Hey all - so I didn't plan for this to be so late, but originally I had planned for the boys to go to the bank, open the box and find some cash. Period. But then I got so many reviews expressing how exciting this key thing was going to be and I felt like I owed you more. So I had to regenerate this part of the story and then write it in what has turned out to be a very hectic week. But enough excuses - it's here now. I promise the next chapter won't take as long to put up. Hope this meets with your approval. I haven't yet replied to your reviews from last chapter, but that's what I'm heading off to go do now. So here's just a general Thank You to all my rockin fans. You are all much appreciated. And here's the next chapter...

Missouri went straight for the key, unflinching, unquestioning, leaving Sam totally stymied. There was no search, no memory prompting, and he felt like it shouldn't have been nearly as easy as it had been to find the key.

He had left the Impala not long after making his discovery about the idea of a key and soon found himself in the kitchen staring at the slowly filling coffee pot. Missouri finally appeared as he was filling his mug for the third time and he quickly slammed it on the counter, hot liquid sloshing over the sides.

"Did my Dad ever give you a key to hold onto?" Sam asked in lieu of a 'good morning.'

The psychic raised her eyebrow, beckoning him to remember his manners, but nodded as soon as she had received her morning greeting. "He did."

"Well did he say why? Did he tell you what it was for?" Sam asked anxiously, foot tapping out a staccato rhythm on the kitchen floor as he waited for a response.

Shaking her head, Missouri answered. "He never told me what it was for or who it was for, or even why he was giving it specifically to me. He just said that when the person who was meant to have it was ready for it they would come. I'm guessing that person is you." She didn't wait for Sam to agree before turning and disappearing from the kitchen.

Sam held back, debating whether or not he was supposed to follow her. But she was back before he had to make the decision, handing over a small gold key that looked absolutely nothing like the skeleton key he'd been expecting.

"Did he tell you what it goes to?"

Missouri shook her head yet again. "Like I said, Sam, all he told me is that whenever someone came for the key to hand it over. There was nothing more to it."

Refusing to be deterred, Sam shrugged and studied the key more closely. He took note of the six digit serial number on the side of the key. It had to be some kind of safety deposit box or something, he figured. And then he looked back at his watch, already knowing the answer before he looked at the date stamp, but hoping another twenty-four hours had passed in the time he'd sat there with Missouri. But it was to no avail; it was still Sunday, and the bank would still be closed until Monday. Damn it. Damnitdamnitdamnit!

He began to wonder if his dreams were even more prophetic than he had originally thought. Maybe he really was fated to rob a bank, only this time with no innocent tellers inside. He figured he might be able to do that a little bit easier - keep the innocent bystanders out of the way. Because there was no way on earth he could actually manage to get through another whole day before he found out what the key was all about. It could be the answer to their financial woes, or it could just be one last screwed up order their father left them before he died.

"What are you going to do?" Missouri asked, gently laying a hand on top of Sam's.

"I guess I just have to wait until the bank opens tomorrow," Sam answered resignedly. As much as he would have liked to be that guy, he knew there was no way he could ever actually rob a bank. He would just have to work on being patient.

"What do you need a bank for?"

Startled, both Sam and Missouri's heads shot up at the intrusion of a new voice in the room. Blinking rapidly, nervously, Sam eyed Dean. How the hell did he manage to get down here without making any noise?

"I...I, uh...I just thought maybe I should get a job since we're going to be here for a while. You know, help Missouri with the bills and all..."

"And you want to get a job at a bank?" Dean asked, his skepticism written all over his face.

"Well I, uh...it was listed in the want ads," Sam added. "I thought I might go put out some feelers at a couple places today, but the bank won't be open until tomorrow. So I'm going to have to wait on that."

Dean nodded, chewing on the lie, processing it. "You're a terrible liar, Sammy," he finally concluded. "What's this really about?"

"It's like I said..." Sam insisted.

"Sammmm."

He finally relented, sighing dramatically. "Sit down, Dean," Sam ordered, pushing out one of the chairs with his foot.

The older brother obliged, hopping forward on his crutches and lowering himself into the chair.

"Can I get you anything to eat? Drink? Some coffee?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Stop stalling, Sam. What's this all about?"

"Dad left us a key to a safety deposit box," Sam began, omitting the how and the why he had found the key in the first place. One way or another, Dean would find out about the key. He was certain of that. So it really couldn't hurt to tell him now. But Sam would be damned if he ever told Dean why he was hoping so badly that the key led them to money. There was no way Dean could know they couldn't afford the prostheses. There was no way Sam was letting him give them up.

"Well do you know what's in it?" Dean questioned eagerly, his eyes lighting up at the possibilities.

Sam shook his head. "No; and the bank isn't open on Sunday's so we can't find out until tomorrow."

"And you don't want to wait that long."

"Do you?" Sam scoffed.

"No, I guess not."

"And yet we don't have a choice. So we just have to find some way to pass the time."

xxxxxxxxxx

It seemed as though there was nothing they could do to make the time go at anything faster than a snails pace, and by the time Monday morning rolled around Sam and Dean were about stir crazy and Bobby and Missouri both had several fewer hairs in their heads after pulling so many out in reaction to the boys' restlessness.

The boys were up and dressed by eight the next morning, Dean insisting that he had to be at the bank too. When the doors opened at eight thirty they were out in the parking lot waiting.

The bored brunette teller behind the counter barely looked up at them when they walked in, motioning them to her window with a lethargic pull of her fingers. "What can I do for you?" she monotoned, her cheek resting heavily on her fisted hand. That and the dark circles around her eyes suggested that she hadn't gotten much sleep the night before and Sam found himself identifying with her.

"Our Dad died a few months ago," Sam began, surprised to find the actual truth spilling from his mouth for once. But in this case, the truth worked for them, and there was no sense in wasting a perfectly good cover story when there was no need for one. "We found this safe-deposit key in his stuff and we wanted to find out what was in there. Thing is, he didn't have the box number written down - you know, security issues and all.

"What's the name on the box?" she asked, slowly uncurling herself enough to turn to her computer.

"I'm guessing it would be under John Winchester." God I hope he wasn't stupid enough to put an alias on it. I wouldn't even begin to know where to start.

She punched a few buttons on the keyboard. "Yeah, he's got a box here."

"That's great, uhh...Heather," Sam pressed, flashing her his million dollar smile as he leaned in to read her name badge. "Can you tell us what number it is and where to find it?"

She slowly shook her head from side to side. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Winchester's name is the only one on the account. I can only let him open the box."

Sam let out an exasperated sigh as he stepped forward, forearms landing heavily on the countertop. Behind him, he could sense Dean rolling his eyes, yet he knew Dean wouldn't be stepping up to deal with this. He was so much better at the confrontations so much better at sweet talking people into doing exactly what he wanted. But the older man had lost all sense of self-confidence when he lost his leg, and Sam had no doubt that he would fear attention being called to him. As it was, Dean was probably shrinking back in the shadows, away from Sam, leaving Sam to take all the heat and all the attention.

"He can't open the box," Sam ground out, struggling to keep his voice at level tones as he reminded himself to remain calm, to not lose his temper. "I just told you - he died."

"Do you have any proof of this?" For her part, Heather didn't seem to be at all concerned that a six foot five giant was hovering over her petite frame, seconds from strangling her. Her bored tone never changed; he eyes never looked up to make contact with Sam's.

"What kind of proof am I supposed to have?

She shrugged nonchalantly. "You'll need a death certificate. And proof that you're next of kin - at least something that proves you have rights to be getting into the box."

Well damn it. How the hell am I supposed to have a death certificate on a body stolen from the hospital before it even made it to the morgue? He and Dean had been quick after their father's death, barely even taking the time to process his demise before making off with his still warm corpse. The doctors had offered them time alone; time to say good bye to their father after his unexpected death, and Dean had quickly taken them up on that offer. The staff disconnected all the leads from their father's body and then made a hasty getaway, leaving the two sons to grieve in peace. Sam hadn't waited a full minute before he sprinted to the door to check for the coast to be clear and then helped Dean wheel their father's body from the building. He'd made a mad dash to the Impala as Dean waited anxiously in the shadows and then they had stuffed John's body into the back seat of the car and made tracks to prepare his final rest.

"We don't have a death certificate." Sam's mind was working fasat, desperately trying to formulate a story for why it didn't exist. "We were, uh, mountain climbing when it happened. It got cold, and the air was thin, and we didn't have the strength to carry him down with us. He...he's still up there." A pause. "There's no tangible proof of his passing."

Her eyes finally widened a little, suddenly beginning to take an interest in her clients, ad then her gaze rested on Dean. "You get hurt on the same trip?" she demanded, not seeming to recognize her own rudeness.

Dean's eyes dropped to the floor as his face flushed with embarrassment. She wasn't supposed to notice him. He wasn't supposed to be seen.

But Sam played it up; he'd never even considered adding Dean to the mix, but it fit the story. "Yeah. Frostbite's a total bitch. I lost a coupla toes myself."

From the corner of his eye Sam saw Dean flinch and immediately regretted being so blase about his brother's loss. Dean was so vulnerable; just about anything could set him off, and Sam had just used his injury as part of a fabricated lie. He might as well had stood there and mocked him directly for all the difference it would have made in Dean's reaction. But there was nothing Sam could do about it now; he would just have to make extra certain he made it up to Dean later.

"I can't even imagine what that must have been like for you," Heather swooned, doing a direct about face from her original lax self. Hero worship - Sam would recognize it anywhere, and he just hoped it would work now that he'd gone and messed up things with Dean already.

"It was pretty scary, I'll tell you." But enough about that, just give me the damn key. "But enough about us. I'm sure you have better things to do. If we could just get into that box now..."

"I'm sorry, really I am–"

Sam cut her off. "You see, he gave us the location of that key when we were still on the mountain - when he realized he wasn't going to make it. Said it was very important that we get what's inside." Sam put a heavy emphasis on the 'very,' drawing it out long and firm.

Heather eyed them for a minute, her eyes bouncing back and forth between Sam and Dean, and Dean's leg. The gears could be seen turning inside her head as she contemplated her decision. "What did you say your name was again?" she asked, the tone in her voice lightening.

Knowing better than to show his relief as she began to back off, Sam flashed another smile. "It's Sam. Sam Winchester. I'm John's son."

She chewed her bottom lip, clearly struggling with the pros and cons associated with what she was about to do, and finally relented, barely whispering her answer so the teller two windows over couldn't hear her. "Okay; I'll show you to the box. But if anyone asks later, you showed me a death certificate and you must have had a very good fake because I certainly couldn't tell the difference."

Sam sighed, nodding his thanks. "Trust me, no one will ask."

"They better not." Heather checked her computer again, internalizing the number of the box before leading the boys to the back of the bank and down a long hallway to the location of the safety deposit boxes. Sam followed briskly behind as Dean struggled to keep up.

They gratefully thanked her for her assistance in finding the box and then waited for her to leave before Sam inserted the key into the lock. "What do you think is in here?" he asked as the tumblers turned and clicked into place.

"I'd rather just open it and find out," Dean shrugged. He was beginning to wonder if it had been a good idea for him to tag along. The stares and the questions were far too much for him still. He should have just stayed at home or waited in the car. He should have let Sam handle this by himself. But it was too late now to turn around. He was already here, and the metal box was about to be opened.

It wasn't very big, only about six inches cubed, and Sam's hopes were immediately dashed as he realized there was no way he was about to find thousands of dollars in cash in there. Not that he had truly been expected to find cash; their father had never been one to save cash, and what little he did made was always spent on the necessities - food, lodging, weapons. Before he even opened the thing Sam was already regretting this trip, realizing that he'd just wasted hours trusting their financial worries might be taken care of by their father. Ha - what a laugh.

When he actually saw what was inside he was even more pissed off, and it was only Dean's calm rationality that kept him from hurling the box and all its contents across the room.

On top was a short stack of pictures; a family portrait taken just a couple of months before the fire with a goofy grinned Dean sitting on his father's lap and tiny baby Sammy bundled happily in Mary's arms, a photograph of Mary pushing Dean on the swings at a local park with Sam tucked securely in a baby carrier against her chest, a picture of John and Mary on their wedding day - the only time either of the boys would see their father dressed in anything other than jeans and flannel shirts, and a picture of the three Winchester men on one of the few side trips they had ever taken - Sam was about five and Dean nine, and their father had taken them to a small lake to fish for a couple of days. Sam quickly set them aside, barely taking the time to revel in the sentimentality of the few precious memories before continuing to rifle through the meager contents of the box.

Beneath the pictures was Mary's wedding ring, slightly distorted from the heat but one of the few possessions that could be salvaged from Mary's charred body. Neither brother had realized it existed anymore. But Sam shoved it aside just as quickly as he continued his search, pillaging through more of their mother's few possessions; an antique silver hand mirror, slightly charred on the handle, a dried and pressed rose in waxed packaging, and a lock of fine hair that Sam assumed was either his or Dean's, although there was no name written on the card it was taped to. But none of those items meant anything to Sam in his disappointment at not finding a way to help Dean keep his prostheses, and he dumped them on the table with less loving care than he would normally have utilized.

It wasn't until they reached the last item in the box that Sam's utter disgust took over his mental status, and Dean found himself reaching a calming hand out to Sam's shoulder. Voicing a low "Sam," as a warning was the only thing Dean could think to do to calm Sam down, the innate knowledge that he lacked to strength to physically restrain his brother weighing heavily on his already downtrodden conscience. Dean was no more please at the final bit of paper than Sam was, but he also lacked the knowledge that Sam had about his questionable future, so his reaction was due to other, simple reasons.

"Coordinates," Sam spat out, shaking the small white square of paper in front of Dean's eyes. "All this trouble, all this hoping, and all he can do is leave us a fucking set of coordinates."

Dean flinched. He didn't like it either, the knowledge that there was nothing he could do if it was some sort of a hunt making him feel completely and utterly useless. But it really couldn't be that important of a hunt, could it? If it was that bug a deal he wouldn't have locked it away in some safety deposit box. What was to say they would have found it when they did? What was to say they would have found it period?

"It's not a hunt." Dean stated flatly, as he stared at the numbers, working out their general location. "He wouldn't risk us not finding them. It has to be for something else."

"Like what?" Sam demanded, beginning to pace the room. Nonono, this isn't the way this is supposed to be happening. This isn't how this was supposed to go. We were supposed to come here, find some secret stash of money, and pay for Dean's medical bills. He has to get those legs. He has to get his therapy. This can't end like this! Damn you Dad!

"I'm not sure," Dean answered, disappointed that he didn't have an immediate answer but pleased to finally feel like he was a part of something important again. "But we're not going to be able to figure it out here. Let's take this stuff and go home; talk this over with Missouri and Bobby and figure out where these coordinates lead."

Sam wondered if Dean would be so calm if he knew exactly what was at stake. "This is bullshit, Dean. All our lives we followed his damn orders; fight after fight, spell after spell, hell Dean, when he said jump we didn't just ask how high, but how many times, sir. And now, even in death, he's still sending us on some wild goose chase that may or may not lead us to something worthwhile."

"What the hell is going on with you, Sam?" Dean finally asked after studying his livid brother and deciding it had more to do than just feeling as though he was wasting his time. "Why do I get the feeling there's something you're not telling me?"

"It's nothing, Dean," Sam was quick to insist, immediately shutting his mouth and ordering himself to calm down. You're blowing it, Sam. Shut the hell up before he figures out what's going on. "I guess I'm just sick of always being forced to live at the beck and call of other's orders. Our lives aren't our own, Dean. It's always something else, someone else, telling us what to do and how to do it, and what is and isn't allowed." And whether or not someone without insurance is as entitled to top notch prosthetic legs as someone with money. Why the hell do these people think they have any right at all to tell Dean that he isn't deserving of the best just because he can't afford it? This is so fucking unfair!

Well, it was partially the truth. A lot of his anger stemmed from the fact that he was feeling so helpless towards Dean's situation. All Sam wanted to do was make everything better, just make everything disappear. As it was, their lives seemed to be quickly spiraling out of control; starting with the injury itself. Lately Sam's world had been nothing but a series of if only's. If only they hadn't gone on the trip in the first place. If only Sam and Dean had taken the opposite paths in search of the beast. If only Sam hadn't used the belt to staunch the flow of blood. If only he hadn't gotten hurt to the point that he couldn't get Dean out of the woods sooner. Added to those worries that had been with him since that fateful night when he'd woken up in the hospital, Sam had a series of new if only's. If only they had bothered to buy some real insurance for Dean. If only they had a legitimate credit card that could actually be traced without fear of fraud charges. If only their father wasn't such a bastard to lead them on a wild goose chase for nothing.

But then there was the nagging feeling that Sam's dream couldn't possibly have been so vivid and seemingly prophetic, and yet lead them nowhere. There had to be a reason for the dream; had to be some kind of pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

"I guess we have to check out these coordinates then," Sam finally suggested, pulling himself from his reverie. He wasn't sure if it was the best thing to be doing; was terrified that they would encounter some kind of a hunt when they reached the new coordinates and the it would reiterate to Dean yet again what his limitations were. But if there was even the slightest chance that they would lead to some kind of assistance Sam had to take that chance. This was about Dean and what was best for him.