A/N: So sorry for the delay in this chapter! Real life has not been cooperating when it comes to writing time. Thanks to everyone for your reviews. The plot thickens ...
There was a crack in the ceiling that looked disturbingly like George Bush.
Of course, he wouldn't be able to see the damn crack if the cheap, threadbare drapes would actually block the light from the parking lot. Dean turned his head and squinted at the alarm clock. 4:32. Great. Though his eyes felt sticky and his body heavy with weariness, his mind had apparently decided sleep was for wusses.
Heaving a sigh, he rolled to the side of the bed, shoved off the blanket, and swung his feet to the floor. As he rubbed his stiffened shoulder, his gaze automatically drifted to the other bed.
Sam was stretched on his back, one arm curled above his head, the other across his stomach. His expression was peaceful, his breathing slow and even. In fact, he looked as if he'd barely moved since Dean turned out the light.
A little of the tension melted from Dean's neck and shoulders. He'd known Sam was eaten up with worry over what might have happened with Jo--it was why Dean had agreed to pack up in the middle of the night and drive 15 hours cross-country, stopping only when the needle hit "E" or his back teeth were floating. So, yeah, he'd gotten the whole urgent thing.
What he hadn't fully understood was just how truly terrified Sam was that he'd left Jo with more than a few bruises. 'Course, he'd begun to buy a clue when they reached the bar and Sam began to unravel right in front of his eyes.
Sam was funny that way. He could whine like a prissy bitch over a hangnail, but when the hurt ran deep--girlfriend burning on the ceiling deep, or "I couldn't save him deep"--he tended to close down. Oh, he was all about everyone else sharing their pain. The same rules just never seemed to apply to him.
So in typical Sam fashion, he hadn't really volunteered the details of his conversation with Jo. Thing is, he hadn't needed to.
Dean had been sitting at the bar, sucking down his second beer and admiring Emily's dimples--and other assets--when Jo came back inside. She'd nodded at Dean with a faint smile and disappeared into a back room. He'd turned his gaze from her to the door, Emily's voice fading to a faint buzz in his ears as he'd waged an internal debate--his feet itching to move, to go after Sam, while his head cautioned him to stay put, give the kid a little space.
And then the door had opened, and Sam had stepped inside. And it wasn't until that moment that Dean fully realized just how twisted up Sam must have been because his face . . . His face bore the intense relief of a man strapped in the chair when the governor calls with news of a pardon.
And the fist squeezing Dean's lungs had loosened its grip, and he could breathe.
With Sam stumbling--literally, the big klutz--with weariness, and Dean one step from hitting the wall himself, he'd coaxed a motel recommendation from Emily, stuffed the cocktail napkin bearing her number into his pocket, and guided his brother out to the car.
Though he'd been sure Sam would nod off and leave Dean to haul his ginormous ass to the room, his brother had stoically remained awake. If his chin dipped toward his chest, he'd snap up his head and glare wide-eyed at the dark ribbon of road, fighting sleep with a tenacity that seemed to hold more than a little desperation.
But even Sam's stubborn streak had its limitations. Once in the motel room, he'd tossed his duffel onto his bed and sat to remove his shoes, conceding the first shower to Dean without argument.
When Dean had emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, Sam was passed out on top of the bedspread, still fully dressed, one shoe off and one shoe on. Dean had tugged off the remaining shoe, coaxed and prodded until Sam's trailing legs were fully on the mattress, and covered him with a blanket as if he were four again and worn out from a hard day of play.
That had been nearly nine hours ago--which these days was more sleep than Sam managed over two or three nights. And yet he'd remained down for the count, with no apparent signs of waking.
Dean's mouth curved, and he silently blessed Jo for whatever she'd said--or hadn't. Hell, at this point he didn't care if she'd lied through her teeth, if the end result was giving Sam a moment's peace.
He blew out a long breath, gazing around the room. The trick now was finding something to occupy himself until Sam woke up. He eyed the TV remote but didn't pick it up. Though both he and Sam had engaged in their share of muted, middle-of-the-night television, he had no idea how loud the room's last occupant had left the volume. Normally he'd consider scaring the crap out of Sam his big-brotherly duty, as well as hilarious. But in Sam's current condition? Not so much.
Dean eyed the laptop bag, which was within easy reach. He could try to scare up a new hunt--or better yet, check out . Personally, he wasn't that into Internet porn, but Sam's bitchface when he discovered where Dean had been surfing was always worth the price of admission.
Of course, the room's quiet would magnify the click of every keystroke. Not to mention his eyes felt too dry and gritty to stare at a computer screen.
Sam drew in a sharp breath, frowning as he mumbled something unintelligible. Dean leaned over and laid a hand on his brother's shoulder. It was a trick he'd picked up when they were kids, a way of using warmth and touch to short-circuit a nightmare without waking Sam. And just like the little boy he'd been, Sam stilled, his brow smoothing and respiration steadying.
When he was certain Sam had returned to a deeper slumber, Dean removed his hand and used it to rub his burning eyes. Even now, despite all the crap Dean had put him through, despite Sam's self-doubts and fears, Sam showed an implicit trust in him that was humbling--and terrifying. It made him want to pack it all in, just grab Sam and drive. See the Grand Canyon, the redwoods--hell, even the world's biggest ball of twine. Live the lie that had so effortlessly fallen from their lips for the past year.
It also made him more determined than ever to kill the yellow-eyed son of a bitch and every one of the bastards who followed him. Because if there was one creed he'd come to live by, a mantra far stronger than saving people and hunting things, it was that nobody messed with his little brother and walked away.
Nobody.
Suddenly the walls felt a little too close, the need to move irresistible. Dean stood and picked up his duffel, carrying it into the bathroom. He dressed quickly and, with the exception of a dropped shoe, quietly. Pulling on his jacket, he navigated carefully across the room, pausing for a last look at Sam before he slipped out the door.
There was a convenience store just across the two-lane strip of blacktop the locals called a highway, its flickering neon sign declaring, "OPEN 4 HO S!"
Dean smirked and turned up his collar against the chill as he headed across the street.
A jangling bell announced his entrance, but the rumpled clerk simply peered over the tops of his bifocals before returning his attention to a dog-eared copy of Weekly World News. Dean filled two large cups with coffee, then balanced the cardboard tray in one hand so he could snag a few packaged pastries on the way up to the register.
He flashed a grin. "Mornin'--" he tilted his head to read the clerk's name badge "--Harold."
Harold set aside the magazine with a sigh and began ringing up Dean's purchases.
"Saw the sign out front," Dean said. "Always nice to find a place that doesn't discriminate."
"Eight dollars and eighty-six cents." Harold's voice was as expressionless as his deeply lined face.
"You're a real ray of sunshine, you know that, Harold?" Dean tossed nine dollars on the counter and gathered up his purchases. "Keep the change."
The sky was just beginning to lighten, and Dean quickened his pace as he headed back to the room. Though he knew he couldn't have been gone more than 15 minutes, suddenly leaving Sam alone seemed like a bad idea. Yeah, his brother was a big boy and plenty able to take care of himself, but he'd also gone on a simple burger run and disappeared for a week--not to mention got himself possessed.
Back at the room, he breathed a sigh of relief. Sam was still sleeping, though he'd kicked off the blankets and rolled onto his stomach. Dean tugged up the covers, set the extra coffee on the bedside table, and slipped back outside, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear if Sam had another of his screamers.
He slouched on the Impala's hood, alternating between sipping coffee and warming his fingers with the cup. The clouds had rolled through without delivering any snow, but the air held a definite bite. Dean huddled into the warmth of his coat, grateful that he and Sam wouldn't be battling slick conditions once they hit the road.
The driving beat of "Down on Love" broke the peaceful quiet, and Dean nearly dropped his coffee. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he looked at the display. Huh.
He flipped it open one-handed and pressed it to his ear. "Hey, Bobby. Kind of early for you, isn't it?"
"Where are you?"
Though he was never exactly Mr. Touchy-Feely, Bobby's voice held an edge that had Dean instantly on alert.
"Minnesota," he said, all the humor draining from his voice. "Near Duluth. Why?"
"How's Sam doing?"
Dean frowned. "He's sleeping. And again I ask--why?"
A long pause, and Dean could almost hear Bobby searching for words. "He, uh . . . remember anything more?"
Okay, now his Spidey sense was really tingling. "Just spit it out, man."
Bobby sighed. "Fine. Seems Steve Wandell isn't the only hunter to turn up dead."
The bottom dropped out of Dean's stomach. "Who?"
"Guy by the name of Jack Brigman. He lives about fifty miles from Wandell. The two of 'em used to partner up on bigger hunts."
"Hunting's a dangerous gig. How can you be sure the deaths are related?" Dean knew he was grasping at straws, but damn, Sam was going to freak.
"His throat had been slit with a hunting knife," Bobby snapped. "Does that sound related?" He drew another deep breath, and his voice softened. "It's Sam, Dean."
"You mean it's Meg. Shit, Bobby, I have a hard enough time trying to convince Sam that none of this was his fault!"
"All right, I hear you. And I'm sorry, it's just . . . You've gotta understand how bad this is. There are a dozen hunters out for blood right now, and the fact that Brigman's daughter is missing just adds fuel to--"
"Wait a minute, what?" Dean sat up straight, his heart thudding against his ribs.
"Brigman's 20-year-old daughter, Amanda, is MIA," Bobby explained. "No one seems to know where she might have gone. That's why it took so long to discover his body. Brigman was a loner--Amanda and Steve Wandell were the only family he had."
Dean closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "I, uh . . . I don't suppose you know what kind of car she drives."
"What kind of-- How the hell would I know something like that?" There was a raspy sound, like Bobby had run a hand down his bearded cheek. "Tell me what's going on, Dean."
The order implicit in Bobby's tone was so achingly like Dad's, Dean snapped open his eyes. "I need you to get your hands on a picture of the girl. And use your PD contact to find out what type of car she drives," he said. "We should get to your place by dinnertime."
Bobby was silent a moment. "You think Sa-Meg had something to do with Amanda Brigman's disappearance?"
"We'll tell you everything when we get there. Just . . . fly under the radar when you get that info, okay?"
Bobby snorted. "You think you're talking to some snot-nosed kid?" He dropped his voice to the affectionate growl Dean remembered from childhood. "You watch your backs, you hear?"
"You too."
Dean snapped his phone shut and pressed it to his forehead. The coffee in his hand was now lukewarm, and what had made it to his belly churned sickly. He was beginning to feel like one of those pop-up clowns, surviving one punch after another, only to be knocked down again.
And he was so tired.
"Dean?"
He startled, sloshing tepid coffee onto his hand.
Sam leaned in the now open doorway, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. With his rumpled clothing and bedhead, he looked like a toddler after a long nap.
"'Bout time you woke up, princess." Dean forced a smirk as he slid off the hood.
"Were you just talking to someone?" Yawning, Sam stepped back to allow Dean into the room.
"Got you coffee and a couple of those nasty Hostess pies you're so fond of." Dean faked a shudder, hooking a thumb at the nightstand as he slipped off his coat. "Man, I don't know how you eat those things."
"Says the guy who thinks grease is one of the food groups." Sam grabbed the coffee and sat at the small table, fishing one of the pastries from the bag.
"You seriously lack taste, Sammy. Don't know where I went wrong." Dean silently congratulated himself on his diversionary tactics. He needed time to think, to figure out just how he was going to lay this latest bomb on--
"So who were you talking to?"
Of course his bulldog of a brother couldn't let it go.
Dean busied himself with checking over the weapons bag--not that it needed it. "Bobby."
"Bobby?" Sam said, his mouth full of apple pie. He swallowed. "Why would Bobby call this early?"
"It's not that early, Sleeping Beauty." Dean checked the rounds in his favorite gun and slipped it back into the bag. "Sun'll be up soon. Why don't you take a shower so we can hit the road?"
Though he didn't hear Sam move, suddenly his brother was beside him, his eyes narrowed. "Dean. Why did Bobby call?"
So much for figuring things out.
"Sit down, Sammy," he said quietly, motioning to the bed.
Face tight with apprehension, Sam perched on the edge of the mattress.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck and tried to gauge his brother's state of mind. Just how much could he spin this to soften the blow? The answer wasn't encouraging.
Sam licked his lips. "Dude, say something. You're scaring the crap outta me."
"Okay, okay." Dean took a breath. "Bobby called to give us a heads up." He moved to sit beside his brother. "Sam, another hunter is dead."
Though his expression didn't change, Sam's fingers tightened on the bedspread. "I take it he didn't die on the job."
"He was Steve Wandell's partner. And his throat was cut."
With a jagged laugh, Sam shook his head. "You know, I'd actually started to tell myself the worst was over." He studied Dean's face and went still. "There's more, isn't there?"
Fighting the compulsion to look away, Dean nodded. "This hunter--Brigman? Has a 20-year-old daughter who's gone missing."
All the color drained from Sam's face. "Oh, God. It's her, isn't it? The girl in the alley, the one I . . ." He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing fast and hard.
From the time Sam had been a little kid skinning his knees, Dean had learned the art--the absolute necessity--of becoming an island of calm in a crisis. As he shoved aside his own freak-out, he found himself wishing for the days when a hug and a bandage could solve everything.
"We don't know that," he calmly told Sam.
But his brother was up and pacing. "The hell we don't! I killed Wandell, I killed this . . . this Brigman, and I killed his daughter. And, hey, let's not forget--I raped her too! And who knows what else I might've done? A week's a long time, I could've . . . could've--"
Dean stepped in front of him and grabbed Sam's hoodie in both fists. "Stop."
The stern order pulled Sam up short, just as he'd known it would. They were both John Winchester's boys, after all.
Dean uncurled his fingers and patted Sam's chest. "We're gonna figure this out. But that means not jumping to conclusions before we have all the facts. Okay?"
They locked gazes for a long moment, Sam wide-eyed and breathing hard, Dean projecting a steady assurance he didn't really feel.
Sam's shoulders curled, and he looked away. "Okay."
With another pat, Dean turned back to the weapons bag. "Bobby's expecting us, so get cleaned up, and I'll pack the car."
His brother didn't answer, just pulled clothes from his duffel and headed for the bathroom. He paused in the doorway. "Dean . . ."
He couldn't look up, couldn't see the brokenness on Sam's face, or he'd give everything away. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy."
He wished like hell he believed his own words.
Continued in part 5