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Chapter 4

In desperation, Dean called his dad. John picked up on the second ring, apparently anticipating his call.

"Dean."

"Dad, Sam's…I think he's awake."

"What? You think he's awake? Is he okay? Let me talk to him!" Dean bit his lip, looking at his brother sat in the same position on the bed. Sam wasn't looking at him anymore; instead his gaze was focused intently on the blanket Dean had spread across his lap. One hand played across the fabric, tracing the striped pattern delicately. Sam wouldn't speak, hadn't even tried from what Dean could tell. He wasn't even sure that his baby brother recognised him.

"Dad, I think…I think there's something wrong with him." He tried to speak evenly but the tremble slipped into his words and suddenly he was spilling everything. "He won't talk, he wouldn't let me touch him. He doesn't even seem to know who I am! He's just…sitting, not saying anything. I…I don't know what to do." Dean turned his back to Sam, lowering his voice. "I…I tried Christo, Dad, and Holy Water. Hell, I recited the Lord's Prayer in Latin! It's him. It's Sam, he's…he's just not right."

John was silent for a minute and Dean could hear his harsh breathing through the phone connection. He closed his eyes, waiting for the outburst, the admonitions. And he knew he deserved them, every single one. If he'd just left Sam in the hospital then the doctors could have taken care of him. They'd be able to fix him. If he hadn't gone against his father's orders for the first time in his life. He'd made a mistake, and now Sammy was going to pay for it.

Dean was so deep in self-recrimination that John's voice took him by surprise. "Dean, where are you?" He jerked a little, his eyes opening in time to see Sam glance up at him.

"Minnesota." It came out a whisper, a defeat. John took down directions to the motel and told Dean to stay put, he would be there in four days. Dean acquiesced with quiet yessirs and John hung up the phone, leaving him with static and his broken brother.

The only food left in the room was the emergency rations Dean kept stuffed at the bottom of his duffel. He wasn't sure if Sam would eat solid food. On TV they always seemed to spoon feed hospital patients with some kind of lumpy goop that Dean guessed was easier on the stomach. And Sam had been out if it for months now. Giving him beef jerky probably wasn't the brightest idea. But he felt uneasy about leaving Sam alone in the room, even for half an hour. Last night had proved what a bad idea that was.

So, primary concern was how to get food from outside to here. Dean kicked the wooden chair out from underneath the tiny desk by the door, sinking into it. One obstacle at a time. He could do this. His dad was on his way, and all Dean had to do was take care of himself and Sam until he got here.

After deliberation he called the front desk from the room's phone. The nice, motherly-sounding woman who answered was very sympathetic when Dean explained about his brother's sudden violent illness that had come on in the night, preventing them from leaving the room. He didn't even have to bring the subject up before she was offering to run to the local store for him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ever felt so damned grateful to a complete stranger, especially when she turned up at the door fifteen minutes later with two bags containing tins of soup and other soft foods, a large bottle of Pepto-Bismol and a homemade apple and blackberry pie. She'd waved away his attempts at payment, saying it was "just nice to see a young man who cared so much about his family".

Sam stayed silent throughout the proceedings, although he followed everything with dark eyes. After the woman left, Dean cooked a tin of chicken soup on the hotplate in the corner and warily approached Sam.

"Sammy? You hungry, little bro?" Sam's forehead was creased in a slight frown, as if he was in the middle of a particularly complex puzzle. His head tilted to one side as Dean carefully sat down on the edge of the bed.

Dean wasn't too sure how to go about getting Sam to eat. If his brother was really in the middle of some kind of bizarre breakdown who was to say he would even be able to chew, swallow?

Dean took a breath, deciding just to offer the food to Sam and hope for the best. Hoping for the best's all I seem to be able to do recently anyway.

"Here you go, kiddo. Chicken soup. Can…can you eat it by yourself?" Sam's eyes dropped briefly to the bowl Dean was holding out in front of him and then flicked back up. The intensely considering gaze made Dean feel as if he was being studied like a science experiment. Sam made no move to take the soup and Dean felt his already almost-exhausted energy draining away.

He put the bowl down on the bedside cabinet and let his head drop into his hands. The hangover tailing on from his heavy night of drinking was still aching at his temples, only increased by the change in his brother's condition.

The carpet between his bare feet was fascinating, Dean noticed. The rubbed-bald patches made a strange formation when he squinted his eyes a little. It looked kind of like a reindeer with three legs.

A backfiring car in the parking lot outside had Dean on his feet and reaching for the shotgun sticking out of his duffle before he could place the sound. Feeling slightly foolish, he faced Sam, a sheepish smile pasted on his lips despite his brother's lack of response. Sam hadn't so much as twitched.

Dean felt disproportionately elated when he finally figured out how to get Sam to eat. Spoon feeding him was quickly discounted after Sam obstinately refused to acknowledge the spoon poking at his mouth. He tried hooking Sam up to the IV pack again, spending several minutes delicately inserting it into Sam's forearm and bandaging it down securely, only to have Sam scratch it out the second Dean stepped back. After taking a deep and calming breath, Dean sat down in front of Sam and stared, hoping for divine inspiration or something similar.

Which came to him in the form of a mug.

Sam was too weak to hold the mug himself, but he consented to Dean's help, taking sips of the now-lukewarm chicken soup as Dean held it to his lips.

Dean wanted to jump up and down in relief. Sam might not be all there yet, but accepting the soup was a step closer. It proved Sam was aware, at least. He could work with that. A trickle of cautious hope crept back into him.

After drinking half of the soup in tiny increments, Sam flopped a hand at Dean's arm, which Dean took to be his brother's way of telling him he'd had enough. He placed the mug on the bedside cabinet and just sat facing Sam.

His brother was too pale and skinny by far, his cheeks shadowed and sunken. He looked vampiric, which might have been a serious concern to Dean if he hadn't known that vampires weren't real. But the alertness in Sam's eyes was almost scary, catching and holding Dean in the beam of his gaze as if Sam were glowing brilliant white.

The dark hoodie Dean had managed to wrangle Sam into the previous night swamped him. The sleeves hung down over his hands, making him look as if he was a child trying on adult's clothing.

When Sam's head began to lull to one side, Dean took it as a cue to settle his brother back down on the bed. He ignored the pitiful attempts to push his hands away, methodically laying Sam flat on the mattress and pulling the blanket up to his chest. Sam blinked at him a few times before his eyes closed and stayed closed. Dean never thought he would be so happy to see his brother's eyelids.

Sleep might not be such a bad idea, Dean conceded as his hangover made itself known again. He caught himself before he dropped down onto the bed beside Sam. If his brother's reactions to touch were anything to go by, Sammy wouldn't be too pleased to find his older brother curled up next to him when he woke up. And it was probably time to reinstate the old rule anyway. Sam was awake; he didn't need Dean holding him now.

With reluctance, Dean lay back on the other bed in the room, his head facing Sam. The mattress felt cold and too-big without the second body pressed against his and Dean slipped into sleep feeling hollow and alone.

Dean awoke the next morning shivering. The hot line of heat that radiated from Sam's body was missing. Even in the short space of time, he had grown used to feeling his brother right there where he could keep him safe. He mentally chastised himself. He never should have started something best left alone anyway.

He opened his eyes a crack, rolling onto his side and looking across to the bed that was now Sam's and Sam's alone.

Which was currently empty.

Dean was on his feet, his gaze wildly sweeping the room in a split-second. Sam wasn't in the bed or the bathroom, the door leading outside was still locked and dead bolted so he couldn't have left the room...

A huddled form sat pressed in the corner of the room. Dean felt a fraction of relief, his panic deflating.

Sam was cross-legged on the floor facing the wall, bare feet white and cold. He was staring at the wallpaper fixedly, strange dark shapes and lines covering the beige, and Dean was confused for a moment. He hadn't noticed the marks before.

And then Sam raised one hand to the surface, pressing his fingertips against it, hard enough to whiten the skin around his fingernails. He moved his hand downward and thick fingerprint trails painted the wall.

"Oh Christ." Dean lunged at Sam, catching his hand before it could trace any more pictures onto the wallpaper. Turning it palm-up in his own hand, Dean winced at the damage. The pads of skin had been rubbed away, blood welling up in tiny pricks that flowed together to create Sam's macabre finger-paint. Dean felt like throwing up, his stomach knotting in revulsion. "Sam…Christ Sammy, what did you do?"

Sam didn't seem to register the question, looking at Dean with blank indifference, as if he couldn't feel the pain or the chill of the morning air. He tried to pull his hand away, turning back to the wall. Dean gritted his teeth, suddenly more pissed off than he could remember being in a long time.

"Fucking hell, Sam, what is wrong with you?" He dragged Sam up, throwing him bodily onto the bed. A whuff of air escaped Sam's mouth as he hit the mattress and Dean felt irrationally pleased to hear it. His hands curled into fists.

Sam lay prone on the bed, his hands splayed on the covers. The blood darkened the sheet in rosebud whorls beneath his fingers and he stared evenly up at Dean.

Dean took a deep and shuddering breath, his hands unclenching. "God, Sammy."

His chest felt as if steel bands encircled it, drawing tighter with every breath. His brother wasn't right, and Dean didn't know how to fix it. Didn't know how to take care of him, and that foreign look in Sam's eyes, that cold and calculating stare, only highlighted his inadequacies.

The first aid kit was in his duffle and Dean retrieved it, keeping watch on Sam. At least he could bandage up his brother's cuts. That much he still knew how to do. The rest he would just have to learn.

The TV was on, Jerry Springer trying to council some fat woman with five children as she screamed at her ex-boyfriend. Dean heard it in the background, mixing with the faint noises from the road outside the motel room.

He'd coaxed Sam into eating another mug of soup, vegetable this time. He'd given Dean sullen looks the entire time, but the mug was now empty and Dean decided to count it as a victory. The cuts on his fingers were clean and hidden beneath bandaids. The damage hadn't been as bad as Dean feared, the drying blood making the wounds look worse than they actually were.

He could tell Sam wanted to be over by the wall, finishing whatever it was he'd started. The marks didn't mean anything as far as Dean could tell, random collections of lines and shapes traced onto the faded wallpaper. He'd tried to wash them away but the dried-on mess had just smudged into brown blurs. Sam kept darting glances over at it when he thought Dean wasn't watching.

Dean felt dirty and exhausted. A shower would be good, a long hot soak to ease some of the tension out of his shoulders and back. But leaving Sam alone wasn't an option, so he sat on his bed and listened to Jerry, discreetly keeping both eyes on his brother.

Two minutes spent taking a piss was apparently enough for Sam to resume his place in front of the wall, scraping at the bandaids to get to his skin.

Dean had him back on the bed in an instant, holding him down with both arms. This time Sam struggled, thrashing feebly around in an attempt to throw Dean off and get back to his work. Dean held him securely, ignorant of the tears that were trickling down his own cheeks.

"Sammy, what is it? What do you want? Please, Sam, talk to me. Please."

Sam stilled at Dean's voice, turning his head to face Dean. The frown he wore deepened into something like despair and Dean felt his heart lurch. He loosened his grip, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of Sam's head.

"You gotta talk to me, Sammy. You gotta tell me what it is." Sam surged up in his arms and caught his mouth, pressing their lips together in a rough kiss.

Shocked, Dean threw himself back and landed on his rear on the carpet. He blinked up at Sam, his heart pounding like he'd been electrocuted and his mind racing. Sam kissed him?

Oh god Sammy, what's wrong with you?

Sam slid to the floor, watching Dean with green eyes that glittered like snakeskin. He sat cross-legged, making no attempt to move closer to Dean.

Dean rubbed a hand through his short hair, feeling shaky and confused. It was as if they were acting out a play, following leads and cues that only Sam comprehended and Dean was left behind to struggle with what it all meant.

He closed his eyes, trying to will his heart to slow. He had to calm down and think this through. Thinking things through was good, seeing as he was apparently the only rational being in the room at the moment.

Sam had never wanted to kiss his brother before. That much Dean was sure of, that much he could say he knew, because he had known Sam inside and out. He'd known all along that he was alone in that particular sin, wanting what he couldn't have. But it had been okay. Dean had been okay with wanting something he never should have wanted in the first place. As long as he had Sam in some way, as long as they were brothers.

Before his brother left for college, Sam had been the one person Dean understood. His father, the random girls he slept with, the strangers they helped, they were all unpredictable elements that could change at any time. But Sam had been like the tide; once you knew him you could follow his patterns, could know how he would react.

This Sam needed a completely new instruction manual.

Dean climbed back to his feet, feeling like he had just stepped off a ship and his legs hadn't adjusted to land yet. He reached out a hand to Sam on the floor and was surprised when his brother hesitantly took it. He ignored, like always, the spark that danced on his nerves at the touch.

John called a few hours later. Dean told him what had happened in a small voice that sounded nothing like his own. He didn't mention Sam's kiss. After explaining about Sam's sudden desire to redecorate the motel room walls, John was silent for a few seconds. Dean braced himself for a lecture on taking proper care of his little brother, but John merely spoke softly in a thoughtful voice.

"Well son, if Sammy wants to draw pictures, why don't you try giving him some paper and a pen?" Dean closed his eyes, mentally beating his head against a wall. Why the hell didn't he think of that? John's careful words threw him back to a time years before, Dean calling his daddy from a motel room in desperation when five-year old Sammy refused to take a bath and John having to play peacemaker between the two from the next state.

"I'll try it. When will you be here?" Dean said.

"I'm on my way. But there's a haunting in Missouri that I might check out first. You can hold on for a few more days, can't you?"

No! Dean screamed in his head. I can't do this, I can't be responsible for Sam, I've screwed up too many times. But the words wouldn't be forced from his mouth.

"Yes sir." And that brought back memories as well. Dean and Sam, left behind while John saved strangers' lives without them.

John hung up, leaving Dean alone again. Sam was staring at the wall, paying no attention to his surroundings.

A pad of notepaper with the motel's name and address printed along the top lay next to the Bible in the bedside cabinet. Dean found a pen and sat himself on the edge of Sam's bed. His brother turned to face him, alien curiosity in his eyes.

"Okay Sammy. Let's see if dad was right." He held out the paper and pen. Sam's eyes flicked down at them and then returned to Dean's face. Dean held back a heavy sigh. "Alright, let's do it this way."

Dean placed the pad on Sam's lap, moving over so he was sitting beside Sam on the bed. He picked up Sam's hand, ignoring Sam's surprised tugging, and twisted the pen into his fingers, curling them into the grip and covering them with his own. Sam blinked and Dean brought their entwined hands down to the paper, resting the point of the pen against it.

"Look, drawing. That's what you wanted to do, right? That's what the wall was about?" Sam continued to sit unmoving, watching Dean like he was a mildly amusing sideshow trick. The sigh slipped out. "Okay, watch Sammy." He moved their hands, tracing big loops of black ink onto the paper. "See?"

Sam's single-minded attention turned to the paper. Dean inwardly rejoiced. His brother made no attempt to tug away from Dean now, watching carefully as the thin lines covered the page. An idea came to him as he watched his hand making abstract shapes.

"Do you remember how to write, Sam?" He moved their joined hands to the top of the page and gently guided them into letters. "See, this is your name, and this is mine. Can you remember how to do that?" He studied his brother's face, hoping for a flicker of recognition. But Sam kept his eyes on the paper, puzzling out the mechanisms with no interest for the words. Dean pulled his hand away. Sam didn't seem to notice it was gone and he felt an ache deep in his stomach.

Sam's hand began to move on its own, drawing shapes with painstaking care. The two names Dean had written on the top of the page in big curly letters were ignored. Staring at them made the ache in Dean's stomach worse.

Dean woke up the next morning feeling cold and alone. Sam was sitting up on the covers of his bed, cross-legged and hunched over the pad of paper Dean had given him.

"Morning Sammy." Sam didn't spare Dean a glance, scribbling with determination.

Shuffling into the bathroom, Dean thought he should feel grateful that at least now Sam wasn't trying to rub his fingers to the bone on the wall. At least he could be left alone for a while. John's suggestion had worked.

Sam doesn't need me. Dean couldn't help his bitter thoughts as he stripped off and stepped under the hot spray of the shower. He's fine sitting out there by himself, scrawling on his paper. He probably doesn't even notice I'm gone.

Unbidden, the memory of Sam's desperate kiss crept up on padded feet. The one thing Dean had never allowed himself to think about, frantically beating it down whenever the traitorous desires had slipped into his dreams. And Sam had never wanted it before. Sam had never been the one so willing to damn them both.

Cracked lips against his, burning hot like a firebrand. The faint flavour of pepper and a tiny lick of tongue that tasted of poisoned ambrosia. And all the times in the last few weeks that he'd curled up next to his brother, kept warm at night by the clean smell of his hair and the softness of his skin.

Dean slammed a hand up, shutting off the hot water. He pressed his fists against the shower wall, his head slumped forward, and stood under the hard drills of freezing water until shudders ran through him uncontrollably.

He stepped out of the bathroom fully dressed to the sight of Sam in the same position, half the paper in the pad drawn on and the pen clenched between whitened fingers.

After another half a day of sitting around in silence, the small TV blaring static and talk shows in the corner, Dean was itching out of his skin. He'd fed Sam another mug of warmed soup, his brother barely pausing to take it before returning his attention to the pad of paper. The thing was almost full, and Dean had taken furtive peeks at it, afraid Sam would catch him looking and pitch a fit. Each page was covered in funny stick drawings, like a child's coloring book. Things were out of proportion and two-dimensional, but each scene drawn was shaded in light and dark gradients of black pen. Dean got the impression that they would mean something if he could just figure out what was going on in Sam's fractured mind.

He had considered wrestling Sam into the bathroom and giving him a wash, but the dangerous thoughts that had tainted his own shower quickly dismissed the idea. Bathing would have to wait until Dean regained command of himself.

The food brought by the nice woman on the front desk was disappearing. If John was going to be longer than he'd said, Dean would have to get more supplies. However reluctant he was to leave Sam alone, a part of him was almost relishing getting out of the room and away from the situation, even for half an hour. Maybe he could gain some perspective in the time away from Sam that would put him back in control.

Halfway across the parking lot, Dean spun on his heel and strode back to the room. Then turned again and headed toward the Impala. Sam would be fine. And they needed more supplies.

With his head in confusion, Dean climbed into the car and drove away from the motel, denying the feeling blossoming in his gut that felt like relief.

He returned to the motel room laden with bags. Several tins of soup clanged against each other and a takeout menu from the local Chinese restaurant was clenched between his teeth. Dean unlocked the door with an irrational sense of foreboding.

The dank motel room smell greeted him as he stepped inside and he automatically glanced at the wall. The space was empty, Sam still sat on the bed engrossed in his drawing.

"Hey Sammy. You miss me?" Sam didn't look up. "Yeah, I missed you too." Dean muttered to himself, dropping the bags where he stood.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and his fished it out, closing the door on the outside world behind him.

"Hey dad."

"Dean. How is he?" John started with no preamble.

"He's fine. You were right about the drawing thing. He's gone through a whole motel pad, having the time of his life apparently."

"Good. Well I just called to let you know this haunting might take me a few days longer than expected. It's a ghost, been around for a while according to the locals. Apparently, it's reluctant to move on." Dean gritted his teeth.

"Okay dad."

"As long as you boys are okay without me for a while longer?"

"We're fine."

John hung up and Dean threw his cell onto the bed violently. It bounced off the mattress and clattered to the floor between the two beds. Sam glanced over at the noise, momentarily distracted. He was on the final few pages of the notepad, scrawling furiously.

Dean picked up one of the bags and sat down on the edge of Sam's bed.

"I, uh, brought you a present kiddo." He flushed as he said it, feeling ridiculously stupid. Winchesters didn't buy each other things. They hadn't celebrated Christmas or a birthday since Sam was eleven and John told them they couldn't afford to waste money on frivolous things now that they were both grown up.

Sam hadn't given any indication that he'd heard Dean, but the blush wouldn't subside. Roughly pulling the items out of the bag, Dean pushed a thick pad of A4 paper onto Sam's lap under the notepad. He reached out and caught Sam's free hand, gaining Sam's attention. Face heating up until he was sure it must be radiating warmth like an oven, Dean placed the box of colored crayons in Sam's upturned hand.

"They were on display at the store in town. I thought you might want to color in some of those weirdass drawings. Y'know, if you wanted." Dean decided not to let on that he had in fact driven to three different stores before finding the set containing one hundred different colors. And then he snatched the last box away from a little girl in pigtails and ran for the cashier before she'd realised what had happened.

Sam's hand tightened on the box, his head tilted to one side as he examined it like it was a mystical object. Dean reached out and opened it, pulling a few of the crayons out.

"They're like the pen. You can draw with them." He demonstrated as Sam watched in rapt attention. Surrendering the crayon as Sam reached out to take it himself, Dean went back to sorting out the supplies he'd bought.

As he turned in Sam's direction, he was surprised to see his brother not engrossed in producing pictures, but watching him with that tiny frown creasing the skin of his forehead. Dean felt the blush return and he flashed Sam a small but genuine smile before looking away, feeling like a girl on prom night and hating himself for it.

Getting Sam to take a shower was difficult, and not just because of Dean's oh-so-inappropriate not-so-little problem. He'd managed to wrench Sam away from his drawing and into the bathroom, but that was as far as it got. Sam stubbornly refused to step into the shower by himself, which resulted in Dean stripping them both down to boxers and climbing in with him, his entire body hot and uncomfortable. The tiny cubicle wasn't really big enough for two grown men, especially as Dean was proven right in thinking Sam was now taller than him.

Positioning his brother under the spray, Dean hoped Sam would take the hint, but the taller man just stood there looking at Dean bemusedly. So he sighed and got to work, lathering up a cloth with the cheap soap provided by the motel. He resolutely kept his mind off what he was doing, thinking of baseball and the president as he washed the broad expanse of skin presented to him.

Unfortunately Sam was unfairly distracting. Wet hair dripping in his eyes and rivulets of water trickling over pale skin, and Dean was practically panting to feel the warmth radiating from Sam's body.

He could feel Sam watching him as he worked, that deep and sharp attention fixed on him like a searchlight. It made his cock twitch in sodden boxers.

Drying Sam off was no better, Dean discovered whilst on his knees in front of his brother. He looked up, only to find himself at eye level with Sam's wet boxers. Which would need to be changed.

He stifled a groan and looked up into his brother's eyes. "Any chance you could take care of the rest of this by yourself?" Sam continued staring at him evenly. Dean huffed under his breath. "Of course not."

As detached as possible, Dean stripped his brother of the wet boxers, taking care not to look as his hands performed the task. He quickly got Sam into fresh clothes, mentally sighing in relief when it was over and Sam was fully dressed. Straightening up, he was caught by surprise when Sam leaned forward and rubbed the tip of his nose along the line of Dean's cheekbone.

"Fuck! Sam, what the hell?" He stumbled back, almost tripping over the pile of dirty clothes on the floor. Sam didn't look embarrassed, standing with head cocked to one side, hair in damp curlicues at his temples. Feeling completely off-balance and bewildered, stamping down on the rush of heat that seemed to pump all the blood in his body to fill the line Sam had traced along his face, Dean tried to breathe.

Sleeping was almost impossible. Dean tossed and turned, his thoughts catching and sticking on Sam. Sensing his baby brother's still presence in the other bed wasn't helping either.

Part of him was actually considering calling John and asking his father to drop the job, just get here as fast as possible. But he could hardly tell his dad that his mentally-disturbed little brother might be coming onto him, and Dean needed him there as a preventative measure.

Sam chose that moment to lurch up in his bed, the sheets flying. In the distilled moonlight Dean could see a fine sheen of sweat coating his forehead and cheek. Sam let out a thin whimper.

Dean was on his feet before the sound could taper off. "Sam?" Sam's hands came up to cradle his forehead. Dean reached out, unsure if he should attempt to touch his brother. Then he saw Sam's wide eyes, rapidly blinking, staring at him as if begging him to do something, help me. Dean felt useless and stupid.

He caught Sam as the taller man threw himself to one side. "Sammy, careful! What's wrong?" Sam wriggled in his arms, shoving away. Dean tried not to feel disappointed that apparently his brother had returned to his don't touch me phase. But then he saw what Sam was focused on.

That damn pad of paper. Before he could stop him, Sam was on the scummy motel floor, his fingers scrabbling feverishly at the paper and the crayons.

Dean watched him for a while, feeling worn thin. Finally his frantic scribbling seemed to subside a little and Dean pushed to his feet, seating himself on the floor beside Sam.

"Whatcha doin' Sammy?" Sam didn't look up. The crayon picture he was working on was hard to make out in the semi-dark. Dean squinted a little, intrigued despite his exhaustion.

Dean could see the vague shapes of figures on the paper, black scrawls surrounding them which he assumed meant it was night time in the picture. He leaned a little closer. One of the figures was clearly supposed to be a person, a stick figure in blue holding what appeared to be a brown curved stick. The blue person was standing opposite a grey oblong. The grey shape was reaching toward the person with tentacle-like limbs. Around both figures was a double circle in red and yellow, the colours overlapping. At the bottom of the page, Sam had drawn strange symbols in a spiky hand, one in pink, one in green, one in sky-blue, one in black. They meant nothing to Dean, and he slumped back with a sigh.

The pad fell from Sam's hands, tumbling to the floor with a thump.

"Are we done now, kiddo? Can we go back to bed?" Dean couldn't help the bite in his words. It wasn't like Sam was paying any attention to them anyway.