A/N: Wow, I can feel the love for this story!! Loving the reviews!!

Lux Fati: Oh please don't do that, I couldn't afford to have a passed out fanficker on my hands! LOL Just take deep breaths, and calm yourself, hehe!

Robbie the Phoenix: Well after this you may actually fall off your seat. By the way, thanx for the favourite!!

Disclaimer: Read previous chapter. Thank you, please come again!

John had laid at the side of the road for ten minutes, rain pouring down on him, matting the rest of his hair to his slightly aged face. Hidden by shadow and strategically placed bushes, he could lie unseen. Then, a Ford truck, going way too damn fast in this weather, had hit a puddle and splashed water into his face, waking him. He sputtered and spit the foul, muddy waste back at the blacktop and the metallic taste of blood stung his palate. He spat again, but it lingered. He pushed himself off the highway, but felt dizzy. Blood dripped from his head in slow, steady drops. Leaning on one arm, he touched his head gingerly. There was a sizeable wound there, which made him chuckle. The boy had done a bang up job, pun fully intended. He had met his match in this one, and planned on seeing this out till the end.

Sitting a moment longer, he pushed himself up once more, the dizziness lessened. He noticed that his bag was missing, but that was of no matter, there was nothing else in there that was important. He looked for his knife, and smiled when he saw it lying next to him on the road. Slipping it back into his coat, he started the trek to Dean's motel. He had not been asleep at all during the drive. He was being very observant, watching Dean's every move. As he stepped from the shadows, a car passed him, then stopped. John grinned, as he fixed his coat and sauntered over to his next victim.

XXXXX

It was now nearly one thirty in the morning, and Dean was trying to quell the pang in his stomach with infomercials. He still had a headache that no amount of Advil would cure. Sam lay on his own bed, never taking his eyes off his older brother, and it began to put Dean's teeth on edge. Then when he thought he was ready to throw the remote at him, Sam stood, stretching his mammoth frame.

"If you'll be okay for a few, I'm gonna go to the motel bar for a cup of java. You want?" He eyed Dean a moment. Dean blinked then shut the TV off. Slowly turning his head in Sam's direction, he looked at him in disbelief.

"Did you not hear anything I told you over an hour ago?" Easing his way off the bed, he stood shakily. Thrusting a hand toward the rain-soaked window, Dean squinted hard. His headache had now taken up residence behind both eyes and felt as if Michael Flatley was holding auditions back there. Standing up had not been a good idea. Before he fell to the floor in a dead heap, Sam was at his side. Dean was out as soon as Sam had him back on the bed. Placing his head on the pillow and a blanket up to his chest, he sighed. It was hard seeing Dean this way, trading rolls like this was altogether different. Rubbing his brother's arm tenderly, he grabbed his coat and left for the bar.

XXXXX

The scotch and water looked less and less appealing to him as the night drug on. This was beginning to irk him, and he hated to be impatient. He liked the fast pace of things, but he needed to wait, needed the boy to come to him. Setting the half empty glass aside, he reached for the bowl of peanuts as another young man entered, shaking his long brown locks. He looked somehow similar to Dean, but also very different. The boy had to duck just slightly to get through the front doors, he observed, since his towering body was just past the doorframe's limit. He had hazel eyes that held a secret, and this was where the similarities began. There was a wisdom about those eyes, way beyond his young years, much like Dean. Running a hand through his wet hair, he searched the small bar for a seat, and the man waved him over, patting on a stool next to him. The young man looked apprehensive at first, but nodded. He made his way over and sat down next to him, thanking him.

"Not a problem young man, not a problem." He took Sam's hand in his before he could react and shook it. Sam smiled half heartedly. The man let go and shook his head.

"If manners were a check, mine would have bounced. I am sorry, my name is Frank Thompson." Sam eyed the man, then took his hand again. He seemed like a friendly fellow, and looked nothing like the guy that Dean described. This guy had black hair with a beard, and was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt under a bomber jacket. Nope, no duster nor blonde hair.

"I'm Sam Winchester." Then as soon as he said that, he regretted it. He wished he had used a fake name, but it was too late to back out of that one. Yet this guy looked harmless enough, so why did he feel like he had to hide his identity from him?

"Mind if I buy you a drink?" Frank panned his hand over the bar. Sam started to shake his head, but he already had his wallet out. "Joe, get Ol' Sammy here whatever he wants, and get me another scotch will ya?"

At the sound of his nickname, he winced. It made him think of Dean back in the motel room, laid up, suffering. He was being selfish at the present moment, and had been lately. Maybe he should just get his bloody coffee and get the hell out of there.

"I just need a couple coffees if that's okay. Hope I don't offend you." He smiled slowly at the man to his left, and Frank shook his head. He handed Joe the money and he shrugged at the mention of coffee. Sam could hear him mumble something about cappuccinos and yuppies. Sam just rolled his eyes. What did Joe care? He wasn't paying for them.

As the guys sat there, Sam watched Frank closely and saw a small bandage over his left eye. It had been a flesh coloured one, so when he had first seen him, he had not noticed it. Frank took a sip of what was left of his scotch and water, then cleared his throat.

"If you are so curious, why not just speak up. It's rude to stare, or hasn't Dean been able to teach you anything?" A slow smile crept across his face. Joe had come back with Sam's coffee, but he refused to take them. He was too in shock to even think. He had been fooled, and that pissed him of royally. As he began to stand, he felt something jabbing him in the stomach. Looking down, he saw a knife, the tip of the blade digging into his skin. He gripped the bar with one hand, and Frank's arm with the other. Frank stood, and was a mere three inches from Sam's face.

"Say anything, and the knife becomes a permanent part of your anatomy." Frank whispered softly into Sam's right ear, the heat from his voice and the smell of the scotch burning his neck. Sam nodded, his hands dropping to his sides. Frank tossed one hundred dollars at Joe.

"Don't say I never gave you nothin'." Then he turned Sam around and shoved him through the front doors.