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They drove back to the hotel in silence. It was late, and Sam figured John was pretty tired. Sam was tired too, but he didn't feel like sleeping.

They lumbered into their hotel room, neither of them saying a word. Sam had so much to say, but he wasn't ready yet. He flicked the wall lamp on, flooding the room in orange light, and John went past him, his back hunched until he dropped his backpack onto the floor beside his bed.

Sam claimed the bathroom first, buying himself some time. He was afraid that if John went before him, he'd be in bed by the time Sam came out after his turn.

Once inside, he did his business, washed his hands, and then rinsed his face of all the sweat and grime digging in the graveyard left. He then meant to brush his teeth, but he realized he had left his toothbrush in his bag.

As he pulled open the bathroom door to retrieve it, he caught John changing out of his t-shirt.

The air flew from his lungs.

John had his back to him, and Sam's eyes were immediately drawn downwards. In the middle of his right side were four large claw marks. They matched the ones on his forearm--only they were deeper, longer, stretching across nearly three-quarters of his back in an arc about the width of Sam's hand. The scars disfigured his back grossly, striking against otherwise mostly-smooth skin.

At Sam's gasp, John spun around in alarm, turning his back away from him, while at the same time he struggled to pull the t-shirt back down. But he wasn't quick enough. On his front, Sam saw another deep gash running across his abdomen.

"What the hell!" Sam exclaimed in horror.

John was unfazed as he drew the shirt down to his waist. "Are you finished with the bathroom?" he asked.

Sam came closer, ignoring him.

"How are you even alive?" he said in a harsh, astonished whisper. Those marks had been impressive, terrifyingly so.

"It's no big deal," John ground out. Sam stared at him, dumbfounded.

John gazed back, and then after a moment, pushed himself past. "My turn," he said before locking himself into the bathroom.

After a moment, Sam stripped to his own nightwear, his movements slow as his mind turned over the images of John's scars. He thought about the day they just had, thought about the werewolves and ghosts and everything else John has faced. Now it was all real to him, and now he understood what it all meant. When the other man finally came out of the bathroom, Sam continued to stare at him.

John saw that and rolled his eyes. "I told you, it's a dangerous job."

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but John cut him off. "Don't even start, all right?" It annoyed him, but Sam relented, clamping his mouth shut.

However, a few minutes later just as he was about to settle into bed, he opened it again. He would avoid the subject of John's back, but he wasn't ready to give up on the other questions that had been plaguing him. He hesitated, sitting on the edge of the bed with the covers drawn back.

"Do I know you?" he asked.

John glanced at him sharply, and Sam continued. "Before this, I mean. Did we know each other?"

"Why would you think that?" John asked, tilting his head.

"I don't know," he replied uncomfortably. "I just feel like I know you."

"But...how would you?" John pointed out.

Sam looked down at his lap. It seemed to him John was avoiding answering, but he didn't blame him. "Well, I was thinking that maybe—you said this was a family business, right?" John's eyebrows came together, and he nodded slowly. "So, I don't know—I just thought that, since my brother was this murderous psycho, and I have these psychic powers or whatever, maybe your family knew my family. Like, maybe they were rivals or enemies, or something."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Huh?"

Rushing forward, Sam tried to explain. "My mind repressed every memory of my family--and I can tell there's something dark about it. Even the psychic at this new age store sensed there was something wrong with me."

Sam frowned then, unable to stop himself. "Is that why you kept an eye on me? Were you afraid I'd do something to Rebecca and Zach?

"What? No! I told you, it's because--"

"Yeah, I know what you said, but why me then? Are you telling me you go all across the country checking up on anyone who has psychic abilities?"

"Well, no, but-"

"And the fact that you killed my brother. There was something that brought you to him, something that told you this might be your thing, right? Otherwise, that's a pretty random coincide-"

"Sam, stop it. That's not it at all."

"Then what is it?"

John took a moment to answer. "You're my responsibility."

"But why?" Sam asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I saved your life, didn't I?"

"Yeah. And Rebecca and Zach."

"Right. I couldn't just let you guys go after that, knowing the dangers you could attract. Not without checking up on you." He shrugged casually. "Simple as that."

Sam frowned and ducked his head again. Was it really that simple? He toyed with the edge of the tacky bedspread.

"What was my brother like?" he asked after a long, silent moment.

John stilled. "What do you mean?"

"What was he like?" Sam repeated, peaking up at John. "I'm sure you remember at least something about him."

"I don't know, Sam, you and Rebecca talked to him more than I did—"

"But I don't remember, and I'm sure as hell not going to ask Rebecca," Sam told him. "You're all that's left."

"I don't know, Sam," John replied again, impatiently, his tone weary.

"Anything. Tell me anything," Sam pleaded. "Please."

"What do you want me to say, Sam? That he was messed up? A freak?"

Sam didn't mean to force it out like that, but that was the response he was expecting. Nodding slowly, he looked at John and swallowed. "Sometimes I feel like I'm a freak."

Immediately John jumped up from his bed, his eyes going wide. "Dammit, Sam," he yelled angrily, towering over him. "You are nothing like that animal! There's not an evil bone in your whole goddamn body."

"But...what if it's in my genes?" Sam asked softly, finally voicing the fear that haunted him ever since he read that article from St. Louis.

John laughed then, a dry, humorless laugh. "Trust me, Sam. You and your brother are completely different."

Apparently that was the only answer he would get. Sam drew in a long breath.

Then he started fluffing the pillow behind his back, arranging it to his liking. He tossed the second one out of the way so he could settle down. "Was he tall like me?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah," John replied, and something in his voice caught Sam's attention. "Real handsome, too," he continued. "Too bad looks didn't run in the family, huh, Sammy?"

Sam narrowed his eyes at him. Then he grabbed his extra pillow and slammed it into John's face. "Jerk."

John pulled the pillow away and wagged his eyebrows at him. "Ooh, touchy."

Settling back into bed, Sam asked curiously, "So is everyone in your family short like you?"

"Short?" John sputtered. "Just because I'm not a beanstalk..."

"Hey, your height is nothing to be ashamed of," Sam went on. "I'm sure plenty of girls appreciate not having to wear heals around you."

By the time John snapped the light off and said good-night, Sam was no longer thinking about St. Louis and freak genes. As he drifted off to sleep, he realized how nice a change that was.

ooOOoo

This time Sam slept through the whole night and a good portion of the next morning. When he finally woke up, sometime after ten, he felt almost good. Even though the bed wasn't too comfortable, it felt like his muscles had melted into the mattress, and he didn't want to move and lose that feeling.

Then he saw that John was already up. He was sitting quietly in the chair, his back slightly hunched over the desk. But he didn't appear to be doing anything, just slumped there with his forearms resting against the desktop. His gaze was pointed at the spot where the desk met the wall, but from his angle, Sam couldn't tell if his eyes were open or not.

Sam pushed himself up until his back was against the headboard. "Hey," he greeted softly. "What's wrong?"

John started, his shoulders jerking up. He turned his head sideways towards Sam, although he kept his gaze downward. "Huh? Nothing," he grunted. Sam watched quietly as he scrubbed his face with his hands and took in a deep breath that filled his chest. And then he was standing up at the foot of Sam's bed, looking down at Sam still leaning against the headboard.

"We're going back to make a sweep of the lighthouse, make sure there's nothing there," he told him. "Then we'll take you back home."

Home. Sam faltered at that. Did he consider the apartment home? He had never batted an eye at that term before – after all, the apartment was where he slept every night, where he kept all his possessions, where he went whenever he wanted to hide from the world. But now, the word "home" jolted him.

"Okay," Sam got out casually, even as his stomach was sinking.

Sam showered and then they packed up their meager belongings strewn across the motel room. They moved silently, not speaking much, the television providing background noise which they largely ignored. Sam's mind was too occupied, filled with churning thoughts he struggled to organize.

They checked out of the motel and the next thing Sam knew, they were back in the Impala. They debated grabbing breakfast but neither of them were hungry, so they headed straight to the lighthouse.

After the day they had yesterday, this visit was less than exciting. Since no one was there, Sam was able to go in with John, armed once again with the shotgun. John carried his EMF detector in his hand, a small black device that looked a lot like a rigged up walkman. He followed the older man as they tracked through the lighthouse, taking the stairs slowly, methodically, John sweeping his device through the air as they moved. The lights on the side never came to life, and the static emitted never spiked past the low, barely audible level.

They went through the entire building and followed the deck all the way around the top without encountering anything. They doubled back, following the same methodical method, but it remained quiet, still. Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, John pronounced it all clear.

"And that's that," John said once they were back in the car.

Sam nodded quietly, staring at the lighthouse that stood before them, proud but empty. "Kinda boring, huh?" John went on. Sam turned to him, disagreeing deeply but unable to say anything.

John looked at him through the corner of his eye, his lips twisted into a smirk. "You get these boring jobs sometimes, but they're not all like this."

"But...a man almost died," Sam protested.

"Hm? Ah, yeah, that's to be expected." John saw the horrified expression on his face and shrugged. "Someone almost dies in almost every case. That's why I'm here," he replied.

He turned to face Sam, his face suddenly serious. "He didn't die though, did he? Thanks to you." He raised his eyebrows pointedly, and Sam knew he was thinking of their conversation last night.

Sam wanted to ask what would have happened if he hadn't been there. But he was too afraid to consider that possibility.

ooOOoo

Sam felt cheated. He'd thought it would have taken up to a week, but instead it had barely lasted 24 hours.

The ride back to Stanford was just as long and tedious as the ride up. They made the same number of stops as last time, grabbing hamburgers through drive-thru and stopping at gas stations that offered public restrooms.

John, however, was more quiet this time around. He said very little, driving with his focus almost solely on the road. Even the volume of the music was turned down at a lower level, although the beats still pounded through the framework of the car. Overall, the energy was muted, even morose. Sam chose to ignore it.

It was almost just as well John was unusually quiet, because Sam had a lot to say, and he forced John into talking. Sam filled the silence with questions, grilling the experienced man about all the different supernatural forces he fought. Sam wanted to know as much as possible. What was real and what was only myth. What was the purpose of each weapon Sam had spotted in the trunk, and even ones he hadn't noticed. Sam rarely stopped talking, and even when he thought he had run out of questions, a few minutes later more would pop into his head.

John dutifully answered his questions, giving him full details and sometimes even expounded on his answers. It was clear to Sam he knew his stuff, an expertise that could only come from a lifetime of experience.

And now Sam knew it was all true, that John really hadn't been lying to him.

A silence finally fell over the car when they saw the road sign proclaiming Stanford 30 miles away. John's answers had grown more and more terse the closer they got until his mouth finally closed as that sign passed their window. Sam also stopped asking questions as his mind switched gears, his stomach suddenly twisting in his gut.

Sam couldn't stop his fingers from tapping a rhythm against the top of his door. His leg bounced up and down frenetically in front of him. The car was suddenly confining, not because of its size but because of the impatience that suddenly coursed through him.

The static between them grew until Sam's skin felt as if it were tingling, and the silence filled his ears with cotton. He almost couldn't stand it, but his mind could no longer hold questions, which trickled away with little notice from Sam.

Then, finally, finally, the Impala pulled up along the sidewalk that ran in front of the Warren's apartment. Sam had planned on inviting John in so they could talk, knowing it would be easier inside, where they could sit down face to face with all the time they needed and no distractions.

Instead, just as his hand gripped the handle to open the door, Sam stopped himself. Letting go of the handle, he turned to John and said it outright.

"I want to come with you."

John stared at him blankly for a long moment, and then with cautious surprise as Sam's words sunk in. "Again?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Not again," he stated. "For good."

John froze. "I—I don't understand," he stammered.

Nerves almost stopped Sam from continuing, but he forced himself through. "I want to do this with you. Long term. I want to help."

"What? But-but what about school? Your friends?" John asked. "You'd just give that up?"

The sensible side of Sam balked at that, but only slightly. "I just don't think—I don't think that's what I want. There's just...nothing there for me," Sam tried to explain. "But this - you're doing something. You're helping people, saving lives. That's something you can be proud of." As he spoke, he grew more and more energized, his belief in his own words empowering him.

John looked at him, stricken. "No, Sammy, you can't. You can't want this." His face had gone white, and Sam couldn't understand why. "I can't let you..." He trailed off, ducking his head.

Sam felt his heart sink. "You don't want me around," he said. It occurred to him how he was pushing himself into the other man's life like a rude, uninvited houseguest. He knew he shouldn't expect the man to take him on like that, but that didn't stop the hurt feeling that stabbed through him. He had subconsciously assumed they had a great partnership, an easy connection between them, but that easily could have been wishful thinking.

"No, that's not it," he replied, jerking his gaze back to Sam, his eyes blazing. "You just can't..." He stopped and swallowed heavily, his eyebrows scrunching together. "Don't give up your life, Sam."

Sam started shaking his head midway through John's statement. "My life isn't exactly...It's not all what you think it is," he said, feeling frustrated.

"And my life ain't all that it's cracked up to be, either!" John shot back. "Your life is good, normal. Safe."

"Maybe. But there's something missing."

"So, what? After all this, you're going to give it up, just because there's something missing? My life doesn't come with white picket fences and two-and-a-half kids, Sam."

"Maybe someday it will," Sam replied. "But I'm not ready for that yet, anyway."

John opened his mouth, but Sam went on before he could speak.

"I think you need me."

A shocked, sick change came over John. His jaw twitched and trembled slightly as the rest of his body stilled.

Sam, afraid that he would be insulting him, rushed ahead before he could second-guess himself. "If I hadn't been there to help you out, you might not have pulled that guy up in time. You wouldn't have been able to take care of that ghost if you were still holding onto him, and that ghost would have pushed you right over the edge."

"No. No. I don't need you to help me out," John said. "I would've been fine, I would've tried harder."

"He could have died. You could have died," Sam pointed out. "And what about next time? What happens the next time when there's no one there to watch your back?" John shook his head, his clenched jaw showing his refusal to answer.

"I'm coming with you," Sam said.

John turned to look out the windshield, unwilling to face him. "You don't even know me," he said lowly.

"I know enough," Sam told him, leaning a few inches closer to emphasize his point. "I want to do this, John."

John flinched. "No, you don't."

"How do you know?"

"I know what this life does to you!" John exploded, turning around with eyes that burned.

Sam sat back, knowing he couldn't argue with that. John would know more than Sam what sacrifices that kind of life demanded. Sam, though, was willing to find out. He knew, somewhere in his mind, that he could face those sacrifices, that it was worth giving up his current life.

"You don't have to do this alone," he said finally. Earnestly.

Sam knew instantly he had hit a nerve. John swung his head in a tight arc, sucking in his bottom lip, as his eyelids screwed together. He pounded the bottom of his palm against the steering wheel. "You don't know what you're saying," he said in a hush, his low voice contrasting sharply with his physical reaction.

Sam suddenly realized how lonely John was. He saw it in his demeanor, in his eyes, in the way he interacted with others. He knew that loneliness would lessen sharply if he at least had a traveling companion, if he had Sam to talk to and share experiences with, but he suspected the other man was too afraid to allow that to happen. If he honestly thought John didn't want him, he wouldn't have asked. But something told him it wasn't that that caused his hesitation.

Sam thought it might be guilt. He didn't want to draw Sam away from the life he assumed was so much better.

"Can you let me make that decision?" Sam asked softly, without a hint of sarcasm or venom. He was asking a sincere question, and he truly wanted to know if John would allow him that choice.

John gazed out of the windshield and then the side window, wiping a hand down the side of his face.

"Yeah," he finally said, turning his head forward, not looking at Sam. "Yeah. You decide."

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