Part Six

Dean was vocal all the way down the mountain.

Between bouts of shifting himself around in the passenger seat as if it was, you know, way more uncomfortable than the driver's side, he filled Sam in on roadside mechanics, the Beattie family set-up, and most of the moves in some computer game that Sam really couldn't get his head around.

Sam just let him fidget and talk. Dean falling over himself to offload straight after a hunt was something that reminded Sam of years ago. It was part of Dad and Dean and him all together, the smell of cordite and the outdoors, the rumble of the Impala on full throttle, the goddamn mythology of his life. It also made him hope Dean wasn't as wrecked as he ought to be.

"So you're feeling pretty good now?"

"Pretty good." Dean nodded. "Listen, we ganked two spirits that needed it and got away without a scratch. That always makes me feel pretty good."

Sam wondered whether the crunching bruise on his back counted as a scratch.

"And the hand?" he asked, "I still can't believe you dug a trench in the dark using that hand."

It was hidden inside Dean's jacket. Although Sam hadn't gotten a good look he felt maybe it wasn't really too bad, given the energy his brother had displayed over the last twenty minutes or so.

Kind of an amped-up energy though.

Not so good maybe, if Sam could read Dean as well as he thought.

"The hand is ... it's good. Gina fixed me up." Dean was cheery rather than dismissive and that sounded promising, too.

"Right. So Gina. Tell me about her."

Right, so Mindy. Tell me about her.

Sam remembered that he'd never learned much to his advantage by such a request.

"Oh," Dean said, pushing back against the seat, stretching his legs out as much as he could, going for casual. "Chester's mom. I told you that, right? So, yeah ... Gina stopped on the road when I was working on the car. Offered to help me out."

"Help you out."

"Hold the flashlight, Sam, what else? She strapped the hand while Chester was giving me the lowdown on your pals."

"What does that mean?" Sam knew his voice had hitched up a notch, which was kind of a familiar pattern from the past as well. While Dean had been busy prattling his way down from a post-hunt high, Sam would usually chip in with the odd squawk of dissent. And John would end up grumping at both of them.

"Well, forgive me if I'm wrong, but I think it was you that decided to go busting in there in the first place. To get all cosy with the dead people."

"Dean, that was .... I don't know what that was."

"I don't know what that was either, Sam.. But what the hell, man. Half-blood prince, ghost-whisperer, whatever the hell you are these days, it came down to the old business in the end, didn't it? You and me, a job well done."

"All right, you can shut up now."

"Excuse me?"

"I've had enough."

"Yeah?" said Dean, sounding a little surprised. "Yeah, well me too."

Sam felt guilty for cutting him off, but the casual insinuations seemed to be coming thick and fast now and they were beginning to bruise. Dean, seemingly aware that he'd hit home on the raw nerve that was his target, became silent and Sam thought after a while he'd fallen asleep. There was no reaction at all when they passed the sign for North Silverbridge, or when, on the outskirts of the town, they approached a pale, single-storey building that proclaimed itself a motel. Sam began to slow down.

"Let's stop there," Dean said, finger shooting out, but not at the motel. Sam glimpsed a Coors sign winking up ahead on the other side of the road.

"No, let's not. Let's stop right here and crash, man. We both need it."

Dean's head turned. "Fine. You check us in. I need a beer."

No way was Sam leaving him alone with a beer. Because a beer didn't even mean a beer.

"Crap, Dean. How many times? You're on painkillers, you need to rest. Do you want the damn hand to go gangrenous and drop off?"

"Alcoholic stimulants are sometimes helpful," Dean said as if he was quoting an age-old truism.

Sam couldn't help the laugh that popped out. "Oh really? How'd you figure that one?"

"Encyclopaedia of Medicine, smartass."

Sam remembered the dark leather-bound volume, spine fallen off, pages flimsy and yellow, that for a few years had traveled around in John's duffel. "Dean, that was published in 1937. Dad got it as an antique, not as a first aid bible."

"It had a buttload of good advice that book."

"Yeah, like butter on burns."

"Well I told Gina to break out the Land o' Lakes but she's all into this modern crap."

"She a nurse or something?"

"I think she answers phones at the Medical Center, but maybe she missed her calling."

Sam took his gaze off the dark road for a second or two, just long enough to catch the glimmer of a smile on his brother's face. "You really like her, don't you?"

Dean's head turned away, back to looking out the side window. "Just stop the car."

"Okay," Sam agreed. "But I'm coming to find you in fifteen."

"Whatever."

Dean slid from the car when it stopped, shut the door hard.

Sam's head was reeling from the conversational gear-changes that had punctuated the whole ride down from the mountain, at everything he knew and didn't know. He watched Dean shrug his jacket tight around his shoulders as he walked towards the door of the bar and had a horrible feeling that his brother didn't even really want a drink that bad, that all he really wanted was just to get away.

-----

By the time they'd been checked into the motel, Dean had managed one and a half beers, ordered them both burgers and made a half-hearted job of cleaning his face. Because of the food, Sam agreed to stay and have a beer himself, although he seemed twitchy.

Dean wanted to hear the story of the day from Sam's point of view, he really did, but he didn't want to hear it sober. By the time the second beer was finished and he had a third and a shot glass on the table he felt sheltered enough by the oncoming buzz to let Sam tell him what had happened. In fact, he deliberately didn't react several times just to make sure his brother went on talking. That felt like progress.

So demons are palling up with ghosts now.

Dean didn't voice any of the unpalatable conclusions that came to him. He just listened, and made sure Sam knew he was listening. A few swallows of beer, keeping the eye contact. A wipe of hand across his mouth. Maybe a nod.

And they're all shit scared of Sammy.

An eyebrow and another swallow. The bottle laid carefully back on the table, because he didn't want to give the impression he was buzzed enough to get clumsy.

And I might think I saved his ass, but actually he could probably have just walked out of there on his own. Because he is Sam. All-Powerful Freakin' Sam.

Dean cleared his throat of the remains of the burger, which was starting to seem more indigestible by the second.

"And you heard all this? The victims? What about Jefferson, did you hear him too?"

"No, but I could sure feel him."

"You could feel him?"

"Yeah, you know, he was kind of like this presence all through the house. Seemed to drive the Broomfields crazy."

"It drove them crazy?"

"Yeah, Dean. Why do you keep repeating what I say?"

"I'm just trying to process, Sam, that's all."

"Okay. Well, I think we're definitely on to something in this town."

"Gina sure doesn't like it. She thinks it's full of weird, dangerous people." He looked around the bar, surprised to notice all of a sudden that it was pretty full. "Although it might be that she just thinks all people are weird and dangerous."

"Oh, right, Gina. And uh ... what else does Gina say?"

"Are you yanking my chain, Sam?"

"I wouldn't dare."

"Right. Just so long as we're clear. You want another beer?"

"I ... no. No more. And you ... really, dude, you should slow down."

"Dude," Dean said, and he emphasized the last consonant with a kind of angry relish, " ... when I agreed back at Bobby's that you could kick my ass about drinking I didn't mean right after a job."

"OK, so just ... just slow down, Dean, that's all I'm saying."

It had been exactly six days since Sam had last mentioned it.

"I don't need this, Sam."

"Yeah, well if there's big stuff going down here, Dean, then what you need is to get your fucking head together. This is too much, man."

Dean felt a nervous clench in his stomach. "Okay, so on the too much front ..." He hesitated, wanting to dredge it all up again, but nearly paralyzed by where that might take them. What he'd said to Sam under the Siren's spell was more or less what he'd wanted to say since he'd first found Ruby was back, and he wanted to say it over and over until he understood it himself.

Sam looked the same, he did. He sounded the same, most of the time. It's just that ... hell, maybe he'd decided not to be the same anymore and Dean wasn't sure how to tackle that except by shouting or punching him. He wasn't proud of his lack of imagination. Even worse, though, Sam was right that he should slow down. Dean had never set out to lose himself inside a bottle. He'd just sought a little downtime, a way to blur the edges of the pictures in his head. He'd always intended to stop when the time was right, but now of course it was too much. Too hard.

Didn't exactly need Sammy telling him that though. Hell no.

"There is nothing you can tell me about excess, Sam. Exactly zip."

Sam nodded his yes-I-am-hearing-you-but-I-believe-you-to-be-talking-crap nod. "Okay, so fine. But Gina's not the only one."

"The only one what?"

"Who's worried about this place."

"Oh," Dean said. "That's right. Ruby. Poor worried Ruby." He took firm hold of the shot glass, lifted it to his lips and knocked back the contents. His hand was steady as he banged the glass back onto the table-top but he couldn't stop a full-body shiver as the liquor hit his system. In his lap, still shoved inside his jacket, his injured hand felt hot and heavy. The combination of that and the thought that Sam was beyond his capacity to understand made him want to run, really fast, right out of here and down the road.

Instead, he figured he would just have to drink more. He knew enough to appreciate that although it was just another kind of running away, at least he was not far from what was always a short-lived but nevertheless attractive period of well-being. Maybe one more shot short.

Sam was looking at him like he was pretty much a loser.

"Go to bed," Dean said. "I'll be fine."

"You need to rest. I want to take a look at your -"

"Sam!" Dean's bellow was enough to rock Sam against the chair back and to make half a dozen people look over at them.

Sam stood up. He reached for his jacket, draped over a stool, screwed up his face minutely, eyes flicking from Dean's face to his hidden hand and then back. He shook his head like he'd done a lot lately.

"I'm going to get a coupla hours. Then we need to see what else we can find out. Maybe talk to ... Gina. And as soon as that place she works is open we're going to go down and have someone look at you."

"Sounds like a plan."

Sam nodded. He seemed to accept that this was all he was going to get.

"Don't be long," was all he finally said before he left. Dean was only partially glad that Sam hadn't actually grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out the door, because while it might have been embarrassing, at least he wouldn't have had to call time himself.

Left alone, Dean finished the third beer. As was the usual way, now that the beer had washed down easily enough, what he wanted was another shot of whiskey, to kickstart him towards a few hours of empty slumber. He figured he deserved it. It actually took some pretty kick-ass willpower, he told himself, not to do this every night, and since he had need of extra juice, what with the stupid singed hand and the creepy crap that had just happened ... He got up and went to sit at the far end of the bar where he could keep his back against a wall. The bartender saw him coming, got down the whiskey bottle and by the time he was settled the shot was already in front of him.

Dean reached awkwardly, having to lead with the wrong hand and his elbow knocked over a stand of leaflets, sent them fluttering to the floor. He slid off the stool, gathered them up, began to poke them randomly back in slots.

A corral in the sunshine full of cheerful equine characters. Horseback-riding in the National Parks.

A grey stone building with a flag outside. Historic Site Museums Trust.

A dun-colored creature with antlers standing on top of a mountain. The Elk Foundation.

Blocked capitals on a yellow background. Some Live. Others Survive.

Even while knowing exactly what this was about and what it probably said, Dean put this last one down next to his glass. He sat, clumsily prised it open with one hand.

"Check the appropriate boxes," it read inside, and his eye ran down a list of items. "Feeling down ... panic attacks ... drinking problem ... relationship breakdown ... loneliness ... bad luck ... bereavement ... constant arguments ... insomnia ... sensing evil around you ... suicidal thoughts ... fear of death. Thank you for your time."

Dean snorted.

He didn't care about the stupid check-list. That was for people with stupid fucked-up shit in their lives. People who had absolutely nowhere to turn. Every bone in his body ached except the ones in his bad hand, which just felt like they were sizzling on an open grill. With difficulty he got his good hand into his pocket and fished for some notes.

He looked up when he realized the bartender was watching and ghosted him a smile.

"What do you know? I got a full set."

The bartender raised both brows and motioned at the untouched shot glass.

Dean looked at it like it was radioactive.

"You don't want it?"

"No," Dean said, as if that was a ridiculous idea. "It's too much. I gotta go talk to someone."

"Well hey, man, that's great," he heard the bartender say. "There's a number on the back ...."

Dean stood up. He crooked his good arm, cradled the bad one along it, and headed for the door.

-----

The motel room smelled like damp towels and there were four cigarette butts floating in the toilet.

Sam showered off the Broomfield house. Although it felt like he was standing in a layer of fine sand lining the bath tub, the water was hot and there was mint shampoo. It was the same type as they'd had two motels ago, when Dean had accused him of trying to bleach his hair with toothpaste. Sam left half for his brother anyway and stepped out of the shower feeling nearly as invigorated as the back of the little bottle told him he would.

He got dressed again because he figured he needed to be ready. Then he set up the laptop at the table. He knew he'd missed the whole bodies on the mountain story in the first place because he hadn't bothered to do this properly when he should have. He'd just taken what Ruby had told him - and herded Dean into the car.

Now he hunted it down and read it all through, wondered what else Ruby knew.

He read the Silver County Echo's obit for Jefferson Broomfield Davis and it turned out he'd wanted to be a lawyer. He looked up Cordell Carter from Fairbanks, Alaska and read heartbroken quotes from his older brother, Pete, who drove taxi-cabs.

And now there were a whole lot of little things going on in North Silverbridge. Not big, shocking things like the Broomfield murders. No, these were small, disturbing things. Pets going missing. Food-poisoning in schools. Electricity blackouts for no reason. Higuys, am I the only one who thinks the weather's kind of weird for the season LOL? The local online forum was full of them.

Sam felt his eyes grow heavy, so he shut off the computer, lay on his bed and studied the ceiling.

If he thought about it, there was no surprise in the notion that demons and ghosts might be in one another's social circle these days, albeit a little stand-offish. Probably every other supernatural thing he and Dean had ever come across figured in the address book too, although they were maybe allies of the last resort. What Sam didn't like was the idea that they might all be gossiping about him in the playground. Skewed, one-sided gossip. Like Jim Broomfield's ghost had known he'd left the Winchester fold once and that no-one except him had been happy about it. He'd known about blood. And he'd known Lilith.

Sam guessed a demon-spirit combo might be pretty hard to handle. They hadn't been able to get to him, though, not really. That was a kicker. That was the immunity stuff again, the stuff that freaked the hell out of Dean, even though you'd think he might be pleased. You know, about the protection.

Sam rolled over on to his stomach, hooked both arms under the pillow. He wanted to talk to Dean. Desperately, right now. But he couldn't, even felt like he shouldn't. His brother was too shredded.

Despite the knot in his stomach and wondering why the hell Dean didn't just give it up and come back, Sam fell asleep.

He woke cold and stiff to his cellphone ringing. Dean's name came up on the caller ID.

Uh-oh.

It wasn't Dean though.

A woman's voice, clear and snappy, came through. "Is this Sam?"

"Yeah." He rolled off the bed. "Who's this?"

"Hi, Sam. This is Gina Beattie. You met my son at the Travelstop earlier."

"Oh ... yeah. Gina. Hi, how are you ... what's going on?"

"Yeah so I got your brother here. Think he needs a ride home."

"Dean's with you? Is he all right? Is he drunk?"

A short, considering silence. "He's a little tired."

"Shit, I'm sorry. He's made a pain in the ass of himself, hasn't he? I'll come right over and get him. Where are you?"

"Four blocks up from where you are, going into town. Apartment building behind a hedge. We're number two twenty-four."

"I'll be right there," Sam said.

"Great," Gina's voice came back, sharp as a tack, and Sam got a brief idea why Dean might like her, "because some of us have got to go out and earn a living in the morning."

The phone went dead and Sam scrambled for his shoes. He'd got them on and was nearly at the door when his phone went again.

Unknown caller ID. He pressed it to his ear as he got the door open.

"Sam, where the hell are you?"

Sam gritted his teeth, held the phone away from him for a second and then jammed it back against his ear. "Not now," he said shortly. "Later," and he shut it off.

Gina was only four blocks away, but there was no way Sam was going to carry Dean's sorry ass, so he made for the car. He could feel his phone vibrating in his inside pocket. When he started the engine, he hoped it wouldn't be the extra rev that snapped the pantyhose. He reached into his jacket and turned the phone off.

In less than five minutes he was standing outside a gray door pressing the bell as if the person inside was hard of hearing.

Sam wasn't sure what he was expecting, but somehow it wasn't the woman who answered. She was in her mid to late thirties and she let him in, unsmiling. "Gina?"

"Yeah, who else?"

Gina was small, had mussed-up brown hair and was hidden inside some men's pyjamas.

When he slid through the door, which she opened only a crack, he found Chester standing in the background.

"Hey," the kid said, raising a hand awkwardly.

"Thanks for calling." Sam felt guilty and out of place. Chester looked tired. Gina slung an arm around his shoulders, protective.

"He should be asleep, he's got to get up for school."

"Unless I don't go," Chester said.

"So where is he?"

"Listen ... Sam. Your brother called me and he sounded a little messy. I told him to come here because ... well, hey, I'm fuckin' stupid like that. He seemed like he'd been drinking but nothing scary. He's really not doing too well with that trashed hand of his though. For some reason he wanted to tell us all about the house and what happened. Like I would care."

Her own last statement seemed to bemuse her and she looked a bit apologetic.

"He needs to go to hospital, you know that, right?"

"I know that."

"But, well, he said you two don't do hospitals and I don't want to know why. Some stuff is coming through loud and clear, but I got a teenager in the fuckin' house, I mean .... "

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I'll just take him and go." Like he was a package.

"Sure, good. He kind of fell asleep about twenty minutes ago in a chair and we left him. Had some chocolate milk and waited for you."

"Great," said Sam.

Chester yawned.

Gina nudged him. "Just go, Ches, we're all good here. Get your skinny butt into bed."

"'Kay," Chester said. He glanced at Sam. "Dean said the whole house like ... burned up again. Like, with you guys in it. That's awesome."

"Go!" Gina hissed. "And don't be whining at me about your nightmares. Sleep well." She got her hand to his ducking head, managed to sweep her fingers through his hair.

"Night, Chester," Sam said. "Thanks for your help."

He grinned at his mother, picked up pace down the shadowy corridor.

Gina motioned at a half-closed door and led the way in. They entered an unlit living room which had a big table pushed back against one wall. There were shelves laden with DVDs to the right of the table, and a flatscreen TV which was flickering silently. A big sofa on the other side of the room was piled with cushions and there were several armchairs. Dean was sitting next to the table, with his chin resting on his good hand and the bandaged one in the crook of the bent elbow. Sam could see his eyes were closed and his face looked a weird color, although he hoped that was just because of the light from the TV.

"Hey," he said.

Gina got to him first and her voice was louder. "Dean!" she said, and touched a hand to the side of his shoulder.

Well, Sam knew Dean could move fast. He'd spent years being very careful about waking him because of the speed he could extract the knife from under his pillow and potentially have it in your ribs. Of late he'd been aware that Dean liked a gun within reach and so he'd remained pretty respectful about disturbing him, knowing that while Dean's reactions were off the pace at present, he still had a habit of breaking out of sleep like he'd been bitten by a dog.

Sam didn't see this coming though.

At the touch, Dean launched himself off the chair, eyes instantly wide, focused on something that wasn't there. Something that was enough of a threat to him that he needed to attack. His momentum took Gina totally off-guard. She was spun round and spread-eagled against the bookshelves before Sam could move to block it. Several books clunked to the floor.

"Leave him alone, bitch." Dean's voice was menace. He sounded totally clear-headed.

Gina didn't scream, and she didn't struggle, although Sam could hear her panting.

Instead she took in one long, shaky breath and then said calmly, "No, no, no, it's me. Dean. It's me."

Sam didn't wait for reality to return. He seized rough hold of Dean's shirt at the neck, jerked him backwards. Dean came away at the pull, unresisting, bringing more books down which, as they hit the floor by his feet, made him stagger. Sam realized he was hanging on to Dean's injured arm when his brother swore and all but buckled at the knees.

Gina shimmied away from both of them, backed across the floor.

"If my son comes in here," she said angrily, but clearly didn't know what she'd do if he did.

"It's okay," Sam said, reaching down to hook his brother under the other arm. "He's okay. Gina, I'm sorry. Shit, are you -?"

"Jesus, Sam!" she snapped, "I don't know, I don't know what his problem is except he's fucking crazy!"

Sam pulled Dean up to standing, slipped a second arm around his waist because he felt like he was heading for the floor again. "Dean, you with us?"

Dean's face was a really nasty color now. It couldn't just be the TV because Gina, although she looked kind of luminous, at least had a tinge of warmth in her skin.

"You're not are you?" Sam said, letting go long enough to clap his palm and three fingers across Dean's forehead. The skin felt slippery and cool. Dean was freaked and out of it but he wasn't delirious. Sam nodded. "Good, okay. Because that timing would suck, dude. You got your wits about you yet?"

Dean looked at him vaguely.

"Take it easy, man. Everything's cool."

Dean didn't try to grapple himself free of Sam's hold. He just stayed still, shut his eyes hard.

"Dean!" Sam was forceful. Wherever Dean had been seemed to be taking way too long to go away.

"I do something really crappy?" Dean asked, keeping his eyes closed.

Sam frowned over the top of his head at Gina. He had no idea if he was talking about a dream or the last few minutes.

"It's all right," she said. "You didn't hurt me. You just got confused, thought I was someone else." She took a step forward, laid her hand on Dean's sleeve. "Who'd you think I was, Dean?"

Sam thought that was a bad question. "Sometime," he said, "We'll explain it all to you, Gina. Right now I need to get him out of here."

Gina didn't let go the sleeve. The face she turned to Sam demanded some kind of explanation. Now.

Shit.

"Listen," Sam said, "Gina, this is ... my brother's been through ... uh, we've got a few ..."

Gina's eyes roved Dean's face. "Don't tell me, you've got a few issues. Now there's a surprise. Hell, I can work with issues, you should see me. But you know what? Just forget it, you don't need to explain. Hey ... " Something perilously close to a smile formed on her lips as Dean's eyes wandered open again. "You're back. Hi, remember me? You just pushed me face-first into a shelf."

Dean seemed perplexed, brows knitted. Sam could feel the moment he decided to fight his way out of the hold so he slid the arm off his waist, waited a second until Dean was steady, and then slowly took away his other hand.

Dean rubbed at his face.

"He might puke," Sam said. "He often does."

Gina rolled her eyes. "Well you'll know how to handle it, then."

"I'm not going to puke," Dean said sourly. He didn't look very convinced. Something, some feeling of nausea or pain or embarrassment was overwhelming him to the degree that he couldn't look straight at Gina for more than a second, although Sam noticed she never took her eyes off him.

At the front door she even rubbed at the side of Dean's good shoulder again, like he was old friend. Someone, evidently, that she might care about. Sam nodded at her, noticing belatedly that she was pretty, potentially quite hot under the oversized nightclothes, although not what he considered Dean's type at all. The four rings in her ear winked in the streetlight. Still, what the hell did he know anymore.

"Thanks," Dean mumbled at her as he set off for the gap in the hedge.

She shook her head at his back and then turned to Sam. "I'm working at the Medical Center in the morning," she said. "From everything I know so far, I'm not sure it's such a great idea you just turn up. They're all over insurance like flies on shit in there but ... I'll see if I can figure something out, get him in to see one of the burns people, and in the meantime ... "

"In the meantime?"

"Look, Sam, I figure you know how to keep the stupid thing clean and dry. Stop him using it, like at all. Give it a chance. It's not looking nice, either. It's not looking nice and healing up, know what I mean?"

"Yeah, he needs more than ointment and aspirin. I knew that from the moment he hurt himself, but you ... it's really not that easy."

She shrugged. "I get that. So anyway, I have, like, a handful of pills left over from an ear infection that Ches had. They're broad spectrum, might catch a few bacteria. If he's not allergic to penicillin."

"Not so far."

"You want 'em? I mean, he's wide open to something nasty, Sam."

"Yeah, that'd be good. Thanks. We've kind of run out of supplies lately."

Been too busy falling down the rabbit-hole.

"Wait here a second then." She turned and went back inside, re-emerging a minute later with two little bottles and a small stack of dressings still in their wrappers. "Here you go. I'm all out of Advil. Vicodin any good to you?"

Sam took possession of the bottles and dressings with a nod. "This is weird, I know."

"Yeah, well. I wanted to be a pharmacist once. Or a pharmacologist. You know, something where I could mess around in a lab all day. Put pills in bottles."

"Really? Dean pegged you for a nurse."

Gina made a face of derision. "Oh I'm really not that caring. And I don't like to take exams."

The thought of exams sent a bolt of painful nostalgia through Sam that completely shocked him.

What the fuck. I am not that guy.

He shifted his feet. "Thanks for tonight, Gina. For all of tonight."

Gina motioned over his shoulder. "Yeah, whatever. Go look after your brother. His head's as messed up as his hand and from what I know it's a helluva long way back up once you fall over that fuckin' edge."

"Right."

She took a last look at Dean, leaning, with his back to them, against the side of the Impala, and then closed the door.

Sam dug the car keys from his pocket.

"You doing better?" he questioned when he got to the driver's door.

Dean was still sideways against the car, posture tense.

"I wanted to fuckin' kill her, Sam. I thought she was Ruby."

"Just a nightmare, dude," Sam began soothingly, but Dean waved him quiet.

Pressing a shaky hand to his chest he abruptly presented three beers, two shots, a burger and half a glass of chocolate milk to the sidewalk.

Sam slid over the hood of the car to get to him before he head-butted a lamp-post on the way to his knees.

tbc