Part Two of my 06/09/06 update.

If it had been a school test, Sam would guess that Dean probably would ask questions first, if only because his brother was involved. But it wasn't a school test and Sam couldn't afford to be wrong.

Sam felt his blood rise and his heartbeat accelerate. Just before Dean burst through the door, Sam shouted out to him. "Don't, Dean, it's a trap!"

Dean burst through the door anyway, just as Sam knew he would, but at least with Sam's warning he wouldn't jump to action without thinking.

And he didn't. Instead, he quickly got into position where he could see the entire room from behind the safety of his own gun. Despite the efficiency of his moves, Sam could see the way his breath caught in his throat when he saw the two Sams standing before him.

"Sam?" he gasped. Both Sams nodded, and Sam saw a flicker of ill emotion flash across his face before it was wiped away, replaced with a business-only expression.

Sam felt his chest swell with relief. His brother was here. "I told you that was me back there," he added, almost petulantly.

"Hey, what was I supposed to think?" Dean complained with typical Dean fashion, increasing Sam's relief. "It didn't help that you suddenly got angry and started yelling some chick's name before running out of the basement like some madman."

"Yeah, because I saw this bastard running for her," George explained indignantly, gesturing at Sam.

Startled, Sam rolled his eyes at him. "Oh come off it, that was you."

"Was not!" George replied, looking shocked and offended.

Shaking off his annoyance, Sam turned to his brother and watched anxiously as Dean assessed the situation. He saw the way Dean was evaluating their positions, studying their features and any dangers he needed to be aware of. He ran his eyes over each of them, flicking back and forth between the two, searching both of them.

Then Dean's eyes rolled upwards and he let out a groan. "Ah jeez, Sammy, what kind of mess did you get yourself into this time?"

Sam's jaw dropped. "What?" he sputtered.

"Hey, I wasn't the one who got himself handcuffed to metal pipe," the other Sam added, just as indignant. Sam turned to glare at him, but George – to Sam's deep frustration - copied his movement exactly.

"One pair of matching bookends, different as night and day." Dean let out a long-suffering sigh as he waved his gun, alternating between the two Sams. "All right, so how am I supposed to know which one of you is really Sam?"

"I am," they said at once. Sam rolled his eyes, but he refused to look to see if George did the same.

"O-kaay then," Dean went on, gesturing at them with his gun. "Which one of you can change shape?"

They twisted the same angle to send him matching glares.

When he caught the shifter moving in tandem with him, Sam immediately turned to him, severely wishing he could slap his face off. And from the sight he was met with, he knew George decided to mirror his own impatient expression. It reminded him of that stupid game Dean used to play when they were littlein whichhe would repeat Sam's every word and movement. It was annoying then, and a hell of a lot more frustrating now.

Dean looked between the two of them and let out a sigh. The change in his tone was slight, but Sam still heard the stress in his voice. "You're not even supposed to be here, Sam. What the hell happened to the bus?"

"I told you, I changed my mind," Sam told him impatiently.

Dean shifted his eyes to him, and Sam saw his eyebrows twitch with constrained emotion. "But…why?"

"Because," the shifter interjected, drawing Dean's attention. "I couldn't leave things the way they were. I needed to talk to you--chick-flick moment and all."

Sam had to choke back his frustration. Hearing his own voice come out so soft and earnest, Sam realized why he was able to get strangers to trust him on each hunt. But he couldn't let Dean trust the shifter, no matter how much he sounded like Sam. "I had the chance to think things over, and there were some things I needed to say to you," Sam added, desperately wanting Dean to sense something in his voice, to realize he was Sam.

But Dean only tilted his head, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as he waited for him to continue.

Sam frowned, suddenly and intensely hating this. This was not the way he wanted to talk with Dean. "I just—I just wanted to know why," he struggled to explain. "And I wanted you to know why."

"We were just so…screwed up, Dean," the other Sam went on, his tone just as breathless and determined as Sam's. "But we don't have to be. I don't want to lose my brother. Not again."

Sam's gut twisted painfully. He didn't want to hear his words coming out of George's mouth. He didn't want Dean to hear those words coming from George's mouth. He came back so he could have a heart-to-heart with his brother, so they could really duke it out—and he didn't want that to degrade into some game to see which Sam could out-Sam the other.

"C'mon, Dean," he pleaded, trying to catch Dean's eye. "Don't make me do this here."

But his brother's expression hardened, and he looked away, down at the floor. Sam felt a flash of anger and irritation, exasperated that once again he couldn't convince Dean he was his brother. "Don't make me do this here," he repeated.

"Don't turn this into a competition," George said, quickly echoing Sam's desperation. "I'm trying to--"

"It's just not--"

"It's personal, Dean."

"There has to be another way," Sam finished, wishing it didn't sound so much like a whine.

After a tense, quiet moment, Dean finally looked up, his face impassive as he eyed the two of them.

Then he let out a low whistle. "All right, that didn't work," he said with a slight smirk. He cocked his head and gave it a dramatic jerk. "Time for the lightning round."

"Huh?" Sam choked. Beside him, he saw George shift anxiously.

Dean nodded once but instead of explaining, he immediately pressed forward, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "What was my first car?" he asked them.

"'67 Chevy Impala," Sam told him with a frown. This was his new plan? Now they were playing who knows Dean better?

"It was Dad's," George added, and Sam had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his anger in check.

"First hunt?"

"A ghost in Missouri," George said quickly.

Sam grunted in annoyance. "You were nine," he jumped in, refusing to be outdone.

"Boxers or briefs?"

They both rolled their eyes. "Boxer-briefs."

They set into a quick rhythm as Dean fired questions at them. Sam noticed the speed Dean forced them into, and it worried him. Was he testing them, to see who knew the answers the quickest? Did he think the shifter, needing to "read" the answers first, would be slower? Sam tried not to panic, but he wasn't confident he would know all the answers right away and pass Dean's test.

"Favorite band?"

"Led Zeppelin," Sam replied instantly.

"Birthday."

"August 12th, 1979," snapped George before Sam could open his mouth. Dean's plan sucked.

"Coffee."

George answered first. "Two sugars--"

"--No cream," Sam finished for him.

"Who's the black private dick who's the sex machine with all the chicks?"

Their frowns were identical. "Shaft," they replied in unison, and Dean's face split into a wide grin.

Then without missing a beat, he asked, "Favorite color."

Suddenly, Sam blinked and stumbled. He felt blood drain from his face and his stomach fall when he realized his mind was blank. "Black?"

The word had barely left his mouth when George jumped in with triumphant glee. "Silver," he answered confidently.

Even as his heart jumped into his throat, Sam immediately started to protest. "Oh, come on, Dean!" he complained. "That's not even a real co-"

But then he saw the flicker of alarm that swept across George's face – and at the same time, in one swift motion, Dean spun and aimed his gun at him.

As Sam stared at the scene, trying to readjust to the sudden shift in tension, realization flooded through him. Of course the shifter, reading Dean's mind, would know all the answers - but the real Sam wouldn't. Dean had been waiting for that, for Sam to get one wrong. He was just lucky George had been too cocky to figure it out.

"What are you going to do? Shoot me?"the shifterasked with narrowed eyes, recovering quickly. "You know those aren't silver bullets in there."

"It'll slow you down," Dean replied. "Then Sammy here-"

He bit off the end of the last word, the rest of his sentence left unspoken. Without any warning, George had suddenly morphed right before their eyes. He changed into himself, Sam realized – or at least the modified version, judging by his full head of hair. As Sam and Dean started at his shifting features, he used the distraction to whip out the gun from the back of his jeans. Sam could sense Dean on the very edge of shooting, that he had all but depressed the trigger in reaction to George's sudden movement.

But the shifter was half an instant quicker, aiming the gun at Sam before Dean ever got the chance.

"It won't slow me down enough, will it?" he pointed out as he cocked the hammer.

Even though he wasn't a mind reader, even Sam could hear the curses running through Dean's head. Sam stared into George's modified face, purposefully ignoring the gun pointed at his chest. "Give it up, George," he said. "You're outnumbered two-to-one, all right? Just put it down, and no one will get hurt. You won't get hurt."

"Yeah, and what if I decided I like being armed?"

"Then I'll make sure you can't hurt anyone else."

"So, you're going to shoot me?" George asked. "I'd like to see you try." He cocked his head with mock curiosity. "Now, how does that work, Sam? How much time passes from the moment the thought enters your head to you pulling the trigger? A split second? Is that enough time for me to jump out of the way?"

"He won't miss," Dean said, and Sam couldn't deny the small rush of gratitude that filled him. Spurred by the boost of confidence, he shifted his stance and gave George his own cocky stare, with one raised eyebrow and lips that twisted up at the corners.

George was unfazed. "Even a few inches to the side, and you'll miss my heart," he replied smoothly. "So I shoot, you're dead, then I shoot your brother, because his gun won't work on me, and then I cut Alice's throat with the knife Dean is keeping in his boot."

His words caused Sam's heart to seize for a moment. But he couldn't falter. He knew he could fire off several rounds in mere milliseconds, and if he missed the first time, he would get him with the next.

George, of course, heard his thoughts. "What if I duck? Will your instincts draw the gun down? Will you be able to stop yourself from squeezing the trigger?"

Sam glanced down at the crumpled woman at George's feet and felt sweat trickle down his armpits. "I won't hit her," he said, hating that he was half-speaking to himself. "I'm good at this."

"You're rusty." George looked at Dean then, though he still spoke to Sam. "Your brother left you rusty. Unprepared. Until a couple of days ago, you didn't even know you could shoot a gun."

"But I know now," Sam replied. He briefly considered glancing at Dean, but he didn't.

"You're not going to shoot, are you, Sam?" George asked him confidently. "You don't want to kill me." Sam glared at him in response, refusing to answer, and the shifter went on. "You know too much what it's like."

Sam frowned and tilted his head. "What what's like?" Dean snarled irritably, just as confused.

George kept his stare on Sam as he answered. "To be a freak."

Beside him, Sam heard Dean groan. Sam himself gritted his teeth and shook his head. He and Dean would joke and call themselves freaks, but they were nothing like George, nowhere near as demented.

Of course his thoughts were heard. George's entire face twitched and he narrowed his eyes. "Remember high school?" he asked sharply. "You know what it's like to be the freak. To see the way others looked at you through the corners of their eyes, hear their whispers whenever they passed." Sam narrowed his eyes, but that seemed to energize the other man. "Remember when Lori van Dyke found that ten-inch blade in your backpack?"

"C'mon man, what the hell you going on about?" Dean asked. "Cut this you're-just-like-me crap."

Sam couldn't help but think of Lori, a cute brunette from tenth grade, and the way he found her, hunched over his forgotten bookbag one day at the end of school. She'd quickly straightened up, rising to her feet. Sam saw the horrified expression on her face and the knife dangling from her hand, and he instantly exploded at her, demanding to know what she had been doing with his stuff. She had only meant to put a note into his backpack when she found the knife Sam's father made him carry to school.

She didn't tell on him, at least not to the administration, but neither did she keep it to herself. By the next day, every student had heard and every student started treating him differently. Just as George had said, Sam saw their strange looks and averted stares and heard their whispers behind his back. When the Winchesters moved on a month later, Sam left no friends behind.

"Now imagine what it was like to know exactly what they were thinking," George said, his voice rising into a yell. "To hear their cruel, ugly thoughts every single time they looked at you! To be sitting in class, and even the damn teacher is laughing at your nose, or sneering at you just because—just because you're different!"

"You were in high school?" Dean asked, sounding surprised. George ignored him, his glare never leaving Sam.

"I grew up like that, hearing people's thoughts. Bombarded with their nasty judgments. It took me five years of hard work and concentration to learn how to change my appearance. I developed these, these powers all by myself, locked up in my room for hours on end."

"Had nothing better to do, huh?"

Once again, George refused to acknowledge him. "No one was ever there for me. I was twenty before I could finally get people to look at me normally." His hand shot out against the bed again, slamming against the post. This time, used to his sudden outbursts, Sam didn't jump. "Goddammit, everything should have been better then! I even went on dates!"

"With real girls?" Dean asked, but George acted as if he didn't hear him. Maybe he didn't, the way he seemed to be frozen in a rant.

"Except--It never failed - those same nasty, heartless thoughts would start creeping into their minds. After a couple of minutes, or a couple of hours, whether I was on a date, or at the store - they would all start thinking I was a freak. That I was worthless. Like Alice!" he shouted suddenly, throwing his hand through the air at her. "They hadn't even lived next door to me for a whole day before she started calling me weird and creepy. What, she thinks she's better than me?"

He spat at her again before turning back to Sam. "You can't change, Sam," he said, his voice low and dark. "No matter how hard you try, you're still a freak inside. Even Stanford didn't change that. Even your own brother erasing your memories, couldn't change that." Although he remained silent, out of the corner of his eye Sam saw Dean react physically, jerking his head, his stance surging forward even though his feet never left their spot.

Sam turned back to the raging shifter and sighed to himself.

"Just because you don't fit in with what other people consider normal, they act like you aren't even worth the time of day! Like you aren't even worth the shoes you walk in! And they just go around, thinking whatever they want, not even realizing just how heartless and cruel they consider their own fellow human beings!"

"People are so mean," Sam agreed, shaking his head slowly.

"Man, you're really desperate for company, aren't you?" Dean asked. Sam was so glad he was there beside him. "I guess even a freak with no redeeming qualities needs someone to talk to, huh?"

Sam pressed his lips together and cocked an eyebrow. "No, I think he's just trying to get me to feel sorry for him," he said. He smirked dryly. "And he's getting really upset because he knows it's not working."

George reacted just as Sam thought he would. His face reddened and spit started to fly as he started ranting again. "You know what it's like! Walking around knowing you're different." He spat out the last word, his eyes narrowed into focused points. "No matter what you do - whatever Dean tries to do," he added for extra ammo. "--You can't escape."

Sam looked at him levelly. "Who said I want to?" he calmly asked.

George's eyes widened. "Oh, don't kid yourself, Sam!" he yelled, his voice loud and sharp. "You're just like me! You hate it just as much as I do!"

Sam glanced slowly over at his brother. He kept the look easy and casual, even though at his end, Dean was looking tense and a little pale. "Oh, I don't know about that..." Sam mused lightly.

"Of course you do!" George cried. "I can read your mind, remember?"

"Well, you must be reading wrong then." Sam creased his forehead, frowning thoughtfully. "You know, I think you're projecting."

George stiffened for a moment, his eyes boring into Sam's. "You know what, Sam? You're just a scared little boy."

"Maybe—No, wait, you're right," Sam quickly amended. "I do get scared sometimes. But that just tells me I'm normal. That I have people I care and worry about, that I haven't gone over the edge yet."

"But you flirt with that edge. And sometimes you cross it," George fought back snidely. "You know what that darkness is on the other side. You can taste its heat, you can feel its icy grip—admit it, it touches you just like it touches me."

Sam shook his head. "No," he said coolly. "Our darkness is different. I might be a freak, but I'm not sick, not like you. I'd never torture and kill anyone, just because I couldn't handle a little name-calling."

"Shut up!" George screamed at him. "Goddammit, shut UP! It's more than that, Sam! My life—everything about it was torture! Even my own damned parents looked at me weird!" Sam raised an eyebrow, watching as tears started to shimmer in the shifter's eyes as his cheeks burned red and a vein throbbed near his hairline. "Goddamn torture!" he shouted again, his voice breaking. "They all think they're so much better, with their happy little lives that don't mean a goddamn thing!"

"So you're a bitter son-of-a-bitch psycho, we get it," Dean said with a roll of his eyes. "You honestly think we're going to let you go?"

George rounded on him. "They deserved what they got!" he screamed.

"That's funny," Dean shot back with a smirk, not missing a beat. "Because we're here to give you what you deserve."

"That's a riot, coming from you!" George spat at him, laughing harshly, even insanely. "Sam knows how hard it is to be a freak, but you—you know how much it aches when people abandon you the moment you need them the most. You know personally just how far a person will go when their own loved ones--"

Dean didn't let him finish, cutting him off with snarled words, and though Sam didn't know exactly what he was talking about, the shifter undoubtedly did. "Did your mother cry for you before you slit her throat?"

George reacted instantly, leaping forward with an enraged yell. He raised his gun into the air, not to shoot, but to strike him. Dean started to duck, almost cringing out of the way.

And not even a split second after George made his move, Sam squeezed the trigger. His aim was true, his reflexes were sharp, and his hands confident and ready.

But the gun clicked hollowly.

Sam tried again, and again. Each click vibrated straight through his heart. A sick feeling started to blossom at the bottom of his gut.

Yet, fortunately, the gun managed to stop George in his tracks. The instant the empty sound echoed through the room, the shifter halted, his arm frozen in mid-swing before he spun to face Sam. By the time he finished the movement, a wide, evil grin had completely replaced the outraged scowl.

"What did you think, Sam?" he asked with a snicker. "That I'd carry a weapon loaded with the only thing that could kill me?" His eyebrows went up into his forehead, and he tilted his head gleefully.

His heart hammering, Sam clutched the empty gun in his hands, but just as he started to pull his arm back, George was already gesturing with his .45. "You're not actually going to throw that at me, are you?" He started to laugh. "God, that was fun. You should see the way your nostrils are flaring!" He let out a long breath. "Whew! Thank God for that, I think I needed a little levity." He winked at Sam.

Sam suddenly wanted to scream at him, call him names and fill his chest with silver. But he'd just been denied that opportunity.

He couldn't believe he'd let himself get tricked—and this time should have been more obvious than back at the asylum, when Dean pulled the same thing.

"Sucks, doesn't it?" George asked him. "Thrown back into a hunt that wasn't even yours. And now look at you – you're stuck with a gun that's unloaded, and Dean's might as well be, as good as it'll do him."

Sam opened his mouth to respond, to argue with him, to show he really wasn't worried, even though the thoughts running through his head would betray him. But then he was distracted by movement out of the corner of his eye.

And just as he turned to it, a scream ripped through the air.

"Alice," Sam gasped. But even as he spoke, he saw George swing around towards her.

"You goddamn bitch!" he screamed. Sam saw the gun in his hand, and he froze for a panicked moment when he recognized his actions.

Whether he felt it or saw it, Sam knew Dean was already reacting. That was enough to spur Sam into action. On instinct, he understood that Dean, closer to the shifter, would disable George, and Sam would take care of Alice.

He dove forward, throwing himself between Alice and the gun to knock the woman back to the ground.

Three shots rang out. They happened in such quick succession Sam wasn't sure which one caused his right shoulder to explode with pain. Unable to stop his momentum, he fell to the ground on top of Alice, landing awkwardly on his side.

The entire scene lasted only an instant.

Sam quickly rolled over, his vision almost disappearing, and saw George standing over him. Two spots of blood were quickly expanding across his chest.

A weak look of betrayal had twisted his face. "You said they had to be silver..." he complained, his voice already slurring. And then he fell to his knees before collapsing completely.

"We were wrong," Dean told his body matter-of-factly.

Sam watched with dim fascination as George's hairline suddenly receded and his nose grew twice its size. Even his bulk disappeared as wiry muscles slimmed away to mostly flab. Without his mind to project his modified image of himself, they saw his real body. He wasn't a true shifter, Sam realized. Just a guy who developed his psychic powers into something more.

"How about that..." Sam whispered.

Dean jerked at his voice, flicking widening eyes down at Sam still on the ground, and Sam could see the blood drain from his face. "Oh, Jesus, Sam!" he gasped hoarsely, rushing forward.

Sam grunted as he felt Alice underneath and behind him slowly try to disentangle herself from his unresponsive limbs. Dean dropped to his knees beside him, his face stricken as he reached out for him. His hands gripped Sam's shoulders firmly, holding him steady as the woman slid out. "Sam—Sam—Are you okay?" he demanded unevenly as his eyes searched Sam's body. "Goddammit."

"Is it really that bad?" Sam asked, wincing because his voice came out more raspy than he intended.

"No, no, of course not," Dean rushed to assure him. "You just have a frickin' hole in the middle of your body."

Your bedside manner sucks, Sam wanted to tell him.

"I'll—I'll call 9-1-1!" Alice said frantically somewhere above Sam. Her shadow quickly passed over him, and he knew she had run out of the room in search of a phone.

"Jesus, Sam, what were you thinking!" Dean cried the moment she left. Sam felt the fabric across his chest move, and he knew Dean was trying to get a better look at his injury. Sam bit his cheek, trying not to gasp at the prodding fingers. He didn't think the bullet had hit a lung, but then again, would he know? He felt fine though, didn't he?Just...weird.

"Dean," he said. "What George said back there—what I said—you need to know-"

"Shush, Sam, I don't even know what you're rambling about," Dean told him in a rush of words as he worked frantically above him.

Sam shook his head stubbornly, refusing to be dismissed. "About why I came back," he got out. Dean tore his gaze from hisinjury toglance at him.

"Oh. That,"he replied, pressing his hands down on Sam's chest. "Yeah, I wasn't paying attention."

Sam almost surged up, but Dean held him down. "What?" he bit out, incredulous.

Dean shrugged defensively. "Yeah, well, while the shifter was busy reading your mind, I was trying to think of a way out of the mess."

Sam went limp, his head rolling back so that it stared up at the ceiling. He almost laughed, but he didn't think his chest would let him.

"Hey! Al-Alice?" Dean shouted, his tone both urgent and uncertain as he called out for the woman he'd never been introduced to. When his call wasn't answered, he looked back down at Sam, his eyes shining. "Sam, I need...I need to get some towels," he said, and he stood up jerkily.

His hands were shiny and red, Sam noticed as his eyes followed Dean. He realized suddenly that blood was really a pretty shade of red, colorful and bright. Unless there was too much of it, he amended to himself - then it started to look black, even menacing. His undershirt probably looked black.

Just as Dean started to backtrack towards the door, Sam stopped him. "I wasn't going to leave," he said.

"Huh?" Dean stammered, freezing in his tracks. "Sam, shhhh, I'll be right ba-"

But then there was another presence in the room, and Sam knew Alice had come back. He didn't turn to her, but Dean did. "Quick," he shouted at her. "I need towe-"

The end of his command was clipped, and then Sam saw a flash of fuzzy white before that heavy pressure was pressed back onto his chest. Alice had already brought towels, Sam thought with relief, and that meant Dean didn't have to leave him.

Sam wished Alice would leave though, but he couldn't draw up enough energy to ask her. But it was only fair, he realized dimly, since he'd already overheard George as he humiliated her with those personal, private insults.

Sam looked up at Dean's blurry form as he hovered over him. "I just wanted you to know," Sam told him. "I wasn't going to leave."

"No, I'm sure you spent the night at the bus station for kicks," Dean soothed, and only he could fit sarcasm into that cooing tone. Sam opened his mouth, but Dean saw and stopped him. "Shh, it's all right, Sam. Just don't talk, okay?"

Sam shook his head tightly, determined to finish. "No, I mean, that night in Idaho." His throat was closing on him and it felt as if he were talking through the roof of his mouth. "I wasn't going to leave you."

"Sam-" Dean warned.

"You messed up, Dean," Sam told him, feeling his voice fade. "You messed up."

"Sam, shut up!" his brother threw at him, his voice sounding almost like a shout to Sam's ears. "Goddammit, just shut up already!"

"I just-" Sam started, but Dean cut him off instantly.

"No, Sam, stop it! All right?" His voice trembled from some emotion, but Sam couldn't work it out. "Look—I'll talk, okay?" he continued in a rush, his eyes forcing Sam to focus on him. "You can yell at me later, but for now--I'll do the talking, and you just stay there and not let yourself die. You got it?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Dean's expression stopped him. So he nodded instead and found himself relaxing, not even realizing his body had been tensed.

"Sam, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, and I don't know how..."

Sam closed his eyes slowly and let Dean's voice wash over him. He heard some of his words, bits and phrases, or maybe he heard all of them but his brain chopped them up, too lazy to string them together.

"I missed you—maybe even worse than the first time you left for Stanford...I did this to you, to me...And then when Dad..."

But Sam heard his tone, heard the rise and fall in his inflection. He recognized the different emotions that colored his voice, though he didn't bother to identify them. Dean was talking, Sam realized. Dean was actually talking, was spilling his guts to Sam--and to Alice, but even the stranger's presence didn't stop him.

It really did feel good to let himself go, to feel like he was sinking into the carpet below him. The pain in his chest was fading, or moving away from him, and if he kept his breaths shallow, it didn't hurt as much. Alice was somewhere around, still talking to 9-1-1 it sounded like, pacing the room and still breathing. The monster of the week was dead. And Dean – Dean-his-brother, not Dean-as-John, or Dean-the-murderer, or Dean-the-weird-stalker-guy, but Dean-his-brother – was at his side, talking to him and saying things Sam wanted to hear—although Sam knew he'd ask Dean to repeat himself, later, when Sam could listen and respond and tell him things he needed to tell him.

But for now, Sam knew he was okay, and as he listened to his brother'svoice, he let that darkness at the edge of his consciousness flood intohis mind until he knew nothing else.

To be continued...

Okay fellas, only one (mostly unwritten) chapter left.

Please review!