Thanks dragon for the lovely reviews. Here's Chapter 3. Hope you like. To everyone who reads, please review as all criticism is much appreciated. Don't be afraid to be honest!

Chapter 3: - Freaksville

It had been three days since they had watched their father drive away without them. Dean had driven as far away from Chicago as they thought was safe before stopping near the state line to Iowa to patch up their wounds.

Driving further still, they reached South Dakota before finally pulling up in a small town looking for a comfortable motel in which to lay low.

Dean sighed and rolled over in his sleep that night, the rickety bed frame creaking ominously beneath him. Sam, who had been lying on his back staring up at the ceiling for over three hours, glanced over at him. He watched, grinning as his brother drew his pillow to him protectively, muttering incoherently in his sleep.

Looking back up at the peeling paint on the ceiling, he wondered how his brother could almost comatose with exhaustion after a hunt. The last time he'd had a decent night's sleep was back at Stanford with Jess curled up in his arms beside him the week before she was killed. The week before his visions had started and that demon had come to ruin his life for a second time.

He hit his head against the pillows in frustration as sleep yet again evaded him in favour of his elder brother. Wearily he dragged his aching bruised and battered body out from under the cheap stiff bed sheets and reached for his jeans and a T-shirt. Running a hand through his thick brown hair and wiping the other gingerly over his tired face feeling the healing cuts, he winced, thinking Meg had really done a number on them. He reached for Dean's jacket, rummaging for the keys to the Impala. Silently he crossed the room, scuffing on an old pair of trainers which lay beside the door and slipped out leaving Dean to dream peacefully.

The crisp night air hit him like a bucket of ice, his body letting out an involuntary gasp as he inhaled sharply. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he quickened his pace across the parking lot to where the Impala stood gleaning underneath the flickering neon lights of the rundown motel.

Climbing into the front seat, he leant his head back and closed his eyes, slowly turning the key in the ignition. Breathing in the car's distinctive scent, which reminded him so much of Dean, he pulled out onto the main road, letting the car take him where it wanted to go.

Driving round the open roads till dawn, Sam tried in vain to forget everything that had happened in Chicago. Looking into the wing mirror, he saw his own drawn and pale reflection staring back at him, the deep gouged flesh red raw against his milk white cheeks.

Sighing deeply, he pulled up outside an early opening café and ambled towards the building. Pulling open one of the glass doors, delicious smells wafted out, making his stomach groan with hunger. The warmth greeted and revived his flagging spirits as the smell of cooked bacon and coffee filled his nostrils reminding him instantly of the trip he and Dean had made to North Carolina little over two months ago.

Taking a seat in a corner booth, a waitress, who looked to be in her mid-thirties and was, in his opinion, far too cheerful for this hour of the morning, bustled over drawing out a notepad and pen.

"What can I get you hun?" she inquired, her eyes glancing over his bedraggled form as she fiddled with one of the chopsticks that kept her long auburn hair out of her eyes.

"Bacon, eggs, toast and a black coffee please," he muttered, forcing a smile as his stomach groaned at the very thought.

"Right you are," she smiled, before bustling away.

The café was quiet with only one or two other customers who were each sat huddled over their steaming cups of coffee, intermittently yawning between gulping down the warm black liquid. The room was filled with a gentle buzz and clatter which omitted from the kitchens, bringing the place to life.

The waitress walked back five minutes later, placing his coffee and breakfast in front of him before turning to leave. His mouth watered as he set about ravenously devouring the sandwich, feeling an instant boost in his energy levels.

Gulping down the hot coffee all traces of sleep fell away from him. Settling down comfortably into his seat and looking out of the window at the windswept lot, he suddenly felt a lot brighter, and when the waitress, whose name tag read 'Justine,' came back smiling at the polished plate, she asked, "Can I get you anything else?"

"Two more coffees and breakfast burritos to go please," he said with a genuine smile, thinking by the time he got back to the motel Dean was sure to be awake and wondering where the hell he, and more importantly the Impala had disappeared too. Knowing full well a coffee and a bacon sandwich would do wonders for his mood, Sam happily paid up before heading back to the car.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean grunted, as he walked out of the bathroom rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

Sam, groaning inwardly, closed the motel room door with a resounding clunk before chucking one of the bacon sandwiches at his brother and putting down the coffee's on the wobbly table.

"Getting you breakfast," he muttered, as he flopped down on to a chair and rested his head in his hands. "Sleep well?"

"Guess so," Dean said, as he ripped open the bag and began devouring the sandwich, keeping one eye on his brother. "You still not sleeping dude? You look like shit!"

"Thanks man," Sam started sarcastically, moving a hand up to his eyes and feeling the ever increasing bags. He sighed, shrugging noncommittally, as he began on his coffee.

"You know dad didn't have a choice, he had to leave. We were putting him in danger," Dean said.

"Shut up Dean okay. I'm fine. Drop it before you start." All his lightened spirits fled him as his brother continued to look at him in concern. "So you found us our next job yet or are we playing 'house' for the foreseeable future?" said Sam, trying to change the subject.

Dean grimaced at the mention of domesticity. His eyelid was beginning to heal and the bruises across his body were beginning to turn the greeny-grey colour that meant they were beginning to fade. A couple more days of crappy daytime TV would be enough to make them fit for hunting. God, if daytime TV was as bad as it had been when he was stuck in hospital after electrocuting himself, he'd be begging to risk life and limb for some action. Grinning to himself, he flopped down casually on one of the twin beds, studying his brother.

"Nah, not yet," he smiled. "Anyway we can't leave now. I'm glued to the ongoing saga that is Days of Our Lives."

Sam snorted into his coffee, showering the table with speckles.

"What?" Dean asked, feigning innocence.

"Oh nothing, nothing at all," Sam said, biting on his lower lip trying not to laugh.

Dean's eyes flashed mischievously. "Oh and here," he said chucking Sam the towel he'd discarded for the bacon sandwich, grinning as it hit him square in the face. "Wipe that snot-nosed goo off the table. I don't wanna be caught unawares by your gross bodily fluids. It's enough to make a guy feel sick."

Sam laughed as he pulled the damp towel off his face and threw it carelessly on to the table.

Dean, continuing to grin, stretched across the bed reaching for the TV remote control. "Eeny meany miny mo," he mimicked as he channel-hopped the various soap operas and reality TV shows, stopping at the local news channel. He watched in amusement as a reporter with an enormous perm and bright orange suit, looking like she had just walked out of the eighties, raced breathlessly through a breaking news story.

Watching the scenes unfold, Dean drew himself up on the bed, a serious expression replacing his playful spirits. Sam rose from his chair and walked towards him, stopping by his shoulder as he watched the report.

"Local residents heard terrified screams around six o'clock this morning," the orange suited lady rattled on. "The victim, Marianne Blackstock, ran out into the street screaming and hitting herself. Witnesses say the twenty two year old kept shouting 'Get them off me! Get them off me!" before running into an oncoming car. The woman, still conscious, became increasingly hysterical and according to paramedics suffered a massive heart attack.

Sam glanced at Dean out of the corner of his eye, wondering what was going through his mind.

"This is not the first unusual death to hit the town," the woman continued, catching his attention. "Last week Frank Wilmott, forty nine, died after jumping out of an upper story window yelling that he was on fire. According to eye witnesses there, the man had become hysterical after starting building work on a house. Further details of the latest victim are still sketchy, but police say there is no connection between the two cases."

Dean pressed the mute button on the remote control and looked up at Sam. "Why do we always end up in Freaksville?"