A/N: -Pretends she doesn't know exactly what she's doing.- Btw, have I ever told any of you that I usually have multiple versions of all my stories? Yes, I am cracked. That's what everyone loves about me... right? Right?

- - -

Chapter Four

A few blocks from the motel, Dean realized what a huge mistake it'd been. Every time he got close enough to even glimpse another human being, their feelings invaded his, and he could barely separate one from the other. He had a headache by the time he made it to a semi-secluded lot, somewhere toward the edge of town.

It was nice out here, no cars, hardly any houses, barely any people... He sat down in the tall grass, hoping there weren't any snakes or cow patties, and brushed his hands down the legs of his jeans. 'Jake, you idiot... Why'd you stick around for me?'

There was no answer, and Dean let out a long sigh and buried his forehead in his bony knees and wrapped his arms around his legs. And then the air seemed to grow chill, and he glanced up in time to see Jake, standing in the distance among the tall grass. He smiled once, a parting smile, then said, "I didn't leave," in a voice that sounded like a whisper spoken directly into Dean's ear.

"Jake..." he said, getting to his feet and beginning to walk toward the spot where he'd seen his friend's ghost last. He broke into a jogging run, but slowed to a halt, realizing that Jake was really gone.

Swallowing back tears, Dean swore and turned to kick a clump of grass. He didn't know what Jake had meant, but it sure wasn't that he was still alive. Stupid, cryptic, ghost messages...

He got sick of standing there like an idiot, and started back to the motel. He was going to feel even dumber when Sam asked him where he went. Of course, he could always say he blew off some steam in a bar, but if Sam didn't smell cigarette smoke and stale beer on him, that explanation probably wasn't gonna fly.

Would've been the first time Sam was suspicious about him not going to a bar, though, Dean contemplated, wryly, as he made his way down the curbside back the way he'd come...

- - -

Sam couldn't do much but go out and find that job that Dean had suggested he get. It was either that or pace up and down the motel room while Dean was out who-knows-where, doing who-knows-what. And if he tried doing that, Sam knew he'd probably end up breaking everything in the place.

So he'd gone out looking for some minimum wage gig, and ended up at some jerk's electronics shop, packing cellphones. He could tell right away, by the way the man said that he didn't really need the help, that it was just going to be a one-time deal. But they needed the cash--they always needed the cash--and it was better than sitting back at the motel, twiddling his thumbs.

So when the guy paid him fifty bucks and told him he'd give him a call, Sam had given a mental, 'Yeah, right,' and headed back to the motel. He'd trudged in, seen that Dean still wasn't back, and gone out to find some supper. He got back from the fast-food restaurant, and still, Dean hadn't returned.

He'd eaten, wishing it wasn't so quiet, remembering fights he'd had with Dean over various kitchen tables while their dad scribbled away in his journal, usually ignoring his two sons--or trying to. And sometimes, when they'd all just sat and actually talked about something other than hunting. Those had been rare occasions, and the thought of them made Sam's eyes water, so he quit and shoved another piece of crispy chicken in his mouth.

There was a knock on the door, and Sam nearly choked. He took a long sip of his coke and got up, calling, "Who is it?"

"Open the door, Sam," Dean called back, and Sam relaxed marginally. It could still be a trick, so he grabbed his gun and held it at the ready as he eased the door open.

Dean growled at him, "Sam, put that away." Sam blinked at Dean, registered the shadows under his eyes, and then snapped out of it and put his gun under the waistband of his pants, at his back.

His brother slipped inside, shut the door and leaned against it for a moment, almost sagging. Sam shifted uncomfortably to see the man like that, and questioned, "So... where were you?"

"Walking," was Dean's one-word response. And then he glanced at the chicken on the table, but his eyes slipped past it, and he bypassed everything and dropped face-first onto his bed. He wrapped his hands around and underneath the pillow, burying his face in it, and Sam gritted his teeth and held his breath and tongue.

He knew that Dean wasn't over Jake's death yet... and it wasn't like he'd had any time to come to terms with their dad's either, but sometimes, despite knowing all that, Sam couldn't help but be infuriated with the idiot.

Why couldn't he just stop closing himself off and share some of those bottled-up feelings with Sam? Why did he keep going around pretending that everything was all right as long as they kept going on to the next hunt? And now...? He wasn't even bothering to hunt, anymore. He called a break, of all things! What the heck was that about?

Sam finished counting to the proverbial ten and stormed off to the bathroom. He was going to take a long shower and hope that it washed away a little of his frustration. God knew, nothing else seemed to be doing the trick.

- - -

When Sam got out of the restroom, he was mainly thinking about getting to sleep, while half-heartedly entertaining the idea of getting online to do some searching for a new hunt. But those thoughts flew out of his mind, and onto the damp towel he was still rubbing over his hair, when he saw the little boy that was lying in Dean's place.

The towel dropped to the floor at his feet, along with his jaw. "Dean...?" he asked, and the boy sort of started and sat up, but not before reaching under his pillow, and then releasing whatever it was he found beneath it...

"Dean?" Sam repeated, knowing it was the large bowie knife the kid had been clutching just a second ago.

"Yeah?" the boy croaked, turning over slowly. He was wearing a dark-green hoody and some jeans, and a t-shirt underneath the hoody. He blinked green eyes at Sam, and then rubbed one of them in the way that used to have Jessica cooing, "How cute!" whenever she saw a child do it on TV.

"Dean," Sam repeated, still not quite believing his eyes. Maybe he'd stayed under the hot spray too long, and the steam had gotten to his brain...? Or Jake's ghost had something to do with this. Yeah, option number two sounded about right, he concluded, with as much sarcasm as he could find beneath the shock.

"Yeah, for the hundredth time!" Dean retorted, then his already large eyes widened. "Oh, my God,tell me this isn't happening a-freakin-gain!"

"It's not happening again," Sam repeated back to the boy, numbly.

Dean smacked himself in the forehead, and then cussed under his breath when it jarred the arm he'd happened to use--his left, the broken one. "Oh, for-- Sam, did you do this?" he questioned, and hopped off the bed. He looked down, took in the tennis shoes, made a "Huh" sort of face, and then glared up at Sam again. "Because if you did, so help me--"

"I didn't," Sam said, "And are you even thinking straight? Jake had to've done this somehow."

Dean blinked. "Jake..." he half-whispered. "Aw, crap..." He sat down on the bed, rubbed a hand over his face, a familiar gesture, which caused Sam to choke back a startled laugh. That just looked so out-of-sync, when a little kid did it.

"Dean, this is a problem," he stated, instead.

Dean looked up, narrowed his eyes, and wondered, "Ya think?"

Sam couldn't help it this time, he chuckled, and then turned away, covering his mouth. "Sorry... uh..." He coughed, and repeated, "Sorry."

The boy just blinked at him a few times, and then started to blush. "Sam... Sammy! Stop it!"

"What?" Sam protested. "I said I was sorry. It's just that you just sound so... I don't know... a little strange coming from a... a six--"

"Seven!" Dean protested.

"Seven year-old," Sam finished, cleared his throat, and shifted his stance, sheepishly.

"It's not that..." Dean said, groaned, and left the bed to pace a little. "It's that you're all... laughing up your sleeve... and thinking I'm cute and... and... and would you just quit it? It's humiliating!"

Kids--they took things so hard.

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam as if he knew what he was thinking, then tried to glower, but didn't quite pull it off.

Sam bit his tongue against the laughter, but his brother sighed and called out to the room in general, "Jake, if you're out there--this is not funny! I don't know how you did it, but you'd better take it back or I'm going to salt and burn your sorry--"

"Dean," Sam said, reasonably, "I'm sure he's just trying to help."

"How is this helping?" Dean exclaimed, motioning at himself with a kid-sized hand.

Sam pursed his lips to keep from smiling and shook his head, shrugging. "It sure got you to open up to me the last time it happened."

"That is so--" Dean said, under his breath and to the floor, "Next time I see that-- I'm gonna-- For the love of-- Dang it."

Sam couldn't help it; he grinned.