A/N: Not much new to preface this chapter with, but I do want to thank those of you who continue to review. ANd thanks to geminigrl11, who is the most amazing beta, who can have a busy work week, try to move, write, AND beta my stuff all at once. That's multitasking and time management at its finest. Gem, I wish for you all the happy images of JP that are needed to survive this coming week, and when all has settled, I promise we'll break out the maypole and celebrate :)

Chapter Four

"Sam."

Someone was calling him.

"Sammy, what are you doing?"

Hazily, Sam realized he was nearly asleep. He realized a beat later that he was not on a bed and that he was not in a motel room. He startled to wakefulness.

Blinking against the sun, he managed to make out the form of his brother standing warily above him.

Dean's face was obscured by sunlight, but Sam could see the cock to his head that suggested an uneasy mixture of mocking and concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said unconvincingly as he straightened.

"You know, we do get motel rooms for a reason, Sam. If you want people to think you're homeless, at least put a tin can beside you to see if we can earn a little extra cash."

Sam didn't acknowledge Dean's joke as he rubbed the tiredness from his eyes.

"I thought you were heading back to the motel."

"Yeah," Sam said, standing up uncertainly. "I was. I just--I just sat down for a minute. What are you doing here? I thought you were looking around?"

"Looked and then some, bro. It's been nearly three hours. You been sleeping on a park bench that whole time?"

Confused, Sam looked at his watch. His eyes struggled to focus on the small hands, his vision blurring and he realized he was swaying.

Dean caught his brother's arm, steadying him. "Dude, you okay?" he asked, forcing Sam to the bench again and following him down. He looked hard at his brother. Sam was more than a little off his game.

"Yeah," Sam said distantly. "Must be more tired than I thought."

Dean snorted. "That's what happens when you don't get any sleep for a few days," he said. Then he added pointedly, "And when you don't eat."

Sam ignored him, his brow creasing in concentration as a chill tickled his spine. "There's something weird about this town," Sam said.

"Yeah, they must be bored out of their minds. There's literally nothing to do here. Why couldn't the car have broken down someplace a little more…populated?"

"No, that's not what I'm talking about. Something weird weird is going on."

Dean grunted in frustration. "As long as the car's out of commission, we're on vacation, bro. I thought you wanted some time off."

"I do, it's just--I can't explain it. Something feels off here."

Dean became moderately serious. "You been having premonitions?"

Sam shook his head, squinting into the sunlight. "No. Just...vibes or something."

Dean felt relieved. Sam's premonitions had been taxing on them both, and Dean did not relish the thought of another encounter with Sam's precognitive abilities. "Well, vibe this. I found quaint little pool hall just outside of town. Looks like a good way to earn some extra cash."

Sam didn't respond; he was still staring out into the park.

"Sammy? Earth to Sam," he called, but his words fell on deaf ears. "Plus I thought we could paint your nails, put you up in drag, and bring you along to distract the crowd."

Sam shook himself. "What?"

Dean shook his head with a low chuckle. "You know, for a college boy, you sure need to work on your listening skills a little bit."

"I'm just distracted."

"Ah, yes. Since there's so much to be distracted by in a town of 4,000."

"You really don't feel it?"

"Feel what? The sound of boredom on a Saturday night?"

Sam did not respond to Dean's sarcasm. "I think we should keep asking around. About the town, not just where the hot girls are."

"Whatever, Sammy. You can do whatever research you want while I clean up tonight, okay?"

OOOOOOO

They had been in worse places.

That was about all Sam could credit to the dingy pool hall. It was called The Pit, which Sam figured was about as apt a name as any. It sat on the highway, just beyond a trailer park. The neon sign burned starkly in the night sky, illuminating the whitewashed clapboard walls of the small building. Inside, things hardly looked any better. The place was tight and cramped, packed with tables, chairs, people, and alcohol. What it lacked in character, it made up for in spirit, because the jam-packed crowd seemed excessively jubilant.

Dean had started out the night at the bar, where Sam joined him, both nursing a beer. Dean had started his second when he jumped into the pool game on the lone table. The crowd was amiable, if a little rough around the edges.

Sam had taken up a table adjacent to the pool table, and spent it straining in the dim light to peruse their father's journal. If there had ever been anything suspicious in the area, his father would have kept a record of it. But his dad's notes on Utah were sparse and nothing fit the profile Sam was looking for.

Not that he knew what he was looking for. The only concrete evidence he had of strange happenings was his own experience. The whispers. The sensations. The dog.

Or had he dreamed the dog?

He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember back to this afternoon.

Looking up, he realized that Dean was no longer at the pool table. Scanning the area, he found his brother leaned in close to a girl at the bar. His brother seemed to be in fine form tonight, soaking up the atmosphere and eliciting the positive attention of the inebriated bunch that surrounded him.

He watched for a moment, half-amused, half-aggravated at his brother's...social skills. With a shake of his head, he turned back to his notes, but his eyes refused to focus and the words blurred in front of him. Another wave of fatigue washed over him.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, then rested his forehead against his palm. Maybe it was time to call it a night.

Looking up again, he searched for his brother, who seemed to have migrated with the crowd. He finally spotted him on the other side of what looked like a bachelorette party, judging from the number of young women congregated and drinking shots. With a deep breath, he managed to stand without wavering, before weaving his way slowly through the tables. The short journey seemed to take much longer than it should have.

"Dean," he said, pulling him away from the bar.

Dean smiled at the girls briefly before allowing Sam to pull his attention away. "Dude, what do you want?"

"I think I'm going back."

Dean was winking at the girl. "Back?" he asked, looking back at Sam. "What? It's early."

"I'm just not feeling up to it tonight."

"You never feel up to it," Dean whined. He had been patient with his brother, very, very patient, and he wanted just for once for Sam to loosen up for both their sakes.

Sam looked ready to protest, but sighed instead. "Look, whatever," he said. "I'm not asking you to come. I'm just letting you know that I'm heading back."

"You sure, Sammy? I mean, come on," Dean said, nodding back toward the girls.

Sam glanced at them and recognized the one from the motel. "Let me guess: Brandi with an i."

"Close. Her name's Candy. It's short of Candace," Dean said with a devilish grin.

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "Yeah. Anyway, I'll see you later."

"Much later, little brother," Dean said, moving back toward the bar.

With one last snort of laughter, Sam watched his brother move back toward the girl.

OOOOOOO

His body felt exhausted. Sleep may have been elusive recently but genuine rest had been nearly nonexistent. It seemed that every nightmare he'd ever had was coming back to him, entering his unconsciousness with a renewed vigor.

The neighborhoods were quaint, becoming more kept up as he distanced himself from the trailer park near the bar. Rows of two story homes stretched neatly down the way, complete with picket fences and front porch swings. The upstairs windows were open to the summer night, and the sound of crickets chirping filled the stillness.

Sam had always dreamed of a home like that on a street like this. The stately houses proclaimed stability, longevity, security—traits that were the antithesis of his childhood.

Jess had lived in a neighborhood like this, in a upscale suburb of Sacramento. Her father had mowed the lawn on summer nights and her mom tended the flowers in the beds along the front walk. Part of him had never believed people really lived that way, he didn't know how they could, but Jess had let him in on that life. When he first visited, he had been nervous, tentative, scared he would break some of the perfect normalcy they seemed so immersed in. But by the end of the weekend with the Moores, he had felt himself melting into their warmth, relaxing inexplicably into the hospitality of fresh baked cookies and barbecued chicken while lounging on the back porch in the waning afternoon.

She had wanted a life like that: the house, the kids, the yard. He had wanted to give it to her. He had wanted to give her safety and security and love in all the ways she needed and wanted and deserved.

Instead he had given her lies, half-truths, and an early grave.

He turned his gaze from the houses, ceasing his musings on the people who lived there and how happy they must have been. He kept his eyes trained on the uneven pavement, just wanting to get back.

Years of hunting and being on the road had made Sam attentive, if not a little paranoid. Their father always said it was better to be safe than sorry, and as much as Sam wanted to rebel against some of the things his father forced upon him, he could not deny the validity of his self-protection techniques.

He slowed his pace, and the hairs on his neck rose.

Insects buzzed, houses settled. Nothing moved.

Sam moved ahead slowly, his senses sharp. There was something there, there had to be, because it felt too real.

A whisper of wind passed through him and he stopped cold. Whatever it was, it was close.

Betrayer.

Why, Sam?

It was behind him. Stilling his shaking, Sam fingered the gun tucked in the waistband of his pants. Usually he didn't walk around armed, but his suspicions had been strong enough that carrying it made him feel marginally safer.

Why did you betray me?

Pulling the gun, he whirled, aiming it wildly behind him.

Blackness splayed before him and he could hear the lullaby of the cicadas in the warm night. There was nothing--no other sounds, no movement in the darkness.

He let his arms relax and his aim dropped.

Whatever was going on, he knew his lack of sleep was not helping him, and that pointing guns in quiet residential neighborhoods was probably not a good way to go about figuring it out. With a half-hearted, self-deprecating chuckle, he put the gun away. I must be paranoid.

With a steadying breath, he continued his walk back at a brisker pace, his eyes more alert.

After all, his paranoia had rarely turned out to be wrong. He had written off the dreams about Jess as paranoia. Dean had tried to convince him that his vision about a car in Michigan was paranoia. He had thought that finding the cat under the car in Minnesota was paranoia. He had thought that Dean's sense about the car was paranoia.

But now Jess was dead, Max Miller had murdered his family, he had been abducted by a bunch of homicidal hillbillies, and they were stranded in the middle of nowhere with the Impala in the shop.

No, his track record did not suggest that paranoia was something he was prone to. But on his trek back to the motel, nothing leaped out of the shadows at him, and the hairs on the back of his neck stayed in place the whole way back.

When he finally got to the room, he was surprised to find how relieved he was. He shut the door behind him firmly, resisted the urge to use the chain, and leaned his back against it with a sigh. Maybe even psychics could just be paranoid.

He thought about taking a shower, but managed only to brush his teeth. He kicked off his shoes and contemplated taking off his jeans and shirt. The motel room was hot, and he suddenly realized he was sweating.

But as soon as he sat on the edge of the bed, he could not resist sinking into it.

With a sigh, he fell back onto the pillows. Tiredness weighed his limbs down and he felt the pull of sleep beckoning him. He let his eyes drift shut, and felt himself floating steadily toward oblivion.

But something tickled his senses and he jerked awake, sitting upright and staring into the darkened room.

A moment passed in stillness, no sound except the harsh breaths entering and exiting his body.

Logically convinced of his solitude, Sam let himself lay back down.

OOOOOOO

This place was familiar. The dingy, paint-peeling walls. The rusted equipment. The musty smell of decay and death.

The tang of something in his mouth, something in the air. Blood.

He blinked. He recognized the face, knew the person who lay prone in front of him. Prone but defiant.

"You hate me that much?"

Sam didn't know the answer, didn't know what to say, but could feel the gun so comfortable in his hands, his aim so certain, so close—he couldn't miss.

"Pull the trigger then."

Sam shook, feeling his resolve crumbling. He wanted to defy, wanted to disobey the order that he knew wasn't right, but the anger, the need—it was overwhelming.

The face below him turned red—all he could see was rage, anger, hatred, failure.

"Do it!"

His will broke and he obeyed. With relish. Once, twice, three times, four.

His vision cleared in time to see Dean's face again. The disappointment.

Betrayer.

He woke up to the sound of his own yell.

Panting, he trembled, the dream lingering in his mind.

He pulled the trigger. He always pulled the trigger. Why?

Sam's breathing had evened out and his heart rate had calmed, but he felt jittery and uncertain.

He couldn't do this. Not again. Please, not again.

This was a question he couldn't answer, a question he didn't want to answer, a question he couldn't even define but that demanded answers. His dreams asked it, over and over again, in different ways, but always the same question. Why, Sam?

Not sleeping was better than the dreams. With a sigh, he slid off the bed, making his way to the laptop. Turning it on, he rubbed his eyes and hunkered down, preparing for the long night ahead.