Sam found himself on a deserted road, lit only by the intermittent rays of moonlight that pierced the scudding clouds. His senses were on high alert, all his nerves pinging and tingling with anticipation. No gun on his hip, no holy water in his flask…not even table salt in his pocket.

He turned to look to the south and found himself face to face with a woman. Her dark beauty was all at once alluring and menacing, and though he had never seen her before, he knew immediately who she was.

"He's mine, you know." Her voice was silky, a low murmur that could have been sexy if it were not filled with such hatred. "No matter what you try, I'm going to keep him. Why would I throw back a big fish to catch a minnow like you?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but she lifted her pale hand to press a finger against his lips, and he was powerless to resist. "I'm going to make him scream." Her red eyes flared with anticipation, with hunger. "He'll be begging for death before the end. And I will only take his soul when he is completely broken." A sneer marred her face. "The Warrior-Son will be mine. And you can't stop it."

Sam woke with a start, the demon's voice echoing in his mind. It took a panicky moment for him to recognize his surroundings: the interior of the Taurus. He winced as a crick in his back twinged and he reached to massage the nape of his neck, cursing his decision to sleep in the front seat of the car instead of stretching out in the back.

The dawn light was growing, tingeing the trees outside his window with an unreal, rosy glow. Still a dream? With startling suddenness, a dog's face suddenly appeared at the driver's side window. It managed one frantic yap before disappearing from view, only to reappear, tongue lolling, eyes wild. Sam scrubbed a hand across his eyes and opened the car door, and within seconds his lap was full of corgi. "Hey, Pip." The dog was wriggling and slavering, giving little yips of excitement as he attempted to wash Sam's face with his tongue.

"Pip!" A woman's sharp call brought the little dog under control immediately. Sam shoved Pip off his lap and unfolded himself from the car. Stella was seated on the farmhouse's wraparound porch, a coffee mug in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and a table with another cup at her side. She smiled an invitation and Sam loped up to the house, stretching to work out the kinks. He collapsed to a seat in a weathered old Adirondack chair, and gratefully accepted Stella's outstretched mug of hot coffee. "Muffin?" She pushed forward a plate of what appeared to be homemade strawberry muffins, their tops dusted with powdered sugar. His stomach suddenly reminding him of its recent neglect, Sam snatched one up and devoured it with a speed that bordered on rude.

As he licked the sugar from his fingers, Sam turned to Stella and flashed a smile. "Guess I needed that." She smiled back, pushing the plate a little closer to him, and he took another muffin with no further prompting.

Once Sam had another mouthful, Stella spoke. "What time did you get here? And why didn't you come in? No need for sleeping in the car." Stella took a muffin of her own, breaking it open to pick out a chunk of strawberry and pop it in her mouth, then turned toward the barn where the horses were poking their heads out of the stall doors, neighing impatiently for their freedom.

"It was about three-thirty. I didn't want to wake you."

Stella chuckled. "Well, you're more polite than your brother, at any rate. He just would have broken in and I'd have found him passed out in the guest room the next morning."

Sam grinned. While he didn't know Stella well, it was obvious that she had a very real and strong friendship with Dean, which made her okay in Sam's book. He took another mouthful of coffee, buying himself a moment of time, then said, "Not to be rude or anything, but I'm just going to come out and ask it. Is Dean here?"

Stella gave a tight-lipped smile, full of regret and sadness and understanding for Sam's cross-country chase. "I won't lie, Sam." She reached across the table to pat his hand. "He was here, but he's gone. He took a job."

Sam's breath caught in his throat as his heart made a funny little jump in his chest. "A hunt?" When Stella nodded, Sam felt anger flare, anger that his brother would so foolishly take a hunt on his own, but he tried to hide it by raising his eyes toward the sky. As he did, his eyebrows shot to his hairline, for carved into the ceiling of the porch was a long line of sigils and signs. He stood and reached up to trace one of the signs with his finger. "Holy shit," he breathed. "Does this go around the entire house?"

Stella nodded again, gesturing upward. "After I got out of the hospital and came home, Bobby and a few of his buddies did that. Basically made the whole house into a devil's trap. They were scared that I wouldn't be able to protect myself anymore." She pulled a sour face and rolled her eyes. "Just 'cause I'm a broken down old woman doesn't mean I can't point and shoot."

A strange sense of elation bubbled up in Sam's chest. He turned to Stella, seeking her gaze, excitement glowing in his eyes. "Could hell-hounds enter the house, with these inscriptions here?"

A strange look crossed Stella's face, and she reached out to guide Sam back into his chair. "It could keep them out, yes." She hastened to continue before Sam could speak. "But a devil's trap can work both ways, you know. It keeps them out, but it also keeps you in. No going out to work in the yard, no nights on the town, no vacations. Just the same rooms, the same walls day after day. When you're trapped like that, every day is like a little death." She paused, pursing her mouth, her own sadness evident in her eyes. "And I know Dean well enough to know that it would never work."

So Dean had told her about the deal. "What do you mean?" Sam knew perfectly well what she meant, but didn't want to admit it. Didn't want to admit that the one real lead he had found on saving his brother was impossible to pull off.

"Dean would want to go after those devil dogs, balls out with rock salt. He wouldn't want to waste away inside this house. And you know that." Stella leaned forward in her chair, running her thumb around the edge of her coffee mug, glancing up at the carvings above them. "Hiding isn't the answer, and it isn't what Dean would want."

"I know." Sam didn't want to speak the words, but they forced their way past the lump in his throat and surprised him. "I just don't know what else to do. And as long as he keeps running from me, I can't even think straight, much less find a way to help him."

"He's not trying to hurt you, you know." Stella's smoke-roughened voice was surprisingly gentle. "He's trying to protect you the only way he knows how."

"But he's wrong." Sam's reply was breathy with pain and frustration and hidden tears.

"I know he is." Stella's answer shocked Sam into silence, and he just sat there staring at her, tears lurking in the corners of his eyes. "But just because he's wrong doesn't mean that he's not trying to do the right thing."

Sam dashed a hand over his eyes, drawing a shuddering breath. Damned if he hadn't spent a ridiculous amount of time in tears lately, but he didn't have it in him to be embarrassed. Not when it came to his brother. He would cry a river of tears in front of the whole world if it meant saving his brother.

"Dean is a lot of things, Sam, but he's not a quitter. He doesn't want to die. He just doesn't know how not to without losing you in the process." Stella softly touched his arm, her work-hardened hand plucking at his sleeve. "I'm going to go in and call Bobby, let him know you're here safe." She paused for a few seconds. "You okay?"

Sam nodded silently, giving a small smile of thanks, and Stella wheeled herself into the house, the light screen door squealing on its hinges before slamming shut behind her. Sam leaned back in his chair, gusting out a shaky breath and brushing a hand through his hair. As he reached for his cup of coffee, his eyes caught sight of a few news clippings tucked beneath the plate of muffins. Moving the plate aside, he glanced through them quickly and a smile suddenly gleamed on his face. That Stella, sly gal. If she couldn't tell Sam where Dean was, she damn sure could point him the right direction.

"Gotcha."