Note: Okay, so this is the version I took down to put up the more recent version. It starts out the same, you'll notice, and I tend to do that a lot. Basically, I'm pretty lazy about rewriting.

I just wanted to let you know that in case you've already read it. I'm just putting it up because I didn't realize it'd been placed in a C2 before I impulsively took it down. So, for those of you who might have liked it, I didn't want it to get lost in the black hole known as my "other versions." :P L.

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Chapter Four

A few blocks from the motel, Dean realized what a huge mistake it'd been. Every time he got close enough to even glimpse another human being, their feelings invaded his, and he could barely separate one from the other. He had a headache by the time he made it to a semi-secluded lot, somewhere toward the edge of town.

It was nice out there, no cars, hardly any houses, barely any people. He sat down in the tall grass, hoping there weren't any snakes or cow patties, and brushed his hands down the legs of his jeans. 'Jake. Why'd you stick around for me?'

There was no answer, and Dean let out a long sigh and buried his forehead in his bony knees and wrapped his arms around his legs. And then the air seemed to grow chill, and he glanced up in time to see Jake, standing in the distance among the tall grass. He smiled once, a parting smile, then said, "I didn't leave," in a voice that sounded like a whisper spoken directly into Dean's ear.

"Jake..." he said, getting to his feet and beginning to walk toward the spot where he'd seen his friend's ghost last. He broke into a jogging run, but slowed to a halt, realizing that Jake was really gone.

He clenched his jaw, turned, and kicked a clump of grass, managing to dislodge it from the dry dirt. He was ticked off at himself, annoyed with Sam, angry with Jake even... but most of all, angry with his father for what he'd done. He wasn't getting past it, even though he'd said a dozen times that he was. He wasn't getting over it, and he didn't know if he ever would.

A light flickered in front of him, blurred out of and then into focus. Jake.

"Dean," he said, clearly, this time, "I have to go now. I'm sorry. I want you to listen to me... just one last time, okay?" Dean's mouth dropped open, but he managed to get in a nod. "You can't keep looking for something you're never going to find, anyway. Understand? People can't give you what you need, and if you keep trying to find it in them, you're going to end up pushing them away. Starting with Sam. So, let it go, Dean. Please." He swallowed visibly, smiled that sad smile and then turned, walked ahead until the glare from the sun's setting made Dean look away.

When he looked back again, Jake was gone... for good, this time.

- - -

Sam couldn't do much but go out and find that job that Dean had suggested he get. It was either that or pace up and down the motel room while Dean was out who-knows-where, doing who-knows-what. And if he tried doing that, Sam knew he'd probably end up breaking everything in the place.

So he'd gone out looking for some minimum wage gig, and ended up at some jerk's electronics shop, packing cellphones. He could tell right away, by the way the man said that he didn't really need the help, that it was just going to be a one-time deal. But they needed the cash--they always needed the cash--and it was better than sitting back at the motel, twiddling his thumbs.

So when the guy paid him fifty bucks and told him he'd give him a call, Sam had given a mental, 'Yeah, right,' and headed back to the motel.

He'd trudged in, seen that Dean still wasn't back, and gone out to find some supper. He got back from the fast-food restaurant, and still, Dean hadn't returned.

He'd eaten, wishing it wasn't so quiet, remembering fights he'd had with Dean over various kitchen tables while their dad scribbled away in his journal, usually ignoring his two sons--or trying to. And sometimes, when they'd all just sat and actually talked about something other than hunting. Those had been rare occasions, and the thought of them made Sam's eyes water, so he quit thinking and shoved another piece of crispy chicken in his mouth.

There was a knock on the door, and Sam nearly choked. He took a long sip of his coke and got up, calling, "Who is it?"

"Open the door, Sam," Dean called back, and Sam relaxed marginally. It could still be a trick, so he grabbed his gun and held it aimed at the floor as he eased the door open.

Dean ordered, "Sam, put that away." Sam blinked at Dean, registered the shadows under his eyes, and then snapped out of it and put his gun under the waistband of his pants, at his back.

"Why didn't you use your key?"

"Forgot it," Dean mumbled.

His slipped inside, shut the door and leaned against it for a moment, almost sagging. Sam shifted uncomfortably to see the man like that, and questioned, "So... where were you?"

"Walking." He swallowed, and his eyes darted away, anywhere but to meet Sam's. "He said goodbye."

"What?" Sam questioned and took a step closer, almost reaching to touch Dean and then deciding against it. "Jake?" he asked more gently.

Dean spoke, voice almost hoarse it was so low, "He left... went into the light." He tried smiling, but it obviously failed, and leaned his head back against the door for a moment before gathering himself together and walking toward the bed.

He flopped down, face-first, and Sam came to stand beside him, then sat down. "Are you--?" He asked, then stopped because Dean didn't want to answer that question, and Sam had promised he wouldn't ask it anymore.

Dean unburied his face from the pillows. "Yeah... I'm okay, Sam. Really." He sat up, swinging his feet to the floor, then turned to half-face Sam, hands gripping the bed. "You know what? Let's get back in the saddle. Let's get out of this town and find a new hunt. That's what we both need."

"I thought you needed time off," Sam retorted, and then frowned, suspiciously. "There's something goin' on with you, isn't there? That girl in the restaurant. You healed her, didn't you?"

Dean half-flinched, turned so that his back was to Sam, and said, "I don't know... maybe... okay, yeah."

Sam drew a shaky breath and wondered, "What is it? Healing?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, voice strained, back straight and stiff, "Empathy, too, I think."

"Empa--" Sam's voice trailed off, and he stared. Good God... Dean with empathy? What sort of God or power would do that to a person? Dean already carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Did the universe want to bury him alive?

"Sam... don't, okay?" Dean snapped, and stood up, quickly, turning to face him like he was squaring off for a fight.

Sam stood and came around the bed, ready for that same fight, ready to talk some sense into his closed-mouthed brother. But when Dean backed up, he realized he couldn't. That if he pushed any further... Well, he didn't know what might happen. And he didn't want to risk it.

"Okay... Okay."

He turned and paced to the desk, then turned back to look at Dean. His brother was holding his casted arm to his stomach. It must be hurting him again, Sam thought, absently.

Not looking at him, Dean sat down on the bed and lay down, back against the headboard, then crossed his ankles over each other. He closed his eyes, and Sam sighed and went to the bathroom. Maybe a shower might clear his head. It couldn't hurt.

As soon as he heard the shower go on, Dean got up and got his duffel bag. He glanced quickly around the room, didn't spot anything of his strewn about, and zipped the open flaps up and hefted it onto his shoulder. He'd take the Impala, but he'd leave the rest of Sam's stuff. He just needed to get out there. Maybe for good; he wasn't sure. He just knew he couldn't let what Jake had talked about happen.

If he didn't leave now, eventually, Sam was going to.