A/N: It's Monday. Oh before I forget, in this AU things have been re-arranged a little. In the show, Meg didn't encounter Sam until the end of the first season. In this AU Scarecrow happened before The Benders.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

Chapter 9 – third eye wide open

At the same time John Doe 317 was rushed into the hospital ward at Sweetbriar State Hospital, Sam Winchester was at the Sunny Daze Inn, less than half a state away from Bobby Singer's place. Sam ignored the heavy, urgent growling of his stomach as he took off his shirt and slipped his boots and socks off. He hadn't had anything to eat for three straight days, and tonight was the last night.

The salt lines around the doors and windows were thick and unbroken. Outside on the parking lot the Impala sat, sleek black and gleaming, in the parking spot directly opposite the door. Underneath the car there was a devil's trap Sam had chalked onto the concrete; she was secure for the night.

Sam sat down on the area rug he'd unfurled, wrong side up, on the floor. The rug itself was nothing special; he'd bought it from Wal-Mart about two years ago. Sam needed something just as mobile as he was, a mat big enough for what he had in mind, something he could carry with him from place to place. The sigil drawn on the wrong side of the rug was composed of three circles, one inside the other. Sam was also pretty damn sure that Bobby Singer would not have approved of the sigil, the words that were scrawled inside the curves, or the fact that the entire symbol was carefully drawn with Sam's own blood.

He took one last glance around the room, knowing from experience that once he drank, he wouldn't be in any condition to correct anything. Or defend himself if things went wrong.

Sam picked up the small wooden bowl off the nightstand and carefully placed it at the edge of the outermost circle. His hands did not shake; not one drop was spilled.

The ayahuasca infusion in the bowl reeked. So did the air in the room. Ayahuasca meant "vine of souls", or "spirit vine." It was used for divination in certain areas of the world. The smell was heavy, woody, more like ground up grass, rank green wood, and bile, thick and bitter. The only thing Sam could even remotely compare it to was the green tea Jess had tried to get him to drink when they were together at Stanford. Sam had never been a tea person, and Jess used to rag on him about that.

Of course, before that time and since, Sam had smelled worse things than green tea.

The colors swirled, sometimes greenish black, sometimes dark green with a hint of pale yellow as Sam stared down into the bowl. This was his third time for this. The first time he'd performed this ritual, Dean's presence flickered pale and ghostlike in the center of the room.

The second time Dean guttered out like a candle in a high wind.

Everything had been a bust until then. Missouri either wouldn't or couldn't help him. Sam hated that look of sorrow in her eyes, and he never went back to Lawrence, Kansas after that. Scrying was useless.

Nothing worked until three months ago, the day that Sam showed up on Josephina Chacon's doorstep in Columbus, Ohio, of all places. Sam didn't ask what an Amerindian shamaness was doing living there, and quite frankly, he didn't give a damn. He'd heard about her ability to find lost people; that was more than enough.

Chacon taught Sam, gave him what he needed to have. She was suitably impressed by certain gifts Sam brought her, one of which happened to be the head of her nearest rival in the states. No great loss. That one specialized in sacrifices involving children. Sam figured he'd done everyone a favor with one swing of his machete.

Sam turned and gently pulled Dean's leather jacket down from the bed behind him. His fingers gently skimmed over the battered brown leather as he neatly folded it on his lap.

Then he picked up the wooden bowl, put it to his lips, and drank the ayahuasca down all at once.

Sam didn't gag. Not once.

He put the bowl down at his side, and waited.

It happened slowly. It always did. Nothing, at first, and then the room slid crazily around him like one of those tilt-a-wheel rides.

please…Sam thought. Please let this work…please… He heard himself whisper, rough and desperate, out loud, a plea he'd whispered before, when the days and nights got too lonely, too hard, when this whole damn business about Dean threatened to break and shatter him into pieces, once and for all.

Tears ran down both cheeks as Sam swayed from side to side. The pain came then, sharp and piercing. It jabbed him right between the eyes as the vine of spirits flowed into his third eye and opened it up painfully wide.

"Please," Sam whispered. Third time for this. Third time's the damn charm...

Everything around him smeared into a dirty grey blur. Sam felt a chill run down his bare arms. Each and every cut, every slash mark that he'd cut into his skin tingled, but not with expectation.

He was being watched. Observed.

Sam realized he wasn't alone in the room anymore.

"Dude. What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Sam blinked away the tears that gummed up his eyelashes. He struggled to stare at the figure who sat directly opposite him on the rug. His vocal cords felt tight, like he really hadn't used them in a while. "D-Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "It's me."


Nathan Beck leaned against the door jamb and carefully massaged that tender spot right between his eyes. Didn't help. Nothing did. Nothing would, unless he went home and popped a devil's sunrise or two himself, and tonight that just wasn't gonna happen. He had alredy decided to spend the night here. That fat prick Weddington blamed him for all of this. Damn. First Withers with his swan dive off the bell tower, then the general confusion that followed, and now this.

Doctor Miranda Clarke moved quietly around John Doe 317's bed. 317 lay still and quiet, so pale that spray of freckles across his nose showed up like grains of brown rice thrown carelessly over a stark white tablecloth. He didn't move a muscle, not even when she touched him as she checked the positioning of the cannula and the oxygen mask.

Beck didn't have anything on Clarke. She was one of the few people at Sweetbriar that Beck decided was a law abiding citizen, so he acted accordingly around her. She was one of Weddington's hires.

"So what happened?" Beck knew already, of course. Just wanted to hear it from her, see what she knew.

"Allergic reaction to his meds, I think." Clarke said, and Beck nodded. "Happens sometimes," she added softly.

"Well?" Beck grunted. "Is he going to make it or not?" He was already making plans, thinking ahead. It would have been a crying shame to lose John, but that was something Beck was prepared to live with, if necessary.

"He's stable now. You got him breathing again. That's always a damn good thing." A small frown creased her features as she looked down at 317. "Don't know how long he was without oxygen."

"So he could be brain damaged?"

"He might be. Won't know until he wakes up. If he wakes up," Clarke added pointedly.


"You kept all my stuff, huh?" Dean cocked his head to one side, and the corners of his lips twitched downward, just for a brief second. He looked exactly the way he looked that night in Hibbing, before the night swallowed him up whole, without a trace. Sam's skin tingled again as Dean glanced at the slash marks on Sam's arms. Dean's expression darkened into that disapproving scowl Sam knew so well.

Dean knew. Knew about the blood, knew that Sam had not only left the reservation, he probably nuked the place on his way out.

"Kept all…all of it," Sam croaked. "Your duffel, everything in the Impala…" He swallowed around that suddenly hard lump in his throat. "I'm been taking care of her. Regular tune ups, oil changes…"

"Cut the bullshit, Sam," Dean ordered. It was his command voice, the one voice that Sam always followed, the one he never ignored.

Sam blinked. Without even meaning to, he pulled out one of the oldest tricks in his book, the Sam Winchester puppy dog eyes, soft and pleading. It had been a long time since he'd used that one. Four years, to be exact.

And it was clear that trick didn't work. Not anymore.

"So let me get this straight," Dean growled fiercely. "You're doing dark magic now. Because of me. Did I get that right? Is there anything else you wanna tell me, bro'?" He glared at the cuts on Sam's arms.

"Missouri wouldn't help me. Bobby said…" Sam shook his head. He couldn't get the words out right. He wasn't expecting this. It was ridiculous. One quirked eyebrow from his long lost big brother and he was yammering like a three year old again.

"That's crap, and we both know it. You gotta let me go. You know that, don't you? It's been four years, Sam."

"I did séances. You're not dead. You're alive."

Dean snorted, rolled his eyes as he glanced away. "Wouldn't call this living, dude."

"You have to tell me where you are."

Dean wore his defiance like a shield. "Fuck no."

"Dean ---"

"Why don't you go back to school?"

"W-what?"

"Go back to school. Go on with your life."

"I can't…I can't do that." Sam felt his breath stutter in his throat. The floor seemed to slide sideways, right out from underneath him. He was losing control, and that was a damn laugh.

"Why the hell not?" Dean shrugged. "So you don't wanna hunt with Dad. I get that. I do."

Sam's eyes narrowed. He lifted his head, stuck out his chin defiantly. "He left me, Dean. He ditched me. Four months after you…" Sam couldn't say it. "Haven't seen him in nearly four years."

"Dad always did know when to give up on lost causes," Dean said flatly.

Sam's head jerked up. "You selfish sonofabitch."

"Don't use me as your excuse, you hear me? Don't. You had a choice, Sam. You always had a choice. I could see you looking for me, but there comes a time when you gotta cut your losses and move on. How the hell do you think I feel, seeing you like this?"

Sam smiled, thin and tight. His eyes glittered, full of barely contained sarcasm. "You are so full of shit, you know that?"

"Gee, that stings," Dean snarked.

"If the tables had turned, and I was the one who got lost that night, would you have given up on me, Dean? Would you?"

Something in Dean's eyes flickered. The look on his face changed, from stubbornly defiant to vulnerable, wounded, and then the damn mask slid back over Dean's features again.

Gotcha, Sam thought.

'That's…that's not the same." Dean seemed uneasy, and Sam decided to press him.

"It's not? Why not?"

"I'm the big brother. I take care of you, not the other way around. And here I thought you were the brains, Sammy."

"That argument didn't work the first time I ever heard it, and it's not working now."

"Doesn't matter what you think or say," Dean grumbled. He stared at his leather jacket on Sam's lap, at his duffel bag on Sam's bed behind his brother's head, and then quickly looked away. "You ditched me before. Why the hell can't you do it again?"

"Dean…you gotta tell me where you are."

"The hell I do." Dean shook his head. "You called me. I came. I don't know why, but I did. But you can't force me to tell you, can you?"

Sam's shoulders slumped. "No."

"Four years, Sam. I've been gone for four friggin' years. I'm not the same person I was before." Dean's voice softened, and so did his expression. "If I could've come back, I would have done it before now. I'm gone for good. You gotta deal with it."

Sam shook his head no.

Dean shook his head. "You stupid jackass."

Sam shrugged. "Whatever, dude."

Dean's image wavered slightly, and Sam tried not to stare. He could hear Chacon's richly accent inside his head: "There will be times when the missing one will be at odds with themselves. You must watch and observe, Samuel. Sometimes, if you are fortunate, you will receive a sign."

Sam kept his game face on, carefully blank. He took in all the details, from the way Dean's eyes darkened slightly, from that familiar moss green to a color more like forest green. Dean's hair grew longer and lighter. He was barefoot, and he wore white hospital scrubs.

He's a patient, Sam thought to himself as he took it all in. Not staff.

Dean became transparent. Slowly, gradually. Sam expected it, but that wasn't the reason why that chill crawled up his spine. It was the look Dean gave him.

It was cold and steady, with absolutely no hint of recognition in those eyes. None at all. Sam was being measured. He knew it, even as Dean slowly faded completely away.

Sam leaned heavily against the side of his bed. He felt wiped out, and would probably sleep on the floor. He felt too tired to even climb up into the bed. He sat there staring at the space where Dean had been. He'd feel better in the morning, after the remaining drugs had run themselves out of his system, but he sat there and processed what he'd seen, slowly methodically.

Dean was in a hospital somewhere, which meant that he was probably sedated. That was some of it, but not all. The most worrisome part was what came at the very end.

Dean Winchester had never looked at his younger brother like that. It took Sam a moment or so to properly name the emotion he saw.

It was hate.


A day later Ben Murray's stolen body pulled up onto the driveway at 9063 Fairhaven Road. Meg walked him up to the house, knocked on the door. She got basically the same reception she'd gotten at the other two houses she'd paid a visit to.

Funny thing, Daddy's friends weren't too happy to see her. Meg had to laugh about that.

Half an hour later ol' Bennie boy was looking even more tattered around the edges. He'd lost a couple of fingers, and his right ear. Deep inside his body Ben Murray's soul huddled in a dark corner and moaned to itself.

Sure enough, the neighbors called the cops because of all the noise, but by that time Meg had all the information she needed. She was long gone by the time the SWAT team finally broke down the door and tossed those flash grenades inside. She jumped from one first responder to another, and finally settled on a uniformed female cop with a squad car. She needed wheels, and that would do until she felt the urge to trade up again.

She really didn't give a damn about Azazel's grand plan. Daddy hadn't done her any favors after all, now had he?

Things were looking up. Meg resisted the urge to blast the siren as she sped away from the scene. She still felt pretty damn cheerful about the way things were going.

She knew which direction Sam Winchester was rumored to be headed in, and when she caught up with Sammy, it was gonna be just like old times.


Next post Saturday.