Dean drove just under the highway speed limit, buying himself time.

He hadn't decided yet whether he would roll the car and try to disable or disarm his attacker in the ensuing chaos, or simply make a grab for the barrel of the gun pressed against his head while thrusting his elbow back into its skull. He was leaning toward the latter, if only for the sake of leaving his baby uninjured.

"Nice skin suit," he taunted, eyes moving up at the rear-view mirror to see if he was drawing any reaction out of the thing holding the gun. "Reminds me of a brother I had once."

Adam's eyes remained straight ahead, his expression unreadable.

Dean continued, "Of course, he's dead. So I'm just trying to figure out what kind of sick fuck wears a dead kid out for a joyride."

For a brief instant, Adam's eyes met Dean's in the rear-view mirror, then flicked back down to the road ahead. "You knew I wasn't dead. You always knew." Adam said. Dean could hear the anger in his voice, but there was also an undercurrent of something so sad. It made him sound eerily detached. Distant. Broken.

Dean's grip tightened on the wheel, making his knuckles stand out in pale relief.

He stole a glance at the phone on the seat beside him, wishing for the chance to call Sam, to warn Sam.

"Get off here," Adam said, the flat, toneless quality returned to his voice.

Dean's stomach turned over as he eased into the exit lane of the highway. He was running out of time. If he had any move to make, he needed to make it.

Sam, he thought intently, if I fuck this up, you better find me.

Without warning, Dean cut the wheel hard to the right, sending the Impala careening onto the shoulder of the road, tires skipping. Adam was thrown across the back seat to land off-balance against the side door. Dean slammed on the brakes, and they both lurched forward. Adam tumbled forward in a heap and came up struggling to untangle himself just as Dean twisted around and grabbed hold of both his wrists, holding the gun pointed away.

They wrestled for control of it, Dean keeping Adam pinned against the back seat. He nearly succeeded in prying the weapon out of his hand, inching his fingers back and away. And then, a shot fired.

The force of it threw Dean back with the impact, his vision exploding into sparks.

Something was digging into his back. It might have been the steering column. He put a hand out to push himself up and felt himself being lifted instead, pulled, dragged.

He kicked out with everything he had, connecting solidly with the body pressing down on him, but he was losing the fight with consciousness. He couldn't see. Couldn't make his muscles respond the way they should.

No.

Sam.

He reached for the phone, fingers closing on nothing.

Need to.

He came back to consciousness slowly.

The ache in his shoulder throbbed in time to his heartbeat, which he latched on to as reassuring. At least he still had one.

He tried turning to the side and discovered that the surface he was laying on was cold and unyielding, and that his hands were tied wide apart above his head.

His breath caught. This position meant bad things, having spent thirty years pinned on a rack like this. He'd broken like this.

Dean forced himself to push the panic down, to breathe. Feelings were a luxury he couldn't afford and didn't want. He yanked at the ropes at each wrist, finding that not only were they securely knotted but that his feet were tied down as well. He brought all of his focus to his right hand, working to get just one hand free. Find just a little give. Then a little more. Keep going. Don't think about anything but the task, the outcome.

He worked at the rope until the skin of his wrist was torn and raw, his fingers numb and slick with his own blood, and still he couldn't feel any progress. Dean banged his head back against the table with a yell of frustration, yanking ineffectually at the ropes.

He heard someone laugh, bitter and breathy.

Dean turned his head toward the sound, twisting as far as he was able to against the ropes, struggling again, no matter how useless it was. "Dammit, who's there?" he shouted. "Adam?"

"Dean." Adam stepped into Dean's line of sight, a long, sharp knife evident in one hand. "Don't worry, Sam should be here soon."

"What are you talking about? Where's Sam?"

"He's coming. I left a trail."

"Don't you fucking dare touch him. You son of a bitch!"

Adam pressed his lips together. "That's… my mom you're talking about, Dean."

"Adam…what…"

"It's okay, it's okay. Really. You're not going to die. I just need to hurt you. It's for Sam. I need Sam."

"You leave Sam out of this," Dean growled.

Adam reached out and touched a finger to Dean's lips. Dean jerked his head away.

"Sam… is this," he said with an odd gentleness, as if the words explained everything, as if revealing a closely kept secret.

"What?" Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. He couldn't tell if was having trouble understanding because of blood loss or because the words really weren't making any sense. "Adam, listen—if you're Adam, then how…?"

Adam laughed again. "I forgot what birds sounded like. When I heard them again, I didn't know what they were."

Neither said anything for a long moment. Dean frowned, trying desperately to read the man standing over him.

"How are you here?" he asked evenly.

Adam smiled.

"I made a promise," he said.

The first cut into Dean's arm went deep, and he couldn't hold back the scream.

Two-hundred years ago, Sam knew he wouldn't have been able to read Adam like this. And Adam wouldn't have been able to play him so perfectly.

Sam angrily swiped at contents of the case file laid out on the passenger's seat beside him, sending papers scattering to the floor of the car.

The victims were a message. Each one was a point on a map. He saw it now, when before all he could see was his own Hell reflected back at him.

He had run to Texas, to Amelia, exactly as Adam had known he would. He'd counted on Dean coming after him. And now he was counting on Sam putting these pieces together, plotting the course, following the trail he'd left. Finding his brother. He'd almost made sure of it. He had given Sam everything he needed to follow them, everything short of an address.

But why?

Seeing the trap so plainly laid out made him hesitate. But the thought of Dean in trouble made him reckless. Adam must have factored that reaction in too, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Every instinct he had was telling him to find Dean. He didn't see any other choice. He needed to get to his brother.

Maybe it's not really Adam.

The thought had occurred to him. He turned it over in his head, trying to believe it.

With a final frustrated shake of his head, he threw the car into reverse and pulled out of the motel parking lot. He drove with both hands on top of the wheel, absently pressing the scar on his hand, following the path that he knew deep down Adam had carved for him to follow.

Morning stretched into midday as Sam took turn after turn through a burned-out section of one of the industrial districts downtown, combing the streets where he suspected Adam's trail led. He finally spotted the Impala parked in a narrow, dark alleyway between two abandoned factory buildings. And then he heard screaming.

Gun drawn, he kicked the door in and ran toward it. Oh God, it was Dean. He knew it was Dean. He could hear the limits reached in his brother's voice, and he stopped himself from drawing images from it. He let himself be led by it, guided by the sound and by the pure need to kill whatever was causing it.

The scream cut off abruptly as he reached a second door. Sam burst through it, and found himself staring right back into Hell.

Dean's eyes met his. "Sam… no."

And Sam had just enough time to feel like a fool before his arms were seized from behind and he was pushed to his knees.

To be continued.