A/N: Sorry about the delays getting this chapter up, I got distracted by writing smut and a trip that involved my driving 14 hours in a weekend. I realized if I just kept writing off the top of my head I'd start losing threads. Plus side, I spent a lot of those 14 hours thinking about this. Got back and spent 2 hours taking notes and actually writing out some outlines and such. So, that should help the narrative a little.

Note: There's a minor retcon to Chapter 3, so if you read it previously, now be aware that the line where "Jess' parents" give permission for Sam to see her, it now reads "next of kin." Cause that's not ominous or anything.

"So, what, is she going to stay like this forever?" Sam demanded, anger roughening his voice. It wasn't fair of him to shout at the doctors. It wasn't their fault that Jess was in a coma. They'd done everything they could, and if not for their efforts, Jess would have died. It wasn't fair that Jess was unconscious. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't fair that Sam had go through this. It wasn't his fault. It was an accident, must have been an accident, it was no one's fault. Bullshit. The people who made and distributed the drugs were at fault. They deserved to pay.

"I wish we had answers for you, Mr. Winchester, but we don't," the doctor said impassively. Every doctor he'd dealt with at Mount Sinai had professional indifference down to a science. "There are cases where people in her condition recover completely. There are cases where they wake up with neurological damage or physical disabilities. In the majority of cases, they never wake up. That is the most likely outcome."

"Oh," he said distractedly. The words weren't a surprise but they still hit him like a punch to the gut. With fevered desperation, between his audition, classes, performances, practicing, and commuting, Sam had spent hours reading about the effects of methamphetamine overdoses. What he read matched what Dr. Hydeker had put so bluntly, but having it applied to Jess hurt more than he expected. He'd dared to hope that she might have a different outcome than the average OD victim. The past week had been a nightmare, a swirl of fatigue, sadness, pain, and stress. It had taken all his willpower to drag himself to his audition Monday morning. If he'd bobbled a few notes, well, everyone knew what he had overcome to even walk in the door. Social media had guaranteed that.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester," said Dr. Hydeker, wearing the kind of smile they teach in Bedside Manner 101. "I wish I had better news. Drug abusers have notoriously poor life expectancy."

If her prognosis was a punch in the gut, the jab at Jess' history as a user was a slap in the face. Everyone always blamed the person taking the drugs, never made any damn effort to understand why they used, nor did they show any understanding that without the manufacturers working to perfect ever better, ever stronger, ever more addictive, ever more expensive drugs, there would be no supply to ruin the lives of innocent people who got in over their heads. Whatever had happened on Saturday night, it wasn't Jess' fault. Beautiful, sweet, talented, affectionate Jess, with her laugh like tinkling crystal, her hair like silk against his chest, her strong fingers burning like fire at the lightest touch on his skin, her playing vibrant with all the emotion that a difficult life had taught her. Unable to find the words to rebuke the doctor's suggestion, Sam turned away, eyes swimming.

"You shut the fuck up," snapped Dean. In that moment, as in so many others over the past week, Sam was reminded how much he loved his brother. "Jess might – might – have made a bad decision, but that doesn't mean she deserved to fucking die. So get off your fucking high horse and have some respect for someone who loved her."

"Mr. Winchester, do we need to have you removed...?" The look Hydeker gave Dean was carefully neutral but his voice screamed that if he weren't above such petty things, he'd be smirking. There was an unspoken "again" at the end of the line. Dean had nearly been permanently banned from the hospital for grabbing the jacket of a different doctor who'd suggested they were wasting valuable resources and bed space trying to keep an addict alive when there were more deserving people sleeping on cots in the hallway.

"No, I think we're done here," Dean said. Surreptitiously wiping tears from his eyes, Sam warily turned back to the doctor. Hydeker and Dean were locked in a staring contest, one that Dean was definitely getting the better of. The singer had several inches on the doctor, a great deal more muscle, and his worn, dark brown leather jacket was intimidating in ways that a plain white polyester lab coat never had a prayer of competing with. Normally, Dean strutting aggressively would have made Sam angry, but not now.

The truth was, Sam was already angry. He was furious. He wasn't deluding himself when he said Jess wasn't at fault. He knew she wasn't. They'd talked about this. They'd both been using when they'd met, both been taking uppers constantly as a way to meet the intense demands of the school. They'd decided to quit together. Jess wouldn't break her word. That wasn't the kind of woman she was. And fuck all the assholes who said that addicts were all liars. He knewJess. Whatever it took, he was going to find out who was responsible for this, and he was going to make sure they got everything they deserved. It wouldn't bring Jess back – she wasn't dead, he reminded himself, there was still hope – but it might quiet the voice in his thoughts endlessly looping that he should have known, that he should have been home, that he should have gotten there sooner, that he should have saved her.

Dr. Hydeker backed down with a sour frown. Sam smiled, sharing in Dean's triumphant, cocky grin.

"Visiting hours end in half an hour," snapped Hydeker, turning and leaving.

Dean stared the man out the door, but as soon as they were alone, he slumped and turned to Sam. "Shit. I'm sorry," he said, face falling. "I know I shouldn't antagonize them, but what kind of fucked up jack off tells the victim's family that it was her fault she got hurt? That's bullshit."

"It's okay, Dean," Sam said. Dean opened his mouth to protest. "No, really, you're okay." His smile widened. It was the first time he'd felt human in almost a week. The smile was returned hesitantly.

"Seriously did you see the look on his face?" Dean's lips twisted mischievously. "Hey, you remember that itching powder I slipped into your tighty whities when you did that ghost hunt thing?"

"How could I forget?" Sam deadpanned. "I thought there was a poltergeist going after my...crotch."

Dean laughed a little too loudly. "Oh man, yeah, I forgot that part."

"No, you didn't."

"No, I didn't," Dean gasped as his laughter grew more genuine.

"You brought this up – why?" asked Sam, rolling his eyes overdramatically and tried to communicate with a look how extremely disappointed he was in Dean's childish behavior. In retrospect, it was hilarious, and a prized childhood memory, the more so because he had gotten Dean back about a thousand times over with his counter-prank. He'd taken all of Dean's boxers, left him with nothing but a single pair of girl's panties, and waited, fingers crossed and camera aimed, for Dean to discover the loss. He'd assumed that Dean would go commando, and had a whole plan for turning that agonizingly embarrassing. Instead, Dean had put the panties on, and worn them all day, and Sam had the pictures to prove it. He smirked.

"Dr. Dickwad, that's why," grinned Dean. They both knew Sam wasn't actually mad. "Every time I see his fake-ass smile I just imagine him trying to smile like that while his cock itches." The mental image came through crystal clear, amplified by the fact that Sam knew exactly how unpleasant that felt, and he bit back a chuckle. " 'Mr. Winchester, I...' " Dean did an obvious imitation of the doctor, breaking off to scratch at his thigh. " 'I think we need to dickscuss...' " He scratched more obviously. " '...this is a very serious itchuation...' " Sam snorted. " 'We haven't scratched the surface...I mean, there's a burning need to...' " Laughter broke free, rocking Sam in his chair. " 'No one appreciates my care, that's my crotch to bear...cross! Cross to balls!" Doubled over, Sam could hardly breath. "Fuck, it's good to hear you laugh," Dean dropped the imitation and sat down beside Sam, setting a hand on his shoulder. "You're going to be okay, Sammy. Everything is going to be okay."

Tears were streaming down Sam's face, laughter subsiding into sobs, and he threw his arms around his brother. In the first instant, Dean stiffened, but then he relaxed and embraced Sam, strongly gripping around his shoulders.

"Thank you, Dean," mumbled Sam brokenly. "Thanks for everything."

"Don't mention it," Dean answered. "I'm your brother. What kind of fucking loser would I be if I wasn't here when you needed me?" Sam managed a smile that Dean couldn't possibly see. Of course, Dean didn't think he'd done anything note worthy. After all, he'd done nothing more than cancel his entire tour schedule for the week, eating various fees and sitting through hours of verbal abuse. He's only accompanied Sam around the city, made sure that Sam ate and slept, kept him company at all hours, and still found time somehow make friends with some of Sam's classmates while Sam was at school. And coordinate two impromptu jam sessions with said friends. And write a song. And handle the nurses and hospital staff. Nothing special.

"Jerk."

"Bitch," said Dean in the gruff voice he always used when he refused to sound affectionate.

They stayed that way until the hospital PA system kicked on and announced that all visitors should leave the building. The moment the loudspeaker shut off, Dean drew away as if burned, putting on a tough look and straightening his jacket. "Come on, let's get the fuck out of here. We can come bright and extra early tomorrow, if you'd like."

"Yeah," said Sam. "Maybe. I don't know." Dean frowned. Tomorrow was Saturday, a week since Jess' overdose. When he thought of spending the entire day at the hospital, every emotion balked. That wasn't what he wanted. Standing vigil next to her bedside felt too much like waiting for her to die. What he wanted was vengeance. With a full day off, no audition hanging over his head, he could begin to do the legwork that would be necessary to learn what had happened. He needed to know who had sold her the speed. He needed to know where the speed had come from. He had all the contacts necessary to learn that, and learn it quickly. That was why Castiel and Gabriel followed him around. Once he'd quit using, he'd taken everything he'd learned to the DEA, and had helped them track down every bastard dealer and cook and supplier and distributer he could, helped make sure they had enough evidence to get convictions that would stick. It had always felt good. Now, it would feel even better.

He needed to talk to Castiel. They'd been trading text messages all week, but with Dean around so much, there had been no way to talk. Though Dean had covertly asked several times, Sam had managed to dodge explaining who Castiel was or why he'd been at the house the previous week. Sam was fairly sure Dean was only asking because he wanted Castiel's number.

"So, Sammy," Dean said with deceptive casualness. "Whaddaya say we find a bar and get smashed?"

"What do you say we do a show?" countered Sam. They made their way through hallway after sterile, white, identical hallway, following the exit signs to the elevator.

"Huh?" Dean looked over his shoulder, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Come on, someone offered you one, right?"

"Yeah, several 'someones,' when they heard I was hangin' out in the city with my kid brother," shrugged Dean. "I told them to read the newspaper and go fuck themselves." The trades and bloggers had heard that Dean Winchester was cancelling shows and had not rested until they found out why. The news had hit Monday evening that the long-absent Sam Winchester had suffered drug-related heartbreak, and the comparisons to their father and the death of their mother had immediately ensued. The results had been, understandably, pandemonium. Sure, Dean wasn't all that famous, and Sam was much less so, but their parents were...who they were, and the whiff of scandal brought journalists like shit brought flies. They reached the Impala, gleaming black in the headlights of other cars leaving the rapidly-emptying underground parking lot. Dean had brought the car into the city to facilitate ferrying Sam around, eating the cost of parking it in indoor lots. Sam cringed to think how much money Dean had blown this week. He knew Dean had never had much to begin with.

"Call one up and tell them we'll be there," said Sam. Helping his brother earn back some of what he'd spent was the least he could do, and standing on a stage, sweating his ass off and playing his heart out, sounded like a great way to spend the night.

"Say what?" Dean asked dumbly, freezing with the key in the door.

"Find some place that'll let us play tonight," Sam explained like he was talking to a kindergartener.

"That's nuts, Sammy," Dean said, opening the door. He slipped into the driver's seat and leaned over to unlock Sam's door. "No place will take us on such short notice."

"Of course they will, Dean," snapped Sam, dropping into the car and tugging the door shut. The familiar setting soothed his soul immediately. The smell of worn leather, the ubiquitous creek of the old hinges, the pristine condition of the dashboard, all spoke to endless days on the road. The entirety of Sam's childhood was spent curled up in the middle of the front seat, then in the backseat kicking at Dean's chair. Dean turned the key, the engines hummed to life and the radio kicked on, playing the Allman Brother's Band, Southbound, B side of Brothers and Sisters. Sam knew every track on every album on every tape that had ever played on this car. It wasn't much of an accomplishment, there were only about 30, played until they wore out, were replaced, and wore out again. He soaked it in, not realizing until they were paying the garage attendant that Dean kept giving him sidelong looks.

"I got a better idea," Dean drawled. "I drive you home, fetch my old friends Jose, Jack and the Captain, and we all spend the night together. It's way better than playin' to some sots who never even heard of us."

"No, this'll work," Sam insisted. "You said it yourself, Dean – we're all over the news. So, call up a venue and have them put out on social media that we're playing a show. People will eat it up."

Pulling onto 5th Avenue, Dean alternated glancing at Sam and glancing at the road. They stopped at a red light. Dean shrugged and dug his phone out of his pocket, thrusting it at Sam. "There're some messages from some places. Pick whichever strikes your fancies, gives you warm fuzzies or whatever shit you'd like. You know I'll never say no to spendin' the night playing instead of piss drunk."

Sam flipped through the list of voicemails. The "alert" number said 50+, and Sam spared a moment to appreciate how organized Dean kept his contact list, for every single entry was identified with a name, business, location and industry. Well, almost every one. Ellen's five messages just said Harvelle, Jo's were labeled JoJo Babe, and Bobby's simply said Bobby. Combined, those three accounted for a noticeable percentage of the messages. The rest were journalists and venue owners, primarily. Sam looked through until he saw a name he recognized, called them up, and before Dean steered them uptown towards Sam's apartment, Sam had booked a set at Bloody Mary's at 10 PM. Upon hearing Sam's proposal, the bar owner had shrieked so loudly that Dean had winced. The elated man had promised them an excellent rate for the show, all the booze they could drink, rooms for the night if they wanted, and that the audience be hanging off the rafters, all the while sounding like Christmas had come two months early. He was probably jumping up and down, too.

"What're we going to play?" Sam asked, pulling out his phone and opening a new note.

"Well, you're several years outta the game, Sammy, so I think we should stick to dad's standbys – Love Song in Blue, Wildlife of Texas, Real Tough Times…" suggested Dean.

"Really? Dean, you hate that stuff," Sam said.

"Sure do, but it brings the house down every time," Dean shrugged.

"Why not open with South of the Border?" Sam gave Dean a sidelong look so he could see his reaction. Surprise flickered over Dean's rugged features, then confusion, then understanding, and finally he broke into a wide grin. "It's way better than opening with Banks of the River like you did last week, what the heck were thinking, getting a show started with a such a slow downer?"

"I was prepping them for you coming on stage, figured your playing would be that much more awesome by contrast," Dean said, a hint of youthful enthusiasm hastening his words. "You've been listenin' to my music, Sammy?"

"Of course I have, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes, though Dean couldn't see. How could Dean have thought he'd do anything else? Sure, Dean didn't put out albums in any traditional sense, but that only made recordings of his songs in higher demand. There were entire communities on YouTube dedicated to begging, borrowing, or stealing high-quality sound and video of Dean's concerts. If only Dean would relent and put a track list up on iTunes, he'd make a killing. Sam would have to work on convincing him.

"Yeah, sure, let's play a bunch of the newer songs," Dean thumped a quick rhythm on the steering. "I hate that old shit. Unless…has that fancy school lost you the ability to jam?"

"Dude, there is seriously nothing you can play that I can't fake an accompaniment too," Sam teased.

Dean laughed, loud and long, and it dwindled to a chuckle. "I know it, Sam," he said with an intensity that surprised Sam. "Don't I know." There was a long pause. "I know the circumstances fricken suck, but, well, it means a lot to me, you wantin' to play with me again."

"Is that a whiff of sentimentality, or does my nose deceive me?" Sam sniffed loudly.

"Shaddup," snapped Dean. "I'm trying to be serious here. I'm just sayin'...I missed you. A lot. And, ya kow, if there's anything I can do, going forward, to ease your way, all you've gotta do is ask."

"Thanks, Dean," Sam replied. "Having you here to help has been awesome. I missed you, too."

"Right," Dean took a deep breath and let it whoosh out his mouth. "Set list. Let's do that." Sam shook his head as Dean began to rattle of songs they might play. He appreciated Dean's words all the more because he knew how hard it was for Dean to bring himself to say things like that. The prospect that his brother would have to leave any day now suddenly settled heavily and unpleasantly in Sam's gut.

An hour later, they pulled into a lot near the dive bar. Down an alley in Hell's Kitchen, if legend was to be believed Bloody Mary's had once been a Speakeasy, and supposedly was haunted, hence the name. Taking their instruments from the trunk, they walked down the crowded streets, just getting warmed up on a Friday night despite plummeting temperatures. The sidewalk outside Bloody Mary's was so packed with people that the dirty brick exterior, identified by a single flashing neon sign, was obscured. They stole into an alleyway to escape, Dean muttering darkly about feeling like the fucking Beatles, unable to show their faces in public without being mobbed by fans. In most people, Sam would have thought the displeasure an affectation, but in Dean's case, Sam knew it was genuine. Dean loved to perform, but when he was off stage, he preferred to be left alone, and was perpetually mystified him that anyone cared enough to follow his career. Sam wasn't sure if it was modesty or depressed self-deprecation, though he suspected the later. He supposed it was the inevitable side-effect of a life time of John always telling Dean he should do better, should do more, rather than even once telling Dean he'd done a good job. Dean automatically assumed he was inadequate. That he did his best anyway every day was one of those things Sam adored about his older brother.

John had never treated Sam that way. As he'd grown up, Sam had come to realize just how much shit Dean had shielded him from, and what a toll it had taken on his older brother. Guilt made Sam reluctant to take anything that Dean offered. Sam could never make good what Dean had already given up for him, an entire childhood sacrificed for premature adulthood starting at the age of four. Not that Dean expected Sam to make good, or held it over his head, on the contrary. Dean was aghast at the mere suggestion that he might have done anything less. Watching his brother's rigid back as he pounded on the back door to the bar, Sam felt half-formed thoughts beginning to coalesce. He didn't want to say goodbye to Dean again. He wanted to bring down the supply chain that had led to Jess' coma. He wanted to play shows and be on the road. He wanted to help Dean find their father. He wanted to know why Meg hadn't been at the apartment when they got back last Saturday. He wanted to get the hell out of New York City.

He didn't want to go back to Julliard.

Dean cursed a blue streak as someone spotted them and started to shout. Fortunately, the door opened at that exact moment, and they ducked into the building. Sam caught a glimpse of a familiar cowboy hat, and knew that Castiel had gotten his text about the show. Only Gabriel would wear that ridiculous oversized blue hat once, much less repeatedly.

Bloody Mary's interior lived down to all the seedy promise of its outside. Dim lighting, dirty glasses, and a sticky floor completed the picture of a place that must have used black magic or extensive bribery to pass health inspection. The next 45 minutes passed in a flash of tuning, instrument adjustment, the heavy patter of feet on worn floors as the audience filled the room to bursting, and then they were taking the stage under glaring lights, and Sam felt the perfect calm of performing wash over him. The Impala was the closest thing he'd ever had to a home, and the stage was the only school he'd attended for longer than a month. Standing in front of an audience always brought an intoxicating rush that just felt right.

"Hey, Hell's Kitchen!" Sam stepped up to the microphone, making a show of shielding his eyes so that he could see the crowd. Gabriel was standing right at the base of the stage and gave him a cocky wink as the audience cheered. "How're y'all doin' tonight?" Sam was a different man while performing, a southern boy with an accent thick in his tenor. There was another mad explosion of noise. "Awesome. Ain't got much to say, really – y'all ready for some music?" It was a persona, protection from vulnerability, a way to divide who he really was from who the public saw. It was not the kind of thing a classical violinist ever had to do. Though he hadn't been on stage with Dean regularly in almost six years, he donned the fake Sam and wore it as naturally as a second skin. In his heart, he was still one third of the Winchester Trio. He'd never really fit in at Julliard, though he'd tried, fuck, had he tried.

"A one, two, one-two-three-four!"

I'm headin' south of the border,

Found my way to California.

Drove all night to find the sun

Looks just the same on the next day.

It's a long way to Texas.

Lost my way outside 'a Vegas.

Don't know what I'm doin' here -

And I don't care.

Heart pounding, Sam sang loud into the microphone clipped to his neck. It had taken him years to figure out how to hold the violin so he could play and sing at the same time. Dean's voice joined him, harmonizing unthinkingly, instinctually, habitually. The prospect of Dean leaving, of Sam returning to school as if nothing had happened, of going into class every day alone and returning home every evening alone, of visiting familiar haunts and seeing their mutual friends without Jess was agonizing.

Oh doncha say I got no worries -

I've a load of them I'm sure.

Oh doncha say I got no troubles -

I got mine, I got mine.

Oh doncha know I got some baggage

In my car and deep inside.

Oh doncha know I bear it always -

But I don't mind, I don't mind.

Maybe it was cowardice, to throw away what he'd worked for. He had six months of school left after a decade of dedication, practice and sacrifice. Yet, somehow, it suddenly felt empty and worthless. He didn't need a piece of paper from a prestigious academy to prove he could play. The audience arrayed before him, singing along and stamping their feet to the lively beat were all the proof Julliard.

There ain't no place like Tijuana

Hermosillo, or Chihuahua.

Least I'm sure that'd be the case

If I could find my way down there.

Til I do I'll keep on wanderin'

Search for somethin' I've forgotten

Outta reach, so far away

Somewhere out there.

The song lied, they had gone to Mexico, not long before John found out Sam was taking amphetamines and the their miserable little family had shattered. Sam had gotten to practice the Spanish he'd picked up over the years, but they hadn't gotten to see anything else. Every few months found them on the same roads, seeing the same views, with John pointedly ignoring the same interesting places to stop.

Oh doncha say I got it easy -

Come walk a mile in my shoes.

Oh doncha say I stand for nothin'.

That ain't fair, that ain't fair.

Oh doncha know I had home once

Though that's a long, long time ago.

Oh doncha know I think of stoppin'

But I don't dare, I don't dare.

They never did have a home, unless the Roadhouse counted. For Sam, it never did, and he didn't think it had for Dean, either. Sam had loved traveling and dreamed of abroad, of Tokyo, Paris, Dubai, Nairobi, Rio. That had been part of the draw of a classical career. He'd gotten the barest taste of it when school had paid for him to participate in a Mozart competition in Vienna. The reality of traveling as a symphonic performer had been driven home to him then – just like with John, he'd not had a chance to see anything of the city. He'd been in Vienna for four days, all expenses paid, and hadn't even gotten to eat a real, genuine, local pastry.

I'm headin' east of the mountains

Cross the plains and through the heartlands.

Earn my livin' with my playin'

In every city, ville and town.

Keep on movin', always searchin',

Never stoppin', always workin'.

I'll keep whistlin' that tune

Like I don't care.

Abruptly, he wondered what traveling with just Dean would be like. It had been the two of them so constantly through their childhood, in motel rooms or at the Roadhouse, that it was easy to forget that they'd never traveled just the two of them. Despite the lyrics Dean had written, Sam doubted that his brother would have the same single-minded drives as their father. Two things motivated John Winchester – playing music and avenging what happened to Mary. Alcohol, rage and a guitar were John's fuel. Dean might drink as much as their father, play the guitar even better, and be just as focused on the next gig, but even as a teenager Dean had asked to stop at the Grand Canyon and Buttermilk Falls and the Shenandoah even though 15 years should have taught him that John would never say yes.

Oh doncha say I had it coming,

Though I ain't sad with what I got.

Oh doncha say I've earned a backseat

Fulla strife, fulla strife.

Oh doncha know I love the highway -

Journey's endin' out of sight.

Oh doncha know I did it my way

All my life, all my life.

Dean didn't deserve to be alone. Sam didn't deserve to be alone. All Sam had to do was leave with his brother, and he could make that right. Though a part of him felt guilty, thinking of abandoning Jess comatose in a hospital, he couldn't deny the temptation. He could leave. They could leave together. The decision sat well in Sam's mind. He'd leave with Dean. Theoretically, he'd need Dean's okay for that, but he couldn't conceive of his brother saying no.

Dean launched into a complex guitar solo, starting with the main melody of the song and improvising from there. There was a spur of the moment air to the playing that Sam had heard commentators suggest was proof of how good a player Dean was – that he could make something so complex, that he must have drilled endlessly, sound so easy and free. They had it wrong. Dean actually was good enough to invent his rides on the fly. Sam had played with him hundreds of times, and no two solos were the same – similar, sure, but not identical – and every single one was flawless.

Yes, I'm headin' across the border

Between Hell and purgatory.

Drove all night to find my eyes

Burn just as much on the next day.

It's a long way from heaven.

Lost my way, alone and craven.

Don't know what I'm doin' here -

And I don't care.

Gleaming brown eyes caught him from out of the crowd, a familiar rounded face framed by wavy brown hair. Meg! He had to speak with her, find out if she'd been with Jess, if she knew what happened. The girl hadn't been at school all week and hadn't responded to his texts or voicemails.

Ain't got no damn clue what I'm doin'

And I don't care!

The song ended, the last line shouted as the instruments fell silent, words echoing as the whole audience bellowed "I don't care!" at the top of their lungs. Dean broke into a rolling laugh to punctuate the carefree attitude of the lyrics.

They ran effortlessly through the remainder of the set. The whole while, Sam kept checking in to see where Meg was. She drifted through the crowd, apparently disinterested in the music. Her brow was perpetually drawn, and she eyed the crowd with a distasteful expression that deepened whenever someone bumped into her. She noticed him looking, and gave him a humorless half-smile and a nod towards the bathrooms. They wrapped up their last song before their break. Waving a brief goodbye to the audience – Dean drawling out, "y'all don't go no where, hear?" as he left the stage – they retreated to privacy behind the curtain.

"Damn, Sam, that was…"

"…better than sex, yeah, I know." Sam thrust his violin into Dean's hands. "Gotta go. Back in ten."

"What, you need a quickie?" called Dean after him with amusement.

He ducked into the front of the house, trying to mask his height by stooping. It was ridiculous, he'd been standing directly in front of these people for half an hour, there was no way that they wouldn't recognize him, but he stuck to the edge of the room and managed to duck into the smelly hall that led to the toilets without anyone accosting him. There was no one there. Three doors confronted him – one labeled "Dick," one labeled "Snatch" and the last blank. A knock clattered off the blank door – a knock from inside it – caught his attention, and he jerked it open. Inside was a small janitorial closet, and Meg's rotund form filled most of the space. Grabbing the unbuttoned sides of the flannel shirt Sam wore, she tugged him in, looked both ways to make sure no one had noticed, and slammed the door. Instantly, they were plunged into pitch black.

The space was uncomfortably close, their bodies flush. Meg was attractive, with an ample body, pleasant curves, and a penchant for sardonic grins that never touched her eyes. Not that he could see any of that, but Meg was a good friend of Jess' and they all went to Julliard together.

"Hey, Meg," he said awkwardly. "What happened…"

"Sam, Sam, Sam," she laughed, a deep, throaty sound. "We have got to stop meeting like this."

"…I don't think we've ever met like this before…"

"We have got to start meeting like this more often," she gave a suggestive wiggle.

"Meg, I know you're doing that just to make me uncomfortable," he managed. "If I tell you you've succeeded, will you please stop?"

"I suppose," she sighed with a pout he could hear. There was a long pause. "I'm sorry about what happened to Jess." It was the closest to sincerity he had heard in her voice since…maybe ever. How sincere, sweet Jess was close friends with wry, sarcastic Meg had always surprised him, the moreso because no matter what fiction said or how magnets worked, in his experience opposites rarely actually attracted.

"What did happen, Meg?" asked Sam. It was impossible to keep a hint of a plea from his voice. She was the only one who might have answers.

"It's my fault," said Meg sadly. Sam stiffened, drawing a grunt from her. Anger surged through him. Meg had used too, once upon a time, and she'd also quit. That was part of why she and Jess were friends. "Not like that," she interpreted his thoughts easily. "I cancelled on her. If I hadn't, I'd have been there…I could have stopped her…" Meg sounded choked up. It was an incongruous sound, and Sam found himself wishing he could see her face. "My parents called and said they wanted to talk. I thought, what the fuck, I might as well hear them out, right?" She chuckled humorlessly. "Turns out all they wanted was another chance to tear me a new one. They'd boxed up all my stuff and had it in a truck, in their driveway, key in the ignition."

"Why didn't you call and tell me?" Sam asked. "I've left you like 10 messages."

"They cancelled my phone," she added. "Stopped all payments to the school. I'm fucked, Sam."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said sympathetically. "If you need a place to go temporarily, my apartment is paid up for another three months. Why're they so mad?"

"It's a little soon to ask me to move in," said Meg wryly, giving another of those discomfiting wiggles. "Buy my a drink first, Romeo." She hesitated. "They're pissed because I joined a band on the side. A punk band. Playing the drums." Meg was a percussionist. Not a drummer, no one of such a low class of musician was allowed into Julliard.

"I won't be at the house," said Sam. "I'm leaving with my brother."

"Sam – picture perfect, practice himself to death, teacher's pet Sam – is dropping out?" she gave a hoot of laughter that filled her lungs so full of air that Sam was pressed back against the door. "Now I've heard everything."

"Meg," Sam said. She turned everything into a joke, and he'd never minded because he'd never tried to have a serious conversation with her before. From what Sam had seen, she and Jess had never had the 'long serious talks' kind of friendship, it had been more of a 'people watch and snark' kind of friendship. "I have to ask – do you know anything about…what happened? Why she did it? Did she say anything to you, maybe when you cancelled your plans for the evening?"

"I wish I had anything I could tell you," she shook her head against his chest. "All I know is what I heard through the grapevine. You know Ansen Weems?"

"The guy obsessed with the triangle?" Percussionists were weird.

"Yeah," she nodded, driving her nose into his breast bone. "He gets pot from a guy who goes by Phelps. Anyway, when I went to school to get my things, Weems told me that Phelps told him that like five people ODed on speed in the past week, and that Amarillos fled the city. That'd be a hell of a coincidence, if it's true."

"She was buying from Amarillos again?" Sam asked flatly, anger spiking.

"Fuck if I know," shrugged Meg. "But he must have been involved somehow, right? Meth – kind of his thing."

"Yeah." Outside, the sound of applause burst out, and the audience began rhythmically stomping so hard that the brooms and mops in the back corner of the room rattled against each other. "Yeah. Look, thanks tons, Meg. If there's anything…"

"Get out there, tiger," she said with a snide snarl and a flick of nails against his arm as if she were clawing him. "They're waiting for you. By the way, the bad boy southern country singer thing? Not what I expected. It works for you, though. And triggered a kink I had no idea I had. Damn glad I got the tweet telling me this show was happening."

With difficulty, he got the door open, and blinked at the dim light of the hall, bright by contrast to the closet. "Thanks," he repeated. "How can I contact you?" The swelling cheers urged him back to the stage, his fingers itching to play.

"Don't worry, Sam." He could barely hear her over the crowd. "I'll be in touch."

Pushing through the throng, Sam made it backstage to see a harried looking Dean, tapping a foot and looking impatient and irritated, but with a tightness around his eyes that screamed "worried" to Sam's eye. They didn't have time to exchange one word before they were hustling back on to the stage and launching into their next song.

Sam's mind was a million miles away, sprinting forward with what Meg had told him. One more day in New York City to tie up loose ends, that was all he needed. All he had to do say bye to his friends, make his farewells to Jess, pack the few things he needed, close up his apartment, fill in Castiel and Gabriel. All he had to do was find an hour or two to himself, so that he could go to the small park where Adam Clayton Powell met Macombs Place and speak with a couple of the people from his old life, the people he maintained cordial relations with because it was how he got the information that he passed on to the DEA. They'd know the truth about Ojos Amarillos, the dealer who Jess had been partial to. They'd know if he'd really left, and they'd know if the batch of amphetamines was bad, and they'd probably know if Jess had bought and who from. If he was very lucky, they'd even know where Amarillos was headed. Sam would buy a little– he always did, to maintain the illusion that he was still using – and flush it – he always did, because the very thought of popping the pills was repulsive, even more so after what had happened to Jess.

He didn't know what Dean's upcoming schedule looked like, but he suspected that Dean would be so glad to have Sam back that he wouldn't mind changing things up, so that Sam could be sure that their shows happened to take them in whatever direction Amarillos had fled. He'd nail the son of a bitch, and everyone he worked for, pass it all on to Castiel and Gabriel, and watch the entire organization go down in government-orchestrated flames.

Should be an interesting tour.

Music Notes For This Chapter:

All links are to youtube. If you go to YouTube and copy and paste what I've got written below into the search bar, they should come up - or you can search by their names.

Chapter Title is from Fun. - All Alright: watch?v=7fdpMyJ-ftU

Original song is "South of the Border:" /LnwV3VGDlcU

The song playing in the Impala is The Allman Brothers - Southside: watch?v=rTqODkfq4cw

Inspiration for the original song includes:
Jimmy Buffet - Piece of Work: watch?v=7AFkwhzueF4
Warren Zevon - Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me: watch?v=_TbfQPRgcS8
Allman Brothers - Ramblin' Man: watch?v=68X8o0S7vJc
Frank Sinatra - My Way: watch?v=6E2hYDIFDIU