Dean sat alone in the motel room, two beds between himself and the bath. Dean paid extra, had been paying extra for a solid year, because he couldn't stand the thought of spending the night in a room with a single bed. It was bad enough that the passenger seat of the Impala had grown cold, he couldn't bear such loneliness at night too. At least if there was an extra bed, Dean could tell himself that Sammy was just out somewhere, that he'd be back soon. Maybe his little brother was on a food run. Or maybe he was out walking off a fight they'd had. He'd done a lot of that toward the end.

Sam was here. Dean could feel him. He was here, in this town, and close. His eyes fell to his weapons bag. Every gun, every knife was in prime shape - clean, sharp - just like Dean needed it to be. This was too important to mess up. This was Sam. And though sleep and Dean Winchester weren't exactly on speaking terms these days, Dean stripped down to his shorts and lay down anyway. He lay on his back, and when that got tiresome, he turned and faced the wall, studiously avoiding looking at the cold and empty bed across the way.

Sam's bed.

His dreams, when he could remember them, featured various incarnations of his brother. At one time, they'd echoed the past, sending a pre-teen Sammy to him in the wee hours of those cold motel mornings. He'd dream about reading to Sam, or passing Sam in the hallway at school, or looking across the seat and razzing Sam, making him either laugh or bitchface - it was always a crap shoot. Those dreams were of normal things, but they were worse because when Dean woke up, he was left with an agonizingly empty ache where his heart should have been.

But ever since Columbus, since he'd met the girl's grandfather and agreed to hunt his little brother, Dean's dreams had changed. Now Sam was always in peril, calling out for Dean to save him. Sometimes he teetered at the brink of a cliff, nothing below him but an endless fall. The girl's grandfather was there, one hand on Sam's chest, and it was Dean's job to reach Sam before the grieving man pushed.

And Dean would try. He'd dart forward only to be slowed by the ground beneath him that sucked at his boots like quicksand. And every time, he'd slog determinedly forward, leaning into the wind that buffeted his brother along the cliff's edge and threatened to propel him over before Dean could reach him and yank him to safety.

He never made it in time. Not even once.

Instead he was always left with the echo of Sam's terrified cry as he went over. And then suddenly, the ground would release him, and Dean would pelt forward to the rock's edge and look over. And Sam would be there, falling, the ground that had been so far below suddenly rising up to meet him. The two would collide with a sickening, sucking sound and Sam's body would explode, showering blood and bits upward in an arc to cover Dean in a gory red sheet.

Dean would wake screaming on those nights, but still, they were better than the nights of good dreams. It was the good dreams of Sam as a kid or as a young man that left Dean feeling a loss not unlike amputation once he was fully awake and aware.

Dean sat up, grimacing. By the clock, it was 4 am, but he reached for his phone anyway. It rang only twice before Bobby picked up, sounding surprisingly awake and amicable for the pre-dawn hours of a weekend morning.

"Yeah?"

"Hey Bobby."

"Dean?"

"Yeah, It's me."

Silence.

"Well?"

Dean frowned, "Well, what?"

"Well who died, ya idjit? It's 4 am on a Saturday morning."

Dean smiled, "Nobody."

Silence.

"Nobody?"

"Nope."

The old hunter sighed, "Well then it's Sam, ain't it. What's he gone and done now?"

Dean swallowed hard. He hadn't shared with the class lately. And Bobby knew nothing of the old man from Columbus or his granddaughter or the fact that Sam had probably killed her in a horrendous way.

Knew nothing about Dean agreeing to hunt his baby brother.

Dean's voice was distant when he lied, "Naw. Not Sam. Just …"

Bobby waited a heartbeat, but nothing more was forthcoming. "Just what?"

"Dunno. Just wanted to hear a friendly voice, I guess."

Bobby waited, knowing. He'd gotten phone calls like this before from the boys he thought of as his own. He cleared his throat.

"You okay, boy?"

"Hunh? Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

"Where are ya?"

"Uh, Tucson."

Bobby whistled, "Hell and gone from where I left ya, aint' ya?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Why? What's in Tucson?"

Dean chewed a nail, "Oh, uh, a hunt, actually."

"What is it?"

"Demon." Dean's eyes closed as he fought to keep his voice from breaking.

A quick inhale of breath from the other end. "Damn, boy. You takin' on demons all by yourself these days?"

"Yeah, well. The band broke up, Bobby. In case you ain't heard."

Silence.

"I heard." The sound of Bobby debating, "You call him lately?"

Dean paused, "No."

Bobby sighed, exasperated. These two would be the death of him one day. "Well, do you think maybe you should?"

Dean's eyes closed again as he debated. "No, Bobby. I … I"ll be seeing him soon enough."

Silence.

"He's there? In Tucson?"

"Yeah, signs point to it."

"Signs?"

"Unexplained deaths, lightning strikes … the works pretty much."

Bobby's breath caught. "You're huntin' him?"

Dean tried to reply, but his voice suddenly betrayed him.

"Dean? You huntin' your brother?"

Dean cleared his throat. "I guess I am, Bobby. Yeah."

Bobby swore. "You idjit! How dumb can you be, Dean?"

Dean frowned. Of all the responses he'd expected from the man who'd practically raised them both, this wasn't one of them. "What?"

"What?" Bobby mocked him cruelly. "You really don't get it?"

Dean was getting pissed. "No, Bobby. I guess I don't. You wanna spell it out for me?"

"What do you think's gonna happen when you find him, Dean? When you're standing face to face with the kid you practically raised? Think you ain't gonna look him in the eye and see that 8-year-old kid lookin' back at you, begging for more of the Lucky Charms?"

Dean scowled, "Bobby …" He started, but the older man cut him off.

"Don't 'Bobby' me, Dean. I KNOW you. You huntin' Sam? Hurtin' him? Maybe killin' him? You ain't got it in you, boy. Now Sam, on the other hand ..."

"What?"

"If Sam really has gone dark side, he ain't gonna have the same reservations as you, is he?"

"What are you sayin'? You think I can't take my own kid brother in a fair fight?"

"I know you can't take him."

Dean was shocked. "Well it's good to know what you really think of me, Bobby."

"Dean, I ain't sayin' this because I think Sam's better than you or stronger than you … just …"

"Just what?"

"Just, I know you. You could never hurt Sam. You could certainly never kill him."

Dean swallowed hard, staring at the wall. "Yeah, well … Sam ain't really Sam anymore, is he?"

Silence.

"That part don't matter."

"Don't matter? What the hell, Bobby!" Dean was pissed again. They'd spent their entire lives fighting evil just like this. How dare Bobby say it didn't matter.

"It. Don't. Matter. I can't say it any plainer."

"So because it's Sam, we let him go? He gets a free pass because he was once a Winchester? We just look away and let the deaths keep on happening? He killed a girl, Bobby! He … he fucking DRANK her. She had a grandfather …"

Bobby's eyes fell closed. Dammit. He didn't need to hear this shit. Not about Sam. Not about the biggest-hearted, kindest, most puppy-eyed kid he'd ever known.

His voice, when it returned to him, was resigned. "No, Dean. It don't matter. It needs done? Fine, I'll send someone to do it. But it can't be you."

Dean's voice wavered. "It can't not be me, Bobby."

"Why?"

"It just can't, okay? It's always been just me and Sam. It … it just … I can't let just anyone … Bobby, I can't." Dean sobbed then. He couldn't help it.

Bobby's own eyes were far from dry when he spoke again. "I'll get someone we can trust, Dean. Someone who won't … won't prolong it. Someone with … humanity. Someone who knew him. Knew what a good kid he was. Garth. I'll get Garth."

Dean shook his head as though Bobby could see him. "No. Hey, I gotta go. It … it was good hearing your voice, Bobby."

"Dean! Don't you dare hang …"

Dean ended the call. He sat with the phone in his hand until tears began dripping onto the screen.

And in Sioux Falls, an old man swore and tossed a kick into a rickety kitchen chair, sending it splintering across the room.