Hey yet again-

So here is the 4th chapter for this segment.

I'm working on the rest and apologize in advance for however long it takes to finish writing and start posting the end. But - believe it or not- we are nearing the end.

I can't say it enough:

Thanks for all the reviews (it really helps to know you're out there)

Thanks to everyone who just started reading and who clicked the favs and alerts

And especially

Thanks to all who returned to this story after such a long down time.

I hope to see you all for the final chapters,

but until then…


Energies and Ice Cream

CH 12

Dean pulled out his sunglasses as he approached the end of the tree-shaded dirt road. He turned the corner in full stride, reached the flipped open shades towards his face, then stopped.

Why the hell is the Impala still in front of the house? He questioned.

Dean sighed with slight exasperation at his brother's ass-dragging. He shoved on his glasses, and as he continued through the lot, pulled out his phone. Two-twelve, Dean read the time on the LCD screen. Damn it, Sammy, he bitched, you shoulda been outta here by now. Dean shook his head as he walked past the Impala, then something caught his eye. He stopped dead, bent down, and picked up the keys, his keys, from the ground. Okay, that's not right, he registered with a twinge of concern.

Dean stood up and pulled off his sunglasses. He rubbed the hot sweat from the back of his neck as he scanned the area: there was nothing else out of the ordinary. Fuck.

"Sam!" He shouted not really ready to go through this routine again. "Sammy!" There was nothing, no answer, no movement, and so he shoved the keys into his pocket and headed into the house.

He bolted up the stairs to their room, half expecting to find Sam, but when he entered, he was alone. He stepped out onto the balcony and checked the yard: no Sam. Without even looking down he dialed and brought the phone to his ear; it rang eight times and then jumped to voicemail. He hung up. "Where are you?" he whispered under his breath. As he began to head down the deck stairs, it hit him: the game room. Dean picked up his pace as he hoofed down the two flights, past the hot tub and into the game room. Empty. "Fuck!" Dean slammed his fist onto the bar.

That was it, his last normal place to look. At this point he could search the remainder of the house, and the property, but if Sam wasn't in the places he'd just checked, odds were, he had gotten himself into more trouble. Dean dialed again and let it ring. He held it to his ear as he walked up into the house and out the front door. As he stepped onto the porch the machine came on again. He slammed the phone shut and walked down to where he had found the keys.

He had no leads, no options, and most of all no Sammy. Frustrated as hell he kicked the dirt, then turned and sat against the trunk of the Impala.

"Damn it! Why the hell did I walk?" Dean yelled at himself. You should have stayed with him, he scorned. You shouldn't have even agreed to let him take the car on his own. "Damn it!" Dean kicked the tire and slammed his fist into the hood of the trunk. "SAM!!" He hollered harshly, then out of pure desperation he pulled out his phone and hit redial. He held it to his ear for a total of three rings, then shook his head and dropped the hand to his side. He stood listening to it ring from a distance, then realized on the second to last ring that he was hearing double. The message kicked in and all ringing stopped.

Dean scanned the area. What the hell was I hearing? He hung up on the voice mail and dialed again. This time he kept the phone away from his face. What the fuck is that? He thought, listening to the echo. He covered his phone and zoned in on the second sound. It was right in front of him; Dean pressed his ear to the trunk of his car.

"Holy fuck", he blurted as he reached into his pocket and swapped the phone for his keys.

Dean opened the trunk and stared numbly at its contents. Dead or unconscious, it was really too early to be sure of which, Sam lay awkwardly wedged between the bags of guns and rock salt. One arm was pinned beneath him, the other outstretched and still grasping the lower part of the trunk lock. He was coated in sweat, his shirt soaked through, his bangs wet and matted against his face, a longer lock stretched and stuck into his hung open mouth. Dean stood as motionless as his brother, admittedly afraid of the next step.

"Sam?" He squeaked out nervously. Expecting nothing in response except possibly a rank stench, he was pretty much thrown when his brother opened his eyes, and stared groggily up at him. "Sammy?" He repeated in the same anxious tone.

"Pancake head?" Sam croaked weakly.

Dean rolled his eyes in relief and exasperation as he snapped out of his fear coma. He leaned into the trunk and grabbed hold of his brother, whose eyes were again shut. Dean moved a hand to Sam's face and slapped lightly.

"Sam… Sammy come on." Sam re-opened his eyes and stared at his brother in total over-heated delirium.

"Dean?" His voice rasped uncertainly. "It's like… you, right?"

"What?" Dean blurted. "No," he made light with sarcasm, "it's someone else who looks as good as me."

"No… no… it's you," Sam replied barely audible. "I can tell from the tone of your sarcasm. Sam smiled and patted his brother's face as he slipped back toward unconsciousness.

"Sam!" Dean said with a harsh shake. "Come on, get up!" Dean began to pull the dead weight of his brother from the trunk.

"Wait… hot… stuck…" Sam moaned dry mouthed.

"I know. That's why you gotta get outta here."

"Kay."

"How the hell did you get in here anyway?"

"It wasn't easy," Sam mumbled. Dean scoffed at the response, gave him a harsh tug and heaved his upper body out of the trunk. He leaned Sam against his chest as he attempted to un-wedge his brother's lanky legs from where they were stuck under the tire iron. As Dean tugged, Sam teetered and made to move back inside. "Wait… phone…" Sam tilted and let his weight take him.

"What?" Dean questioned, half distracted, then… "Sam!" Dean grabbed him just before he slammed face first onto a bag of rock salt. "Come on, Sam," he said lifting his kid brother. "We're leaving the trunk."

"Phone… phone…" Sam mumbled as Dean pulled him fully out.

"It's in your pocket, Sam," Dean assured him, hoping to gain some cooperation.

"But they called," Sam explained groggily.

"It's okay Sam."

"But they were… ring… and I was… hello? And they were… rrr-ing… and I was… helll-ooo..." Sam twisted and struggled in search of his phone.

"Stop fighting me," Dean complained as his brother's slimy, sweat coated body slipped though his hands.

"Where is it? Rrrr-ing…" Sam called to his phone.

"Sam, could you-"

"Rrrr-ing…" He called to it again.

"Aw Christ!" Dean gripped and re-gripped his slippery brother as he simultaneously stretched to close the trunk.

"Why won't it answer me? Rrrr-ing?" Sam called sadly. Dean eyed his brother's weirdness.

"You're fucking delirious with heat stroke! How long were you locked in there?"

"Where-- what time is it?"

"Like, twenty after two."

"Um… 'bout three days," Sam concluded.

"Errr…" Dean grumbled. "Whatever. Just help me out and hold still for a second."

"Word," Sam agreed. Dean shook his head and again stretched for the trunk. He almost had it shut when Sam shifted, his fingers slipped, and the damn thing popped back open.

"Fuck Sam! I said hold still!"

"And I bet it was great-- Rrrr-ing…" Sam digressed.

"Screw it!" Dean gave up on the trunk and instead got a solid grasp on his brother. He pulled Sam's right arm over his shoulder and began dragging him toward the house.

"Rrrr-ing…" Sam persisted. "Rrrr-ing…"

"Sam, would you stop calling to your phone, it obviously doesn't wanna talk to you!" Dean bitched before he realized what he was saying.

"But… how am I supposed to know who called?"

"I called!" Dean blurted as he hauled his brother's lank body up onto the porch and into the house.

"But…" Sam's head lolled as he began to faint.

"Hey! Stay awake!" Dean shook him. "I'll never get you up these stairs if you pass out on me."

"I bet you say that to all the ladies…"

"Shut up," Dean grumbled as he readjusted his grip and started them moving.

"So… wait," Sam deduced. "You called me?"

"Yeah, it was me Sam, try to focus here." Dean kept them going one step at a time.

"But," Sam inquired, "what'd you want?"

"Huh?"

"Why'd you call?"

"Because I was looking for you, Sam."

"Oh…" Sam drifted off into thought.

As they reached the top of the stairs, Dean turned them around the corner and made for their room.

"Dean?" Sam stopped walking. When his brother kept moving, Sam tried again. "Dean!" He hollered gruffly as he used his dead weight to bring his brother to a halt.

"Sam what?!"

"Did..." Sam began with dire concern, "did you find me?"

Dean stared at him blankly.

"No Sam, I didn't," he responded in complete seriousness.

"That… that's terrible," Sam replied just as serious.

"Yeah well, don't worry," Dean comforted, "I have a pretty good idea where to look."

"Okay." Sam breathed with relief. "Well, when you do find me… could you tell me Dean called?"

"Sure thing, bro."

"Cool." And with that, Sam gave his brother a double-thumbs up, and immediately toppled backward into blackness.


One minute later Sam was waking up to the wet slap of a damp towel on his face. He shoved it off and began to sit up.

"Whoa there hot stuff!" His brother's voice came as a hand shoved him back down. "I'm done lifting you for the day, stay where you are." Sam rolled his head on the pillow. The room felt cool, but he was still hot. He mindlessly reached down and attempted to pull off his shirt, but as it snagged his head, it tangled with the towel and bound Sam's arms and face in an unmanageable mess.

"Help," Sam pleaded from inside his head tent.

Dean rolled his eyes in disbelief.

"Hold still," he said as he grabbed the shirt and shook Sam out of it. He tossed the sweaty tee onto the other bed and sat down in the hanging chair. "So how ya feelin' there champ?"

"ERghhhhhhh….."

"Yeah… sounds about right." Dean kicked back and put his feet up on the end table. "You might want to put that towel back on your head."

"I'm fine Dean," Sam groaned just before bursting into a short coughing fit. Dean motioned toward a glass of water he had set on the end table.

"Yeah, yeah, you seem fine," he patronized, as Sam downed the water.

"I am… I will… I…" Sam gave in and pulled the towel over his head, if nothing else it blocked Dean's condescending headshake. "What 'err you doin' back anyway?" Sam grumbled weakly. "Thought I was meetin' you in town."

"Yeah well, it's fucked up. I got all the way there and my wallet was empty."

"What?" Sam leaned up and opened one of his eyes; the towel was draped over the other.

"Yeah… nothing- no money, no credit cards, all I had was a pile of receipts, and a condom."

"How the hell-?"

"I don't know man, but have you ever tried to pay for coffee with a condom? Doesn't go over so well." Sam just stared, the comment too much for his current delirium. Dean continued to think it out. "I mean, I didn't check it this morning, I just grabbed it and left, but what the fuck is beyond me- it was all back here on the damn dresser."

"What?" Sam questioned. Dean pointed to the end table by the other bed, the one he'd slept in.

"I don't fuckin' know. I noticed it when I was dragging your ass to the bed." Dean shook his head, confounded. "Maybe when I was drunk…?" Sam eyed the pile of money and cards on the end table, fairly sure it hadn't been there that morning. He flopped back down on his pillow without saying word.

Dean dropped his feet to the floor and leaned toward the bed. He stared at his younger brother until Sam felt it and looked up.

"What?" Sam questioned guardedly.

"What?!" Dean repeated in disbelief. "Are you kidding? Sam… I just pulled you from the trunk of my car!"

"Oh… that," Sam replied lamely. Dean broke into a fed up laugh.

"Yeah, that Sam." Dean pulled the towel off Sam's face. "Sit up."

"Ya jus' told me ta lie down," Sam slurred.

"You never care what I tell you, why should I?"

"O-kay."

Unable to argue Dean's logic, Sam shakily propped himself up. He was feeling a bit better, but somehow his thoughts weren't exactly making sense yet.

"What happened?" Dean questioned bluntly. Sam stared vacantly.

Uhhhh, he thought, then drew a blank. He wasn't ready for simple questions like 'how does your head feel?' and 'do you need to take a leak?' So given what would potentially be an elaborately fabricated explanation as to how he had ended up taking a Mafioso style nap in the trunk of the Impala was pretty much out of the question. That is, if Dean would let it be out of the question.

"Sam, I want you to tell me what--"

"I don't feel good," Sam said honestly. Dean looked him over: he was pale and sweat coated, trembling wearily, and seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes focused. He wasn't lying, Dean didn't question that, but if Sam got time to recover, he would also get time to think, and that meant time to craft a viable lie of what had happened.

"Okay, just tell me how you got in there and then you can rest," Dean bargained.

"Shit Dean," Sam said with a raspy exhale. "I- I can't do this now." He shook his head and fell back onto the bed, cringing as the inside of his skull throbbed from the movement.

"It's a simple question Sam," Dean said patiently, "simple if you tell me the truth." Sam rolled over and shoved his face into the pillow.

"Just leave me alone," he mumbled mutedly.

"Just tell me what happened."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"You never want to talk about it," Dean persisted. He stared at his brother, intent on getting through. "Sam seriously, if you don't talk to me, I can't help you."

"I don't need your help, Dean," he blurted into the pillow.

"Okay, I get it. So… you didn't need my help when you were bound and bleeding in the back of that convenience store?" Sam squeezed his eyes shut and pushed the words away. "Or when you were unconscious and inhaling exhaust fumes from the floor of the Impala?" Sam clinched his fists into the fabric of the bed sheets. "Or today, if I hadn't come back… if I hadn't found you just now?"

Sam shook with resistance. I can't do this, he thought heatedly. I can't. He pushed away from the pillow, and sat up intent on disengaging himself from his brother's verbal grip. He'd have a total of three anger induced, lucid seconds, before the head rush and general disorientation returned, but at the end of those three seconds, so help him, this conversation would be over.

"Listen," Sam began, using up the first of his three seconds. That was all that came out. Dean was staring at him, but not with the anger and short patience he had expected; all Sam saw in his older brother's eyes was concern. Completely caught off guard, he wavered. "I- I uh…"

"What?" Dean urged. "Sam just tell me."

Sam shut his eyes as the unanticipated emotions welled up in him. He wanted so much to break, to tell Dean everything. It was all right there, caught in his throat like a fucking dam. Tell him, Sam felt the push. Just… tell him... He pushed it back. Don't! He'll be pissed… he'll hate you.

"I um… that is a…" Sam staggered. Tell him something. He panicked. Tell him anything... "The trunk was open," Sam fabricated abruptly, "when uh… when I got there." Dean studied him skeptically.

"Okay," he accepted. "Go on." Sam waded into his lie.

"So uh… I went to check it out… and… and…"

"And…"

"And nothing. There was nothing, so I went to shut it, but… it wouldn't shut… um, something was caught in the back hinge, so I reached for it, and when I couldn't reach I… uh… uh…" Sam searched. "Um… er…" Unfortunately, his three clear-headed seconds were up. "I climbed in."

Dean shook his head as if to jostle the words into a new meaning.

"You climbed in," he repeated.

"Yeah."

"Into the trunk."

"Uh huh."

"As in all the way?"

"Yes," Sam insisted feverishly. Dean exhaled and brought a hand to his eyes.

"'Cause that's every day behavior for a 6'4" Sasquatch," he grumbled under his breath. "Fine," Dean blew it off, "go on."

"Uhhh…" Sam had sort of forgotten about the 'go on' part. Fuck. "Uhhh…"

"Yeah, you said that already."

"I know… I just… I was in there and… and then it closed."

"By itself?"

"No?" Sam questioned skeptically.

"Are you asking me Sam? Cause that sounded like a question."

"No. I just uh… I mean… I'm not sure, but…" Sam struggled. "I think um… uh…"

"Yeah Sam," Dean urged, his patience blown. Sam scanned the area for anything that would help, his eyes caught site of the twin painted silos deep in the distance of the farm. Aw fuck it, he resigned. "It was a cat. A cat shut me inside the trunk." Sam concluded with lack of conviction. "Yeah…"

Dean stared at him blankly for a very… very… long time.

Finally, he responded.

"A cat… pushed you into the trunk of the Impala," Dean repeated for verification.

"Well… it didn't exactly push me," Sam backpedaled.

"No, no, that would be ridiculous," Dean scoffed. "Did you actually see the cat, Sam?"

"Not really…"

"Then what makes you think it was a cat?"

"I uh," Sam shrugged, "heard its paws?"

"Right," Dean confirmed deadpan. "Of course." He'd had enough. "Okay, so we're looking for a covert cat with super trunk slammin' abilities? Is that right?"

"Uh…?" Sam gaped.

"Or did it have flat out super powers, ya know… like Thundercats? What do you think Sam? Should we bring Lion-O in for questioning?"

"I… uh…" Sam looked at him with serious indecision. "Well, Mumm-Ra was the evil one, Lion-O was the good guy."

"Right, so scratch Lion-O," he noted, mock serious.

Dean shook his head; this was going nowhere. "Alright, forget this for now. You were right; you obviously don't feel well. Lie down, we'll talk later."

"But I'm telling you." Sam persisted deliriously.

"Forget it, Sam."

"But… but…" he sought, feeling a need to reinforce his lie. "Rambo!" Sam grasped onto his crazed revelation. "He's evil! He hates me!"

"Hildy's fat fur ball of a cat? Sammy- Sam, just forget it."

"But… but it makes sense! The four cats that died, they were trapped inside things! It's his MO Dean! He killed those cats! I'm serious!"

"I know you're serious, that's why you need to lie down."

"No, really Dean! Really!"

"Okay Sam, fine, it was Rambo. Now calm down." Dean shoved his brother onto the pillow, and, hoping he had put the topic to rest, headed for the door.

"Where-- where you going?" Sam questioned, slightly panicked.

"To close the trunk before somebody sees what we're packing."

"I'm coming with you." Sam woozily tried to push himself up.

"What? No," Dean turned and shoved his brother back down.

"But Rambo…" Sam mumbled feverishly, "what if he comes back?"

"I think I can take him."

"But- but-- he's dangerous…"

"Sam-"

"He is!"

"Sammy just-" Dean sighed with his usual big brother exasperation. "Stay here, and don't get up." Sam flopped his head onto the pillow in defeat.

"It was Rambo," he muttered to himself. "He's a killing machine… he's a killing machine…"

Dean glanced back at the comment, pinched the bridge of his nose, and left. Sam watched groggily as his brother turned the corner and headed down the stairs.

"A cat Sam?" Dean's voice came from behind him. Sam turned to find Dean sitting in the hanging chair with his feet up on the end table. At first he did a double take, then shook off the heat stroke for a moment and put two and two together.

"Ed?" He questioned wearily.

"No, it's someone else who looks as good as your brother," Ed responded smartly. Sam held his head and flopped back onto the bed with a wince.

"Ouch-- do you rehearse Dean's sarcasm, or are you both annoyingly witty?" Sam groaned.

"No rehearsal, I'm a naturally sardonic sort of guy… well, demon." Ed twinkled one of Dean's smiles at him. Sam cringed with lack of amusement.

"Do you have to look like him?" Sam complained. "Somehow it just makes this worse- as if it could get worse."

"Right," Ed conceded, "personally, I think you just like seeing yourself in a goatee." Sam glanced back over. Ed sat reclined in the chair, already camouflaged as the younger Winchester, musingly stroking his goatee. Sam cracked a pained smile.

"How--" Sam paused to cough. "How is it you look like me, yet somehow, better looking?"

"It's my internal glow," Ed played, "I can't shut it off. And… duh… the goatee." Sam cracked up, winced at the pain that shot through his head, and stretched an arm over his eyes. "So," Ed segued, "what was I saying? Oh yeah, a cat Sam?"

"Huh?" Sam questioned groggily.

"A cat-- pushed you into the trunk of the Impala."

"Funny… you look like me, but you still sound like Dean."

"Can you blame me?" Ed argued.

"Hey, it's not totally insane," Sam returned. "I mean, we're talking Rambo here, he's a--"

"Killing machine. Yeah, I caught that." Ed sat up into the same interrogating position Dean had been in and stared Sam down. "You really will do whatever it takes to avoid talking to him, won't you?"

"I guess," he replied quietly.

"Yeah." As Ed's labored tone silenced the room, he turned and stared off pensively. When Sam groaned, he glanced over. Sam was flat on his back, arms strewn slightly above his head, damp towel again covering his face. "You okay?" He asked concerned. After a moment, Sam tugged the towel away. He was still super pale, and his head hurt like hell, but the delirium seemed to be passing. He shook off his shakiness, blew off Ed's question, and cut to what was bothering him.

"You didn't have to do that ya know, stick me in there. It's not like I was tryin' to piss you off," he said, his hurt prevalent.

"Actually… you sounded exactly like you were trying to piss me off," Ed accused. Sam rolled over, away from Ed. "Sam, I know you don't always understand my actions, but I really am trying to help you." Sam rolled back over.

"I know," he said solemnly.

"Then why do you keep fighting me?"

"I'm not; at least, I didn't think I was."

"Then what was that down there?" Sam shrugged, trying to blow it off. "Look, I get it," Ed empathized, "I do. I may not be human, but I understand how resistant they can be to change, even when they want to change. This thing with your brother, it's not gonna go away on its own; you've gotta work to make it happen." Sam nodded lightly. "If you can do that, Sam I promise, this problem that seems so impossible, will be gone."

"Yeah," Sam looked up heavily, "and then you're as good as gone."

Ed tensed, completely caught off guard. It was then he realized exactly why Sam had taken such a shift in the yard.

"Aww kid," he muttered. "Is that what you thought you were doing down there? Stopping me from leaving?" Sam looked up in faint acknowledgement. Ed reached forward and placed a hand on his shoulder; he exhaled heavily. "Sam… this can't be about that," he said firmly. "It can't."

"I know." Sam's voice was tense with acceptance.

"It's not that I want to leave," he admitted, "but at some point..."

"I get it." Sam smiled awkwardly. "I do," he stiffened his lip in a need to move on. "So what happens now?"

"Well," Ed began, unsure where to start. "Now that we're actually together on this, why don't we go over what hasn't worked."

Dean stood on the porch staring out at the open trunk of the Impala.

Why the hell would he get in there? Baffled, he blew off reason and scanned the larger area of the yard, then walked down the steps and out in front of the house. He turned around and eyed the porch roof, then bent down and checked under the Impala. There was nothing. Dean stood up, shaking his head.

"A cat… pushed him into the trunk." Dean laughed dryly; he was so desperate, he had actually searched for Sam's killer cat. "Asshole," he mocked himself. Dean walked to the end of his car and placed his hands up onto the hot black metal of the trunk. As he began to press it shut a soft breeze brushed through the flowered weeds, and up over the Impala. He stopped mid-motion. Dean lightened his grip on the trunk and let it pop back open. He stared blankly inside unsure of what he was waiting on. Shaking the odd feeling off he refocused into the moment; almost immediately something caught his eye.

Dean reached down and picked up the small lace doily. Now they had a lot of weird and varied crap inside this trunk, but pineapple crochet doilies were just not on that list. Matted and sort of nasty, Dean couldn't figure what the hell it was doing there. He furthered his investigation by inspected the bag which was dead in front of him. It was open and had the end of a sawed off shotgun sticking out of it; next to it was a coiled looping of knotted rope. He scanned the rest of the trunk; off to one side there was a similarly knotted bandana. He picked both items up. The rope was roughly shredded and severed in one spot, the bandana was damp, with the center section crushed and stiff and slightly stained. Dean rubbed his thumb against the jagged end of the shotgun; rope fibers were snagged in the metal. Sam's wrists were tied, Dean realized abruptly, and he was gagged.

His expression darkened.

"He didn't get in; he was put in." Dean slammed the trunk shut. "Damn it! There's nobody out here but us; who the hell is he covering for?" Dean walked back to the porch and sat down on the steps. It had never occurred to him that someone might have forced Sam into the trunk, simply because to the best of his knowledge, there was nobody around strong enough to do so. Who the hell put him in there? Dean pressed a tense fist against his lips. And what the fuck am I gonna do about it?

"I don't know." Ed paced the room while Sam sat on the bed and watched. "It's not like I've been messing around here. I mean… I started this thing by shooting you, that was pretty intense and should have worked." Ed sighed. "I swear it only made things worse." Upon his statement Ed looked to Sam. The answer was right in front of him; he just needed to clear away whatever was blocking it. "Sam, why did you lie to your brother that night?" Sam looked over slowly, the question catching him off guard.

"What do you mean? What night?"

"That night," Ed stressed. "The first night… when I shot you."

"Oh… uh…" Sam's eye line veered, and Ed cocked his head at Sam's consistent resistance.

"Sam, come on, the phone call," he said harshly. "You thought you were bleeding to death, yet you hung up on Dean just to spite him." Sam didn't respond; it was a little hard to when Ed was dead on right. "Seriously," Ed pushed, "what were you thinking?"

"He was being a jerk," Sam gave in. "I needed him and I couldn't even get him to listen to me."

"So… you punished him," Ed concluded.

"I didn't-- he wouldn't listen." Sam rubbed his forehead and pressed wearily through the heat exhaustion. "He didn't give a shit and--"

"Sam, he came after you anyway, and maybe he wouldn't listen on the phone, but when he was with you he asked straight out when you'd been shot and you just dug your hole deeper. I get that you're scared, but couldn't you see he was worried about you?"

"Worried?" Sam scoffed. "Dean was never worried! He was a stubborn pain in my ass, pushing his big brother bullshit on-- screw this Ed!" Sam changed gears. "Why does it matter?! Nothing's gonna change! Dean is never going to change! Our task is hopeless! I could make that wish a thousand times for the rest of my life but Dean will always be Dean!"

Ed froze as his expression took a serious shift.

"What did you just say?" He questioned crucially.

"Dean- Dean will never change," Sam repeated. "Never."

Ed absorbed the reiteration and fell a little closer toward feeling human.

"Shit," he muttered in a quiet breath. He brushed a hand into his hair and stood entrenched in thought.

"What?" Sam questioned, troubled by the abrupt mood swing. "What is it?"

"I--" Ed looked at him briefly. "I have to go," he deflected gravely.

"Go where?" Sam asked, utterly stunned. Without hesitation, Ed turned and took off straight into the bathroom. Sam pushed from the bed and rushed after him. "Ed wait!"

Sam bolted into the bathroom and came to a halt. He glanced at the half-sized window and tore back the shower curtain. The room was empty; Ed was gone.

"Shit!" Sam cursed as he punched the curtain away with the back of his first. Regret came fast and he instead grabbed for the curtain in total panic. "Shit…" Sam blurted queasily. The abrupt movement had come to claim its toll; a head rush shot up Sam's body. In a shadowed haze he grasped the curtain tight into his fist; in darkness he heard the plastic pop as it was torn from the pole.

Dean gripped the objects he had found firm in his fist; he was going to get to the bottom of this. He moved up the stairs taking two steps at a time, turned the corner to their room, and before even entering it sighted that Sam was no longer on the bed. His stride slowed… then quickened. Dean burst into the room, scanned from wall to wall, and immediately located his brother. "Damn it, Sam! You never listen to me!"

Dean tossed the items in his hand aside and carefully stepped over his brother's unconscious body as he made his way into the bathroom. "Sammy," he bemoaned with a headshake. Sam lay with his hips and legs twisted on their side, and his upper body flat out on its back. One arm was contorted beneath him and the other was strewn across his bare chest, hand still caught in the half hanging shower curtain. Dean unhooked Sam's fingers from the twisted plastic. He tossed the curtain angrily into the tub, and then looked down at his brother. "Sam," he called, turning his brother's face toward him. "Sammy." He got no response. Dean checked the back of his brother's head, but luckily the Pink Floyd bathroom consisted of a heavy shag rug atop of its cold tile floor. Assuming the shag and shower curtain had broken most of his brother's fall, Dean forced himself to the next step: moving him.

"Come on big boy." Dean slid a hand behind Sam's neck and pulled him up and against his chest. He snaked his left hand under Sam's arm and around his back, got a good hold on him, then stopped to evaluate the situation. "Hmm... fuck," he said bluntly. He roughly weighed the bulk of Sam's body, then judged the distance to the bed. "I can make it," he decided confidently. Dean shifted into a squatting position as he simultaneously reached out and scooped up his brother's legs. He gave himself until the mental count of three, and then heaved Sam up off the ground. With your legs - with your legs - with your legs, he painfully reminded himself how to lift. Dean let out a loud grunt as he forced himself up the last couple of inches. "Damn I hate you right now," he blurted agonizingly through gritted teeth. He gradually made his way to the bed annoyed at how much heavier Sam felt when carried this way. As he closed in on his finish line he began to notice he was losing latitude. "Crap- crap- crap!" Dean hastened his final steps and lunged forward at the last moment, successfully landing his sibling on the bed with a bounce.

Dean, however, found himself sprawled across the floor, arms pinned beneath the weight of his brother. He tugged them free with much difficulty, then climbed up and sat on the bed.

"How is it you're such a gigantic Sasquatch, and yet… still my little brother?" He reached out and brushed the bangs away from Sam's eyes. Almost immediately Sam tensed and let out a small groan.

"Don't… don't…" Sam pleaded unconsciously. Dean retracted his hand and listened as Sam didn't wake, but continued to mutter restlessly. "Don't leave… Ed… don't--" Sam trailed off into a worried whimper. Dean tensed with jealousy as that name again came into play. Whoever this guy was, this Ed, he was responsible; he was the one coming between them.

Dean absorbed his sibling's troubled tossing, and the fact that Sam's stubborn bangs had already managed to shift right back to where they started. He outstretched his hand, ready to again shove them aside, but was abruptly halted. Someone was knocking on their room door, which, oddly, he didn't remember closing. Dean glanced briefly at his brother, then walked to the door and opened it.

In the hall stood a guy roughly Sam's height, likely late twenties, and if he were described as having roughed good looks, it would be an understatement. He was moderately muscular with broad shoulders that hugged tight against the fabric of a thin, fitted t-shirt. His hands were casually stuck into his front jeans pockets, but as he knew he was being evaluated, he deliberately brought a hand up and brushed it through his hair. Light brown with blond streaks and dark roots; it was kept short with some length at the top. He swept it up and off to one side, and as he pulled his hand away, a single lock dropped down to dangle just shy of his left eye. Bright grey and mysterious, his eyes emoted a pensive draw; square jawed with a scruffy goatee, his mouth was curved into an expression that somehow disclosed a buried confidence.

Dean immediately distrusted anybody who could pull off being this good looking. And knowing for a fact they were the only guests in the house, he eyed the stranger warily.

"Can I help you?" He asked in a way that sounded more like a threat.

"I think so," the stranger said assuredly. "I'm Ed."

"You- you're Ed?" Dean reiterated, enraged. Ed nodded lightly and in less then a second found himself grabbed and shoved up against the doorframe. "Who the hell are you and what's your connection with Sam?" Dean interrogated.

Ed didn't do a thing; he didn't say a thing. He merely stared Dean down with sympathetic eyes. Dean glanced away and over at his brother who was still lying in troubled unconsciousness. He turned back to Ed and slowly released him.

"This isn't your fault," Dean begrudgingly concluded. "Is it?"

"No." Ed confessed, "but it is my job."

"Job," Dean remarked doubtfully.

"Yeah." Ed drifted as he cast a concerned eye towards Sam; Dean edged protectively between them. Taking note, Ed cracked a dry laugh and returned his focus to Dean. "Look, you're not gonna like this, but," he crossed his arms sternly, "we need to talk."


dum dum dum! Well I don't really know if it's that sort of moment, but whatever it is...
it's to be concluded. ;)

Thanks everyone
catch you again soon,

Kate