And it's back! Writer's block sucks. Out. Loud. Doesn't it? Well I'm sorry it took so long... It's been what? Three months? Yikes. Well, I had the chapter finished and ready about last week, but the site wouldn't let me log in, and I was sooo frustrated! Anyone else have that problem?

Anyway... read on!

Dean jerks awake to the sound of a violent storm pounding at his door. A crack of thunder deafens his eardrums and lightening briefly illuminates the rusty space the shade of burning ember. It takes a moment to recognize the churning roar as heavy rain. It beats out a wave of rhythm against the sagging roof above his head. Dean peels himself from the limp sheets and crouches over the edge of the rock hard mattress. He rubs a hand back and forth across his rumpled hair, his brain still foggy with sleep.

He scratches at the grogginess crowding his eyes and wonders why he is no longer peacefully asleep at such ungodly an hour. The storm rages unapologetically on beyond the bare door, and it's a loud one for sure, but Dean's slept through worse. He knows he has. He almost snored straight through an entire banshee cry without so much as a flicker of interrupted dreams once, and tonight should be no different.

A petulant buzz whines in his ear, and it's almost like a light bulb blinks to life in his head. (oh. right.)

Dean… you awake yet?

Dean sighs audibly, though he'd be the only to hear it anyway. Dread seeps into his limbs, adding more lead to their weary weight.

I found her, Dean. This time I'm sure.

(thats what you said last time too, sammy. and the time before that, and the time before that…)

Five minutes, come on. A hint of barely controlled excitement, like that of a child's, colors the words, as they ring through his head.

Dean raises slowly, muscles heavy with a fearful apprehension he can't explain, something he chalks up to pure and simple instinct. Some instincts are too stubborn to fade, and those are the ones Dean's learned to trust implicitly. But trying to tell his inflexible brother that it's a bad idea to eradicate his biggest threat just because Dean has this feeling just isn't going to cut it. With someone like the boy king of hell, it's on the same level as a death wish.

Dean forgoes the quick shower, even though it's something he feels he needs in order to warm up, and snatches up the overcoat draped across the back of a creaky chair. Pelting rain batters at the rusty window; the building sways and rasps weakly under its force. He pauses to watch a trail of black water trickle down the sill. (doesnt look like its going to let up any time soon) The weather doesn't seem to want to cooperate, and although cheesy things like this don't normally work this way, Dean can't help but take it as a bad omen.

A gentle invisible nudge between his shoulder blades sends him staggering abruptly. He careens into the wobbly desk and catches his thigh on the corner before he can regain his balance. As he curses and rubs at the sharp ache, Sam's rumble whispers again in his ear with a creepily child-like anticipation. Also like a naïve little kid, he sounds not one bit sorry.

Ready yet?

"Wha – wait, hang o –"

Let's go!

Dean has just enough time to lunge for the knife under his pillow before he feels the familiar cold tug on his insides and black rolls across his vision in waves.

- - -

Sam slept through the entire night uninterrupted, under the garish sheets of the closest motel Dean could find. Morning soon rolled in on heavy clouds, breaking dimly through the loose curtains, and still Sam slept on. Dean took a break from his tense vigil by Sam's bed to wash off the memories of the night before, and when he returned in a puff of steam Sam was still very much dead to the world. He wondered at the significance of it but quickly shook himself, thinking he was only making something out of really nothing.

Dried blood coated Sam's pale shirt and hair, flaky but staining all the same. Dean twitched at the sight of it, but he didn't have the heart to wake Sam just to relieve his own discomfort, no matter how well founded. So he let Sam sleep.

Dean leaned over his brother for a moment, running calloused fingers through the limp hair and smoothing it away from the lined forehead in comfortable, practiced motions. He rubbed his thumb in circles over the creases and watched as the tenseness temporarily faded from Sam's young face. It offered some comfort, to one brother if not both. Dean scrubbed a hand across his own tired features, vaguely considering whether or not he should go out to get some food in case Sam woke hungry.

His stomach decided for him, complaining startlingly loud in the rough silence. Dean quickly scribbled a nearly illegible note on the motel writing pad and ended it with a large "D", knowing Sam would somehow be able to decipher it. That, of course, depended on how lucid he would be, or if he was conscious enough to realize Dean was absent at all. Dean shrugged gingerly into a jacket and tugged on his boots, taking his time with the laces. His stomach growled mutinously at him to hurry it up.

As the door scratched open, Dean's head turned back involuntarily to check on his brother's still, slumbering form. Sam looked unusually small and young. Some instinct in Dean screamed at him not to leave him alone, even if it was just a five-minute food run. His stomach rumbled again; it was painfully empty.

Dean shut the door gently and made sure to double-check the lock before jogging hastily to the diner across the street. (always across the street – so convenient) His foot jiggled impatiently and his teeth caught on his lower lip as the waitress politely asked him to, "Wait a few minutes while we get your order ready, all right sir?" She tried to catch his eye as she said so, but Dean's gaze had already wandered back to the motel, where it stayed glued until a greasy-bottomed paper bag plopped down in front of him. He blindly fished a twenty from his wallet and threw it on the table, muttering to the girl something about change.

Dean burst out the glass door and left the poor bell chiming madly. He crossed the street in a flash of angry horns and "Watch where the hell you're going pal". He fumbled with the key, juggling between the bag and the fussy number card keychain. Then he paused. And listened.

There was a quiet agitated rustling from within the room and a duet of murmurs humming gently over it. One was distressed and familiar, the answering voice soothing and unwelcome. Dean's jaw tightened, the skin around his eyes tensed. He braced himself before twisting the key viciously into the knob and flinging the door ajar.

"What are you doing here," It wasn't so much a question as a demand.

Soft brown waves whipped around as oily black slid into place out of startled habit. Twin pits were instantly replaced by dull brown as recognition filtered through the oval face. "Dean," the sickly sweet voice, so out of place, scraped at his ears. "It's so nice to see you, too," accompanied an equally sweet smile. Her hand rested on Sam's dropping shoulders.

Dean's grinding teeth clicked loudly in the unnatural quiet that followed. Ruby shifted under the heat of his stare, strangely uneasy and unaggressive. Her eyes alighted on the bag hanging limply between his rigid fingers.

"That for me? Thanks. Flying in to save the day gives a girl an appetite. Hope you got some fries," the empty snark clunked hollowly. Dean's fingers clenched in a white-knuckled fist. Ruby's shifting eyes darted restlessly to Sam's slack-jawed, slumped position.

"What. Are you. Doing here," Dean could barely shove the words past his locked jaws.

Ruby's hand twitched on Sam's shoulder; a muscle ticked in her cheek. Sam's foggy gaze stayed fixed on his limp fingers. Dean glared at them both. With no answer forthcoming, he let his anger boil over and he surged into the room. Dean heaved the greasy bag down, advancing on Ruby with a murderous expression.

"Get. The hell. Out," He didn't need anyone barging in here and assuming they needed company while they hid away to lick their wounds. And he certainly didn't need her, of all things – a demon.

Ruby's face tightened fractionally at his tone. Her chin tilted up stubbornly and her eyes glinted demonic black. "You need my help," she announced. "Whether you like it or not," Her hand stayed anchored to Sam's shoulder, Sam who hadn't made a sign he could hear or understand what was going on. Sam, who might not even be fully conscious and was already being manipulated by a demon.

"Like hell we do. Leave." Dean leaned forward to tower over her. She only glared back, unimpressed.

"Sam just killed those idiot angels, and in case your thick head hasn't noticed, he's not in the greatest shape," her voice was hard, business-like. "And if that wasn't just peachy-keen perfect, both sides are gunning for you two and Lilith is already on the fifty-eighth seal. I'd say the scales are way beyond tipped," She straightened her back, forcing Dean to shift his stance slightly. "You need all the help you can get," She held his gaze, daring him to contradict her.

Dean snarled down in her face, oblivious of her apparent show of power. "Leave."

"Or what?"

Dean growled low in his throat, his hand flashing out to grab hold of her arm. He jerked her to her feet, fully intending to shove her through the door, telekinetic demon or not. He didn't need a scheming skank from hell imposing on his family. It was his responsibility, his family, his brother. She was just an intruder.

A soft sound behind them stopped him. Dean's head jerked automatically to his brother. Sam had decided to suddenly come to life at that moment, a protest gurgling at the back of his throat and his large hands reaching up to wrap themselves around Ruby's bicep. "No," he said in a defeated, lost voice. "Stay,"

Dean's heart stuttered to a standstill. "Sam," he choked. He released the demon, fingers stretching towards his brother. Sam flinched away and Dean recoiled, stung. Ruby stood between them, expressionless. "Sammy,"

"Ruby," Sam's torn expression cut harshly, but it wasn't directed at him. Ruby remained where she was, with a placating look on her face. She smiled almost tenderly, comfortingly. Dean backed away slowly, numb and invisible to the other occupants of the room.

His fingers soon found the knob behind his back. The need to get out was suddenly overwhelming, and he shoved past the splintered wood to the blinding light outside.

The door fumbled shut and the murmurs resumed almost immediately after, leaving Dean out in the cold with the lone Impala. His steadfast, sweet, loyal Impala. She never left, not if she could help it. Her smooth frame tempered this… whatever it was; just enough that, when his knees buckled under its giddy hammer, he was able to steady himself and clear his thumping head against her flawless metal. It was a cold and stale kind of comfort that made him wish he could afford something stronger than cheap beer, but he wasn't his father, and this was one of the things Dean didn't want tacked on to his title of John Winchester's Son. Stupid title that it was. He hated it all.

- - -

The first five houses are empty. Not one is even habitable. Even though it's what Dean had expected – and really, he should know better by now; why should today be any different than all the rest? – he can't help but feel the same, nearly crushing disappointment he'd tamped down on that first day of searching. With each dead home, all littered with dirt and the shadowed echoes of the residents' former lives, with every abandoned room, the tiny bulb of the hope he allows himself to build fades away to dust, blown away like his footprints across lonely patios.

But each and every single time, Dean lets that gentle flutter grow. And it glows so bright, before sputtering out at the sight of a dusty toy car half buried between upturned floorboards, or a baby's moonlit crib, trampled. It must take some kind of retard-genius, to willingly set himself up for disappointment or failure, or more often that not, both.

Dean's heavy work boots scuff across the previously gleaming tile floor that arches up into a graceful oval ceiling with a lustrous tinkling chandelier that must have been the pride of this particular homeowner; now it's all disgracefully filthy. His stomach coils uncomfortably and he sneezes, staring morosely up at the chipped glass. There was a childish little illusion once cradled in his heart, that wealth provided safety just as much as family and rock salt. Looking around the tarnished ruin, so empty, Dean can't remember how he could ever come up with something so far from the truth.

He moves on.

And he wonders a bit vaguely if Sam's having as much luck with his quest for Lilith. Whatever. It's not like he cares, right?

Of course.

Dean's footsteps echo along the massive marble hallways. The sound bounces back at him like a stabbing heartbeat. It punches at his ears with a determined force, like it knows he's weakening, and the faded pearl white looms over him, an endless path he's doomed to walk. With each pulse his resolve diminishes, inch by inch, until he can barely move under his own grief.

Who does he think he's kidding anyhow? Does he really believe that someone could survive? Even in the midst of defiance, a stain of doubt creeps in like a poison. Dean has neither seen nor heard from a fellow human being in months. Long months of fruitless searching and gambling with the vague possibility that there might be someone else left in the world, every moment spent hating those deep, grinning yellow eyes, and what has it gotten him?

(zip. zilch. nada)

Dean scratches his tired eyes with the base of his palm and hefts the duffel higher on his shoulder. The hallway stretches out for an eternity before him, but all things have an end. Don't give up. Number four on the Winchester list of rules to live by.

The off-white walls come to an abrupt halt, interrupted by the crack of large mahogany doors. No doubt they'd been extremely expensive back in the day when people were still around to use them. Now it's just a piece of crap wood, probably filled with termites. The door closest to him is already open, and Dean takes a cursory glance at the dusty hinges, seeing that rusted together. He pokes his head into the room cautiously.

And suddenly sees stars.

Dean rears back in alarm, the edge of his right brow smarting. A second fist flies out at him. His hand comes up to block automatically. The thin arm doesn't recoil fast enough, and Dean grabs it and swings the assailant around him. The frail body is thrown forcibly against the wall with a dull thud and a shower of dirt. "What –"

Pale, washed-out blue gapes up at him from behind a pair of skewed, delicate frames.

"— the hell?"

Dean blinks rapidly at the uncomprehending gaze inches from his face. Frozen shock plays across the pale, quivering face – an odd look Dean hasn't seen on anyone since… well. And that's what makes Dean pause.

The old man's harsh gasps are the only thing Dean can hear above the rush of blood through his ears and his heart pumps faster with the thought. The thought that maybe… maybe… could…?

"Cristo," he croaks, hardly daring to hope. His heart thuds a hollow rhythm against his ribs. Time seems to halt; he feels cold.

The man's shocked expression wipes clean, turning to confusion. He stares blankly, and Dean can see his own aching wonder reflected in the cloudy blue – human, has to be human – depths. Dean watches him intently, his cynical side asking snidely why he deserves something like this (like what? deliverance?), now of all times. "What?" the man rasps, his voice weak and cracking from long disuse. "No, my – my name's Aaron,"

Dean can only stare.

Then a disbelieving huff of laughter bursts out of him. The man still trapped against the wall starts a little at the harsh barking sound; it sounds even more foreign to Dean. A grin cuts across his face, razor sharp and so wide his cheeks hurt. The heavy anvil that has been slowly crushing the air out of him eases off his chest, leaving him breathless, and suddenly the future doesn't seem so bleak or lonely after all. Dean laughs again, a high-pitched relieved sound that he's sure he's never heard before, least of all coming from him.

He could hug this guy, this dusty, scared, utterly human stranger, Dean really, really could. He – he doesn't even know. This is so surreal. As he stares down at the man's shaking form and wide eyes however, giving the poor guy a bear hug is probably not the best second impression Dean wants to make anyway. He'll have to save his mounting euphoria for later. (patience, young grasshopper) So he settles for normal – or as normal as he can get in a situation like this.

"Hi," he says, releasing the man (aaron) and taking a step back with a gentler version of the smile he hasn't cracked in going on a year. A bubble of insane joy rises in him and floods his pores. He feels like he can do anything, any damn thing at all. (im not alone)

"My name's Dean."

Haha! Almost-cliff hanger! Sort of. Does that even count as one? Reviews are HUGELY appreciated. Like, majorly. Pretty please?