Disclaimer : The math in this chapter is a rough (rough) estimate. I did some figuring, but it's not exact. I'm not good with math, but that's another story for another time. So please don't send me messages telling me I've gotten numbers wrong... it's embarrassing. :(

Thanks again for all the amazing reviews... they really keep me going! And you know, I heard somewhere that every time you review, an angel gets their wings! You don't wanna be responsible for denying an angel its wings, do you?

Okay, I'm kidding... but seriously...wings. ;)

--

Sam kept a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel, despite the fact that the car was still parked on the side of the road. His nerves were stretched to the breaking point, and it was hard to breathe.

He'd lost a few years of his life when Dean threw himself from the car like that. His fear hadn't abated when he realized his brother was sick, not suicidal. It was masked partially by concern, but when his retching turned to sobs, and sobs into a breakdown the likes of which he'd never seen, fear returned full force.

Now Dean appeared to have recovered some lucidity, and he was hesitant to speak, sensing the fragility of the situation.

Instead, he pried his fingers from the wheel long enough to reach into the back seat for a warm bottle of water. Wordlessly he passed it to Dean, who had trouble opening the lid with his fingers shaking as badly as they were. He grabbed it, twisted the cap off in one easy motion, and handed it back.

After a tentative sip, he chugged the rest in one long pull. Sam watched carefully, realizing this was the first time he'd even seen Dean drink something in the past three days. It was obvious now as he shook the last few drops onto his tongue, and he wondered how he'd missed it.

Dean looked to Sam eyes questioning.

"Sorry," he said, his voice sounding too loud to his own ears. He cleared his throat. "That's all there was."

Dean just nodded, twisting the plastic bottle in his hands.

Sam twisted the ignition, bringing the Impala to life, but kept it in park. After a moment, he killed the engine and let his hands fall to the wheel again.

He opened his mouth to speak and was caught off guard when the words he heard weren't his own.

"How long?"

It took him a minute to figure out that Dean had actually spoken. His knuckles went white again. "What did you say?"

"H-how long was I... gone?" his voice was hoarse and he wrung the plastic in his hands as if even asking was too much.

"Four years, give or take. Or did you want specifics?" Sam replied without thinking. He laughed bitterly. "Two hundred and forty months. One thousand, seven hundred days, give or take."

He waited for the fallout, but to his great surprise it didn't come. Dean took the news quietly, going pale, but nodding once, as if deciding that was that. He didn't say any more, just sat there staring out the windshield.

Finally Sam started the engine. With no idea what else he could do, he pointed the car in the direction of the hotel.

--

Four years.

Give or take.

He felt oddly numb, knowing he should react to this revelation somehow. Right now it was all he could do to breathe, watching the scenery pass without really seeing it. Should be be relieved? Resentful for the years, given willingly, but stolen anyway?

A dull sensation registered in his mind - surprise, maybe, but mixed with something that reeked of defeat. His ravaged heart skipped a beat, disbelief burning through his veins. He'd been cheated.

Four years in Hell.

To Sam, it was forever, years spent alone with his grief, terrified for the fate of his brother's undying soul. It was learning to live without a person who had been half of him, and with the unending guilt that reminded him he was the reason for Dean's premature death.

But to him it was horrifying for different reasons entirely.

For a year he'd lived with death dogging his heels, creeping up on him while his brother searched for salvation. A year that passed in heartbeats that counted down to his demise.

Four years he'd waited, burned and bled, and now he wanted to scream with the unfairness of it all. How could that be all?

There was no way to know, down there, no way to mark the passage of time. A day could have been a week, or a week a day, and in the end what it boiled down to was an eternity. Four years could pass in the blink of an eye or stretch and drag out into millennia, and it didn't matter. Years told time in human measure, and humanity didn't exist in Hell.

His memory was unreliable now anyway. In disorienting moments he would come to, and wonder again where he was. Sometimes he could feel the breeze, and wonder how it was he still had lungs to breathe. Others he wished he didn't have to, because the smell of your own skin charred was enough to drop even the strongest of men.

After a while, he'd even stopped hoping his brother would find him. That was the way it was, the way it had to be. He could not live in fear forever, anticipating the agony. He could not dream of a better future, of escape. He could only try to survive with his mind intact. To survive this time and then try to forget. Though his mind often looked to the past, tried to dredge up some happy memory from the ones they twisted around him, he rarely thought of the future. When he did, it was only wondering what they would come up with next, or how long he could go without screaming.

He thought maybe now he understood how people became demons.

First they burned the humanity from your bones. Then they rewarded you for the perverse, depraved things they made you to do. And eventually, it became less a matter of survival, and acceptance of the bane of existence. He wouldn't die, and they wouldn't let him go, but if he played nice, if he pleased them, it didn't have to be so hard.

And so, with the same grim compliance, he accepted this.

Four years for Sam, but for him it had been a lifetime.

Yet he knew, without question, he would do it again. It was the only thing he was sure of; his job was to protect Sam, at all costs - future or no future, Hell or not. From the time he was a kid to the day he died. And now, it seemed, long after that.

The gentle hum of tires on pavement became a lullaby, and his body's need for sleep made itself known.

Dean closed his eyes and slipped away.

When he opened them again, she smiled.

"It's good to have you back, Dean," she purred.

With the tangle of black hair that cascaded down her back and the pale olive skin, she was an exotic beauty. Fuck-me heels completed an outfit that was scandalous enough to have even a holy man panting at her feet, but she took 'dressed to kill' too literally for his tastes.

"Fuck you," he said, as he looked away.

Her smile lingered as her face turned to stone, twisted into a wry grin. "The words of a fighter, with none of the will."

She knelt down and cupped his chin, forcing his gaze level with her face.

He fought the urge to close his eyes.

"You're wondering aren't you? What this is?" she laughed softly, her liquid velvet voice pouring over him. "A dream... a memory... or maybe you blinked, missed it, and you're back in Hell."

He jerked his head away and stared into the darkness beyond her.

She laughed again, and rose to her feet.

"Four years," she said, pacing. "Barely the blink of an eye. We had such big plans for you, Dean. You were showing such promise."

"Shut up," he whispered.

"Imagine if he knew. The things you did?" she fixed her black eyes on him. "You weren't even possessed."

He hung his head.

"You think if he knew he'd be so ready to save you?"

"You're a dream," he stated, trying desperately to believe it.

She clucked her tongue, and shook her head, "But you don't really believe that. Your memory, your mind is unreliable."

He looked up as she echoed his previous thoughts, cautiously watching her circle the area in front of him.

"And you'll always wonder... you'll never be quite sure if you're really back, or if you're dreaming. If that's really Sam, or we're just toying with you again... you think it would really be so easy to kill me, boy?"

Her voice deepened, no longer velvet, but fire that planted seeds of doubt once more.

"You can't be saved," she hissed. "You're a monster, and sooner or later, he's gonna realize that. He'll come to see he should have followed Bobby's advice and killed you the second he saw you. And make no mistake, Dean, he will kill you. It's just a matter of time."

"No," he protested weakly. "He wouldn't..."

But she could hear in his voice that he didn't know what to believe.

"If wishes were fishes," she said, her voice fluid again. "Poor Dean. Poor, poor Dean."

She giggled, her glossed lips curving into a serene smile. "Remember the family in Boston?"

He closes his eyes and shrinks back -

- and a strong hand on his shoulder shook him awake. The scream caught in his throat, and he could see the look in Sam's eye. Sam thought that meant progress. Dean didn't care, because he was still back in that house in Boston...

The memory hung over him even after the lines of salt are drawn, and the lights blazing. No protective wards, no amount of light could drive it away, so he swallowed it, and ignored the way it gnawed at his stomach.

Sam was speaking again, his voice forcibly cheerful. Something about dinner, he thought, but he was trying too hard to shake the dream. He found himself pressing his feet against the floor. Unyielding, it met his feet, offering not resistance but reassurance.

He was aware of Sam's eyes on his back as he rose, almost unwilling, and pressed a hand against the wall.

Solid.

It was all real, he told himself, but suddenly the walls were pressing in, too real, too close. All the comfort found in tangibility was suddenly oppressive. He stepped back, head spinning. Any of it could be easily faked, a product of imagination or warped reality, and he would never know. Not until they decided.

He wanted proof.

He spun, watching Sam's brown eyes follow his movements, worried but not wary. His eyes sought the amulet, finding comfort there even as he knew it could easily be the product of hallucinations as much as anything else.

"Dean, what is it?"

He wanted to have faith. He knew faith was stupid, unreliable. Faith was a polite word for wishful thinking.

The world disappeared from beneath his feet, and for a moment he was floating. Then he came crashing back, his body crumpling as he tried unsuccessfully to regain control of his legs.

He realized he'd passed out as Sam's fingers lightly touched his throat, checking his pulse.

His hand shot out, gripping Sam's wrist tightly, ragged nails digging into his skin.

"It's okay, Dean." Sam flinched, but didn't move away. "I've got you."

Touch. He'd craved it as a child, even as he grew to be a man, but lived so long without it that it was foreign to him. And it was more than that. He was afraid to touch, to be touched, but he couldn't let go.

Anchored, if only for a moment, Dean held on.

--

Sam had watched his brother disappear into the bathroom a few minutes ago, armed with fresh clothes. He'd ordered dinner a while ago, and thought it was better for everyone if Dean was otherwise occupied when the delivery came.

He sighed softly.

Dean was stubbornly refusing to part with Sam's sweatshirt, pulling the sleeves over his hands and clutching the material in his fist. That wasn't really a problem; he didn't mind handing the sweatshirt over to Dean. The only other jacket he had was laying on the bottom of his duffle with a gaping hole in the back that he'd been meaning to stitch up for months. With the trip to the store going south so quickly, he hadn't had time to pick up anything more substantial.

But right now, both the hoodie and Dean were filthy. He didn't know if Dean was cold, or thought wearing the thing in the shower equated as "washing" it, but he'd refused to take it off. After only a minute, Sam had relented. They were both too tired to fight, so he'd just told Dean as long as he put something clean on under it, he could keep the damn thing as long as he wanted.

That seemed to be a bargain he could live with, because the water was still running when the delivery man dropped off the food he'd ordered almost half an hour ago.

He knocked lightly on the door, calling Dean's name and hoping he wouldn't have to go in and retrieve him again. The water shut off in reply, and he sighed in relief, setting the bag of food on the tiny table the room provided.

The door opened just as he finished setting out the cartons of food, and he turned to greet his brother.

"Hey," he said softly.

Dean half nodded his still damp hair falling across his forehead in a way that made him look young and vulnerable. Sam shook it off, pleased to note that his jeans were clean, though he'd ignored the socks, and still wore the dirty sweatshirt.

He sat in one of the two chairs, and motioned for Dean to do the same. After a brief hesitation, he did so, resting his hands awkwardly in his lap.

"I got you a burger," Sam said, nudging the Styrofoam container across the table. "It's plain, sorry."

Dean swallowed hard.

Sam dug into his own meal; he hadn't realized until he'd smelled the food, but he was starving. Halfway into his burger, he noticed that Dean wasn't eating. In fact, he seemed to be looking anywhere but the table.

"What's wrong?" he asked, setting his burger down on the foil it had been wrapped in.

Dean didn't answer, but moved the container of food away with one finger, as if afraid to touch it.

So they were back to that.

"Dean, you have to eat," he said, softly but sternly. "You haven't eaten for days, you need food."

Dean shook his head miserably.

"Dude, you passed out!" Sam said. "You're a freaking zombie."

Dean flinched at the raised tone, but shook his head again.

"Please?" he tried, holding out his fries.

Begrudgingly his brother accepted to proffered carton, wrinkling his nose.

"You used to love them," he said glumly. He immediately felt silly for being so sad at such a minor thing, but the difference was glaring. It only further cemented the fact that this was a Dean he didn't really know.

With a scowl Dean took a single fry and put it in his mouth, grimacing distastefully. He chewed it like he was being forced to eat chalk, but continued, looking like he was literally choking down every bite.

"Thanks," Sam said softly.

He picked up his food, unable to eat with the same enthusiasm he had before. He diligently finished the meal, setting an example for his brother. As soon as he finished, Dean shoved the carton of half-eaten fries back at him.

"Uh-uh," he said as he balled up the foil and threw it in the grease stained bag the food was delivered in. "Finish 'em."

Dean tried again to hand them back, but Sam gave him a stern look and repeated himself.

His shoulder's slumped and he reluctantly dropped the carton in front of him again, picking at the soggy fries.

"I know it's not the best for your stomach," Sam apologized, "but you need to eat, and there's not too much I can get ordered in."

Dean pushed a fry around the table with one finger, focusing intently on the trail it left.

Sam sat back and turned his attention to the generic watercolors framed on the walls. Maybe if he didn't make such a big deal out of it Dean would eat. So he stared first at the sailboat, then the mountain sunset, and the forest cottage, wondering who thought that was a good combination. Three different scenes that had nothing to do with each other, or the area the hotel was situated in.

He laughed to himself and focused on the mountain landscape. It reminded him of a view he'd seen once when hunting a creature with his dad and Dean. It was an easy kill, but by the time they'd salted and burned the bones, it was dark. They'd ended up camping out overnight, and he was surprised to find it enjoyable.

A smile crossed his face as he reminisced, aware that it was the first time he'd done so in far too long. That thought only made him frown as he wondered how long before he would see Dean's familiar smile, reassuring him, joking with him.

He turned his attention back to his brother, who was still pushing the same fry around the table, creating a little oil slick. He sighed, and reached out to take the carton, trying to ignore the relief and anxiety on his brother's face as he downed the rest of them.

"Don't worry about it, " was all he said, but the look on Dean's face was still anxious.

Or maybe it was another reason entirely, he decided, when his brother darted to the bathroom. He jumped to his feet to follow just as the sounds of retching met his ears, and was greeted by the sight of Dean bent over the toilet, emptying his stomach of the only thing he'd eaten.

He quickly ran a washcloth under the tap, then knelt by Dean. He was careful to keep his distance while trying to offer comfort, offering the cool cloth when the dry heaves ended.

Dean accepted it silently and scrubbed his mouth with it, scooting away from the toilet to rest against the wall.

Sam sighed and flushed the toilet with the toe of his boot, leaving the room long enough to grab the extra toothbrush from his duffle. He handed it over, along with the toothpaste.

Dean looked at both in confusion for a moment before it registered and he stood shakily. He stood blankly in front of the sink, holding the toothbrush in front of him, the tube of Crest at his side. Uneasy at the helpless way Dean stood there, Sam leaned over and took the toothpaste, squeezing some out onto the bristles for his brother.

As he watched Dean mechanically brush his teeth, Sam noted the sheen of sweat that covered his pale face.

Sam sighed again, then tentatively said, "Dean?"

He got no sign that Dean had heard besides a blink of his eyes as he spat into the sink.

Sam caught himself about to sigh again and stopped himself. He didn't want Dean thinking he was upset with him. He forced himself to breathe before speaking. "I think we need to go shopping."

Dean froze for a second, then went back to brushing, applying more force than necessary.

"I know," Sam apologized. "But you need decent food, and I can't... I don't want to leave you here. Okay?"

Dean spat again, lowered his toothbrush, and nodded gravely.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay."

--

Sam kept a white-knuckled grip on the basket, his heart pounding as if he was facing down a Wendigo. It seemed almost comical that this rundown 24 hour grocery could provoke the same fight or flight response as a hunt, but in reality, he'd take the Wendigo over this.

Any day.

Beside him, Dean moved stiffly, looking straight ahead with his wary eyes. He kept close to Sam again, and the fact that the aisles were mostly empty didn't seem of any consolation.

They'd waited until it was too late for normal people to be doing any grocery shopping, then driven around until they'd found a deserted parking lot. Sam was determined to make this trip easier on his brother, even if it meant shopping at two o'clock in the morning.

He made it quick, scooping items into the basket and keeping his pace brisk as they navigated the aisles. This time around he'd let Dean hang on to Ruby's knife, and he was eager to get out without said knife making an appearance. Too bad giving Dean a little more peace of mind meant giving up his own.

He grabbed a jug of milk without checking the expiration date, figuring orange juice would be too acidic, and moved on quickly. He was halfway done when he realized they had nothing to eat with, and had to make a detour to pick up some paper plates and plastic silverware. Then, as an afterthought, he ran through the health and beauty aisle, picking up a few supplies to replenish the dwindling first aid kit.

By the time he was finished the basket was overflowing, and Dean's face was drawn as tight as his nerves were stretched.

The downside of a crappy store was the lack of self checkout, which meant an agonizing ten minute wait while the bored clerk checked them out. Sam swore, telling himself the use of violence would only make things worse, and tried not to grab the bags and run when the man finally handed him his receipt and mumbled something that might have been "have a nice night".

He let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding when they finally reached the Impala.

He gathered the bags in one hand and dug for his keys with the other, squinting to locate the lock in the darkness of the parking lot. They'd parked around the side of the building, and it was too dark to see. He didn't want to scratch the paint jamming the key randomly in the direction of the lock.

"Dean, can you give me a hand?" he asked.

His answer was a sharp intake of breath that brought him to full alert, his head snapping up and the keys dropping with a metallic clink. He almost felt silly when he saw the security guard walking their way.

"Easy," he whispered without moving his lips. Clearly this had been a bad idea.

Dean shrank back, pressing against the car in a mirror image of the events at the department store what seemed like ages ago. The look on his face was much different this time, that full blown panic and trapped look coupled with something Sam couldn't explain. If he thought Dean was scared before, it was nothing compared to the terror in his eyes now.

"Hey, boys," the guard said, voice low and unconcerned. "You look like you could use a hand there."

Sam forced a smile, but shook his head, unable to bring himself to stoop down to get the keys. Dean was trembling so hard behind him he swore the ground must be shaking.

"Everything okay?" the man said, hand resting easily on his belt.

Sam's eyes instinctively searched for a gun, but all he carried was a flashlight, and what might have been a taser, or mace; it was too dark to tell.

"Nope," he said, trying to match the man's drawl. "Just doing some shopping."

"Late night, eh?" the guard asked, eyeing the bags. "You guys been drinking?"

Sam frowned. Since when does shopping equate a beer run? And since when is that any business of a night watchman?

"Nah, just picking up some food," he said evenly, checking the uniform and looking for a badge. But his eyes hadn't betrayed him, the man was definitely not a cop.

"Mind if I take a look?" he asked, pulling his flashlight from his belt in one swift movement.

He felt a rush of air as Dean pushed off the car, his soft sound of protest telling everyone he didn't approve.

The man narrowed his eyes, but didn't step back as Dean positioned himself in front of Sam.

The bags were digging into his fingers, and Sam struggled to untangle them, not at all liking where this situation was going.

"Easy, Dean," he said, dropping the bags unceremoniously. There was nothing vital in there. The only vital thing in his life was currently pushing him backward, one arm thrown out protectively over his chest.

"Take it easy," the guard echoed, eyeing Dean suspiciously.

In response, Dean grunted, the noise somehow expressing both warning and distress. Sam raised a hand to push Dean's arm down and alternately ease his brother's alarm. He positioned himself in front of Dean, and watching his hands carefully. The last thing he needed was for Dean to pull a knife. The hair on the back of his neck rose - no, he didn't like this. The best thing was just to end it fast, and get the hell out of there before someone got hurt.

"It's okay, dude," he said softly. "We're just gonna get in the car and go."

"Sorry, he's - " Sam started apologetically, turning to face the guard.

The lie died on his tongue as the guard moved forward with alarming speed, his fist landing a solid hit to his temple. Sam saw stars as pain exploded through his head, spinning him back into Dean.

His brother caught him, making distressed sounds in the back of his throat as Sam went to his knees.

He shook his head to clear his vision, Dean's grip on his shoulders too tight as he tried to pull him to his feet.

He looked up, dazed, and saw the grin that spread across the security guard's face. Everything in him screamed at him to get to his feet, but he couldn't make himself move.

Oh, shit.

"Don't worry," the guard was saying, sounding amused. "I'm not going to kill you - yet. Gotta take care of him first."

He laughed, taking a step forward, and Sam cursed himself for not carrying a weapon. Just to put Dean at ease he'd put them both at risk, and now they were going to pay for it.

He spared a glance at his brother, and as his mind voiced an apology, he steadfastly refused to let this happen. At once a mix of voices descended, a mix of his father, his brother, and his own desperation.

Move. MOVE!

Before he could, something in his brother changed. In the absence of panic, his face turned to stone. Still, there was no warning.

The attack was sudden, charged, but somehow beautiful in it's violence. With one smooth motion Dean was moving, flying forward in a vicious lunge, the knife appearing out of nowhere. The guard flew backward, stumbling.

He never stopped moving, his next attack merely an extension of the first. In a graceful motion that reminded Sam of a dance on ice, Dean whirled, backhanding the man with one hand, sending him back another few feet. He spun again, the blade of the knife digging in deep, tearing across the man's neck.

He ended in a crouch, and Sam saw a feral look on his face, eyes dark, lip curled back. The moon hit him, illuminating the flecks of blood darkening his pale face. The man - the demon, he realized a little too late - died with little more than a brief flash of light and a hint of sulfuric smoke.

Dean's chest heaved, and his eyes were fixed on the body before him. The fingers of his left hand touched the ground lightly, and his right was still extended behind him, the knife clutched tightly in his fist.

Sam groaned, and Dean's head snapped up. For a second his heart stopped, and he was afraid his brother would turn that fury on him. Then he rose slowly and he made his way over to Sam. Every few steps he would hesitate, look back at the body as if it might rise back to its feet and launch another attack.

Dean dropped to his knees beside him, and Sam just blinked as he tugged urgently on his sleeve.

"Just...gimme a minute," he muttered, toughing his temple gingerly. "Shit!"

Dean jumped a little at his exclamation and threw a glance over his shoulder.

"Right, right," he said, blindly searching the ground for the keys.

He hummed approval as he found them, and let Dean pull him urgently to his feet. He almost forgot about the groceries, but managed to remember them at the last minute, stuffing them into the back seat.

"Should... hide the body," he mumbled, pressing his hand to his forehead.

Too much effort, he realized, knowing it would take everything he had to even stay on the road. Damned if that wasn't the worst sucker punch he could remember.

He started the car, and eyed his brother.

Where the hell had that come from?