The night edged into morning. Discussion amongst the trio was short, case driven. Sam constantly peering at Dean from over the spine of a book, or from the bathroom, or kitchenette, or any other spot he occupied in the small 400 square ft space. He chose to pretend that Dean didn't notice. There was no other way for him to cope at the moment. Everyone was sacrificing something.

Dean blanched every time he felt eyes upon him, the tension in the room shifting from concentration to failed inconspicuousness. He ignored them. His body hurt, breathing hurt, having his eyes open hurt. The more they read, the more hope was shoveled out with the complete horse shit this situation was. Bobby got food at some point for a break from it all. Truthfully, they all needed a break but Sam refused to let Dean from his sight and Dean reciprocated. Sam's visions, or 'black-outs' as he assured Dean, were not getting better. Over the last twelve hours Sam hit his knees twice. Each time, Dean's soul dropped to his feet: becoming as bruised and battered as his face. Like a syphon on his limited energy store, the episodes were contributing to Dean's exhaustion and wrapping him in a pain far worse than anything physical.

When sunlight finally started peeking through the haphazardly drawn curtains, hesitant, the only one awake was Sam. The visions were starting to bleed into his reality. Flashing images of Dean's shirt curled in his fist. Dean's blood splattered on his hand, his shirt front. The give of Dean's busted nose under each hit. Worst of all, the lifeless bob of Dean's head. Left and right, back and front. Sam would blink and be there, then blink and be in the motel. It was nauseating. Through it all, Sam was still refused any control or interference in the scene playing out before him. Always a spectator to his worst nightmare. Powerless. Dark circles smudged themselves under the young Winchester's bloodshot eyes.

They hadn't found anything. Not even a sliver of hope or redirection to indicate what Bobby relayed was errored. But they kept searching none the less because Dean needed them to. Sam needed them to. Sam knew his brother was teetering. Waiting in anticipation for the snap that would propel Dean towards taking matters into his own hands. It would be rash. Incredibly stupid. Sam knew it, Dean's 'back-up-against-the-wall' panicky decisions always were. All brass and no brains his brother. Lucky for him, and Sam, luck seemed glued to his side. But Sam doubted it could hold true through this.

Sam's eyes flicked from his brother's unconscious form to the window. Someone padded by. Oblivious and happy to start a new day. A contrite pang of jealousy stabbed Sam in the heart. He let his desire fueled thoughts tumble into the past. A bright summer day. The world free for the picking as Dean burst through a different motel room door, coffee and donuts in hand. In this memory Dean was healthy. Full of fighting life as he hollered at his younger brother something about get your lazy up. Sam smiled. He leaned his chin into his forearms which were resting on the back of the chair he was straddling. It didn't last nearly long enough. The sunny day shattered by a groan from the nearest bed. Dean wasn't healthy. That was reality. In fact, he looked worse. The bruises refusing to fade, no yellow of healing creeping in. Dean still held his sides, both of them. He limped and winced whenever he started speaking. The ashen white tone of his skin seemed to color a shade more dead with each passing hour. Sam's eyes slipped closed. A tear escaped. It felt like having an anvil on his chest, pinned to the ground with no options. Can't move it, can't change it. The weight was crushing and Sam knew he was losing grasp of his bindings, soon to spill all over the ground in a dramatic display of despair.

"Did you have another vision?" There is was. The gargled gravel sound that was simultaneously slicing Sam open and stitching him back together. Dean didn't bother to move or even open his eyes.

"Nah. Just couldn't sleep."

"The couple next door... I gotcha." Sam made a face.

"How ya feeling?"

"I swear this bitch is still working me over from the afterlife." Silence fell. Dean didn't really mean to share how crappy he felt or allude to the fact he wasn't getting better. Sam didn't mean to interpret the literal truth from the statement. But the words were said and raged their war. Time passed. Sam even thought perhaps his brother had fallen back asleep.

"Donuts. Dude."

"What?"

"Coffee and donuts."

"Uhh…"

"Wish I had some."

"I am sure we can send Bobby once he wakes up."

"Yeah…" Dean exhaled. "Sammy…"

"Dean."

"Look. You know we gotta talk about it man."

"Dean. We… I…" Sam's words tripped all over themselves. He had thought it already. All of it. Any conceivable thought or path had marched its way through Sam's head at some point over the last 3 days. We are just wasting time… could get it over with now. What are we really waiting for? There isn't any new information, isn't going to be any new information. We know the truth. Know the reality. We are lying to ourselves in hoping there will be another way. Dean is gonna take drastic action once he realizes how backed into a corner he really is. Bobby… Bobby is in an impossible situation. Maybe I should send him away…Regardless the outcome it will be bad. He doesn't need to witness it….. But I might need him to put the pieces back together if there are any left afterwards.

"Stop thinking. Your giving me a headache." Sam chuckled.

"Both ya two knuckle heads stop talking and stop thinking. Don't you know a man needs his beauty rest." Bobby grumbled. Dean sat-up, slowly.

"Well given that the party is all present..." His feet thumped down onto the floor, his elbows found his knees. It felt like there was a knife meticulously inserted between each rib. There was an iron taste worsening at the back of his throat. Not to mention tearing sensation in his midsection.

"When was your last one?"

"Eh… few hours ago. Wasn't too bad." Sam lied. Luckily, he had been headed back from the impala when that vision filleted his brain, so his cries had been lost to the gravel and dark night. Dean just shook his head lightly. Acknowledging Sam's lie and gathering strength to stand. It was shaky. Legs unsure if they could hold his weight long enough to make it to the bathroom. Pain howling up his spine and clawing through every fiber. Sam made to stand at his brother's side but Dean motioned him off. Once the bathroom door shut, Sam closed his eyes. Just for a minute…

….

Dean knew it was wrong. Knew his actions would cause more harm then good. Yet, the gas pedal remained depressed as the Impala continued creating distance between him and his family. Sam was going to go nuts. Dean hated knowing the torment he would be responsible for but the other options were worse. Sometimes you got to bite the hand that feeds ya… Or something like that. His brain wasn't operating on all cylinders. What he did know, no cure exists. No variance or unturned stone was waiting in the lore. He wouldn't let Sammy do it. Regardless the outcome, Sam carrying through with the plan Dean already knew he was formulating would break a piece of his brother. Sam is too emotional, too caring. Always has been. His heart as big as his oversized framed and this… This would fracture it. Leaving an ugly scar that Dean would have to stare in the face of everyday he looked at his littler brother knowing he was responsible. Sam would try to hide it. Would lie. Would perhaps forget, for a little while here and there but Dean never would. It wasn't happening.

Dean applied more force to the gas pedal and the Impala hurdled down the road. Surely an unruly drunk filled with a night of spirits was still at the bar… and Dean knew how to play those cards.

Day 4, only 3 left.