Thanks to my great Beta, msnancydrew...and a big thanks to all who read, and are so kind ot comment!

Laura

Dean ran down the steps, to the parking lot. The entire way telling himself he was wrong, he should listen to Sam, it wasn't Sam's fault, Sam had been hurt deeply too. Their father had spent Sam's whole life pushing the kid away, never letting him (either of them really) measure up, hearing him, but never listening to his words, what was in his heart. Now it looked as if Dean was going to repeat his father all over again. Like father, like son. Dean snorted, for once in his life he didn't want to be anything like his father, not when Sam was concerned.

Slamming the door to the Impala shut after him, gunning the engine to life, Dean headed to the other side of town. He'd learned his way around pretty well, knew where the good spots were. He needed a bit of time away, just to think. He wanted to get drunk, get laid and get the crap beat out of him in a good old fashioned bar room brawl. Not necessarily in that order. He needed to think this through, cool off, cool down and go back and have a civil conversation with what would probably be a very freaked out little brother.

His cell phone rang. It had taken Sam ten whole minutes, his restraint was amazing. Dean looked at it for a few seconds, before shutting off the ringer. Not yet, he couldn't do this. He needed some time, just a little time to himself.

Drunk, laid, fight. A man needed goals.

Dean had goals.

Concha drove, windows down, taking in the crisp autumn air. She loved cool weather, and snow would be coming soon. Snow was the best. Most people wanted warm and beaches. Concha wanted snow and mountains.

Her cell phone chimed. Sighing, she considered letting voice mail get it. Did that man have some sixth sense telling him she was driving and enjoying the sunshine and shouldn't be on the phone? Another ring. Apparently so. With another long suffering sigh, she answered.

"Dean! How are you on this bright, sunny day?"

"It's daaaytiime?"

Pulling the phone from her ear, she stared at it for a few beats. "Are you drunk?"

"Drunk? Naaawwww…..sweetheart I'm freaking traaashhed."

A glance at her watch, "Dean, it's one in the afternoon."

"See, I knew if I called you, you'd give me the time. I need a favor. A really big, important favor."

"What, come get you? Cause if you vomit in my car…."

Giggling came from the phone. Giggling! Dean never giggled. "Take care of Sammy for a bit for me…make sure he eats…is…."

Concha could swear she heard giggling turn to a muffled sob. "Where are you, what's wrong? Are you ok? God, you're not driving are you?"

"Twirling."

"Huh?"

"Bar stool, twirling. Will you please..."

"Hang on, hold that thought." Clicking to her second call, "Hello."

"Concha, I need help."

"Sweet Jesus," Concha remembered to pull the phone away before saying that, one was bad enough, but the two of them tag-teaming? "Sam? You ok?"

"Yes. No. I'm mean I'm not hurt or anything, no cuts or broken bones. But not really."

"Ok, hang on a minute…don't go away. One minute." She clicked to Dean. "What the hell is going on?"

"I can't… please will you look out for Sam, take care of him for a few days? I need some time."

"Are you doing something stupid? Where are you? So we can talk face to face."

"A baaarrr…and did stooped already."

Clicking to Sam, without bothering to tell Dean, "What's wrong?" Why in the name of all things holy had she ever bought a cell phone?

"Dean…I've tried finding him, called him all day yesterday. I…will you help me look?"

Not missing, twirling, in a bar. She so didn't want to be in the middle of this. "What happened? Of course I'll help you look." Back to Dean. "He's twenty-four, doesn't need a babysitter."

"Who doesn't need a babysitter?" Sam asked.

Crap, forgot to click, Concha scrunched her nose. "Hang on again, just another minute." Making sure to click to Dean this time. "Dean, you asshole, he's twenty-four, he doesn't need a babysitter. You want him watched, YOU do it." Now she was shouting. She pulled to the side of the road.

"Please." Another broken breath, smothered sob. "I can't right now, just a little time, take care of him for me. Please?"

"Dean, you're seriously scaring me."

"I'll call you in a day or so."

He was gone, the other end silent.

"Goddamn." Concha spat, slamming the phone shut. Then she rested her head against the steering wheel. "Ooooppsss…" Quickly she redialed Sam. "Hey, Sam, sorry, call got dropped or something."

"It's ok."

Concha could see him biting his lip, thought she heard a soft sniffle. "What happened?"

"We got into an argument, a really bad one. I need to know he's ok, he hates being alone. I understand if he doesn't want to talk to me, but I don't want him getting hurt…or…he really hates being alone."

Sam didn't sound too thrilled with being alone either. Concha decided they both needed a babysitter, and eight-fifty an hour just wasn't enough. "Where are you?"

"I just got home."

Sighing, "Ok, Sam I'll be there in an hour or so. Take it easy, we'll find him."

Pulling back onto the road Concha headed for the opposite side of town from the apartment the brothers shared, from Craven's house. She'd lived here for years, and it was a college town, there were only about a bazillion bars. But she knew the kind Dean liked, would gravitate to were the ones the students didn't frequent as much. And one old, black Impala couldn't be too hard to spot.

It was pathetically easy for Concha, but then again she was an excellent tracker and Dean was a piss-poor drunkard. Standing outside the place, hands on hips, glaring hatefully at the car parked in the parking lot Concha considered her options. She settled on the one she liked best. She was going to kick Dean Winchester's ass. Actually maybe she'd kick him elsewhere. Kick him so hard his grandchildren (if he could even have any after she was done) would feel it and cringe, no beg for mercy.

Stepping inside, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting she almost felt sorry for him when she saw him. He looked utterly defeated and just plain sad. Until he saw her, groaned, and dropped his head to the bar, mumbling something sounding suspiciously like 'damn woman.' Concha made her way to Dean, nodding at the sweaty guy with no teeth wearing a wife beater and sitting a few stools down from him, who was now leering at her.

"Dean," She hissed in his ear, "That guy is wearing an actual shrunken head on a chain."

Slowly turning his head, eyes following even more slowly, Dean flashed the guy a smile, slipped one arm around Concha's waist and tipped his chin up and down. "I think," he leaned forward, whispering in her ear, his breath nearly knocking her over, and certainly giving her a buzz. "It's the last person who commented on his attire and accessories."

"Where's you car keys?"

Dean shrugged. "Pocket I guess. You check on Sammy? How is he?"

"I talked to him on the phone, and I'll go there after I get you somewhere that's not a bar."

"Lady, you going to get this clown out of here?"

"Concha, this is Ted. He's the bartender here, damn fine one too." Dean's words slurred. "Ted, this is Concha." Sliding unsteadily off his stool, leaning against Concha he started patting his pockets.

Concha smiled at Ted. "Keys Dean, now."

"Got 'em somewhere. Not leaving my car."

"Either you give them to me, or I'll dig around and take them myself, and you won't enjoy it." Concha snapped. Ted winced.

"You're a bossy little bitch some days, you know that?"

Concha let go her hold on Dean, and stepped back. He teetered precariously for a second or two, then stumbled and fell over the stool, slumping against the bar. He scratched at the back of his head, gave her a half-hearted grin.

"You're a jackass!"

"Yeah, I deserved that."

Ted cleared his throat and jangled something. Concha turned her attention to him, focusing immediately on the keys dangling from his finger. Seems she was spared the trauma of having to molest a very drunk Dean Winchester to get his keys.

"Took them away yesterday. The only thing he did in that car last night was sleep."

Snatching the keys in her hand, Concha smiled gratefully at him. 'You are my new best friend. Thank you so much."

"Take my car." Dean grumbled again.

"And what? I'm supposed to leave mine here?"

He looked at her, concentrating as if she'd asked him the meaning of life or something. Nodding slowly he said, "Yes."

"I'll look after it for you, what car is it, your plate number?" Ted was turning into a very helpful guy.

"The green Jeep Liberty…"

"My car is a classic." Dean slurred.

"Shut up." Concha turned back to Ted. "I'll get back here today to get it. Wyoming plates.

Dean fumbled with his cell phone, "I have a hundred and seven missed calls." It vibrated…."a hundred and eight." He hiccupped.

Concha's phone, as if in cahoots with Dean's chimed happily. Concha groaned, flipped it open and answered. "Does this call involve broken bones, flood, fire or nuclear war?"

"Is that Sam, lemme talk to him." Dean reached for the phone, missing by a foot or two.

Concha twisted, elbowed his middle, stepped on his foot and shoved him away. "No? Good. I'll be there in a bit." She snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into her pocket. Turning to Dean she snarled, "You had a hundred and eight chances." Reaching down Concha grabbed Dean's arm, hauling on it. He lurched unsteadily to his feet, letting his arm be dropped around her shoulder.

"Don't be mean to Sammy, it's not his fault, it's mine." He paused when Concha wheeled him around, "Really it's my Dad's."

"Yeah, hold that thought till you sober up." She heard, and then felt Dean sniffing her neck. "What are you doing?" Shoving his face away.

"You smell nice."

Concha stopped long enough to kick the door open, she gave him a seriously incredulous look. "You don't."

"Will you take care of Sammy?"

"You want Sammy taken care of go do it yourself." She opened the passenger side of the Impala, shoved him in, not bothering to stop him from hitting his head.

"I get to call him Sammy. And he wouldn't have let me hit my head." Dean groused.

"No, I expect not. Sam would have probably knocked you cold and dragged your ass out here."

"Probably." Dean agreed happily, and then passed out, blissfully silent. Well mostly silent, he snored the entire drive.

Concha stopped the car behind Craven's house. Wrestling a mostly comatose, still pretty drunk Dean out of the car was even more fun and adventure than wrestling him in the car had been. She briefly considered driving him back to the apartment and leaving him to Sam. They both deserved each other. In the end she decided that would be mean. Besides getting Dean up the flight of stairs would probably be impossible. If she hadn't had telekinesis to call on, getting Dean in the house would have never happened. Mostly she had to steer, not really support his fairly considerable weight.

"Craven!" She shouted as the door swung shut behind her.

Dean grumbled something about her being screechy and a girl to which she replied she was a girl and he'd better shut up.

"Oh my." Craven appeared a few feet in front of her. "Is he…"

"Drunk off his ass."

"It's only two in the afternoon."

"Awww great the ghost tells time too. Thanks buddy."

"Ok if I leave him in there?" Concha's chin jerked at a small bedroom off the back hall, near the kitchen. Craven nodded. Shoving Dean along through the door, and toward the bed she gave him one last, hearty push which sent him sprawling on the bed. "Stay there, sleep it off."

"You're going to leave him with the boots and clothes on?" Craven asked, looking a bit surprised.

"Yes." Concha hissed out, making Craven flicker. She pulled the door shut. "Make sure he stays here till he's all sobered up."

"I should do what if he wants to leave, tackle him?"

Concha faced Craven fully, hands on hips. "I know you can keep him here. I don't care what he does when he's sober, but I don't want him driving around like this." She dropped the keys on the kitchen counter as she walked through, heading to the door. "I have to go get my car, then I'll go see what's up with Sam. If he's drunk you get him too, and I'm leaving town."

Craven barked a short laugh. "I didn't realize that was part of the deal." He looked back at the door, guilt crossing his face. "This is my fault."

"Why?" This brought Concha to a stop. "Did you hold him down and pour the alcohol down his throat?"

"It has something to do with the troll I sent them after. I have a feeling I know what it wanted, the question Sam answered has to do with. If I'd known, I should have researched further. I wouldn't have…"

"Oh, come on how could you know? No amount of research is going to reveal someone's feelings, which is what the troll focuses on, isn't it?"

"I suppose." Craven sighed.

"Anyway if Dean was going to just take off he'd have done it, not stopped off to get totally wasted first. I'm sure they'll work it out, whatever it is." She gave him a kind smile. "I'll talk to you later." She ducked out the door.

The entire cab ride back to her car, then the drive back to Sam and Dean's apartment Concha repeated one sentence like a yoga chant….dontbedrunk…dontbedrunk…dontbedrunk….She kept it up all the way to the apartment door. She had no idea what brought this behavior on, but she seriously considered calling Dante and getting him to come here and deal with it all. He was so much better at all this emotional healing crap than she was.

Sam had no idea how long he stood in the middle of the room, tears running down his face, chest heaving erratically, fist clenching and unclenching, watching the door Dean had just vanished through. Willing that same door to open, for his brother to come back, even if it was to shout more angry words at him, even if it was to hit him until Dean was too exhausted to move.

His first coherent thought was 'call Dean.' It was a good thing the number was preprogrammed into his phone. Sam would have never been able to punch in the numbers with his shaking fingers and watery vision. When Dean didn't answer, even though Sam expected it, what little reserve he'd held onto left him completely. Shaking, not able to breathe steadily or control the too many emotions bulldozing over him, through him Sam sank to the middle of the floor. Hurting too much even to cry.

Hating himself, wondering how he could ever say those words, letting them just bubble out of him, unstoppable. He had no idea how many times he called Dean's phone, getting voice mail immediately. Gone. His brother was gone. Left him. Sam had no one to blame but himself, and certainly he couldn't blame Dean. Lonely, empty and scared didn't even begin to describe the feelings, thoughts rolling through him at light speed. How could he have ever been so thoughtless, so cruel to do this same thing himself, in the middle of the night no less? What he'd taken for granted would always be there for him was suddenly gone, leaving in its wake a huge empty, painful vacuum.

Sam realized, possibly too late, he didn't deserve the brother he had. He realized, not for the first time, his brother deserved more from him than Sam often gave. He depended on Dean, in ways he wouldn't even admit to himself half the time. Except now Dean was gone, and Sam had no choice but to make those admissions.

Pulling up on the counter, standing on very unsteady legs he turned and leaned heavily against the sink, not even sure when he'd moved from the main room to the kitchen. Anger he couldn't control, couldn't stop shot through him like a bolt of lightening. Shouting, roaring wordlessly Sam's grabbed the coffee maker, yanking it from its home on the counter and flung it against the far wall, shattering it into tiny pieces. Everything else on the counter met the same fate. Five minutes later he was surrounded by broken glass, and mangled small appliances. Dean was just going to bitch him out royal for the mess. His head pounded, his breathing short, harsh pants, Sam grabbed a garbage bag and began to pick up broken pieces of glass. Wondering if he could pick up his broken life.

How long after darkness settled in Sam sat there in the dark he had no idea. Finally he fell asleep. It was still dark when he'd awoken, sweating, trembling, headache worse, shouting Dean's name. The nightmare had been one of the worse he'd ever remembered having. It was more like a series of them, not visions, actual nightmares all centered on his brother going away, being taken away for good, never to be seen again. Not even completely awake he'd called Dean's phone, getting voice mail. This was the most desolate he'd been. No matter how angry Dean might have been, a call from Sam (or anyone really) in the middle of the night was never ignored. Especially a call from Sam.

Not being able to sleep after that Sam left the apartment, prowled the area. Half expecting to see the Impala parked outside, or maybe a block or so away with Dean sleeping in it, not giving up his post of watching over his little brother, Sam was heartbroken when he wasn't met with that sight. He kept at it, going back to the apartment, hoping Dean would be there until the middle of the next afternoon. Normally, when he didn't know what to do or where to turn next he had Dean to talk to. His brother might not have been much in the way of offering many words, but Dean listened very well. Sam didn't need any demon turning him evil. He was doing a fine job of that all on his own.

The thought finally occurred to him to call Concha. He was without a car, and needed some sort of transportation to hunt Dean down. He didn't want to steal a car from someone here in Ithaca, which would be adding more wrongs on the one he'd already accomplished. Concha, with some annoyance he thought, agreed to help him find Dean.

When she showed up at his door he knew, somehow just knew she'd already found Dean.

"You're not drunk, are you? Cause if you are, you're head is hitting that ceiling." She pointed up.

Smiling, Sam shook his head, that confirmed it, she'd found Dean.

She stepped by him, into the apartment, surveying the mess. "Apparently he was right and I was wrong. You do need a babysitter. Which one of you did this?" Concha waved at the remains of what Sam had thrown and not cleared away.

"Me." Sam watched her, waited for her to say something, when she didn't he asked. "Is Dean…"

"Going to have the biggest hangover in the history of hangovers, of his life? Yep! Otherwise he's fine. Look, I don't know what brought all this on, and I really don't want to be in the middle. But if you want to talk…."

"No, thanks, I really just wanted to know he is ok. If Dean wants to talk to me, he will."

Concha's face softened, "Are you ok?"

Sam had to think about that for a minute or two. "No, not really." He motioned vaguely to the apartment. "I guess I should do something about this."

Nodding, Concha, he could tell understood. "Ok. Call me if you need anything."

"I will. Thanks, a lot."

She patted his arm kindly, leaving. An hour later she was back. Walked in when he opened the door, pushed a coffee maker into his chest. "Poltergeists, demons, tartums, those I can deal with. You without coffee, way too scary for me." On the way out the door she stopped, turning. "You know, I'm sure if he intended to just cut out on you I wouldn't have found him and he'd be hundreds of miles away. Not ten minutes from here."

Sam smiled and thanked her. He knew exactly what she'd done, told him where Dean was. It would have to be good enough for now. That night was worse than the one before, but this time he didn't call his brother's phone. He tried getting some work done, some studying, but it was too difficult to concentrate. Dean may not have left Ithaca, but that didn't calm Sam's fears any, settle his jumpy stomach. When daylight filtered through the windows he took a walk. On the way back he saw the Impala, parked in front of one of the rows of shops near their building. Later that day he saw it on the campus several times. Twice he got brave and walked up close enough to see if anyone was in it, but it was empty. Dean was too good, if he wanted to stay hidden he easily could. He'd purposely left the car where Sam would see it, he was sure. If he hadn't wanted to be seen, Sam never would know where his brother was. The Impala was like leaving a trail of where Dean was. He might have been pissed as hell at Sam, but Sam had the distinct feeling Dean was watching him, doing what Dean always did, watch over him.

Not having his assignments done for the past few days, Sam reasoned he still had to go see Craven, explain why. Though Sam figured Craven probably knew, at least somewhat why.

Waiting in the foyer, he still felt funny about calling Craven, as Concha showed him. While not afraid of Craven, he continued to give Sam a bit of an odd feeling, like he knew more than he let on, like there was more to him than apparent. Oddly enough, Dean was the one who was turning out to like Craven more. Sam still wasn't too comfortable coming here alone, maybe he would never be, but he didn't really have a choice just now.

Craven greeted him pleasantly enough. As Sam predicted he didn't seem too surprised when Sam confessed to not having his work for the week done. Nor did Craven seem overly concerned or angry; which Sam found was a great relief. He'd been so worried over Dean his concern for Craven's reaction took a back seat, not really letting him know it was there until he confronted it.

Handing him a stack of folders, Craven said, "I suppose you'll have to work a little extra to get all this done before you leave."

Sam nodded, looking around the room.

"He's not here." Craven leaned back against his desk, his face and voice utter sympathy.

"Dean's ok?"

"I don't think his stomach will agree with my assessment of ok, but yes, Dean is fine."

"My dad told him he'd have to kill me." Sam, for the life of him had no idea why he blurted that out. He hoped this wasn't becoming a habit.

Craven blinked at him for a minute, then asked the obvious, "Why would he do that?"

"There's the demon, and my visions, and they're connected somehow, and this demon has plans to make me something evil. So my Dad…he told Dean he'd have to kill me. But Dean says the demon can't do that, only I can control what's in me. Dean says he'll never do it."

"Good." Craven's tone was soft, "Sam, demons take what you fear and use it against you. They twist how your mind sees reality, and that's how they make people who aren't possessed do things they normally wouldn't do. Your brother is right. If you think that's what will happen, it will. Everyone has some evil in them…"

"Dean doesn't." Sam said quickly.

Smiling Craven looked down at something on the floor before looking up at Sam again, "Yes he does Sam. Of course he does, but the difference is, he channels it, redirects it to something useful. It's how each one of us chooses to live with it that's important."

"Hunting?"

"More specifically the killing of what you hunt. Did any of you ever stop to think where this information came from? Do you know?"

Sam shook his head, "No, my Dad never told us how he got it."

"Well, I'm of the mind it was erroneous information. Because honestly I don't see it. I think your brother has the right idea, about not killing you. And I'll give you a bit of information I dug up that I also gave to your brother. Those special children as you call them, the one the demon supposedly wants for something. Did you know of them you're the only one who's older sibling survived? All the others, they died."

"No. I didn't."

"Another missed piece of information then."

Sam left a short time later, walking slowly back to their apartment. He dumped the folders and other things Craven had given him on the table, not even looking at what it was. He headed for the shower, grateful for the hot water pouring down over him. Dean had kept a secret from Sam, they'd gotten beyond that, they'd get beyond this too. Dean had only done so because he wanted to spare Sam. Doing so, Sam saw now, nearly killed Dean. Sure, Sam had gotten his hackles up, thinking he had to go it alone to find his answers, but he'd been wrong. To add to it he'd gotten the bejesus scared out of him when they were targeted by Gordon Walker declaring open season on Sam, taking Dean hostage as bait. Couldn't Dean see Sam did the same thing, keep his feelings, the details of what John had done to himself to spare Dean any further hurt? Well, it might have worked out better if Sam had actually managed to keep his mouth shut. It wouldn't change a thing whether Sam said anything or not. Did Dean honestly think Sam could have stopped John, or would have? He had no idea.

He wondered, standing in the shower, hot water turning to lukewarm, flowing down his back if Gordon Walker was still in jail, and if not if he was busy today.