Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: I suck...no, no, really I do. For making you wait so long. But the good news is I am now at least quasi on track with this and intend to update soon. But until then, read and enjoy! Oh, yeah, and review too!

"Here it is," he says excitedly, waving Dean over to get a glimpse of the article he'd found. The name Danto just seemed so familiar to him, didn't know why. He'd spent the last hour scouring the web, and John's journal, to find some reference to it, finally getting lucky at some obscure supernatural website. "Ezili Danto. Loa depiction of the mother. Fearless warrior, devoted to her children," he reads.

"What's a Loa?"

Sam glances behind him as he speaks. "Voodoo spirits. Kind of like saints. Actually, almost every one has a Catholic saint loosely identified with them."

"Fascinating," he deadpans before collapsing onto the hotel bed. "And why does this old chick share the name of some saint? Is that normal, like naming your kid Esther or something?"

"Esther?"

"It's in the Bible."

"She wasn't a saint."

"Whatever," he says, waving his hand dismissively. "You know what I mean."

Sam turns back to the computer, continues scrolling and searching while he says, "It's pretty common for people to become possessed by Loa. Maybe she's somebody else, but was Ezili Danto when Dad talked to her."

"And now she's just plain Ana again."

"Maybe."

Dean begins rubbing his eyes furiously, attempting to break though the deep throb that always comes from too much reading. Probably should have listened back in the ninth grade when he was told he needed glasses. "What else did it say in Dad's journal?" he asks, voice muffled.

"Nothing really. Not much. Just a name and address. And a date."

"February of last year," he recalls out loud. Then, rising from the bed, "Damn stupid secret messages! I feel like I need a limited edition decoder ring to understand anything in there."

"You probably do," Sam says with a lopsided smirk.

"He went missing in October," he begins, pacing slowly. "So what the hell was he doing in February."

"Apparently consulting with voodoo spirits."

"You think Ana would remember anything, I mean if she were possessed?"

"Don't know. Maybe. I know possession by a Loa is different from that of a demon."

"How?" he asks sharply, genuinely interested.

"Well, for one thing, people actually ask for it. It's not considered a bad or scary thing, more like a…communion with nature."

"Voodoo hippies," he ekes out under his breath.

"Hey Dean?" Sam asks after a moment, causing his brother to stop mid-step. "What does voodoo have to do with the demon? I mean, clearly all of this has some kind of connection. But, voodoo?"

Dean sits on the edge of the bed, taps his foot while he tries to think. Admittedly, he doesn't really know too much about it. It tends to occur only in tight knit communities, not much room for outside sources or call for investigations. "It's a religion," he says finally. "Like any other I guess. You know, man's way of categorizing individual beliefs into easy to follow and understand doctrine." Sam stares at him, face splitting with a wry grin. "What?"

"Nothing, man. Just awfully…scholarly. For you."

"Yeah right, Sammy, cause I'm normally such an idiot."

"No, I didn't mean it like that."

"Whatever," he says with a huff. "Point is, there are connections between every religion. Same stuff, good and evil and all that shit. Just goes by different names."

"Very astute," Sam nods.

"What did you call me?"

"What?"

"Never mind," he says moving over to Sam and nudging him out of the way, effectively taking over the computer. He reads on a bit in the same article before pointing to the screen and saying, "See, the Loa are sometimes seen as ancestral spirits, divine personifications, or…what does that say, Sammy?" he asks condescendingly.

Sam reads from the monitor, "Demons," and turns away with a furrowed brow.

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Everyday a little more came back. Another memory so deep seated, so ingrained in his psyche, that he felt it more than thought it. A woman with flowing blond hair, smiling, laughing, sparking something in his heart that felt like truth. A dark haired boy who yelled and snarled and picked fights, for reasons he can't recall. Who poked and prodded and pushed until he got a reaction, no matter how negative. The boy just seemed to want a reaction from him.

He remembered fire. On a daily basis, he remembered fire.

But just as quickly as these things flitted into his mind, his heart, so too would they then evaporate into the nothingness his soul had become. And the further they receded into the corners of his mind, the more he feared they'd become lost completely, never to return.

And if he could have experienced gratitude at all, he would have been thankful for that. Thankful for being able to feel anything at all, even if it was fear. Even if it was quick and fleeting and not nearly enough.

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The next one was worse, hitting him full force, pulling him out of a perfectly normal dream – of a threesome with two completely hot girls, more Dean's cup of tea really, but hey, his subconscious reminded him, you are a man, and Steve Buscemi. Fucking Steve Buscemi, interrupting them and whisking the girls away. Because, according to the little toad of a man, they ought to be with a real sexual being. Jerk.

But before he could go and race after them, give Steve a piece of his mind, his head burst open with a jolt, a familiar and painful explosion. And the dream faded, vision blurred briefly before everything came into that strange sort of focus, a sharp and fine-tuned reality like no other.

And there was Dad again, his face close, near enough to touch. And his eyes dead, large pools of…nothing. "Dad," he heard, in a squeaky voice that seemed so familiar, like one he knew so well, but couldn't quite be discerned over the thrumming in his ears.

"Dad, please," he heard, louder, more clear. Heard and felt, charging up his throat, rolling off his tongue.

But all he saw was his father's face, looming close, unmoving even as blood spattered his cheeks, his toneless lips, empty eyes.

And when he woke this time it was not just with a headache, but with a choking, gagging, wet reflexive cough that shot out of him. And the thick metallic taste of his own perceived blood on his lips.