A/N: Thanks to everyone for all the reviews! Greatly appreciated, every single one! And I should warn people that I'm Australian and that I've tried to change Aussie language into American. The key word there is TRIED…lol…I've used carport and I don't know if that's right, I tried to use carpark (which is what we Aus people say) and the computer said a big fat no no and came up with carport instead…so I hope the computer's right. :D Anyway, thanks again for the reviews, they were all very lovely and I tried to reply to people, not all but a majority!

oOoOoOo

Dean spent the next few days in what he later believed to be numb shock. His daily exercise routine was sitting and standing continually, as though testing his strength. He would walk paces in his cramped hospital room, strengthening his leg muscles. It wasn't as though he couldn't walk; it was just that he hadn't taken a walk in such a long time; it was as though he had almost forgotten the feeling. He soon realised that he had been initially right about the illness, it couldn't keep him down. He was able to do all the things he would have normally done otherwise. He could walk without assistance. He could run. He could lift heavy things. He could do it all and he did, just more slowly and more carefully, more wearily.

The pamphlet colourfully titled 'So You're Tired?' remained on the floor by Dean's bed where he had thrown it heatedly. Any attempt to pick it up was defeated when Dean barked out to the perpetrator to leave it where it lay. It disturbed both Sam and John greatly when Dean would throw angry glances at the coloured paper at the most random of times. It was only after the many psychologists' visits that seemed to lead to nowhere, did Dean stand from his bed and bend down to pick it up, his hand shaking slightly as he stumbled back to his bed and sat down upon it.

"'Have you got Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?'" Dean read aloud, rechecking the room, making sure he was alone. "'Well, you're in luck,'" Dean snorted at this, but read on. "'Because this booklet it just for you.' I must be so lucky," he drawled, turning the page and staring at a picture of a young woman smiling up at him.

Squinting his eyes against the sunlight filtering in through his hospital window, Dean speed read through the symptoms that was already explained to him by Barton, nothing he hadn't heard before. His eyes suddenly fell onto bold, black lettering that read 'Where Will I Be In Ten Years?' It took a lot of effort, but Dean swallowed and brought his eyes down to the small print underneath.

"'Individual's conditions may vary over time,'" he muttered, his finger following the words. "'It is possible that their condition may worsen or even improve, depending on the lifestyle they lead.'"

Dean read and reread the small passage again, not knowing what to make of it.

oOoOoOo

On the last morning of Dean's stay in the hospital, Barton made a quick visit, checking out Dean's chest and head wounds as well as going through with Dean what he believed would help him on his way to managing the illness. He talked about support groups and special kinds of hospitals. He went through with Dean what he could do to relieve muscles ache, something, he said, which was much easier than taking medication. But on hearing that Barton's idea of exercise included an hour long session of Yoga, Dean had intervened by claiming that Yoga was intended for men with no sexual arousals. But the most devastating part of the conversation was when Dean asked about hunting-the normal kind of hunting-not that it'll matter anyway.

"Bird hunting, yes," Barton had replied with a sombre expression. "Bear hunting, unadvisable."

Dean had replied with a 'huh' and withdrew himself. He couldn't begin to describe to the doctor what kind of a bear he was intending to hunt.

Going against a demon was going to be hard work. Going against a bear? That was just a joke. His father and brother didn't need to know what Barton thought he could or couldn't do. It wasn't up to him. It wasn't up to them. He knew his own strength, he knew his limits.

"You ready?"

The loud voice at the door brought Dean from his thoughts and his head snapped up to see his father stride forwards. Dean stood to meet him from his position on a lone chair by his packed duffel bag. Shrugging his leather coat tightly around himself, as a sudden cold drift met him; he bent down to pick up his bag.

"Let's go," he said firmly, only giving his father a small smile before striding quickly past his made bed and towards the open door.

"Wait," John grabbed him by the wrist and forcibly turned him around. "About the Impala…"

Dean swallowed. He had carefully been trying to avoid the subject of his beloved car. He knew what must have happened to the black beauty, but to hear it aloud would just be the icing of a perfectly screwed up cake.

"Yeah, I know," Dean muttered, feeling his duffel bag somehow gain an incredible amount of weight. "Totalled, right?"

John nodded dismally. "Yeah, sorry son," he replied, but almost instantly, a grin began to play on his lips. "But when I got out of the hospital a while back I took it down to the mechanics, see what he could do…" He paused as he watched Dean's face lighten in an anticipation John knew he couldn't deny.

"And?" Dean encouraged.

"And the old girl is nearly good as new," John laughed, watching Dean smile, the first real smile he had given in days. "Another week should do it, maybe two and she's yours again. It's not going to be on the road straight away, so I thought that maybe we could save some money and you go ahead and work on it yourself."

Dean's bottom lip effectively reached the floor as he gaped at his father. "Aw, man," he breathed, dropping his duffel bag on the floor and wrapping his arms around his father, encasing him in a tight hug. "Thanks, dad."

John patted his son's back almost awkwardly before he felt Dean let go.

"Finally something is going right," Dean said happily, running a hand through his hair as though trying to soothe his racing mind.

John nodded his agreement. Yes, he thought. Something was finally going right.

"Sam's checking you out now," was what John said. "And he's picking up your prescription from Barton personally."

Dean raised an eyebrow as he slowly bent down to lift his duffel bag again. "Handing in those papers, right?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"That one will be one hell of a lawyer," John grumbled, and Dean couldn't help but agree, even if he silently wished otherwise.

They walked silently out of the hospital room, making a slow progress, due to Dean's still somewhat unsteady legs, down to the ground floor. They took a quiet ride down the elevator, accompanied by an elderly man in a wheelchair and a nurse that kept firing Dean smiles, then instantly blushing furiously. When they did reach the ground floor, however, it was to meet Sam rushing up to them, a great smile on his face and a bulky wad of cash in the hand which was not clutching onto his cane. Upon seeing the money being waved around ostentatiously, John hurried towards his youngest, hitting him on the head once he reached the youngest Winchester.

"What are you thinking Sam?" he asked, grabbing the cash and shoving it into his pocket. "You want people to think you've robbed a bank?"

Sam snorted, but otherwise remained silent, his face tinged pink.

"You didn't complain, did you?" Dean asked warily, narrowing his eyes, referring to Sam's earlier intention to file a complaint against Arden.

Sam shook his head. "No," he said truthfully. "I was going to, though, then they handed me two hundred for finding out a criminal."

"Half of that is rightfully mine," Dean objected. "I spent over a month in hospital being probed by a man that hadn't even seen a toe before."

John grunted and started off to the exit, his sons trailing behind. "You were hardly being probed," he drawled. "Sammy, did you get Dean's script?" he asked as the three stepped into the brilliant afternoon sunlight and started walking through the carport.

Sam patted the pocket of his jeans and a crinkled noise sounded out to them. "Yeah," he said. "We can stop at the pharmacy, if you like."

"That's probably the be-"

Dean cleared his throat loudly. "I'm still here," he said angrily as he spotted John's pickup, whole tyres and all, parked snugly between a sports car and a van. "You can talk to me, you know. I'm not unapproachable."

Sam laughed. "I beg to differ."

"I'm serious here, Sammy," Dean said heatedly. "I have something that's not going away, but that doesn't make me any different," he chose to ignore John's smirk as they reached the pickup. "So, if you decide to try and pamper me, you're going to be very sorry."

"Was that a threat?" Sam asked, taking Dean's bag and throwing it in the back, along with his own cane.

John cleared his throat, an eyebrow raised. "Are we ready princesses?" he asked, pulling open the driver's seat door and jumping in.

Dean motioned for Sam to enter the pickup and when the youngest did just that, Dean slid in after him, sighing heavily.

oOoOoOo

An hour later, Dean sat in between his father and younger brother in the pickup as he held a pharmacy bag in his lap.

"So where is this motel?" Dean asked, stifling a yawn and moving his feet around to avoid possible stiffness.

"Across town," John replied, gripping the steering wheel tightly as he glanced at his eldest.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Why so far away?" he asked confusedly.

"It was the only motel we could find with three single beds in a room," Sam replied simply.

Dean's face reddened. "Uh," was all he managed, trying desperately to sink into the back of his seat.

Clearing his throat loudly, Dean brought himself to thoughts that he had been dwelling upon, but had never voiced till that moment. "So, what happened to the Colt?" he asked almost conversationally, shoving Sam's arm aside so he had more room. "It was locked in the trunk right?"

Sam nodded. "Right," he agreed.

Dean waited for an elaboration, but when none came, he turned on his younger brother. "And?" he asked impatiently. "You can't just stop there, dude."

John sighed as he turned a corner and set off down a desolate road. "The Colt was with all the other weaponry. When we were basically demolished by that son-of-a-bitch, it took Bobby less time to get his ass to us than the cops."

Dean furrowed his brow. "How the hell did he manage that?" he asked, turning back towards his father. "Was he following us or something?"

John laughed. "Bobby's a bit too lazy for the whole under cover stalker thing," he chuckled. "No. Word gets out pretty fast when you're a hunter. He grabbed the guns and the Colt and ran off."

"He left us there?" Dean demanded angrily.

"He pulled us out first," Sam explained, cricking his neck. "Left us on the ground for the paramedics and took off."

"Couldn't blame him really," John muttered, but his voice was dark. "How can you take three bloodied bodies to the hospital and avoid dodgy questions?"

Dean shrugged, but stopped instantly when he realised that would send him through courses of pain.

"But did you get it off Bobby?" Dean asked.

"Sure," Sam replied, blinking furiously as the afternoon sun suddenly shined directly into his eyes through the windshield. "And the rest. He was a bit reluctant at first, though."

"A bit reluctant is an understatement," John growled before squinting out the window. "Ah, finally we're here."

Dean squinted out the window and spotted a small motel sitting on a sparse piece of land. It was nothing flashy, but then again, none of the motels they had ever spent a night in were.

"What about the truck driver?" Dean's questioning continued relentlessly.

"On trial, the poor bastard," John said, pulling into the motel and parking. "Tried to get him off, but apparently road rage is out of our hands."

"Hm," Dean replied, staring straight ahead, out the window and towards the motel room John had parked the pickup in front of. His mind raced through the many times he, Sam and John had shared a motel room together. It seemed like such a long time ago. In the earlier days, they had started sleeping in the one room, Sam and Dean sharing a bed when they were without the realisation that how they slept would be considered a big no-no in the school grounds. As they grew, they either started renting two rooms, either Dean sharing with Sam or John sharing with Sam, or they rented the one room, with one of the Winchester boys, usually Dean, camping out on the floor. On good days, nights would begin with an action packed movie, lots of laughs and good times to be remembered. On bad days, nights would begin with the upset stomach, with the puke and blood and occasionally, the slip into unconsciousness. But, despite the negatives, the positives always conquered, leaving Dean wanting more with each new year. It was fun to him. He didn't need a push-up bra wife or snotty kids running around the place to say that he had a family of his own, that he had a home to go to each day. In reality, John and Sam were his family; they were the home he went to each day. That was Dean's reality, right up to the day it was shattered with a one page letter. Dean's reality was shattered the day Sam's face lit into one of the truest smiles Dean ever remembered on his face.

"Goddamit, Dean!" John's growl snapped Dean from his thoughts and he found himself alone in the pickup.

Dean watched from the windshield as Sam opened the door to the motel room and stepped in. Turning his head to the side, Dean found his father glaring up at him from the outside, waving a hand in front of him.

"Huh?" Dean grunted.

"Get the hell out of the pickup, you fool," John barked, his right hand occupied by Dean's duffel bag.

"Right," Dean mumbled, wondering how he could have missed both his brother and father exiting the pickup and leaving him inside with just the pharmacy bag for company.

Lowering himself gently to the ground, he shot his father an annoyed look before heading towards the motel room.

oOoOoOo

"Tomorrow afternoon," Sam announced from his position on the bed.

Dean looked over at him warily. "Tomorrow afternoon what?" he asked, ignoring the clicking and clacking of guns as John sat on his own bed, running through their pile of weaponry they had retrieved from Bobby.

"Tomorrow afternoon I get to go back to the hospital," Sam replied sourly.

"Hoorah for you," John replied, taking out bullets from a rifle.

"What for?" Dean asked worriedly, but grabbing the remote for the TV, more as a distraction than anything.

"Physio," Sam replied, patting his stiff leg half-heartedly. "It's a lot better than it used to be, I'll tell you, but it still needs work. They think that maybe in a week's time it'll be alright. And I'm finally gonna be able to take this thing off," he pointed to the bandage on his head with a sour expression. "Maybe people will stop giving me pitying looks now."

Dean smiled. "That's great."

"Yeah, you better be doing some damn progress," John hollered. "I want to get a move on with the demon hunting thing, or have you forgotten?"

Dean snorted and turned towards the TV, pressing the button on the remote control, bringing the television to life. At once, a woman with a large smile and white-blonde hair appeared on the screen, enthusiastically chatting about a show dog.

"Is it six already?" Sam asked, glancing at his watch and back at the TV absently. "Huh."

Dean moved stiffly on his bed so that he was lying upon it. He tried to ignore the ache coursing through his body and the way he had to swallow too many times than normal to try and moisten his throat. He tried to ignore the way his eyes felt too heavy for his lids and the way his forehead prickled uncomfortably. Instead, he focused on the smiling woman on the TV screen, her too white teeth almost urging Dean to pick up a toothbrush. He tried to focus on her energy as she spoke about a man who invented some sort of vaccine for something or other. He almost envied the way she nodded and laughed to the weatherman without wincing, without crying out in pain.

"Bobby's coming over tomorrow," John announced, not meeting his sons in the eye.

"Dad, tomorrow afternoon I need a lift to the hospital," Sam objected. "You don't expect me to drive with this leg, do you?"

John shrugged. "Take a bus," he suggested absently. "I'm not leaving Bobby here alone, he'd probably steal something. And he hates the hospital."

Dean propped himself on his elbows. "I'll take Sammy," he offered. "I'll drive him to the hospital."

John glanced over at Dean, looking him over, assessing him, Dean realised. It made Dean uncomfortable and his first instinct was to turn away, but he had learnt too much from Sammy in the past year to repeat himself, so he stared his father in the eye, unwavering.

"If you think you're up to it, then by all means," John said, turning back to his guns.

Dean grinned broadly, content with our things were turning out for him as far, but his bliss was short-lived, however, when he turned back to the TV screen and was met with an all too familiar face.

Blonde hair and smiling up at him from a still photograph, someone he thought he would never have to meet again, stared straight up at him. Grabbing at the remote and turning up the volume at a level that made John bark for Dean to turn it back down again, Dean watched soundlessly as Meg Masters was introduced to the world, but not for the first time, as it were.

"The body of the young man and woman found dead just last month have finally been identified," the newsreader now had a sombre expression, any traces of a smile extinct. "Family from both individuals have come forward to identify the bodies. The woman was identified as twenty-four year old Meg Masters, a college student who was reported missing over six months ago."

The newsreader's face was replaced by Dean's second victim and he suddenly realised, with impending guilt, that he had never discovered the name of the young man he had killed, the same young man that stared, almost hatefully, up at him.

But before he could blink a second time, the newsreader's face was back. "The twenty-nine year old man was identified as Eric McLaughlin. The police released this statement earlier today."

Dean felt Sam move onto the bed next to him and make a stealthy move towards the remote still clutched in Dean's hand, but Dean would have none of that and moved his hand as far as possible away from Sam.

On the television screen, a stout policeman with greying hair and a bushy moustache stood behind a podium, lights flashing in the background signalled the presence of photographers. When the policeman twitched his lips, his moustache wiggling along, Dean couldn't help but be reminded of the Monopoly Man.

"The murders of the two individuals earlier last month are, at the moment, being investigated," the policeman began. "As far, there is no immediate connection between the two murders. Both individuals come from different backgrounds, different neighbourhoods, and different states. They didn't know each other and they hadn't interacted in any way, as far as we can tell. Their murders were in two different states and the murderers used two different instruments for the killings. As I said, there is no immediate connection," the policeman paused, grimacing into the camera. "And the only connection I believe there possibly could be is the fact that these are horrific killings, made by a truly disturbed character. I have no doubt in believing that we will catch this person. We will get justice, and the families will have some peace."

The newswoman's grim expression was back on screen, passionately agreeing with the policeman that, yes, the murderer-Dean-was a truly disturbed character. Feeling a lump in his throat he knew shouldn't be there, Dean let Sam successfully snatch the remote from his clutched hand and switch off the television. The silence in the room was almost deafening and Dean suddenly realised the clacking of his father's guns had stopped. Feeling two pairs of eyes on him, he cleared his throat and forced his eyes away from the TV, standing up and muttering something about a shower. Stumbling into the bathroom and locking the door behind him before another word was spoken, Dean tried to ignore the images entering his mind. He saw Meg, head down, tied to the chair, blood dripping slowly from her mouth. He saw her eyes look up at him lifelessly as she lay dead on the floor. He saw the bullet enter the young man's head and he saw the blood splatter everywhere, almost slowly, in a dramatic affect. He saw the young man hit the ground and lie in his own blood; his head wound dripping blood every second. Dean could almost hear as each splatter of blood hit the ground…

Splat

Splat

Splat

Dean stared around the bathroom helplessly, hearing soft whispers coming from the other side of the door. He stepped towards the mirror and ignored the caressing feeling of his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat.

oOoOoOo

A/N: I don't think that about Yoga, I swear! I do Yoga myself! Lol…So what do you think?