AN-I have to admit, I loved writing this chapter. I hope you love reading it. Thanks for all the love you guys have been sending my way and I hope you enjoy.

"Ash, open up." Ellen Harvelle rapped on the door. The sign reading 'Dr. Badass is' rattled, causing the option of 'in' to swing wildly. She waited a minute, knowing that Ash treated his room like his kingdom and his kingdom like a nudist colony of one. As much as she loved that boy she was a happily married woman who had enough emotional scars to last a lifetime.

When nothing changed Ellen knocked harder. "Ash, open the goddamn door."

"Read the sign," came the muffled reply.

Ellen slammed her hands on her hips. "Ash, have you been sniffing glue again? I haven't called ever called you Dr. Badass. Do you really think I'm gonna start now?"

The door cracked open, revealing a fully clothed Ash, thank whatever good spirits were out there, and the flickering lights of a multitude of computer screens. Ash leaned up against the doorframe, resting his elbow up above his head and showing off his wiry arms. He gave his head a lazy toss, the back of his mullet shaking like a mane. The gesture was accompanied by a languid grin. "Why hello Ellen. What can I do for you today?"

"Don't play dumb cause I know you ain't," she snapped. "That was Bobby on the phone. Again. Sam's still missing. Now you tell me you got something for me."

Ash's grin dropped. "Ellen…"

Ellen crossed her arms, the lines from years of difficult living making themselves known on her face. "Dammit Ash! That boy's family!" She tried to ignore the hysteria creeping into her own voice.

Ash moved into her space, placing both hands on her shoulders. It was the closest Ellen would let most people get to her. She was a hard woman living a hard life. Physical comfort was a luxury that she rarely indulged in. Then again, the last time she had been this worried had been when she had seen Bill come back from his final hunt. Most of him had come back, anyway. The only blessing about that night was that Bill had finally got out of hunting while he was good and alive.

Ash lowered his head so he could stare the woman straight in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak, to offer some type of assurance when a crash came from the front. He drew back to peer down the hall. "How are people this rowdy in the mornin'?" He grumbled. "Why are you even open?"

"We're not."

Ellen was down the hall, heading for the nearest gun. Ash ducked into his room for a beer, disappointed that he didn't have any popcorn ready. Any dang fool that tried to mess with a Harvelle always made for a good show.

x—x-x—x

Sammy Singer was proving to be a constant source of entertainment.

When Dean had awoken at the crack of dawn in the motel Sam had already been up and lying on the bed watching Dean as though he expected him to turn into the boogieman. Though Dean hadn't, metamorphosis wasn't on his list of awesomeness, he had pulled the knife out from under his pillow. Sam's expressive eyes had doubled in size at the sight of the blade and Dean was fairly certain that they had filled with grudging respect.

Dean had offered a few flippant comments but Sam didn't seem in the mood to rise to the bait and instead seemed to be tracking Dean's movements like a trapped animal. Dean actually took it as a good sign. It meant that Sam's concussion was improving. It also showed that Sam was a hunter who was capable of more than just being jumped. Not that Dean had truly doubted that but assurances were still nice. The only down side to Sam's recovering wits was that all the progress Dean had made in the car the previous day seemed to have vanished.

So Dean had danced around Sam cautiously, more to put him at ease than out of any real fear of Sam. The kid still had his shirt off and the dark bruises running down his side would make a nice sweet spot to tap if Sam decided to panic. Not that Sam seemed stupid enough to react that way but Dean had been taught to always have his options open. He had also been taught that to fight 'fair' actually meant anything goes.

Things had actually worked out better than he had hoped. Sam had been forced to give ground and though he was as polite as punch about it, Dean could tell that the kid wasn't comfortable with asking. Still, Dean had helped him into his shirt instead of making the hundred innuendos that had come to mind. He had also convinced Sam to let him bandage his ankle, which was showing signs of a bad sprain. Sam hadn't let him examine the cuts on his hand, though, or the knife wounds on his wrists. From Dean's vantage they looked okay, but he was going to have this Ellen that Sam was determined to meet examine them when she could.

Dean had gotten Sam into the car with minimal trouble and he had sprung for breakfast at a drive through and had bought Sam both the coffee the kid had ordered and a breakfast sandwich, which the kid had not. Dean had silently congratulated himself as Sam wolfed it down when he thought Dean wasn't looking.

After that, the ride had become easier and Sam had allowed himself to be lulled into easy conversation. They had shared views on sports teams, compared favorite weapons and swapped stories of the most ridiculous hunts they had ever been on. Dean had recounted the story of a haunted port-a-potty his dad had tried to exorcise at a county fair that had ended with a crowd thinking that John was doing an act. Dean had seen an opportunity and had managed to wrangle close to fifty bucks from an amazed audience.

Sam had topped the story by telling about the time a reporter had tailed Bobby through what was supposed to be a simple salt-and-burn and had ended up as a failed curse. Some school kid had found a book of magic and had bungled a summons so badly that it had raised the spirits of its intended victim's dead pets. Even at their most vicious goldfish didn't make very good ghosts.

Dean had felt the atmosphere of the Impala ease noticeably when Sam made the expected pun on John's shitty job and Sam had fired back a witty retort when Dean had started making pet cemetery references. The two slipped into an easy camaraderie and Sam had grown more and more relaxed with every hour that passed in the car. He had, in fact, grown so relaxed that he slipped into the sleep he had denied himself the previous night.

Which was why when Dean pulled into the empty parking lot of the shady looking establishment named the Roadhouse, he decided to let Sammy sleep. Anyone who could doze off after that much caffeine needed all the rest they could get. Plus, Sam had filled Dean in on the true nature of the Roadhouse and Dean was fairly certain that walking Sam into a joint that was packed to the rafters with hunters was a less than stellar plan.

Dean had parked his baby behind the building, effectively hiding Sam from wandering eyes, and made his way to the front entrance. The door, though locked, provided Dean with little resistance as he pulled out his lock pick set, a sixteenth birthday present. It opened silently and Dean took his first step into the Roadhouse.

It wasn't what Dean had expected but at the same time it seemed to fit better than what Dean's imagination had conjured. At first glance the place appeared to be like any other bar out in the boondocks. The mismatched furniture snubbed the idea of class in favor of functionality and showed signs of wear yet none of neglect. The tables were clean but lacked decorations. A pool table and a jukebox sat on one side, giving a small space for people to unwind that wouldn't disturb other patrons. A dusty piano sat by itself and Dean would have bet the Impala that the thing was out of tune. The bar counter was packed just like any other and it had a hard liquor selection that made Dean smile. The rest of the place was tackily decorated in a sparse and modest taste that gave the establishment character without creating clutter.

It also provided a clever disguise for the protection charms that seemed to be everywhere. A myriad of symbols that Dean didn't recognize littered the place. Some had been cleverly hidden in paintings while others were simply carved into the rafters. A charm dangled off the antlers of a buck head. Small trays lined the tops of the doors and windows, Latin inscriptions barely visible on the wood. Dean was certain the trays were filled with salt or cat's eye shells. Maybe both. A bouquet of dried flowers was nailed by the entrance and though he was no botanist Dean was certain he had spotted St. John's Wart hidden behind the corpses of prettier plants. A quick inspection of an extra bottle of vodka revealed a cross floating in the bottom. Dean beamed gleefully at the bottle of holy water. Sam had been right. It was amazing that Dean had survived this long without knowing about this place.

His revelry was broken by a soft poke to his spine. "Heh." He let out a weak laugh. "I take it you're happy to see me?"

"No." The voice was far sweeter than Dean expected. "It's a rifle."

Dean felt the barrel jab him again. He smiled and shook his head. "Sweetheart," he explained patiently, "when you put a gun on a man you never place the barrel directly against his back. It lets him do this."

Dean spun around, his left hand knocking the barrel away from him as his right swooped up and grabbed it. A quick jerk pulled the gun from his opponent's hands and into his. He pulled the slide, spitting the bullet to the floor and rendering the gun harmless. He gave his assailant his best 'ta-dah' smile. Danger averted, he took in the sweet sight before him.

The girl was young. How young was difficult to tell. She could have been anywhere from ten to twenty. Had he not been in a bar Dean would have leaned towards ten. Hell, despite the fact that she clearly had breasts he was still leaning towards ten. She was petite. Long blonde hair cascaded down her back and dark eyebrows highlighted the browns of her eyes. Dean felt kinda bad that he had disarmed her. She looked harmless.

She punched him in the face.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean grabbed his nose, fingers probing to make sure it wasn't broken. He glared at the girl. She smirked from behind her raised fists before once again driving them towards his face.

"Jesus!" Dean dodged to the side. The girl's momentum carried her forward, throwing her off balance as she failed to hit her target. Dean took advantage of the opening. He thrust out his arm and snagged her wrist. Jerking her close, he used his other arm to snake around her neck. Utilizing his height, he pulled back far enough to force her to lean into him, but not so much as to hurt her.

"Now that I have your attention I would like to ask you a question." Dean waited for the girl to grunt before continuing. "Do you know where Ellen is?" The girl grunted again. Dean loosened his grip on her throat so she could respond to his queries.

She responded with the back of her head.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean's voice was muffled by his hands. He stumbled back as the slip of a girl planted a roundhouse kick to his solar plexus.

The next time Dean was able to drag in a breath, to see past the lights in his eyes, he was laying on the ground amidst broken furniture staring down the barrel of what was becoming a far too familiar rifle.

"I take it you know her." Dean wiped at his nose. His hand came back red.

The girl looked down, her eyes hard. "Move and I'll shoot you."

"Great." Dean grumbled as blood ran down his chin. It dribbled onto his shirt, leaving crimson splotches on the light material. "At least you won't be beating me to death."

A smiled ghosted across her face. "Well," she drawled, "I like to keep my options open."

"Jo!" A woman's voiced cried out from another room.

"In here!" The girl didn't look away as she called out. Damn.

An older woman swept into the room, pistol drawn. The moment she spotted Dean she trained the gun on his chest. Her eyes flashed anger and she drew the hammer back. Dean offered a weak grin and held his bloody hands in the air. "Hi," he offered.

"Jo honey, whose this?" The older woman's tone was even.

"Dunno. He came in looking for an Ellen." The two women shared a look.

"Say why?"

"No." Dean interjected. "I didn't say why. I wasn't given a chance to before she started hitting me." Dean glared accusingly at Jo.

The older woman was less than sympathetic. "Good job, honey. Now I'll take over from here." Jo backed off, letting the older women get a clearer shot at Dean. She squatted down, keeping the pistol aimed at him. "Now boy, what do you want with Ellen?"

"Well, I've heard good things about her-" Dean's explanation was cut off by yet another fist. "Goddamit! Will you people quit hitting me?" Dean ran his fingers across his face, please to see that the blow hadn't split his lip.

The woman stared intently at Dean. Her business like demeanor was beginning to unnerve him. "I'll ask again. What do you want with Ellen?"

Dean bit back another sarcastic response, concerned for the safety of his face. "A friend set me to deliver a package to her."

"What friend?" The professional façade was tinged with genuine curiosity.

"Depends. You Ellen?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

The woman opened her mouth to retort but was cut off as another person stormed into the room. The guy was older than Dean but younger than the woman threatening to shoot him. He wore a flannel shirt open with the sleeves torn off. A black muscle shirt peeked out from under that, hiding his chest. Faded blue jeans and cowboy boots completed his look, giving him the appearance of a hillbilly from a bad sitcom. The mullet, the dopey look in his eyes and the beer bottle in his hand were stereotypical to the point of being comical.

"Hey Jo." He nodded at the violent blonde before turning his attention to the scene on the floor. "So Ellen, did I miss anything?" He crouched down and took a sip of his beer, studying Dean. "I think I missed something."

Ellen sighed, letting her head sag in defeat. She turned to glare at the newcomer. "Dammit Ash! Can your timing get any worse?" She shook her head in exasperation and turned back to Dean, a quirk in her lips. "Yeah. I'm Ellen."

"Hey Ellen." Dean tried to offer a charming smile but the blood running down his face ruined the effect. Ellen winced a bit guiltily at that. Good. She deserved to feel guilty, Dean thought spitefully. He was willing to admit he had a petty streak where his face was concerned. "Can I have a minute of your time?" His eyes flicked to Ash and Jo. "Alone?" There was an unmistakable edge in his tone.

Ellen kept the gun lowered but shook her head. "Nah. Anything you've got to tell me you say in front of them."

"Even if it's about Sam?" Dean raised a brow.

The pistol was up and pressed against his forehead hard enough to bruise, but it was Ellen's eyes that were scaring Dean.

They reminded him of his father.

"I swear to God if you've harmed a hair on that boy's head-"

"Jesus lady! I'm on your side, here!" All of Dean's pretenses dropped as his hands were once again raised. You didn't manage to hunt for a few years without developing a few survival instincts.

The gun never wavered. "Where's Sam?"

Dean weighed his options. He could get Sam to the person Sam had asked to be delivered to or he could get shot in a place that would totally ruin his face forever. It wasn't a logic puzzle by any means.

"He's in my car."