this kid's every need. Somewhere along the way, he'd allowed those baby cheeks to harden into angles, those dimples to shallow out with the starvation in Sam's face. He'd allowed his kid to grow up, to age hundreds of years, to suffer more than men could be expected to endure. And Dean couldn't look away.

The farmhouse had been ransacked through the first floor, dishes and curtains and rugs and personal effects taken or stolen or broken on the floor. Dust came up from the creaking plank flooring, Sam had coughed a fit and fisted blood in his palm and looked guilty about it. A come on, kid and they were up the stairs where Dean sat Sam on the top step, leaned him against the railing. One room was less coated in dust than the rest, so Dean dragged a ratty mattress into the corner of it, found the linen closet and a sheet stuffed far enough into that it had no dust, just a musty smell.

Dean salted the windows and doorway, angel marks on each wall. No ghosts, no demons, no angels. Sam lowered himself to the mattress like he was half-asleep already, and ten minutes later was shivering so hard his teeth clacked together. Shivering, in June. Dean draped his jacket over Sam and tried to decide between finding a blanket and giving Sam another coughing fit with the dust, or letting him shiver.

In the end, it didn't matter, because Dean couldn't move himself from the spot on the floor where he watched Sam sleep.

But he must not have been really seeing him, because he startled when Sam said, "We used to think squatting was so cool when we were kids." His eyes followed a moth flirting with the camplight.

"That was before we got old."

Sam chuckled, coughed. "Never thought I'd miss motel beds."

"If you wanna head on home, that's fine with me-"

"No. No. We see this through."

Dean watched him. "Does it help you?"

Sam swallowed, looked away from him. The guilt made it clear they were on the same page: Does it help you want to live? "I don't know yet." He closed his eyes a long moment, then pushed himself to sitting. "I'm trying, Dean."

"I know, kid."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Dean levered himself up from the floor to the mattress, bumped shoulders with Sam. "This is your fight, Sam. I don't know what I could say to help you, to change things for you. All I can say is that I want you here, I don't know what I'd do without you. I miss you, kid. And I'm sorry I can't just make things better with magical big brother powers anymore."

"This isn't your fault-"

"Isn't it?"

Sam didn't answer. He toyed with the frayed edge of the sheet that separated them from the dust-filled mattress. He didn't look at Dean. And Dean didn't get it, and he probably never would, because all he ever needed was for Sam to be all right, for Sam to trust him, and it didn't even tie back into his own life, okay? Because even if it meant he had to die for Sam to be okay, Dean would do it. Apparently it wasn't the same for Sam. It wasn't enough for Sam that Dean was there for him. That he was trying.

It kind of hurt.

"I thought you wanted to be here. I thought you'd be happy - In the car, you were happy-"

"I'm happy, Dean. I just. I feel..." He looked at Dean then, hollows under his eyes, brows up and together, hopeless. "Temporary. Like I'm waiting."

"Waiting? For what?"

Sam shrugged, sighed. "I don't know. Something..."

Dean knew the answer. Kind of a process of elimination thing, because Sam clearly knew the answer, but didn't want to say it, which meant it was the same old song: Something to give my life for, something that will make this all mean something.

"You've done a lot of good, more than anyone else can say-"

"That doesn't seem to matter. I'm just telling you... how I." Sam rolled his eyes to the ceiling in resignation. "That's all. I just feel like I'm waiting." He looked at Dean, like he was saying goodbye, pitying and heavy with condolences. "I'm sorry."

"Shut up. You said you were trying-"

"I am. Dean. I am. I just don't know if-"

"Well I do." Dean watched Sam flinch away, guilt and ache there, and he put his arm around Sam's shoulders and pulled him close, bony joints under Dean's arm where there should have been bulk and muscle. "Don't go anywhere, kid. We're gonna get you back."

Sam nodded and leaned against him, some rare reappearance of that little brother who used to sleep against Dean in the back of the car after a nightmare on the way to another hunt, or on the side of the highway when Dad was too beat to hustle and there were blankets enough for one. And maybe Sam remembered it too, because when he fell asleep again, he didn't shiver, his teeth didn't chatter, just the steady wheeze of his breathing, the comforting clean scent of his cheap shampoo, the solid weight of him, and Dean was soon sleeping too.

Morning light shafted in through the kitchen window's ratty curtains. Sam had slept through the night, and was still sleeping, something Dean tried to consider a bright spot in everything. The night before had been, okay, a little more touchy-feely than Dean was comfortable with with most people, but there had been this rare appearance of his little brother sleeping on him, and that was worth the kink in his neck from sleeping sitting up.

He craned his head to the side as Kevin jabbered on the other end of the line. Something about the math, something something.

"Kevin, I told you, okay. I'll have him call you when he gets up. No, I'm not waking him up. That's final."

And then there was a thump from upstairs, a crash of something hitting the floor, and Sam's voice calling for him, and Dean was halfway up the stairs before he even had the presence of mind to tell Kevin he'd call him back. By the time he was at the top of the stairs, all was silent. Dean's gun was out in front of him, and he took a creaking step, and he called out "Sam?"

No answer. Dean edged toward the room and took stock. Sam was on the floor in the middle of the room they'd crashed in, just now coming to with a groan. An ancient vase of dead flowers was smashed against the far wall. Nothing else disturbed. Except.

Dean leaned down and heaved Sam to his feet by one arm, patting him steady before heading past him, toward the window with its ratty curtains. A fresh tear, threads bright white inside rather than stringy and dingy from settling dust, and the salt on the window sill, disturbed.

"What happened?"

Sam had his eyes squeezed shut, the heel of his hand ground against his temple. "Don't know-"

"What do you mean you don't know?"

Sam looked at him. "What do you mean, what do I mean? I woke up, I was on the floor. I called for you-"

"In between trying to climb out of the window and throwing a vase against the wall?"

"No?" Sam frowned at the shards of vase, the scattered dust of dead leaves. "Maybe. I don't know." He thought a moment. "Nightmare?" Dean rolled his eyes, Sam saw it and added, "Honestly Dean, I don't remember anything."

"Right. Sounds familiar."

Sam quirked a brow at him. "You mean like-"

"Like little Stevie Wonder?" Dean said, and Sam was already pulling out his phone. "I knew it," Dean said, and Sam rolled his eyes. "I knew that promise was going to get you."

"What, just because I made some bogus promise, some monster can take my memories?" Sam said, waiting for the call to connect. "What kind of monster does that?"

"I don't know." Dean's phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out, glanced at Sam, who turned away as Erica picked up. Emblazoned across the face of Dean's phone: Lots of nasty things make deals, Dean. Dean deleted the message and put the phone up to his ear. They needed more wheels turning.

"Kevin- No. No - shut up a minute will ya? I need you to hit the books. We're working from this end too, but you have the whole library at your fingers. No - Because Sam put a lot of work into organizing that crap into a database - Yeah. Yeah, I'll have him call you later. Uh..." He looked over at Sam. "No. Everything's okay. We just really need it before more people die. That's all."

He hung up just as Sam was saying good bye. "Everything okay?"

"No." Sam shoved his phone into his pocket and started tidying up the room. "Stevie's missing a lot more memory now. I asked if Erica noticed anyone strange around their house. She checked the windows and stuff. As far as she can tell, Stevie hasn't had any visitors. They're going to hole up in a motel for now."

"What are you doing?"

"We can't stay here, Dean. Something knows where we are, can get in through the window? It's not a ghost or a demon or anything else affected by salt. It's not an angel," he said, gesturing at the symbols on the walls.

"Well we can't go anywhere else. We're on the FBI's radar."

Sam shook his head, thinking. "We'll figure something out then, but we can't stay here. I'm gonna head to the library, see if there's anything I can dig about about the history of the town that doesn't point to ghost, demon, angel, mermaid, siren, or kelpie."

Dean pulled Sam up by the shoulder of his shirt and pushed him back, out of the way, took over packing up the room without discussion. "I'm coming with you." Behind him, Sam's annoyance radiated, and Dean grinned. "More brains are better. Come on, Sam. What happened to 'you're a genius?'"

Sam collapsed onto a chair and huffed. "I was caught up in the moment," he said, sullen. But Dean just chuckled at him. Kid was red-faced, out of breath with all the arduous picking things up he'd been trying. Must have been frustrating to go from five miles a morning to ten minutes of breathing for every five minutes of work.

"Careful. You're gonna hurt my feelings."

"Shut up, Dean." But there was the beginning of a little smile.

"Okay, but who are we going to talk to?" Sam hissed around the laptop screen. They were back in an out of the way area of the library; Sam on the laptop, Dean pouring over newspapers the old-fashioned way. "Twelve missing persons cases filed, seven mentioned memory loss. Of those seven, all were found dead and only two were local, and their relatives vanished off the map!"

They'd been at it for a couple of hours, after stopping for joe and breakfast, and Sam's morning bathroom routine that probably included God knew what - but he was up and working and alert and seemed to have perked up quite a bit. Enough that now he was kind of a pain in the ass. What a swing from mopey adorable little brother to talking-too-fast, hyper-active research machine. Dean cleared his throat, ignored the tap-tapping of Sam's thumbs against the tabletop. "Keep looking."

"For what, maybe... families of the non-locals?"

"Maybe."

"Or maybe I should switch over to history again-"

"Again? You're gonna find something the fifth time you look at that stuff?"

"Maybe!"

"Okay just calm down," Dean said. "Don't get all worked up."

"People are in danger-"

"Yeah? Well I'm pretty sure you're the next victim, so just don't get dead and we're good, okay?"

Sam frowned. "I'm not the next victim, Dean-"

"Sam-"

"I'm not talking about the promise. I'm saying, Stevie's the next victim. We have to solve this."

"And we will," Dean said, frowning at a page of one of the newspapers he'd been skimming through. He flipped to the front to check the date.

"What. Dean, what?"

"Hang on, jeez." Dean flipped back to the page he'd been reading. "Okay. I might have a lead. 'The body of Travis Stock was found Wednesday morning-' blahblah... Bam. He was found a mile downstream from that bridge."

Sam chewed his lip in thought. "Travis Stock?" He tapped at his keyboard and frowned at the screen. "Margie Stock still lives in the area. She filed a complaint, but no missing persons, and... the report doesn't say anything about memory loss."

Dean shrugged. "What can I say? I got a hunch." He rattled the pages loudly in an attempt to fold them together, then gave up and shoved the whole thing at Sam. "Address?"

"Dean-"

"Come on, Sammy. We have to solve this, remember? Give."

Sam scribbled the address onto a slip of paper and slid it over. But Dean stopped him as he started to close up his laptop. "You hang here, okay? We still need to know what we're dealing with. It ain't a ghost or a mermaid or whatever."

"But-"

"But nothin'-"

"Dean, you can't dump me in a library for my own good. I'm like thirty-"

"Thirty-one. I'm not dumping you. We need to split up to get this done, and honestly? You're driving me nuts."

Sam stopped thrumming his fingertips on the table immediately, tucked his thumbs into his palm and made fists to stop his nervous energy. He practically pouted at Dean. Yeah, some thirty-one year old.

Margie Stock lived in a run-down trailer out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by tall grass, down a long long dirt lane. A broken down husk of a car sat overgrown with weeds. For as far as you could see off to the west, there was nothing but field flowers nodding in the afternoon breeze. Chimes knocked together from her porch. On either end of the trailer, the small window slats were angled out, no air conditioning hum, no nothin'. The impala's low loud growl felt intrusive, not for the first time in Dean's life. Other times: the first time Dean had found Sam after a runaway attempt, sitting alone on a lake pier, smiling over the water with all of his worldly possessions in a bag next to him, peaceful; Stull Cemetery.

But he drove up and let the engine announce him. No one appeared when he slammed the car door shut. He made his way to the front on alert; the front door was open, just a screen door to keep out flies. His boots brought up dust when he stepped onto the porch. In the porch swing, a cat lifted her head and mewed at him, and her five kittens mimicked her.

Great. A crazy cat-lady.

Dean glanced through the screen door. The place was small, but wide; he couldn't see past the little living room-slash-kitchen in either direction, but it looked tidy enough. No signs of a struggle. No signs of hoodoo or demony goodness or anything.

He knocked. "Hello? Mrs. Stock?"

"Whatdya want?" she said from within the trailer.

"I just wanted to ask you some questions about Travis," Dean called. He glanced around them, a little self-conscious to be yelling at some woman - and saw the glint of sun off the barrel of a shotgun poking out at him from one of the small slatted windows on either end of the trailer. He put his hands up and smiled. "I'm not here to cause trouble, ma'am. I just want to ask some questions."

"You a cop? You look like a cop."

Dean laughed a little, nodded out toward his car. "A cop driving that? Please."

"You got the bearing. Don't try to fool me!"

Oh, brother. Fine. Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm not a cop, okay? But I get that a lot. I'm ex-military, emphasis on the ex. And... I don't really wanna talk about it, so-"

"Military, huh?" After a moment, the barrel of the shotgun withdrew from the window slats, and a few moments after that, she was coming up to the screen door, a woman in her 60s, probably, in a housecoat and slippers, gray hair in a tidy little bun. "Well come on in. I guess that explains why you didn't lose your cool with a gun on ya. And why you got a sidearm down the back of your jeans."

Dean frowned.

"My Travis was no soldier, but boy he wanted to be. Had a bum leg, couldn't pass a physical, so he followed the news and had all kinds of opinions. Went shooting, collected books. He'd talk you a streak if he was here now. You got that swagger he used to get when he'd tramp around out here with his gun in his jeans." She smiled a little, sad.

Dean nodded, pressed his lips together sympathetically. He passed her with a brisk nod, straightening up to support his ad-libbed military background, not that it was difficult to fake. The trailer was an oven inside, with only a lazy overhead fan moving the air around.

"Mrs. Stock-"

"Margie, please. Cup of coffee, Mr..."

"Call me Dean."

"Coffee, Dean?"

Dean nodded and took a stroll around the living room while she went into the kitchenette and called across the center island, "So what is it you do, Dean?"

"I'm a private eye. Uh, part-time." A portrait of Travis, presumably, hung on the wall over the television, off to the left a wall of bookshelves stacked with the aforementioned military manuals and true accounts, together with an assortment of mystery novels and space travel non-fiction. Hers, he thought, because one of them sat on the end table with a bookmark hanging out halfway through.

"And you're in Beatrice on a case?"

Dean turned to her. "Yeah. Gratis, actually. Friend of mine's brother is in trouble, kind of trouble maybe Travis was in."

"Travis wasn't in trouble," Margie said. "He was murdered." Her voice shook. Dean blew out a breath. Sam was better at the sensitive stuff. Ladies crying just made Dean uncomfortable and a little frantic.

"Maybe. You filed a complaint-"

"He went out walking. He did that a lot, to stretch his leg. And I think, to prove to himself that his bum leg couldn't hold him back. He came back one night saying some woman had tried to jump him. He didn't want to file a complaint, but I did. The cops didn't even follow up on account o' he's a man and should be able to defend himself. Assholes." She poured their coffees and Dean moved to carry them both into the living room.

"What did Travis say about this woman?"

Margie shrugged, dropped down onto the couch. "Not much. Said he didn't remember anything about her. Then about a week later, he disappeared."

"You didn't file a missing persons-"

"Because they wouldn't let me. Less than 48 hours later, he was found. So-"

"So... no missing persons. Got it." Dean sipped at the coffee. It wasn't bad. This lady was actually kind of nice. He felt bad for her.

"The cops aren't looking into his death."

"Yeah, I noticed that. Why ya think that is?"

Margie shrugged. "They think he fell into the river, that it was an accident. Because of his leg. But Travis was careful, and he walked every day to keep strong. He works harder than other people just to stay on his feet. He wouldn't just fall into the river. But they couldn't find evidence that he'd been murdered. He wasn't shot, or stabbed, or beaten. He was just... dead." Margie closed her eyes and a single trail of wet traced down her wrinkled cheek. It'd been months since Travis Stock had died, but for Margie, it might as well have been yesterday; Dean recognized the feeling from months of living with a woman and hiding his own raw well of grief. When she opened her eyes again, she was handling it.

Kind of like a Winchester. Dean smiled, just a little.

"I don't believe in a higher power, Dean. I don't believe in cosmic mumbo jumbo. I don't even believe in soulmates. But somehow I just - I know he was murdered. Trav wouldn't just leave me like that. He was taken from me."

"I believe you," Dean said. "I do. And I think, maybe. Whatever took Travis from you, it's taking other people. Maybe my friend's brother." He paused, decided getting personal would go a long way with her. "Maybe my brother. I'm gonna stop it from taking anyone else, okay? I'm gonna get you some justice. But you're my only lead. Come on, anything you can remember about that week. No matter how tiny the detail."

Margie frowned. "He said she made him promise something. He couldn't remember what-"

"Couldn't remember? Your report didn't say anything about memory loss."

"Why would it? He was jumped by some woman-"

"And you didn't think losing his memory over the next week was strange?"

She raised her brows and sat back, exuding dangerous calm. "Strange? Considering he's been losing memory for the last three years? No."

Dean opened his mouth, closed it. Felt chastised. "Oh. Kay. So... he was losing memories during this week-" She nodded, still coolly watching him. "Moreso than usual?"

She exhaled through her nose, miffed at him, but maybe calming down. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Well, that explains why you didn't turn up in our search."

"Search?"

"Other victims, mostly visitors from out of town. Common thread was memory loss." Dean frowned. Travis Stock, history of memory loss. Stevie Wilcox, Downs' syndrome. Sam Winchester... depression and all kinds of other crazy Dean couldn't even begin to list. Maybe there was another common thread in play. "Hang on a sec would ya?" He pulled his phone to call Sam.

Sam rolled his shoulders. Dean had been gone just over an hour, and already Sam was feeling restless about it. Not that he was any help. Not that he was any use. Dumped at the library like he was fourteen again, good for book readin' and that was about it. He scanned through the tome in front of him, a big book of water spirits even though he was pretty sure he had been off base. And wasn't that disconcerting, Dean trying to make him feel better about being wrong? He must have really been worried. And honestly, so was Sam. In the detached part of his brain, he worried that he was just done, that one day soon, one of these black moods would get him and not let go. He didn't actively want to die, but when he allowed himself to get caught up in thinking about it?

He didn't actively want to live either.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Kevin's face, sour and annoyed to be having a picture taken, flashed across the screen before Sam answered it.

"Kev, any luck?"

"So you're awake?"

Sam frowned. "Uh... Yeah? What's up?"

"Whatever, nothing. I've been trying to call you for like years, but whatever. I'm working on this ghost thing-"

"Ghost thing?"

"Uh... yeah. The protection thing? So I can use that ghost decoder ring you guys found? On John Dee's journal?"

Sam felt dizzy. He knew who John Dee was, and he remembered waking up in a hotel room in Boston, but - ghost decoder ring and some journal, the words meant nothing to him, even though it was obvious Kevin expected him to know what he was talking about. Missing memories. God he felt light headed.

"Sam?"

"Uh... Yeah. I just - I thought Dean had you on this case-"

"He does. I'm working on it, okay? But I need your opinion on something. Charlie and I came up with a list of protective stones, but I'm not sure which would be best. The books here are ... well, I get the idea these guys didn't work, you know, in the field at all."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut a moment, got his bearings. They were going to figure this out, and then he was going to get his memories back. "No. Not really. So wait, you've got salt and iron somewhere in there, right?"

"I'm not a noob, Sam."

"No, no of course not. Just making sure." Ghost decoder ring, to translate something - meant they hadn't gotten rid of the ghost, needed the ghost to do some mojo, needed it to do mojo but not harm the person using the decoder thing - "So, I just had a thought - instead of just limiting it so it can't get far from the ... decoder ring, maybe just-"

"Yeah, that's what you were saying yesterday morning. Man you are out of it. Remember, we talked about how hard it was gonna be? You went off for like an hour on ghost physics? Anyway I got ahold of Charlie and we came up with a way to tie the protection specifically to me. Then we'll put salt down around the room so it can't get out and get into anyone else."

Sam rubbed his temple. He used to be better at covering his ass than this. He sighed, leaning back in the uncomfortable library chair. "Okay. Usually when something needs to be tied directly to a person, it requires something physical. Blood, usually. You okay with that?"

"Blood?"

Sam chuckled. "Yeah. Sorry, kiddo. I don't make the rules."

"Well, I guess I'm more okay with that than the alternative."

Sam opened his mouth to agree, but Kevin went on, quiet: "What was it like?"

And Sam shut his mouth. Frowned. "What was what like?"

"Being possessed by John Dee- but, you don't have to answer if you don't want to-"

Kevin made his apologies, spun himself out on them while Sam stared at nothing, feeling frantic and nervous and disoriented. Possessed? He'd been possessed by John Dee. And he couldn't remember it. Now that he knew that, now that he went searching for that chunk of memory, that block of time before waking up in a motel bed in Boston, Dean's worried face searching for him, but he was right there, and the way he said Sammy like it was a question, like it might not have been answered the way he wanted it to be - Sam had been possessed and now that he was looking for the memory of that time, the black nothing where that memory should have been pulled at him like a whirling wind-

"Sam?"

"I-" he said, breathless. Sam swallowed, got his head back. "I don't remember much of it. But uh no, possession isn't a picnic. You definitely don't want to mess with that stuff."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then: "Sorry man. I wasn't thinking."

"It's okay. So you're set except for this stone? What'd you dig up as options?"

"Okay. Um, we tried to keep the list to the easy-to-get stuff. Malachite, mother of pearl-"

"That's most useful for kids," Sam said. "You might get away with it, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. And mother of pearl if I remember is strictly newborn infant stuff."

"Damn. Okay, how about quartz?"

Sam made a face. "Quartz is more for healing, and it's kinda weak. Most of the people using it are fakes. It works just like salt, really. Purification, the orderly crystalline structure of the molecules-"

"Yeah, I remember." Kevin sighed. "Everything else on my list seems harder to get. We don't have like, an emergency fund or something, do we?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Promise not to tell Dean?"

"Promise."

"Go to the freezer. I keep a credit card in a block of ice in the back there. It's totally clean, no flags, no balance."

There was a laugh on the other end of the line. "Sweet. So then what's better? Black tourmaline, jet - I don't know, it just says 'jet.' Or kat...kataga-"

"Katanganite?" Sam frowned. "Well. Black tourmaline I think has more of a transformative quality to it-"

"Yeah, this says it transmutes negative energy to positive."

"Right. I don't think that's what we want. And jet, if it's what I'm thinking of, isn't going to protect you at all."

"This says it blocks all forms of negative energies."

"Yeah," Sam said, tapping at his laptop. "Well, like you said. These guys didn't get much field experience. Jet will absorb the negative energy. You tie that to yourself and you're in trouble. I'd go with door number three." He clicked send on an email.

"This says it's pretty rare."

"Check your email. I'm sending you a link. We've worked with these guys before. There's a PO box in town you can have it sent to."

"Wait. I'm mail ordering it? I thought this was a priority."

"It's fine. I want us to be back before you try anything anyway. Just in case."

"Well that's completely reassuring."

"Luckily, we happen to have lots of experience with ghosts. Just wait til we get home, okay?"

"Yes, dad."

"Anything on the thing we're working now?"

"No, sorry. I'll call if I find something, though."

"Thanks. Hey, Kev. Take care of yourself, okay? I mean it. Eat, sleep. You remember you're human, right?"

Another little laugh. "Yeah. I'm on it. If you make me the same deal."

Sam shook his head, smiled. "Yeah, yeah, deal- Oh, that's call waiting. I gotta go. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Kevin had barely got his okay out before Sam clicked over, eyes trained on his laptop. "Dean, listen-"

"Sam? I don't-" She sounded frantic, a familiar sound, a dreaded sound.

"Erica? What happened?"

"It's Stevie."

Sam pushed the speedometer as far as he thought he could, considering he was in a stolen car and apparently being hunted by the Feds. The phone at his ear rang four times and went to voicemail, again. But he'd already left three messages. He hung up and tossed the phone into the passenger seat. Pressed the gas. Dean was maybe ignoring him, still annoyed at him for whatever the hell he was annoyed about. Whatever had made him leave Sam in a library. Or maybe he was in trouble. But Dean had a trunk full of shotguns. Stevie had nothing.

It was a mess, whatever he picked. He liked to think that Dean always answered when Sam called, which made his gut clench in reflex - Dean's in trouble if he doesn't answer - but the truth was, Dean ignored his calls all the time. Usually after a huge fight though -

Did they have a huge fight? He remembered Dean acting really squirrelly around him, suspicious, but resigned. That expression he got whenever he disapproved of something Sam was doing but didn't have the power or the energy or the will to stop Sam from it. That pressed together look, the raised brows over closed eyes, the little shake of Dean's head. Had they had a big fight over something Sam was doing, and now Sam couldn't even remember what he'd done wrong?

The more he tried to fill in the possibly missing gaps, the more obvious it was that Dean was hanging onto some grudge - okay, not new. But - but -

But the last thing he wanted to do was go off on his own; Dean was going to assume he was trying to prove himself, and he was going to worry, and honestly? Despite throwing a fit over carrying his own bag or holding his own in a fight, he was worried about meeting this monster again, with only the pistol in his jeans, and with an innocent to protect.

But that was the job. Maybe the only part of the job that held any attraction for him anymore. The dull sense of "this is right" that made the blood on his hands mean something. And maybe he was a monster, and maybe he had missing memories of yet another terrible thing he'd done, and if he went out trying to save this kid, well. Maybe Dean'd forgive him.

"Hang on a sec would ya?" Dean pulled out his phone to call Sam, frowned at it. "Dammit. No signal out here. You got a phone?"

Margie shook her head. "Had a wind storm, never bothered to get it fixed. Who'm I gonna call?"

"Great." Dean tapped his phone against his palm. "Okay, listen, Margie. I'm gonna get to the bottom of this, but I need to check in with my brother."

"Your brother, the brother you think might be in trouble?"

Dean laughed and looked toward heaven. "Every day of the goddamn year. Yes. That brother. I'll be back. I don't think we're done here. But I'm gonna head toward town and see if I can get a cell signal, swap theories."

Margie nodded. "Trav wrote me some notes before he disappeared. I'll get them together for you to go through when you get back."

"Great."

Minutes later, Dean was speeding down the highway back toward town. Ten minutes from the city limit, his phone beeped: voicemail waiting. When he looked at the alert, he cursed aloud. Three voicemails, all from Sam. He hit play.

"Hey Dean, I don't know if you're pissed at me or what, but give me a call back asap."

"Dean, Erica just called. Stevie's missing. She thinks he's gone back to the bridge. I still have no idea what we're dealing with, so... call me back. You can be annoyed with me later, okay?"

"Okay, I'm going. Stevie's on foot. If I leave now and speed, I might be able to catch him before he makes it to the bridge. Call me."

Fuck. Dean hit the call back button and waited for it to connect. But. It didn't even ring once before going right to voicemail.

Fuck.

"Sammy!"

The bridge was covered in a rolling cold chill. Here in June, in the early evening, a deep wet fog just boiling through.

"Sam!"

Sam's stolen car sat fifty feet back from the bridge. Dean let out a breath; thank God he hadn't wrecked it on the way. And he'd parked it out of the range of the ghostly EMP that had hit them the first time. Good 'ol Sammy, a smarter hunter when Dean wasn't around, who knew why. Dean tried to track him from the car, scuffle in the gravel maybe, but there was nothing.

Until he ventured into the fog to check out the bridge itself.

"Sam! Come on, this isn't funny!" Dean waved the shotgun through the fog like he could fan it away somehow, spun at every maybe-shadow.

"D- D-"

"Sam!" Dean fled toward the voice, slid to his knees beside the shadow of a body, but when he got close enough, it was Stevie, shaking and crying and bleeding from the side of his head. Dean grimaced at the wound, tilted the kid's face to get a better look at it. "Okay, you're okay. Where's Sam?"

"S-Sa-"

"Stevie, focus. Is Sam here? Did he catch up with you?"

His words came out run together. "Sssshetookhim shesaidhecouldtradeand hesaidyes." Stevie looked up at Dean with wide eyes, terror-struck. He breathed in gasps and his face was wet and he was so upset - "He went with her. For me."

Dean stared. Gathered the kid into his arms and sat and rocked him, shushed him, wished it were Sammy there with him, wished Sam wasn't such a fucking martyr - but Stevie held onto his coat and cried hard and asked for his sister and Dean knew he'd have done the same thing, and by God he'd have been forever indebted if someone else had sacrificed themselves to save Sam.

Fuck. Fuck.

The fog faded quickly. A supernatural fog, probably meant Dean had missed Sam by minutes. And as the fog drifted off the bridge and down to the water, it left behind pieces of Sam. His gun, there feet away. A spatter of crimson. His cell phone, cracked and broken.

And Dean.