Sam sits at the kitchen table with with his head in his hands, staring down into the glass of water his father has set in front. He hears the tap running and a moment later a cool cloth is placed across the back of his neck. John squeezes his shoulder reassuringly and sits beside him. "Your mother will be home in any minute, then we're going to the hospital."

"I told you, I don't need to go to the hospital," Sam says wearily.

"Sammy you were with me one minute and gone the next. I may not have a PHD or anything but I know when something ain't right."

"I must have just overdid it at school today. I was tired. I spaced out a minute. You know, like a daydream."

"A daydream. Right."

"I'm sorry, okay?" Sam says, exasperated, "I didn't mean to scare you. But I'm fine. Honestly."

John runs a hand down his face and sits back in his chair. "Alright, well why don't you go lay down for a bit. I'll talk to your mom when she gets home and we'll decide what to do then."

Sam nods appreciatively and gets up from the table. He hands the wet cloth back to John and goes into the other room to lay down on the sofa. His bones ache, and a dull headache has started behind his eyes but he feels too restless to sleep so he turns on the television. He scrolls past some cartoons and old sitcoms that are blurred by the poor reception and settles on a local news station. A reporter is standing in front of an empty parking lot. The camera zooms in on an alleyway between two decrepit buildings.

That's where the bodies were found. Sam thinks

"Late yesterday evening the bodies of two missing teens were found here just behind the dumpster. The police have yet to release the cause of death to the public but reports say that the bodies both had multiple injures to the chest and head. Due to the advanced stage of decomposition, victims had to be identified through dental records. No word yet on any suspects."

Sam sits back. How did he know there were bodies there? Context clues he supposes. What else would they be reporting on standing in front of an abandoned old building like that. He tries to convince himself that it was just a lucky guess but deep down he knows it's something more. He knew there were bodies there even before he turned on the television. It is a fact, imbedded in him somewhere deep down, in a part of himself he doesn't quite understand. He flips off the television and forces himself to lay down and shut his eyes. Flashes of the Thing pop into his mind like an old fashioned camera flashing over and over again. The fangs…and that strange tongue. What would a creature use something like that for? His face is pinched in distressed when he hears his mother come home. There are hushed whispers coming from the kitchen. Then the sound of bags being set down and his mothers hurried footsteps. He feels her hovering over him but he doesn't open his eyes. He lays there, still as can be, and pretends to be asleep. He doesn't want to talk to her right now. Not about this. He doesn't want to see that look on her face when she comes to the realization that her son is slowly losing his grip on reality. Not when things have been going to well. Not when he finally has her here after all this time. And what a strange thing to think. After all, she's always been there. She's his mother after all. Just another in the long list of ways his mind is playing tricks on him.

He feels a hand in his hair.

"So what do you think?" That's John's voice from somewhere else in the room.

Mary sighs. "We'll keep him home from school tomorrow and see how he feels. He put a lot of pressure on himself for that test today, he probably just needs some rest."

"I'll call my boss and tell him I'm calling out tomorrow. I'll stay and keep an eye on him."

"I don't know that he necessarily needs a babysitter, John."

"You didn't see it, Mary. It was as if…"

"As if what?"

"It was like he wasn't our son. Like he was Sam, but not our Sam. I don't know, it was scary is all."

Mary strokes the side of Sam's face gently. "Guess I better stay home too then."

That night Sam lays awake in bed, staring up at the shadows cast by slow rotation of the ceiling fan. He has the fireplace poker griped tightly at his side; he grabbed it before he came to bed when his parents weren't looking. If the Thing comes back he'll need something made of iron. He doesn't know how he knows this but he does. An Iron poker won't kill it but it might be enough to fend it off and right now that's all he has. He lays still and listens to the sounds of his house at night. The low creaks and moans of old wood floors expanding and contracting in the humidity of the night. The small vibrations of a beetle's wings as it scurries about somewhere in the darkness. The room smells stale. His bedsheets are stiff. With his free hand he grips the fabric; old faded motel room sheets.

There's a creak; something large moving downstairs. Sam shoots upright in bed. Blood rushes through his ears and he throws the covers back and tiptoes to the door, iron poker tight in hand. Cautiously he turns the doorknob and steps out into the hall. His feet are sweaty. They stick on the wood floor. Quietly he heads down the hall, past Dean's old room and his parents room. At the end of the hall there is another room, the door to which swings open slightly as if caught in a breeze. Moonlight bathes the floor in a dazzling blue. Sam draws nearer, and peers around the open doorway. He doesn't remember this room, or what's inside it. But it's familiar to him all the same. With the palm of his hand he pushes the door open and steps inside.

It's a nursery. An empty nursery with only a crib in the center. The window at the far end of the room is slightly ajar, and a fall breeze runs a chill down his back. He stands over the crib. It is bare. No sheets. No blankets or toys. He doesn't know why but the sight of it fills him with a deep sorrow.

A burgundy droplet falls onto the barren cot, then another. And another. Sam tilts his head curiously and dips his finger in the warm gooey droplet. He rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. Blood. A drop of it falls onto the back of his neck and he whips around to look up when he hears something shatter downstairs. The Thing is back.

He runs from the room and down the stairs.

Dean is running through a maze of old pipes, one of which has burst and is spewing brownish murky water. John kicks open the warehouse doors, shotgun in hand. He looks at Sam wild eyed.

"Sam! Where is it? Where's Dean?"

The Thing roars and and in an instant John is in a dead sprint into the belly of the warehouse. After the Thing. Sam doesn't move. He doesn't know what to do. He knows he has to help but he doesn't know how. He takes a step back and bumps into something. He turns around.

Two teenagers; a boy and a girl are hanging there. Their wrists are bound together and they dangle from what looks to be large meat hooks. Their eyes are gray and blank and unseeing. And their chests…their chests are burst wide open, rib cages exposed and broken, their hearts gone, intestines spilling out of the empty cavity like bluish green spaghetti. Sam clasps a hand over his mouth to stop himself from screaming.

He sees a small red ring behind both of their ears; an odd thing to notice considering the gore of the sight before him, but this feature stands out somehow. He blinks, his hand moves to the same place behind his own ear where he feels a scaley circle of red bumps. All at once he feels as though the air has been knocked from his lungs. The room spins. What is happening to him?

From far away he hears Dean's voice, "Sammy, look out!"

Sam turns and the Thing is there. It's right there. Headed straight for him. Sam feels frozen. Resigned to his fate. That's when Dean comes charging at him from across the warehouse, seemingly out of nowhere, and knocks Sam down, out of the way.

Glass shatters and splays like raindrops scattered across the living room floor. A light turns on and Sam blinks in the room. He's on the floor of the living room, surrounded by shards of glass from the smashed curio cabinet above him. His mothers trinkets and fine china are in pieces at his feet.

"Sam? Sammy?"

His mother's panic stricken voice comes bounding down the stairs, his father in toe. They both gasp when they find him, sitting there among the rubble. Their voices are hurried and frantic. Sam looks down at his palm; the glass has split his hand wide open.

"Oh my God, John, There's glass everywhere," says Mary.

"Jesus, Sammy. What the hell happened?" John's slippers crunch over the broken glass and he bends down next to his son.

"Dean pushed me…" Sam says quietly. "…pushed me out of the way."

John and Mary exchange looks, and Sam sees that his mother has begun to cry.

"I'm going to get a towel," Mary says suddenly. "He's going to need stitches for that hand."

John's voice is gentle and calm, like he's talking to a wounded animal. "Come on, Kiddo. Think you can stand?"

He helps Sam to his feet, holding his injured hand up to help stop the bleeding. Sam doesn't protest. Not when his mother presses the towel to his hand, or ushers him in the car to go to the hospital. He rests his head on her shoulder for the entirety of the drive and she keeps a steady pressure on his wound. He's tired now, and the slow rumble of the impala begins to lull him to sleep, just as it has countless times in the past. Between hunts, between motel rooms and rest stops, he always find comfort in the impala. Before he falls asleep he brings his good hand up to his face and feels the skin just behind his ear. The red circle is still there. He should be worried but he's too tired now. And besides, Dad and Dean will help him.

They always do.