Sam wasn't sure, but he calculated that Dean sank no more than a couple of beers the first few days they were at the Yard, though judging by his very occasional wryly-upturned lips when he thought no-one was looking at him, there was probably a buttload of secret chugs going on behind the scenes.

They danced around one another, never going beyond a rapid tangle of gazes.

I know, you know.

I know you know, you know.

The snow kept them pretty much corralled, while exhaustion and a precious kind of relief, made them sleep. The second night Dean even got undressed in a normal, going-to-bed kind of way, although he awoke some hours later with a wild shout and a flurry, seemingly unaware of his whereabouts, the look in his eyes unreadable.

"He's doing OK," Bobby said, for Sam's benefit.

A remark almost in passing, not suggesting they discuss.

"Yeah, that's because he's real good at it," Sam said.

Dean was outside swinging the axe like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre had come to town.

"Have you talked?" Bobby asked, flapping a hand at the window.

"Oh sure, mostly when he's unconscious."

"And when he's not?"

"What do you think, Bobby?"

"Ain't you two supposed to be saving the world?" Bobby said. "Boy are we in trouble."

A couple of beers and whatever else was going on plainly didn't quite cut it. The only way, in the end, to avoid Dean walking out on his own into the snow to find a bar, was for Bobby and Sam to go with him, even though they had agreed between themselves, on the first day, that they were going to try and distract him.

"What is this, the fucking Betty Ford Clinic?" Dean had growled after less than a day and a half of their distraction techniques. He'd mended the saw, cleaned, oiled or sharpened every weapon in the Impala's trunk, chopped wood all fucking day long and even done most of the cooking while his brother and host jawed on over books and maps as if the world wasn't about to end while he, Dean Winchester, ass-farted around doing odd jobs.

"OK," Bobby said, highly unexpectedly, "We'll go out for a beer and I know just where."

"Is it safe?" Sam asked. He was already feeling the need to cling to the quiet life. Even though he knew it was ridiculous, the Yard, Bobby's house, the whole damn place felt like one big, iron-clad panic room and Sam wanted to stay in it.

"There might be a hunter or two," Bobby said. "But it's a rare and friendly place. And I'm driving."

"I like you," Dean said, "You're OK."

"I'm awesome," Bobby agreed. "Don't make me regret it."

He drove them to a bar in a small town under a mountain. Took them forty minutes on a gritted road that wound through a forest. Sam rode shotgun and Dean didn't notice.

"Welcome to the Birdseye Saloon, boys," Bobby said as he cut the engine in front of a lonely clump of buildings, and they both thought it sounded like he'd brought them here for a whole different reason than having a few beers.

The place they'd pitched up at seemed to be constructed entirely out of gnarly, shiny wood, inside and out, and as soon as he got to the door Dean came over all smiles. Especially when it was Sam and not him that Bobby arrested with a hand to the chest before they made their entrance.

"Just take it real easy in here, Sam."

"I beg your pardon?" An outraged squeak hitched in Sam's voice.

"I'm not sure you want to announce who you are."

"Jesus," said Sam as Dean pushed past him with the faintest of smirks, heading for the bar. "Freaking hunters. They're all out of their minds."

It was warm and busy in the Birdseye and nobody seemed to have noticed them come in. Sam got his bearings, followed Bobby to a quiet corner and said nervously, "So, you see anyone you know?"

Bobby had already done a quick sweep. He jerked a thumb at a guy leaning on the bar a few yards from where Dean was now in conversation with the shock-haired, heavily-tattooed woman who was serving. "Just him. His name's Coleman and I know there's a big knife under his jacket," he said. Coleman had winsomely long, blond hair curling down his back. "Don't worry, I won't be introducing you."

Sam sat. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

What the hell are we thinking of, Bobby?

Dean came back with three beers and what looked like a tumbler of ink with cream on top.

"You ... what is that?" Sam asked, pained.

"This, little brother, is a Union Jack, and no, you may not have one. You are way too much of a pussy for one of these bad boys."

"Don't tell me ..."

"Two shots of Jack, a splash of coke and a whole heulluva lot of Guinness," Dean said, pleased and defiant in equal measure.

"I said don't tell me."

"You know, I actually don't come here much," Bobby mentioned.

Dean cocked a head at Coleman and the unknown man standing next to him. "Yeah," he said, "not with a bunch of freaks standing around comparing the size of their dicks." He raised the glass of near-black liquid to his lips and took two large swallows. When he put it down he saw Sam and Bobby were looking at him like he'd just said or done something sociably unacceptable in a public place. "What?"

"We said a couple of drinks," Sam said.

"I have a couple of drinks," Dean responded.

"Dean, you have three drinks all in one glass."

"Sam, I think I might have had enough of your shit."

"You and me both."

"Well I'm having a good time," Bobby said, looking between them.

"Sorry," Sam said, contrite. Dean mumbled.

Bobby took a pull of his beer. "I forget," he said, "when I don't see you boys for weeks at a time, just what a pain in my ass you both are." He glanced up at the sound of the main door whooshing open. Recognition flooded his features.

"Well there's a thing," he said.

--------

A man of indeterminate age, hair pale, muffled in layers and peeling off gloves as he stood in the doorway, what looked like confusion on his face.

In fact, it was trepidation. Benedict Parmentier came from hunter-stock, so he took care when entering or leaving pretty much anyplace, even the Birdseye Saloon which he'd known since he was sixteen and his Daddy moved them from Crestone. It really didn't make him feel any better that on the only evening he'd set foot in the place for weeks, the first person he saw as the heavy panels slapped shut behind him and he finished stamping snow off his boots was Bobby Singer.

Benedict had been in the game himself - good, sharp, cold - until he got dropped on his head from a second-floor warehouse window by a demon with anger management issues. Brain surgery, a long coma, six months and a compensatory pay-out later, Benedict returned home with bits of his cerebral cortex in a scramble, feeling gentle as a lamb and uncomfortably able to touch people's emotions. Literally, touch them.

He didn't hunt anymore after that, but he could never get away from it.

As far as Benedict had always known, hunters dragged piles of shit along behind them, and sometimes one or two would pass by his neighborhood mountain, call in at the Birdseye, their souls tarnished and their spirits broken, blood on their skin. They seemed to like him. Seemed to like the way he drew the poison without even trying.

It surprised him to see Bobby here, because although Bobby would always respond to a call, he didn't generally do sociable. And there he was sitting with two strangers, practically knee-to-knee with one, shoulder-to-shoulder with the other, the table heaving with their bottles and glasses.

Benedict approached straight away, made eye contact like he'd been encouraged by the therapists, reached out a hand, and took Bobby's in it, immediately feeling that the older man's guts were seriously twisted, either by worry or dyspepsia. Maybe both.

"Long time," he said, not knowing how long. Such things were vague in his quiet, misshapen brain.

"Benedict," Bobby responded in a low, deliberate voice that made his companions stare at him. "You're looking well."

Benedict knew he wasn't, because he never really did. He glanced at the two figures flanking Bobby, not knowing them but guessing.

"Benedict, these are the Winchesters. John's boys. This is Sam here, and this is Dean."

Sam uncoiled from his seat to shake hands, seeming both confident and wary at the same time. Benedict got that from three seconds of contact. Got that Sam Winchester was powerful and scared. Powerfully scared.

Sam's brother scarcely made it off his seat. Benedict was curious to touch him, curious to know what a soul returned from damnation felt like.

Dean Winchester's hand gripped his, pulled away quickly, but not quick enough.

Benedict's stomach lurched as he felt the contact break.

Je-sus.

"Hey, Dean," he said, voice a little dry. "How're you doing?"

Dean tipped back on to his seat, reached towards the glass in front of him and then his hand swerved and went for the beer bottle instead.

"I am good," he said, eyes falling away before swigging.

Benedict glanced at Sam and then Bobby, frowning.

Holy Crap, he thought, do they even know?

"Is there something going on?" he asked. "Are you here because we're about to be invaded by a host of demons or something?"

"We're just socializing," Bobby said.

Benedict's frown deepened, but it was more perplexed than angry.

Sam's head snapped back and forth between his brother and Bobby. His shoulder was near enough to touch and Benedict felt a heady mixture of apprehension and exhileration from the almost-contact that nearly made him shout out loud.

Sam! Jesus, what a holy fuck-up!

"Well, Sam," was what he said, "I'm guessing you wouldn't be mighty welcome if they knew."

Sam goggled at him.

Dean snorted into his beer. "He'd be about as welcome as a case of the clap."

"Huh," Benedict said. "Hunters. They like it black and white."

"I'm fine," Sam said, "No-one knows me. Really. Benedict. Can I ... can I get you a beer?"

"All right," Benedict said, surprised again.

"I'll come," Bobby said, standing.

Dean caught his arm and angled a finger towards his glass. Bobby and Sam looked at each other.

"Oh please," said Dean, "I swear ... this is really starting to piss me off."

"Whatever," Sam said, hands raised. He stumped after Bobby.

Dean looked at him go and then wordlessly invited Benedict on to the stool opposite. He stared into his bottle for a bit, working up to a conversation. Benedict was a little bit overawed that he had any words in him at all.

"So, Benedict," he got out in the end. "Tell me. What's your deal?"

"Oh," Benedict said. "My deal. Right. Well, there's some people tell me I'm ... what you might call an ..." He hesitated before the hated word came out, braced for derision or worse. "Em-path."

"Really." Dean sat back, made a mock-impressed face. Benedict suspected that not much would seriously impress, interest or even distress Dean Winchester these days.

"An em-path," Dean mimicked. "And that's ... what ... like a better class of psychopath?"

"Not so much."

"But sfreaky ESP stuff, right?"

"Freaky? If you like. I just happen to be able to .. feel how other people ... feel."

"Which is useful how?"

Benedict didn't often have to explain himself. "Well," he said doubtfully, "maybe when you want to find out what's going on with someone, and they won't tell you."

One of Dean's eyebrows hiked in suspicion. "Just by touching them?"

"Mostly."

Dean leaned forward again. "Benedict," he said, "I so don't want to know you. And Bobby is so going to get his ass kicked."

"It's all right," Benedict assured him, "I'm not going to touch you again. Truth is, I don't even have to, it's coming off you in waves." He wagged his head slowly from side to side. "You and your brother, there's too much ... too much for me."

"Huh," Dean said, his attention suddenly caught by Sam making his way back towards them. "You feel our pain."

Benedict, who may or may not have had a sense of humor, nodded sagely.

"Oh there's pain, Dean," he said. "I feel that all the time, from everyone. But ... right now .. you .. like I say, I can't stand it, and I'm sorry for that." He too eyed Sam's approach. "And I'm sorry there's such static between you."

"Static?" Dean echoed. "There's no static."

Benedict just looked at him patiently. Sam arrived, dumped two bottles on the table.

"Bobby needs a hand," he said.

Dean made an exaggerated show of pushing back his chair and standing up. "You two," he said. "Twins separated at birth."

"What?" Sam asked but his brother lurched away.

Sam sank back down on his seat with an embarrassed smile.

"Well, so anyway ... Benedict. Do you mind me asking ..."

"What my deal is?"

"Hu-yeah .."

"Got tossed out of a window by a demon," Benedict said, "woke up an empath."

Sam's jaw dropped. "That's ... whoah ... that's ..."

"Well, you'd think. Kind of a double-edged sword really. Same as for you I suppose."

The younger Winchester seemed to want to shrug and dodge but instead he nodded bitterly.

"Like I said to Dean, I'm sorry for the static between you."

Sam stared. "It sucks," he blurted.

"Yeah," Benedict said, "It's hell not knowing, but it's worse knowing and not being able to help."

"Is that what it's like?" Sam asked, his eyes wide.

"I don't mean me," Benedict said. "I mean you."

--------------

They ate ribs and cheered up. Benedict didn't seem to feel like he fitted in and went to sit alone at the bar.

"He won't ..?" Sam asked Bobby.

"He won't," Bobby assured him. "Benedict doesn't tell what he knows."

"Kind of a useless pile of touchy-feely crap then," Dean said.

"Believe me," Bobby told him. "You're carrying less than when you walked in. You just don't know it."

An hour passed, no-one took notice of them. Dean hailed the tattooed woman for another round that only he wanted, they all drank to John, and Sam thought what he wouldn't give to have Dad here, giving them orders they didn't need to think about. How he'd carry them out gladly, without question, and let John worry about the consequences.

He wondered guiltily where the hell that thought had wormed itself from.

"The old man," he said, and tried to swallow down the lump wedged tight in his throat.

Dean stared at him a little oddly and then started on the new beer. Halfway through he lowered the bottle to the table, swallowed a belch, swiped a hand shakily across his mouth.

"Come on, dude," said Sam and reached out to get hold of Dean under the elbow. "I think it's time for bed."

Dean resisted. "I can get up by myself," he said. "Gonna hit the head ... you don' have to wafer me."

Sam had heard the slurring voice countless times during a hustle. The real thing though .. just about the Pits. "Crap, Dean, you sound wasted."

"'s a bar, genius," Dean replied.

The table rocked as he got himself to standing and set off in a loose-limbed progress across the room. Sam regarded the puddle of beer and then Bobby.

"No rules apply," he said.

Bobby rose, dug in his pocket for the pick-up's keys. "I'm not about to tell him that four months in hell isn't a good enough reason," he said. "You steer, I'll bring the truck out front."

Four months. Sam closed his eyes as the remains of his third, and last, beer slipped down.

If only it were even that simple.

He realized he'd had his eyes closed for quite some time when a crump made them fly open again.

The unmistakeable sound of somebody falling down, hard, at the other end of the bar.

------

Dean felt pretty woozy in the restroom. The Union Jacks were beginning to churn and his reflection in the mirror was unwelcome. A stranger masking another stranger.

There was no hot water, which didn't surprise him, but didn't stop him twiddling the faucets. Dean tried, for a second or two, to imagine John but found he couldn't. He got a sudden notion that he might have lost the recall, that his visual memory of John had just evaporated.

Fuck. He already knew hell had screwed with his synapses in ways he was only just starting to discover, but this? No matter how hard he tried - eyes open, eyes closed - this sucked. He couldn't summon John's face. He hadn't managed Mom's for weeks, and now Dad was gone too.

Dean's stomach flipped so violently that he bent at the waist.

"Nnnnnnnn."

Mind over matter, son.

He felt like he didn't know this pathetic jerk mumbling and quivering under the harsh strip-light. Something like heartburn caught him under the ribs. It was a normal, physical kind of pain, the kind that he wasn't going to let floor him, and he straightened up, flexed his tingling hands once or twice and then palmed open the door. Outside, the L-shaped bar room tilted first one way and then the other and he took a couple of forthright steps to try and snap himself out of it.

Dean's shoulder bounced off someone coming the other way.

"Shit," said a voice. "Careful there, boy. Hey!"

Dean looked up blearily. The man he'd barged into was standing a little back, regarding him with his brows drawn together. More puzzled than annoyed. Just behind him was the tall dude with the stupid hair. Coleman.

"I know who this is," said the man. "This is Dean Winchester."

There was a prickly silence.

"Nah, can't be, Chance. Winchester went down," Coleman corrected him. "Five or six months ago, at least. New Harmony, Indiana."

"I know that," said the other. "But this is him."

"Not possible, my man. He was taken down by dogs. Know what I mean?"

The man named Chance shook his head. "I know what happened," he persisted. "But I'm telling you. This is him."

Dean had listened to all this in a kind of irritated, disbelieving fog. Now he made to cut his way between them, but found his exit blocked. "It is Dean, isn't it?" Chance demanded and Dean just then took in that he was a broad-shouldered, burly hulk of a guy with a weather-beaten face and a nose both squashed and off-center. An ugly sonofabitch, and built like an M1 Abrams Main Battle Tank. He didn't recognize him and he didn't know why Chance would be familiar with his face. All he knew was that he felt major annoyance, and a very slight knot of panic tightening up his breathing.

"Maybe it is," Dean said, "and maybe it isn't. But either way, I'd like to just get past you here if that's not too much trouble."

Chance's meaty arm came out and pressed against Dean's chest, setting off a wave of fight-or-flight impulses that seemed to burst like little white lights in front of his eyes. "No. You're him," he said with certainty. "The guy who went downstairs. Holy Fuck, Coleman!"

Dean's gaze strayed over Chance's shoulder towards the table where Sam still sat, far enough away not to have picked up any sound or sight out of place. Of Bobby there was no sign. Benedict the psychopathic empath seemed to have gone, too.

Coleman came closer and peered into Dean's face like a he was an interesting new species at the zoo. "Yeah? Really? Fuck!"

Dean gave a little, this-is-amusing-me-for-only-a-split-second-more laugh. "Really," he said, "It's super to meet you, but I need you to let me pass."

"Hold up a minute," Chance said, "Just hold up. It's not everyday you meet a guy who got out of the Pit. I mean, now do you? Tell me, how'd you manage it, Winchester? Heard you made a deal to get yourself there, which is kind of a fucking douchey thing to do in the first place if you ask me ... so what, d'you make another one to get out?"

Something began to thrum in Dean's temple. His arms went heavy, like lead-weights hanging off his shoulders. He felt himself jostled and hardly had the strength to stay standing up. Vaguely he wondered when he'd got to be such a puny weakling.

"What was it like?" Coleman followed up. "You must have some awesome tales to tell, man."

"Yeah," said Chance, "But more important than that, why are you here? How fucking clean can you be?"

Dean let himself lose it. Gladly. God knows he'd been itching to hit something for days and he felt a burst of short-lived freedom as he finally allowed the red mist to drop like a curtain. He swung, pretty fast, but the trajectory was all out of whack. His fist made a glancing contact with Chance's face, but the returning punch connecting with his jaw was straight and sure, dumping him with a clatter on to his ass. As his head bounced off the wall and he blinked against the buzzing that erupted in his ears, he saw Sam hurtling across the bar-room floor in full attack mode.

Shit.

He slapped a hand down to give himself leverage but found he couldn't get his feet to help out.

"Sam, 's'OK," he huffed. "Really, Sammy. It's OK."

Shit.

Finally he managed to grapple his way off the floor but Sam already had Chance by the throat, backed up against an empty table, his boot heels scrabbling for purchase. Coleman was circling around the two of them like a piranha, one hand slightly behind him, ready to go for his knife.

"What the fuck!" Sam was yelling. "What the fuck is wrong with you!"

"Sam, let him go," Dean ordered as he staggered upright. "D'you hear me, Sammy? Let him go."

Sam had his hands clamped so tight around Chance's neck that the man's eyes were popping and straining. There was that twist to Sam's face, that intense harnessing of something within, that he always got when he ..... Dean saw the whole scene ripple like it was underwater. The blinking hadn't helped with the buzzing. If anything, it was getting louder, and sparks began to bleed into his peripheral vision.

Dean didn't understand why Sam was so angry - your big brother is being a total jerk, let him get on with it - but he knew he didn't want him to be. When he grabbed hold of a locked forearm he could feel the sinews under Sam's skin stretched like wire. The choke-hold he had on the guy was strong enough that it would be fatal in no time at all and it didn't even feel like Sam was on full throttle.

"Sam," Dean said, realizing he had no hope of breaking the hold, "I'm telling you. Leave it alone." His voice sounded weak and unconvincing to his own ears. "Stop it!" he tried to bark. "Last chance!"

It took way too long for Sam to respond as far as Dean was concerned. Like his brother either hadn't heard or didn't actually care. What the hell the sanction was going to be if he didn't get through to him he had no idea, so Dean played what had always been his best card.

"Sammy!"

A noisy breath burst out of Sam as he finally released, jerking Dean off his arm. Chance's hand snapped up to his throat and he began gasping and flailing to get air through the crushed windpipe.

"You're crazy!" Coleman yammered, now jumping around like a giraffe on speed. "You're a freakin maniac, man!"

"You lay another finger on my brother and I'll kill you," Sam said into Chance's face. "You get that?"

"Christ," Chance croaked, backing off and attempting to take Coleman with him.

"He gets it," said Coleman. "Jesus, man. It was just a friendly question." His shoulder knocked hard and deliberately into Dean as they moved away, heading back towards the bar. Dean let himself be barged, grabbed hold of Sam's rising hand by the wrist and forced it down.

"Enough," he said, "Just ... enough, Sam. We're leaving, right?"

"What the hell," said Sam. He was breathing hard, face flaming both from anger and mortification that nearly every eye in the place was reluctantly dragging itself away from the scene and back to its own business, and he wrenched free of his brother's grip so hard that Dean nearly staggered again. "What was that even about? Dean?"

"I didn't need your help," Dean said under his breath. He felt hopelessly out of control. All he could think about was the feel of the lid of a brand-new bottle as he cracked it for the first time, the fumes springing out and burning the hairs inside his nose. The glug as he tipped it to his lips. The red-hot bite as it hit his stomach. Hurting and soothing.

"You're welcome, Dean. What the hell did you say to make him hit you?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Nothin."

"He just slugged you because you look like you deserved it?"

"No," said Dean, "They were giving me some .. asking me about ... shit, Sammy, I could've handled it."

"You were on your back, man. There were two of them. What'd they say, Dean?"

Sam's fists were opening and closing by his sides. The scary intensity had not quite faded and it was making Dean feel like he was going to puke. His right hand went to his temple and he ground the heel in hard, eyes screwing shut. "It doesn't matter," he said. "Don't ... " He felt his upper body sway and then right itself.

"OK, you're drunk," said Sam reaching for his elbow once again. "Let's get out of here."

Dean opened his eyes in time to sidestep.

He felt drunk all right, but knew that if he stopped drinking now he wouldn't be able to stand up for falling down. That had its attractions, frankly, but ... if he had more to aim for ... he figured he might manage that state of nirvana he was after and yet knew didn't exist.

Nirvana. Yeah, a Kurt roofie special, just for the night. He knew there was a bottle of something in one of his jacket pockets back at Bobby's.

Temporary suicide - accent on the temporary. Dean might have taken a shot at explaining what he thought was his longer-term plan if Sam wasn't terrifying the crap out of him.

"All right!" he snapped, putting one foot in front of the other on the way to the door.

"You're getting to be a mess," Sam said at his back.