A/N: I tried desperately to get this chapter up before I went camping. I failed. Sorry. I'd like to say I'll be more regular about updating, but, you know, life. I appreciate all the great reviews, though. They really do help with the whole motivation thing.

THEN: Dean performed a spell to steal Sam's psychic powers and made a deal with the Demon, offering his soul for Sam's safety. Sam tried to find him, only to discover that there was absolutely no trail for him to follow.

NOW . . .

I.

That first week, Sam did nothing but drown himself in booze and desperately try not to dream.

The second part of that venture was not as successful as the first. While Sam had the drinking down, down to a godamned art (getting drunk, getting drunker, passing out, waking up, waking up drunk, getting drunker, passing out . . .) the dreams never really went away, just receded to the point where he could manage them with just a little more help from Jack. But they were still there, in the corners of his mind, flashes of Dean and blood and sacrifice

and you're kind of missing the whole point here, Sammy. I didn't do this so you could turn into Dad, man

but Dean-In-His-Head was too painful to listen to, so he blocked that out too. He let himself drown, hoping to sink to a place where memory couldn't haunt him, where guilt couldn't follow. A place where he could just sleep for once.

But even without the psychic touch, Sam Winchester and sleep had never been on the best of terms. And Dean-In-His-Head didn't like to be silenced, would find a way to break through this veil of whiskey and grief.

"Not listnin' to you," Sam slurred in the empty motel room, stumbling one foot over the other, half-empty bottle dangling precariously in one hand. " 'M Not listnin', don't gotta listen. You're gone, man, gone . . . don't gotta, I don't gotta . . ."

Sam staggered his way into the bathroom, tripping over a towel and falling hard on his knees. He never felt it. "Not listnin," he said. "Not listnin', I won't."

I'm sorry, Sammy—and Sam closed his eyes.

I'm sorry, Sammy, but you will. You'll listen, whether you want to or not.

II.

He was standing in the middle of the road with nothing on but jeans and a T-shirt. He'd had shoes on at some point, he was sure, but he couldn't remember now, not what he had done with them, or for that matter, where he was. Maybe that should have bothered him, not knowing where he was, but it seemed much more important that his feet were cold. He needed to find socks. He'd feel better if he had socks.

Maybe I left them in the motel, he thought.

Sam turned around, and sure enough, there was the motel. He walked towards it, hoping that just for once there were some clean socks to be had, although he kind of doubted it. Laundry and Dean did not exactly see eye-to-eye. He stepped into the motel room, calling out his brother's name. Once he found something to wear, they could go get a burger. A burger sounded good.

Dean didn't answer when Sam called; there was no trace of him in the motel room. All that was left was a note saying goodbye. Sam ripped it to shreds and threw it away.

If you didn't see it, it didn't exist. There was no note, so Dean was still okay.

Sam still had to find shoes, though, and he went into the bathroom, thinking they might be there. They weren't . . . but something else was.

Dean. He was trapped in the mirror.

Sam immediately went up to it, placing his hands on the glass. Dean was there. He could see him; he just couldn't reach him. "Dean!" he yelled, unsure if Dean could hear him. "Dean, Dean, don't worry, man. I'm going to get you out of there."

Dean just shrugged at him, like being stuck in a mirror was a normal, everyday thing. Which . . . no . . . not even in their screwed-up, psychotic, totally freaky world was it okay to be stuck in a damn mirror. "It's too late," Dean said calmly. "It's too late for that, and you know it."

"The hell I do," Sam snapped. "Dean, I'm going to get you out of there."

Dean rolled his eyes, like Yeah, okay, Sammy. You go ahead and do that. Then he wrinkled his nose and made a gagging noise from the back of his throat. "Jesus, Sammy, what the hell have you been drinking? What, did you fall in, like, a vat of JD or something?"

Sam hunched his shoulder defensively. "I had to get clean," he said and gestured to the bathtub behind him. It was close to overflowing, but with whiskey, not with water. Rubber duckies floated on top, threatening to capsize at any moment. "You don't understand, Dean. I had to. I had to get clean."

Dean shook his head. "You're not getting clean," he said. "You're just getting lost, Sammy."

Which was true and Sam knew it, but it was really not the bigger problem right now. "Dean, we can talk about this later," he said. "If you hadn't noticed, you're kind of stuck in a mirror, okay?"

Dean rolled his eyes, which meant, Jeez, dude, you never listen. "I told you, it's too late for that. Haven't you been listening to the radio?"

And dammit, Sam had forgotten about the radio. He could hear it playing now, softly from the other room. The killer awoke before dawn. He put his boots on. "No," Sam said, shaking his head. "No, Dean, you aren't a killer. I'm going to save you, okay? I just got to get you out of there."

He studied the glass for a minute, looking for imperfections, some kind of fracture or tell. In the end, it was so simple he didn't know why he hadn't thought of it at once. "Dean," he said. "All I have to do is break the glass. If I break the glass, I can free you. You'll be okay."

Dean shook his head. "Sammy," he warned. "Sammy, man, you don't want to be doing that. You don't know what will happen."

"I know what will happen," Sam said. "I'm going to save you for once."

"No, Sam, you won't," Dean whispered, but Sam wouldn't listen.

"Step back!" Sam warned and smashed his fists into the glass. It shattered instantly, and blood poured into the sink, but it wasn't Sam's. None of Sam's skin was cut.

"Oh, Christ," Sam whispered. "Dean. Dean!" He frantically brushed aside shards of glass, trying to find his brother in the inky void where the mirror had been, but there was only darkness, darkness and blood, and Sam thought ole Jim Morrison might have been right . . . maybe this was the end.

"Dean," Sam choked, his throat threatening to close in on itself. "Dean, please, please, Dean."

"It's okay," a voice said dully from behind him. "It's not mine."

Sam turned around sharply. Dean was there, sitting at the edge of the bathtub and staring at nothing in particularly. He looked old; he looked broken. Sam didn't care about any of that. "Dean!" he said, so relieved he sank to his knees. "Dean! God, Dean, you're—you're okay."

Dean laughed bitterly. "Is that what I am," he said. He shook his head and smiled a little, although the smile looked wrong; too sharp, somehow, like something feral, ready to attack at any given moment.

And Sam didn't like that—that smiled made him nervous. "Dean?" he asked. "Dean, are you hurt? Did . . . did I hurt you?"

Dean's smile grew. "Did I hurt you, he asks," Dean said to the ceiling. "Christ, Sammy, I didn't know I raised you to be so godamned funny." He spread his hands to the side, and Sam saw that they were dripping blood.

"Shit, you are hurt," Sam said, but when he tried to touch Dean, Dean shoved him away roughly.

"I told you, I keep telling you, and you just don't fucking listen. It's not mine, Sam; it's not mine. None of it's mine, and I don't want any of it." Dean rubbed one hand through his hair, and Sam winced a little at the red that was left behind. "I hurt them, Sam. I hurt them, and you're just . . . you're just . . ." He looked down at the bath of whiskey. "I did this for you, Sam. I did it for you."

"I didn't want you too—''

"Well, that's too fucking bad! I did it anyway. I did it, and now there's this blood, there's blood everywhere, and it's not supposed to be on my godamned hands, Sam. I'm not supposed to be the evil one. This isn't supposed to be mine!"

And Sam knew that, he knew, but he didn't know what to do about it. "God, Dean," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm just—I'm so—I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Dean was up and on his feet faster than Sam could blink. He grabbed Sam by the arms and flung him against the wall. Sam felt his head crack against the shower tile and he slipped, falling gracelessly into the bath of booze beneath him. Dean stood above him, glaring down, hands flexing to the beat of Jim Morrison chanting.

Kill . . . kill . . . kill . . . kill . . .

"I didn't do this so you would be sorry, Sam. I didn't do this so you would turn into me. I did this so you would live. You're supposed to be living, and this is what you're doing?"

Sam reflexively swallowed, feeling the tears sting behind his eyes. "What am I supposed to do?" he whispered. "Dean, I can't, I can't—I'm sorry."

And apparently the radio was on some kind of loop because Jim was still chanting as Dean shook his head. Kill . . . kill . . . kill . . . kill . . . as Dean went to his knees and shoved Sam's head under the surface of whiskey.

"You're not worth the sacrifice," Dean said, and Sam heard this is the end before his body succumbed to the darkness below.

III.

Sam came to himself gasping on the bathroom floor, at first confused, still trapped within his nightmare. He looked around wildly for Dean, fists up to defend himself, before he remembered that Dean wasn't here.

Dean's gone, Sammy. Dean's gone, and you're only drowning in booze in the metaphorical sense

Sam got to his knees with a groan, his hands going to his head. He had only the vaguest memories of last night, only vague memories of the past week, really. He did remember passing out after his stomach had angrily ex-nayed the suggestion of half a bottle of Jack straight down the hatch.

And speaking of the porcelain god . . .

Sam lunged for the toilet and threw up.

IV.

There was a picture of Dean and Sam from Christmastime years ago, that one, special Christmas where they had actually gotten real gifts. Sam had been seven at the time, and he had gotten three of the four Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle dolls—albeit, armless TMNT dolls, but that didn't really bother Sam. Warriors lost arms and legs in battles all the time. These ones had just proved their battle-worthiness.

In the picture, Sam was sneaking up on Dean with his Armless Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles of Death, and Dean was reclining on the couch, reading a book and oblivious to his imminent demise.

Or so it looked in the picture, anyway. In reality, Sam had come in for his surprise attack, and Dean had attacked him first, assailing him with pillows before Sam even knew what was happening. The book lay behind them, long forgotten. Every time Sam looked at the picture, he had to wonder what it was. Dean just wasn't a book-loving kind of guy.

Sam looked at the picture now, one in a handful of a very strange childhood, and closed his eyes at the memory of it. I'm sorry, Dean, he thought to himself. I know that doesn't help, but . . .God, Dean, I'm sorry.

Sam opened his eyes slowly and set the picture down, squinting out the window at the bright, afternoon sun. After deciding that sleep was a bad idea (and drinking, by far, a worse idea still), Sam had taken a few hours to throw himself in the shower, swallow a chockfull of aspirin, and attempt to muddle through his hangover. By the afternoon, he felt quite accomplished in relearning how to think, but he knew it would be awhile before he was ready for anything resembling food.

The first order of business had been figuring out where the hell he was. The town, sure, but more importantly the state . . . Sam wasn't even sure, at this point, what side of the country he was on. He figured out that he was in Iowa, in some city called Sutherland, that, shockingly enough, he'd never been to before.

And that was good to know, but it didn't help him figure out where the hell Dean was.

And that put him back in square one all over again.

Sam went through the options in his head, options that he knew he'd already been over a million times. Couldn't count on Jo, couldn't trust Ellen, and couldn't trust Ash not to tell Ellen. God, he wished he could, wished he could rely on him, because if anyone could track Dean, well, it was the mullet man from MIT, but Ash wasn't exactly a closed lip kind of guy, and Sam didn't trust him with a secret.

Once again, he lingered longer on the prospect of calling Bobby, actually picked up the phone a couple of times to dial in the first few digits, but hung up before he ever completed them. Bobby was a friend, a good friend, and Sam could desperately use his help—but as much as he wanted a friend right now, he wanted an enemy even less. And if Bobby decided that Dean was in need of a good bullet to the back of the head . . . that's just what Bobby would become.

So Sam was on his own, and it was a lousy position to be in. He couldn't just pick up with his life the way Dean had wanted him to, (you should) but he couldn't, he wouldn't accept that, and simultaneously he couldn't hunt for Dean, not without a trail to follow. Square one, square one, and this was what had led him drink in the first place, but right now even the idea of alcohol made Sam feel nauseous. So he didn't even have that, not anymore.

"What am I supposed to do?" Sam asked quietly, but Dean-In-His-Head didn't answer, and the empty room didn't either. No family, no friends, no liquid comfort . . . pretty much all he had to fall back on was prayer.

That, of course, woke Dean-In-His-Head up.

Dude, you're gonna PRAY? he asked incredulously. THAT's your big solution for this complete and utter fuck up? Let me tell you, Sammy, there ain't any God up there, and if there is, he sure as hell ain't watching out for us down here. If the Winchesters ever had an angel, he burned in the fire with Mom. You're alone, man. For Chrissake, just learn how to DEAL with it, already.

But that was whole problem, of course. Sam couldn't deal with it, couldn't accept the fact that he was alone.

So he closed his eyes and prayed, to anything that would listen.

V.

Sam took off in the morning, driving nowhere in particular, just knowing that he couldn't stay there, not in the same place with the same walls and the same problems. At least when he drove, he had the illusion that he was doing something, that there was a way out of this, that he was going somewhere. It was easier, somehow, to pretend that all of this could somehow turn out well.

He wondered if it was the same for Dean. If Dean only liked to drive because it was the one time in their mad-cap lives that he could actually imagine a happy ending for them.

No, Sammy, Dean-In-His-Head said. I always believed in an end. But as long as you were safe, Sammy . . . that's all that mattered. That's all that ever mattered.

"Not to me, Dean," Sam whispered. "It's not a happy ending if I'm the only one who gets it."

Driving was comforting in its own way, but it was also painful, painful without Dean there riding shotgun, painful without Dean bitching about Sammy's lack of finesse behind the wheel. Come on, Sammy, dead GRANDMOTHERS drive faster than this or Jesus, Sammy, I know the tortoise wins in the end, but aren't we taking this a little too far? Sam could replay the arguments in his mind, could remind a Dean that wasn't there that speed limits weren't more like guidelines than actual rules, and furthermore they were never watching Pirates of the Caribbean again, but it wasn't the same. Dean-In-His-Head just wasn't Dean, and Sam couldn't really pretend that he was.

But the silence was hard too, so Sam flipped on the radio, at first seeking music that he liked for once. Take advantage of it, right, listen to something from this DECADE for once, something from somebody not coiffing a freaking mullet.No big brother to complain, no driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole BS rules. Nobody in the shotgun now. It's your call, your choice. Your car.

Sam fiddled with the stations until he found one playing The Shins and left it there, content to listen to something without twenty minute long guitar solos or lyrics he had heard a million . . . freaking . . . times.

This is good, Sam thought. I can do this.

Two minutes later, he flipped the radio off.

It was just a little too much like sacrilege.

VI.

Sam drove for hours on end, only stopping when the Impala threatened to run out of gas, or when he desperately needed a little boys' room break. These stops were as quick as he could possibly make them, and then he was back on the road, driving towards something, some answer, some solution. Every now and then his mind would wander towards the inevitable (What are you doing, Sam? Where are you going) and he'd pull his mind back to the open road, letting the emptiness of the highway blank out all his thoughts. He couldn't think about what he was doing. He just had to go

So it was only when he crossed the Kansas border that he realized he had been going somewhere all along.

Sam actually stopped the car in the middle of the road, resulting in a near fender bender and quite a few middle fingers and suggestions on who he could fuck and who his mother was. Sam ignored them all and pulled over, trying to let his suddenly thudding heart beat at a pace slightly more normal.

He was going home.

Sam didn't want to go home. He had dealt with a lot of shit in the last couple of weeks, a lot of shit for the last few years, actually, and Sam was tired of it, dammit. Sam didn't want to go back to Lawrence unless it would somehow miraculously help him figure out where Dean was. Since that wasn't going to happen, there was no reason to visit a home he had never known and look at a life that was never his to live.

There was no reason for putting himself through that, no reason except . . .

He owed it them. He owed to his mother and he owed to his father, to go to their resting place and explain why Dean was never going to make it there himself. Why Dean was lost. How it was Sam's fault.

He owed that much to them, at least.

So Sam pulled back on the road and started to driving, vowing not to stop until he made it back to Lawrence. When it got late, he put the radio back on, blasting music to keep himself awake. He needed to get to Lawrence, and anyway, he wasn't quite ready to face his nightmares, not just yet.

He must have landed on an old country station, because Johnny Cash came on, singing, "Green, Green Grass of Home."

The old home town looks the same,
As I step down from the train,
And there to meet me is my mama and my papa.
Down the road I look, and there comes Mary,
Hair of gold and lips like cherries.
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.

Sam flipped off the radio.

VII.

He reached the cemetery about four in the morning, which was good because it meant that nobody else was there. Cemeteries were awkward places to be when you were surrounded by other people trying to mourn their loved ones. You never knew whether you should meet their eyes, commiserate in being the ones left behind, or ignore them entirely. No matter what you did, you felt wrong. It was hard to feel right in a place frequented by the dead.

Sam was used to cemeteries, but he'd never liked them. They didn't hold closure for him, just another place to get burned.

He wandered around for a few minutes, not ready to get where he needed to go. Headstones surrounded him, full of lines about love, lines about loss. Devoted son, they said. Good son. Loving brother.

Gone too soon, they said. Dearly missed. Rest in peace.

Sam felt his eyes sting and wiped away tears before they could fall. He made his way over to his mother's grave, sitting on the cold ground to the right of it. He touched the cord around his neck, and thought of the dog tags that lay beneath the dirt. Maybe he should bury Dean's necklace with the dog tags, give his own rest in peace, Dean, I'll never forget you, but dammit that was too much like giving up, and he wasn't giving up.

He didn't know what he was doing, but it wasn't that.

Instead, Sam put one hand to his mother's headstone and closed his eyes, bowing his head just slightly. "Mom," he said, "Dad, I'm—I'm sorry. I know, I know I've been saying that a lot lately, and I know how useless it is, but . . . I don't know what else to say. I don't know what else to do."

He shook his head, and drew his knees up to his chest, one hand still playing with the cord around his neck. "I tried to get him to come here, before. Before this all happened, I, I wanted him to be able to say goodbye, to let go some of that . . . some of that guilt, I guess. I thought I still had time, you know, thought he'd come around eventually, but time runs out." He smiled sadly. "I guess we all know that."

"Mom, I'm sorry about what happened, and I'm sorry that you died trying to save me, and I'm sorry Dean lived his whole life believing that it was his job to save me, but . . . I want you to know, I want you and Dad both to know, that you died saving me, and Dad died saving Dean, but I won't, I won't let Dean die to save me. I'm just, I'm not going to let it happen. And I don't know how I'm going to stop it, but . . . I will stop it. I am going to get my brother back."

Sam let go of the headstone, but didn't move, didn't open his eyes for a long time. Seconds passed into minutes passed into fractions of long hours, and when he heard footsteps behind him, he wasn't surprised, even though he wasn't psychic anymore.

"Oh, honey," the woman said from behind him. "Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry."

And Dean would have made some kind of wisecrack; Dean would never have fallen apart at the sound of a soothing, woman's voice. Dean would have, at the very least, made some kind of lame joke to break the ice, something like and you call yourself a psychic. Woman, I've been sitting around here for hours.

Dean would have said something like that, but he wasn't Dean; he was Sam. So he turned around and Missouri stretched out her arms and Sam fell into them like a child who had finally found his way home.

VIII.

Missouri fixed him tea back at her place, and he drank it even though he never particularly liked tea. He was used to being offered something to drink, though, something like tea or lemonade, a civilized drink that people sipped because that's what you did when you were talking. Never mind the fact that Sam was usually talking to these people about dead bodies or ghosts in the attic; you sat there and calmly sipped tea while asking the widow whether her husband had been missing any internal organs when he was found.

Normal had a way of sneaking into every situation. Sam always drank his tea. He had craved normal in a way his brother never had.

Missouri talked as she checked the oven, making sure her muffins didn't burn. "I felt it when it happened," she said. "I felt it when your brother . . . made the trade. I knew you'd by coming on by eventually." She put a little extra sugar in her own cup of tea and sat down across from him, watching him as she stirred. "How are you doing, Sam?"

Sam ignored that question entirely. He put aside his cup of tea, having already taken his first, cursory sip. "Can you still feel him?" he asked, leaning forward on his knees. "Do you know, can you . . . can you get a fix on where he is?"

Missouri looked troubled, and she set aside her own cup of tea. "I'm not sure," she said, looking thoughtfully out at the distance. She might have continued if Sam didn't decide to channel his brother best by sticking his foot right in his own mouth.

"What do you mean, you're not sure? Come on, Missouri. You either can or you can't."

Missouri bristled at that. "Boy, I am not a GPS Tracker!" she snapped, and Sam deflated a little, understanding but not particularly apologetic. "The gift doesn't work like that, and you, of all people, should know it. I want to help you, boy, but I can't do it if you aren't going to listen. Are you going to listen, Sam, or would you like to flounder a bit more the way you have been?"

And that got a rise out of Sam, even as he was just beginning to calm down. "Don't talk to me like that," he snapped suddenly. "You don't know—you can't, you haven't been—you don't know, Missouri. You don't get to judge me on this. Dean was—Dean's just—you don't get it. You can't. You don't know anything."

Missouri's eyes softened a little at that. "I do, Sam," she said, but Sam shook his head.

You don't, he thought, and Dean-In-His-Head said, She can't. She can't understand, Sammy. She's not a Winchester.

One of Missouri's eyebrows shot up, and Sam cringed a little, desperately not wanting that particular conversation. He knew the fact that he heard his brother's voice in his head was weird, knew that if Dean ever found out, he'd probably want little Sammy's head examined (you hear VOICES, Sam? That's a little out there, even for us) but that was a problem for another day. Sam didn't have time for a lecture on cracking up. He needed to find Dean, and he needed Missouri's help to do it.

Sam waited, but mercifully, Missouri didn't comment on any thoughts she might have picked up. Instead, she took a sip of her tea and looked out the window, seemingly at nothing in particular. "I don't have coordinates for you, Sam," she said. "No town name or anything as convenient as a Welcome Here sign. But I have been trying, and when I focus on Dean, I get . . . images. I don't know what they mean, exactly. But it's all I can give you right now."

Sam leaned forward again. "What kind of images?" he asked eagerly.

"Well . . ." Missouri hesitated, glancing quickly at Sam and then away again. "A bus, for starters."

Sam blinked. "He's riding a bus?" he asked without thinking. He couldn't help it; the very idea was unfathomable. Sure, Dean had left the Impala behind, and sure, he didn't have any transportation available, and sure, he wasn't really even Dean anymore, but still . . . "A bus?"

Missouri sighed. "I don't know, child. I don't know if he's riding a bus or thinking about a bus or just looking at a bus. I just know that's what I see when I think of him. A bus, a blue bus." She narrowed her eyes. "The color's very distinct."

A blue bus. It sounded ridiculous, and yet . . . there was something about that image that gave Sam pause, something that seemed familiar. Who CARES? Dean-In-His-Head said. That's not going to help you find me. Is this really the best you've got? Sam told him to shut up absently, and focused back on Missouri.

"Anything else?" he asked doubtfully.

Missouri hesitated again, eyes drawn to the teacup in her hand. "I've seen your Daddy," she said quietly.

Sam started. "You've seen Dad?" he asked incredulously. "But, but, he's not . . . he's in H—he's gone, right? He's not—he's not here?"

Missouri shook her head. "I don't think so, child. I don't think it's really him, I'm seeing, not his spirit anyway, just—just a memory. Could be your brother's been thinking about him a good deal. Could be the place reminds him of your Daddy, a place where your Daddy . . . smiled."

Sam frowned at that. Dean thinking of Dad wasn't exactly much of a clue—every place reminded Dean of Dad in some way or another—but a place that Dad had been smiling? That narrowed the field quite a bit.

Too much, in fact. Sam tried, but he could never go back to a time where he really believed that his Dad had ever been happy. His whole life, Dad had been focused, Dad had been grim . . . except . . . "Could he be here? Missouri? Could Dean actually be in Lawrence?"

What luck that would have been, stumbling on to Dean after searching so aimlessly for the past two weeks. But that would have been too easy, and Missouri was already shaking her head. "No," she said, "no. I'd be able to feel it, if he were here. No, he's further out, to the coastline, maybe, further west." She tapped a finger on the side of her tea cup, measuring out slow beats that Sam instantly recognized. Tap . . . tap . . .tap . . . tap . . . kill . . . kill . . . kill . . . kill. "He's out west," she said. "I'm sure of it. The west—"

"Is the best," Sam finished, and Missouri looked at him, surprised. "Song lyrics," he explained. "The Doors. It was this damn song he had in his head before he . . . before he made the deal." He looked down at his hands, seeing nothing but Dean cleaning guns repetitively, pretending everything was all right. Why didn't I see it? he thought. I should have seen it.

You did see it, Dean-In-His-Head said. You just didn't want to.

"That's not true at all, boy," Missouri said sharply. "You'd do anything for your brother. Dean knew that. He loved you, Sam."

God, Sam thought. I know that. Don't you think I know that? He felt tears sting his eyes and he pushed them away impatiently, wondering how many times he'd cried in the last week alone. It didn't matter. He rubbed his face with his hands, tired and frustrated and more than a little defeated.

"The blue bus doesn't help much either," he admitted after a minute. "It's just another part of the song. I swear that damn song is haunting me."

"It's haunting your brother, too," Missouri said. "Of that, there is little doubt."

Sam just shrugged. Dean could have the Macarena stuck in his head 24/7; it didn't help Sam tracking him down one bit. "There's got to be something else," he said. "Something that would help me find him." He frowned. "There has to be a reason Dad's sticking out. You can't see this place at all?"

Missouri shrugged helplessly. "I'm not sure, Sam," she said. "I see your father, I see him smiling, and . . . and he's in a motel room, I can see that, but—yes, Sam, I know how many motel rooms you and your father have been to, I know you were pretty much raised in motels, give me some credit, boy, I'm not a simpleton—but I can't see this motel clearly. It's faded, like an old photograph. I can see rain and a . . . a flower in the corner of the room. This flower, it's a sad excuse for a flower, really, and around it are—"

"Presents," Sam said suddenly. "Two, wrapped, Christmas presents."

Sam remembered he had so desperately wanted a tree that year, but he knew he would never get one, so he pulled one of the old, dying roses from the motel garden and made it their "Christmas Flower" instead. Dean had instantly pronounced it as the "dumbest thing in the history of the universe" but it had been important to Sam, so they kept the sad looking thing.

One of those wrapped presents was for Sam. Inside were the three Armless Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles of Death.

"It's this motel we stayed at one Christmas," he said. "California, somewhere north. Fort Bragg, I think. Dean, right before he . . . left . . .he and I were talking about it. It was a pretty unusual Christmas. And Dad did smile that day. I don't know why, but he was smiling." He shook his head and looked at Missouri. "Do you think that's where he is?"

Missouri shook her head with a sad smile. "I don't know, child," she said. "But that's what I see when I think of Dean. Do you remember the place, Sam? Do you remember the actual motel?"

Sam thought for a minute. "No," he had to admit. "But I'm pretty sure about the town, and Fort Brag's not a huge place. Anyway, it's a start. It's a direction." It's something, he thought. It's really SOMETHING.

It was so much more than he had yesterday, that Sam could no longer sit still. He stood up and started pacing the living room restlessly, Missouri's eyes on him, a tentative, worried smile on her face. He knew what she was thinking, but he didn't want to think it himself, turned away from her compassion, her concern.

"I'm going to get him back," he said sharply, leaving no room for argument. "I will."

"Sam," Missouri said softly.

"No. I'm Going. To Get. Him Back."

"I know you're going to try, honey," Missouri said. She came to stand near Sam, took his hand and made him look down at her. "And I believe you just might do it. But Sam, you have to understand . . . this isn't a possession that you're dealing with. You can't throw a few words at your brother and exorcise this away. It's more than that, Sam. It's bigger than that."

Sam looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "Is he anywhere in there at all, Missouri? Is Dean still Dean . . . somewhere?"

Missouri sighed. She let go of his hand, and moved to the couch, sitting down carefully, her eyes away to look at something he couldn't see. ""He's still Dean," she said softly. "He's just not your Dean."

Sam moved to sit next to her on the couch, and she looked at him, eyes troubled and dark. "Dean isn't possessed," she told him. "It's more like he gave up a part of his soul. Not the whole soul—your body isn't much more than a sack of meat without one—but a piece of it, Sam. And he didn't lose that piece. He offered it."

Sam tried to look away, and Missouri took him by the chin and forced him to look at her again. "I believe in you, Sam," she said. "I know you, know you how bright and strong-willed you are—just like your Daddy, stubborn as an ox and never backing down. I know you can't give up, Sam, and I know you have to do this, but I don't know, Sam. I don't know if you can get your Dean back."

Sam met her eyes then, stood up slowly as she took his hand again. "I'll get him back," he said.

"I have to get him back."

IX.

Missouri bullied him into spending the night (Boy, I know you haven't got a decent night's sleep since your brother left, and it don't take a psychic to know it; you look two steps from a cold grave) but he still didn't get much more than an hour's worth of shuteye; how could he, knowing that his brother was out there and finally having a lead on where he might be? It wasn't a solution, wasn't even a certain conclusion that he'd find Dean at all, but it was something. It was what he had, and he'd take it.

He'd take it.

He left early the next morning, loaded with a bucket of comfort food Missouri gave to him with a scowl, just daring to him to comment on how fried chicken and biscuits were going to help. He didn't comment. Instead, he gave her a hug and thanked her for giving him something to go on, something to live for.

There were a few more tears spilt, and then Sam was driving, turning on the interstate towards California.

So, what's the plan here, Sammy? Dean-In-His-Head asked dryly. You come find me, tell me how much you love me, and what? I magically re-grow my soul? We hug and cry and live happily ever after? Birds sing and chipmunks dance? Good triumphs just cause you want it to?

Sam smirked at that. "Yeah, Dean," he said. "That sounds good to me. That sounds like a plan."

That's not a plan, you IDIOT. That's a fantasy. That's a lie.

"Maybe," Sam said. "But it's what I'm going to do. I'm going to save you, Dean."

"I'm going to save you, this time."

X.

I'm going to save you, Dean . . . and Dean's eyes snapped open, the pain immediate and digging through his skull. He sat up quickly, fingers pushing into his forehead until the pain receded back to something more manageable and dull.

The chick in his bed, Candy or Callie or something, woke up as he cracked his neck. She looked up at him, hands rubbing her face. "Hey baby," she said, "you okay?"

He grinned easily at her. "I'm always okay, darlin," he said. He stood up and walked over to the table, where a fresh pair of jeans, a knife, a pack of cigarettes, and silver bowl lay. He lit one of the cigarettes, stuck it in his mouth, and threw on the jeans while looking back at the girl. "Come here," he said to her.

Candy or Callie did, blinking owlishly at him. She was obviously still pretty drunk, swaying a little as she made her way over to him and pressed close into his side. He had a decent buzz goin on himself, and he stilled for a moment as she slid a hand down the front of his jeans. Maybe . . . he thought, but he had things to do, so he shoved her backwards a few steps, steadying her when she stumbled. "Not now," he said to her. "Later. Hey, look into this bowl for me, okay?"

Candy or Callie nodded and peered at the bowl as if it might suddenly turn into gold. When it didn't, she turned to look at him, giggling as if it was the funniest thing in the whole world. "It's empty," she said.

"It's not," he told her seriously. "It holds your entire life."

Candy or Callie frowned at him, trying to get the joke and coming up short. "I don't get it," she said.

Dean grinned. "They never do."

Then he pulled out the knife from behind him and slit the girl's throat.

Candy or Callie's blood poured into the bowl when Candy or Callie herself went to her knees, gagging, futily trying to push her hands to her throat as if she could somehow push her blood back into her body. Dean kicked her aside without a second glance and ignored how her legs twitched as he looked into the bowl full of her blood.

"Dude," Dean said. "You have got to come up with a less messy communication system. You ever think about buying a phone?"

He didn't know how this worked, exactly, didn't much care about the technical details. The blood acted as some sort of conduit, allowing him to hear the Demon's voice but not actually see him. The Demon's voice came through now, slow and dryly amused at Dean's expense. "A cell phone doesn't exactly ooze evil," the Demon said. "A bowl of blood is so much better for my image. What do you want?"

Dean grinned around his cigarette. "It's like you're not even happy to hear from me," he said, mock-sadly. "I bet you're nicer to all your other children."

"My other children get to the point. You obviously still need some work on that."

Dean sighed. Work, work, work. He thought the whole point of being, you know, evil, was not having to work, of just screwing around, having sex, killing people, the usual. Not that he wasn't doing that. But the Demon was so one-track about his whole Plan sometimes. Tell the truth, Dean was getting more than a little bored of the whole world-is-coming-to-an-end thing. Sure, the idea of apocalypse sounded good on paper, but did anyone have any idea how much groundwork you had to lay for one?

Try telling that to the Demon, though. Truth was, Dean was getting a little bored of him, too.

Still, the Demon was right. This form of communication only lasted as long as the blood stayed warm, so there wasn't so much time for shooting the shit and dickering around. Dean sighed. Yet another reason to convert to cell phones.

Another task for another time. "Sam's coming," he told the Demon. "I dreamed of him on the road. He knows where I am."

"So kill him," the Demon said instantly. "You don't have a problem with that, do you?"

Dean pretended to give the matter a moment's thought. "Nah," he said after a minute. "It's his own fucking fault for coming after me." And, honestly, the trouble he had gone to too, writing that sweet little note, warning him that Dean was evil now, evil in big, fat, fucking capital letters. And still, Sam had come after him. He never when to leave things the hell alone.

Besides . . . it wasn't like Dean hadn't wanted his brother to come after him. He sure as hell didn't pick this city for the sights. Or, for that matter, for the warmth of Christmas memories, or some kind of pitiful, ass-backwards nostalgia. That might be how Sam remembered this place, some motel where he had a real Christmas just like a real boy, but Dean knew this was just one place his father decided to act like a father for once. And what? Was good ole Dad supposed to get a medal for not failing one day in 24 fucking years?

Dean's lips curved upwards. It was nice to think of Dad, burning in Hell. It was nice to think that Sam would soon be joining him. He had some issues with his brother, after all, issues that were perfectly understandable given their history together.

And now he had some new, sharp toys to work them out with. Yes, he was looking forward to Sam's arrival.

A flare of pain caught the side of his temple, and he growled, rubbing the side of his head with one hand. "I'm not so worried about killing Sam," Dean said into the bowl. "What I am worried about are these godamned headaches all the fucking time. I thought these were supposed to get better after awhile. Don't they make, like, a Vicodin for Demon Fledglings or something?"

The Demon laughed. "Try killing something," he advised. "Always puts me in a better mood."

Dean looked down at the floor. Candy or Callie was still lying there, one hand stretched out towards the door, her legs no longer twitching. "Already did," he said, flicking his eyes over the curve of her body. Her eyes were still open. They were fixed, terrified.

It did make him smile . . . but still . . . "Pain didn't go away," he complained. "I mean, sure, the killing was good while it lasted, but . . ."

"Make it last longer," the Demon suggested. "Double the torture, double the fun. Right, Dean?"

Dean thought about that as he glanced out the window. There were two girls in the parking lot, both in sarongs and bikini tops, looking helplessly at their stalled car. "Right," he said a little breathlessly as he watched one of them lean over the hood of the car. "Think I might try that out. If you'll excuse me . . ."

The Demon was dry. "Of course," he said.

Dean drained the blood down the bathroom sink. He threw on a T-shirt, put out his cigarette, and lit a new one. He had got into smoking when he was a teenager, some kind of silent rebellion against his Dad, although his Dad never found out. Sam saw him once, though, and the look of disappointment on his face . . . Dean had stopped smoking immediately. He had cared so much what his little brother thought of him . . .it was disgusting, really.

Didn't matter now. Now, Sammy was coming for a little family reunion, and Dean would be sure to make the event a memorable one.

He stepped out of the motel room, never looking back at the dead girl on his floor. He'd have to bury her later (work, work, work, always with the work) but for right now, he had other things on his mind. He put a Do-Not-Disturb sign on his door and walked over to where the bikini-clad girls were standing, waving at them politely. He gave his best "aw-shucks" smile.

"Need a hand?" he asked.

Turned out, they did.

-TBC

-Lyrics are from The Doors

-Reviews are appreciated in all shapes or sizes.