Excuse time: I had some friends visit from out of town and completely forgot to post yesterday. Please excuse the day late…I don't think I'm a dollar short, so at least there's that!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 10 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wherever he is, it's dark. There's nothing here, and by that he quite literally means nothing. It's just this big, blank empty space, and he's currently doing everything he can not to have a panic attack. He tries to slow his breathing, listening for the pulse of his own heartbeat against his ears, against the silence. It takes him a moment, but he finds it, starts counting off beats until he can finally see a little patch of clear inside the darkness.

The little patch grows in front of him until it forms itself into a giant window for him to peer through. He presses his hands up against the glass and squints into the space before him, curious. It is dark there, too, on the other side of the glass. A pit of blackness. Suddenly, a vampire lurches itself straight at him, teeth bared and long nails outstretched. He jumps back, watching as the vampire presses up against the glass, but doesn't make so much as a crack. It stays there; teeth gnawing at him, even though there's no way the thing can reach him here. He's so distracted by the spectacle that it takes him a long moment to start distinguishing shapes from the other side of the strange window.

At first it's just a face here and there: a Rugaru to his left, two werewolves picking meat from between their teeth just a few feet over. He looks for the remnants of their meal, and that's when it all comes into focus- when he realizes there is not an inch of space on the other side of the glass not taken up by the limbs or teeth or claws of a monster. Packed together like salt grains inside a shotgun casing, choking on each other's air and fighting for mere millimeters of space. And the meal the werewolves are chewing on? It looks like a Wraith, but he's too busy battling back the nausea rising in his throat to take too long of a look.

And suddenly, it's worse.

It's a million times worse.

Because directly in the center of all the chaos and carnage and gnashing of teeth is a figure he recognizes.

It's his brother. Screaming.

Sam knows he comes awake without making a sound, but his heart is pumping rapidly beneath his t-shirt and he can feel himself sweating beneath the covers. He lies there in the quiet hours of the too-early morning, trying to push the images of the nightmare out of his head, but they stick fast and he can't seem to shake it off. He needs to see his brother, to make sure Dean's real. It's the only thing he can think of that will help, so Sam opens the door to the guestroom slowly and quietly, slipping into the hall. He pauses when he reaches the living room, eyes searching out the lump on the couch that is undoubtedly Dean Winchester, made especially evident by the fact that there are no blankets covering him. They've been tossed lightly onto the floor, and Sam has the sudden urge to grab one and lay it over his brother. He resists that urge. He doesn't see the Purgatory blade, but Sam's not dumb enough to believe Dean is anywhere close to unarmed.

Dean is awake on Sam's next blink, as if sensing his little brother's eyes on him. He comes back to consciousness harshly; a sharp intake of breath that lets Sam know his brother wasn't having a particularly peaceful night of rest, either. Dean lets his head fall back against the armrest of the couch, muscles loosening once he's tagged his surroundings. And there is a moment, then, between sleeping and wakefulness, where the brothers stare at each other from across the room, like two strangers lost in a daze of dreaming.

Finally, Dean clears his throat and shifts his head, and some invisible switch is flipped back. The moment breaks, and Sam approaches the couch. Dean sits up, scooting over to make room. Embarrassingly unsure, Sam sits down next to him, not making eye contact.

"Sorry I woke you," he mutters, aware of just how loud he sounds within the echoing walls of Lisa's house.

"S'okay," Dean sniffs. "Don't think I was really sleeping anyway."

They sit in silence for a long time, just listening to each other breathe the way they used to when they were sharing countless motel rooms together and it was late and Dad should've been back already. Just filling the space with each other's presence and not needing anything else. Not having anything else. They're not used to having this much space to fill.

"The girl that you... " Dean starts suddenly, and Sam whips his head around to stare at his brother. He's not sure what words he'd been expecting next, if he'd been expecting any at all, but those were definitely not the ones he would've put his money on. "A...Amelia?" Dean stumbles hesitantly over the name, like he's not sure he has the right to say it. "Do you think she was the one? Do you think she was your only shot? Besides Jess."

Sam takes a long time to answer, thinking it over. "I don't know," he says finally. "It felt like it sometimes, I think. Maybe."

More silence.

"Sometimes I think Lisa was mine, too," Dean admits. They're still not looking at each other. Just staring straight ahead like they're in the Impala and it's the empty road in front of them, highway lines and trees flying past as they glide over the asphalt. It's always been easier for them to talk that way. "And other times I just think none of it was real, you know?"

"I'm sure it was real, Dean," Sam soothes, but the words come out stilted, hesitant. He's wondered the same about Amelia, too. He hadn't wanted to, but there is a part of him that wonders if she would have meant the same thing to him had Dean still been beside him when they'd met. If he had simply clung to her the way a shipwrecked sailor refuses to let go of the life-raft that keeps him afloat.

Dean smiles sadly, and Sam barely catches the expression. "I guess reality is subjective for us, isn't it?"

"You could say that," Sam agrees. And then, because he is: "I'm sorry."

"Me too," answers Dean. He rubs his hands together, feeling the friction between his palms. "I'm sorry you lost Amelia. This life doesn't...it's not very forgiving. We don't get to keep much."

Another pause sits between them, filled with all the directions this conversation could go in.

"Dean?" Sam asks, uncertain, choosing the direction for both of them.

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell me about it? About Purgatory?"

"I did," Dean says, but it doesn't sound like even he believes it. Because "It was bloody. Messy. Thirty-one flavors of bottom-dwelling nasties" doesn't quite seem to cover whatever Dean saw. Whatever he became.

"Not really," Sam nudges.

Dean lets out a sigh. Sam feels him shift on the couch, but they still haven't faced each other, and Sam doesn't want to risk breaking this early morning spell. They're talking, really talking, for the first time in a long time.

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean mumbles. "You see how I am now. What that place made of me. I don't think I want you to know. I don't think I…"

Dean stops and doesn't start again for a long time. Just shakes his head and rubs both hands over his eyes. Sam rides the quiet. Waits.

"I almost told Lisa," Dean continues after a while, like he never stopped. "I thought maybe I owed it to her or something. If she asks for anything, it's like I can't say no, you know? I already took so much away. But I started to and then her face...she just. I don't wanna spread this shit around, you know?"

"I get it Dean, I do," Sam assures. "I just think it might help."

"Help who?"

"Help you. Me. Maybe both?"

"Doubt it," Dean says without pause.

Sam snorts, finally angles himself so he can see Dean's profile. "You're such an ass."

"I know," comes Dean's reply. It's laden with self-depreciating heaviness, and he doesn't turn to meet Sam's eyes, so Sam goes back to staring at the fireplace in front of them. They sit like that in the dark. The blankets are still spread about the floor, crumpled and unused.

"She can't die, Sam. Not her," Dean says suddenly, and then swallows hard like he wants to take the words back. Like he didn't mean to let them slip out into open air.

"I know," Sam whispers, leaning just enough that he can feel his shoulder bump up against Dean's. Dean sinks into him a little, and it feels almost like the beginnings of forgiveness. Like something they lost is finally making its way back to them. Sam hopes that's what it is. He sighs, long and deep. "I know."

Sam won't let Lisa cook again. He insists on picking something up for breakfast before they run her out of house and home. She just shrugs, says it's no big deal either way. Says to take her car- it's a small town and if they're gonna be around for awhile, they might as well try to blend in. So Sam's in Lisa's Hyundai Santa Fe, admiring the way he doesn't feel every stray pebble all the way up through his boots, and he's thinking about what Dean and Lisa and Ben must be talking about now that it's just the three of them. He wonders if there is anything healing about this situation, or if this reunion was as enormous of a mistake as he'd initially believe it to be.

But after his conversation with Dean last night, Sam can't fully say he regrets coming here. To talk with his brother like that, to listen and be listened to- it's something they both needed, and Sam's not sure they would've gotten to that point so fast (or at all) without the help of Lisa and Ben. Sam turns his attention outward to the road, searching out a waffle house or some kind of family diner. He's thinking pancakes. Maybe French toast. Jeez, when was the last time they'd had French toast? He's lost in deciding if it was Stanford for him or maybe once at Bobby's place a few years back (or had that been loaded waffles?) when he catches sight of the lone figure at the gas station. Sam's not sure why the guy unscrewing his gas cap stirs a reaction, but he's been hunting long enough to know it means something. He pulls slowly into the station beneath the overhang, maneuvering Lisa's car around to the pump on the opposite side of the figure in the baseball hat and glasses. And that in itself is a little suspicious, because it's not really all that sunny of a day.

Sam gets out of the car slowly, casually. He pretends to fumble for his wallet, stealing glances at the guy from between the pumps. And if Sam didn't grow up in the life, if he hadn't spent countless hours memorizing the faces of victims and searching out the things no one sees, he doubts he would've been able to recognize Phil Moorhead, the man who'd found a way to beat the stock market. But he does, and it's definitely him. Sam doesn't let his expression change at the realization, just continues with the facade of getting gas.

Phil finishes at his own pump, refastening the cap and replacing the nozzle. Sam watches him climb back into his car and pull away, waiting until he's turning right out of the station before he slides his own nozzle back into place and climbs into the driver's seat. Once he's got a lock on Phil, Sam calls Dean. He picks up on the second ring.

"Yeah?"

"Found Moorhead," Sam says, not mincing words. "I'm tailing him now. I'll let you know where I end up."

"Wait, who?" Dean asks, momentarily confused.

"Philip Moorhead," Sam repeats.

"Jordan Belfort wannabe?" Dean asks after a moment.

"Yep."

"Thought he went missing."

"Well, like I said, I found him," Sam shrugs against the phone.

"Shit, okay," Dean says, and Sam can picture his short nod, the way he's probably worrying at his lip a little bit while he talks. "Where are you now?"

Sam catches the next street sign, still keeping one eye on Phil's car. "I'm on Sylvan. Dean, I said I'll let you know where I end up. It's all good."

"East or west on Sylvan?" Dean insists. Sam can hear him shuffling things around in the background. "You might need backup."

"Yeah, and I'll call you for backup when I figure out where the hell he's going," Sam reasons. "I'm hanging up now."

Dean growls a little. "Don't you dare."

"Call you back in a bit." Sam ends the call, sliding behind a Toyota to keep some distance between himself and Phil's car. He doesn't mean to be harsh, but he doesn't want to lose Phil and there's no reason to believe the guy's dangerous at this point. Sam knows he's been out of the game for a while, but he still remembers how to do this. Sam refrains from rolling his eyes when his phone lights up a few seconds later, Dean's name blinking up at him. He ignores the call. And the next three after that.

Phil stops at a hotel just outside of town. Sam watches from the street while he parks, emerging from the car with a few grocery bags dangling from his wrists and a hotel key card balanced delicately between his teeth. Once Phil disappears inside, Sam pulls into the parking lot, too, choosing a spot on the opposite end of the lot to leave Lisa's car. Gun tucked into his waistband, he moves for the lobby doors, pausing for an extra moment before he inches into the entryway. The front desk is empty, which is a blessing, and Sam can just see the heel of Phil's shoe as he disappears around the corner and down the hallway. Sam follows after, turning the same corner in time to see Phil open Room 112, letting the door fall closed behind him. The hunter slips back outside and starts counting, looking for the right window. The curtains in Phil's room are slightly parted, just enough that Sam can catch a glimpse of him.

Grocery bags already settled on the counter in the mini kitchenette, Sam watches as Phil begins to unpack them, but it doesn't hold his attention for long. He's too busy registering first the black powder that lines the door, and second, the Devil's shoestring peppered sporadically around the room. Sam is just turning his attention back to the various herbs Phil is unpacking from his bag when his phone rings again, vibrating wildly inside his pocket. Sam ducks below the window and slides the phone out in one motion, bringing it to his ear even as he puts as much distance as he can between himself and Phil's room.

"What?" Sam growls into the phone.

"Sam, what the hell?" is Dean's answering question. "Where are you? Where's Phil?"

"Dean, I told you I'd call. You gotta trust me, man." He rubs a thumb over his nose, casts a glance at the hotel's sign. He marvels at how quickly he and his brother have made the transition back to arguing and wonders if it could be a good thing. This kind of interaction, at least, is familiar. "Phil's at a place outside of town. Hemlock Hotel, green roof."

"And?" Dean presses.

"And we'll talk when you get here. Bring my suit."

"I don't think now is the time for a swim break, Sammy," Dean answers coolly.

Sam rolls his jaw, feels the frustration leak into his voice. "Not my swimsuit you idiot. Fed suit."

"I know. I just thoroughly enjoy pissing you off," Dean says, and there's none of the usual levity that should accompany the jab. "Next time I guess I'll just ignore your calls. Works on me."

Sam sighs, wishing for the tone of last night's conversation. "I told you I'd call when I learned more."

"Yeah well. I'm on my way," says Dean. "Don't learn anything else until I get there."

"What about Lisa?" Sam asks. He feels Dean's hesitation over the line, the internal wrestling match that seems to always be happening inside his big brother's head these days.

"We'll hurry back," is what Dean finally says.

Sam nods into the phone. "See you soon."

"Stay away from the guy til I get there."

See ya next week.