A/N: Whew. I think only three or four more chapters to go. (And to think, when I told myself to get it done by the end of the year, I was joking. shakes head and sighs)

THEN: Dean tortures Sam until Sam finally manages to get the upper hand. After he knocks him out, Sam uses the same spell Dean did to get his powers back. Unfortunately, Sam is still losing blood from his earlier fun with Dean, and is completely disoriented when someone shows up at the door.

NOW:

I.

Sam sat on a swing in a deserted playground, not swinging, just sitting and watching his feet. The landscape seemed faded, like an old photograph. Everything and everyone in it was gray.

Sam was the only adult there, amidst the gray children. He was also the only one that was still alive.

Miss Mary Mack-Mack-Mack all dressed in black-black-black with silver buttons-buttons-buttons all down her back-back-back . . .

There was a shotgun full of rock salt lying near his feet, but he didn't move to pick it up. The fifty or so ghost kids were a little creepy, but they weren't doing anything to endanger him. For the most part, they were ignoring him completely, playing their games and singing their songs. Kids swung on the monkey bars and flickered out of existence when they fell; others appeared and disappeared intermittently during a game of hide n seek.

A part of Sam felt like grabbing the shotgun anyway; old habits die hard, and he felt a little exposed like this, but he didn't because he felt sorry for them, these children who didn't get to grow up. They didn't want to hurt anybody; all they wanted to do was play, because that was their unfinished business, their one last regret. These children didn't get the chance to grow out of things like monkey bars; they died before they were ready, died before their time.

Now they had all the time in the world, and they used it to play games.

. . . she asked her mother-mother-mother for fifty cents-cents-cents to see the elephant-elephant-elephant jump over the fence-fence-fence . . .

Sam had lived into adulthood, but sometimes he wished he'd had more of an opportunity to play. Silly games, things that didn't involve hunting, didn't involve beasts or cockroaches or outrunning Child Protective Services. He wished he'd had more time to just act like a damn kid. His childhood had been a short thing, and he knew Dean's had been even shorter.

"God," Dean said, out of nowhere. "You're not going to start crying, are you? Cause, dude, I could be in a thousand better places right now, not sitting with my emo brother in some spooky ass playground."

Sam turned his head to see Dean standing, casually leaning against the swings. He was as gray as the rest of the world, save for hazel eyes and bright red tennis shoes. "When did you get here?" Sam asked, confused.

"Oh, I've been around for just about forever, now." Dean pushed himself off of the bar and sat down in the empty swing next to Sam. "Seriously, Sammy, ghost kids? Why can't you ever drag us to beach in Tahiti or something?"

Dean looked out over the gray expanse, and Sam watched him, scrutinizing his features. "You're not really Dean," he realized suddenly. "You're just the Dean-In-My-Head, aren't you?"

Dean shrugged at that. "I'm real enough," he said. "Anyway, that Dean, the one you got out there? He's just about as real as I am. He's got our body and I've got our soul, so it's like having a whole brother. You know, only not." He took out a cigarette from his back pocket and lit it, the smoke looking blue as it twirled above their heads. "Probably shouldn't have started these again," Dean said. "But hey, when you're evil, you gotta look the part, right?"

One of the ghosts loomed closer to them, attracted by the blue smoke. Sam thought she looked a little like Missy Bender, just a little less demented and a little more dead. "Hey!" Dean shouted at her suddenly. "The living people got some business here. Move your creepy ass along. Go kill somebody or play jump rope or something."

The girl gave a started flicker and disappeared out of existence. Sam rolled his eyes reproachfully. "Nice, Dean. Real compassionate."

"Fuck off," Dean said easily.

They sat in a comfortable silence for awhile, thinking of nothing and listening to the children's rhymes. (. . . he jumped so high-high-high he hit the sky-sky-sky . . .) Sam watched the ghosts play various games, from hopscotch to four-square to something that looked vaguely like dodgeball. They had just started to play Red Rover, Red Rover when Dean spoke up again.

"You know this is just a dream, right?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam said. "I know it."

Dean smiled sadly. "Good dreams are hard," he said. "They're so much harder than nightmares. Nightmares aren't a big deal. I mean, yeah, they suck, but you wake up, you know? Sometimes, you dream a dream so good, you just never want to wake up."

He put out his cigarette, immediately lit another. "I know nightmares were always your thing, but good dreams? Those were always mine. I got tired of dreaming of a perfect world. I just got tired, you know?" Dean kicked at the sand under his feet, shifting his body minutely in the swing. "That's why the Djinn sucked so godamned hard. It's a little like getting ripped out of Heaven, I think."

"This could be Heaven," Sam said softly. "This could be just . . . a place to rest."

Dean looked around at the skipping ghosts, the shades of gray upon gray upon gray. "You got a creepy ass idea of what Heaven looks like, Sammy."

"You're here," Sam said simply. "You're here and I'm here and we're both okay. That's all I really need anymore, Dean. That's all I really want. That's not so much to ask, I don't think. I just want to stay here, Dean. I just want to stay here. I don't want to wake up."

"Yeah," Dean said. "I know. But that's not exactly up to you. Even if it was . . . you're not just gonna leave me like that, are you?"

. . . and (Sam) he never came back-back-back till the (Sam, wake) fourth of July-July-July (up).

Sam turned his head at the sound of his name, floating through the wind with the children's rhymes, but there was nothing to see, nobody here, but him and Dean and fifty dead kids. He turned back to Dean, who had stood up. "You're going to leave soon," Dean said.

"I don't want to," Sam said. "Please don't make me, Dean. Don't make me leave."

"That's not up to me, either," Dean said. "One way or another, you're going to leave. You're going to leave me; everybody leaves me. You just . . . you gotta promise not to leave me like that." Sam tried to speak, but Dean cut him off. "I don't want to be like that, not the way I am out there. You gotta promise me you'll take care of this, Sam."

Sam glared at him. "I'm not going to kill you, Dean," he said sharply. "I wish you'd stop fucking asking me too."

Dean smirked. "Yeah," he said. "Well, now you know how it feels, jackass."

Sam shook his head. (Sam, come on, son, wake) "I don't want to talk about this," he said. "Can't we just . . . can't we just play, please, Dean?" He took Dean's hand and dragged him to the game of Red Rover, where the ghosts easily parted and let them join in. He and Dean took opposite sides and stared at each other as the kids chanted.

Red Rover, Red Rover, send Dean Winchester right over . . .

(up, Sam, come on, now, it's time to)

"I don't want to die," Dean said. "I don't want to die, but Sam, it's better than this. Death is better than this."

"I can fix you," Sam whispered.

"If you can't—"

"I can."

"If you can't. If you can't, you have to let me go." Dean broke from his line, ran straight at Sam's arm. "If you can't—"

(wake up, Sam. Can you hear me boy, wake up)

"If you can't, please save me. Please kill me to save me."

Sam caught Dean with his arm, didn't let his brother get through.

"I'm not letting you go," he whispered.

"Wake up," Dean replied.

II.

"Sam? That's it, boy, wake up. You with me now, son?"

Sam groaned. "No," he muttered, pressing his hands over is eyes. His head hurt like a sonofabitch, and that was nothing compared to the stabbing pain in his side. Reluctantly, he pulled his hands away from his face and was left blinking in the afternoon glare. When the world refocused into something other than white, he found himself staring upwards into Bobby's face.

"Bobby," he said, the name pure relief on his tongue. Sam had a vague recollection of opening the motel door, falling forward into the hunter's arms. "Thought you might've been a dream," he murmured as he struggled to sit up. He didn't do particularly well.

Bobby placed gentle, restraining hands on Sam's shoulders. "Easy now," he said. "You've lost a lot of blood. Tends to make the body a mite tired, even after it's been patched up." Sam looked down at his bare stomach to see new gauze over his wounds, obviously Bobby's meticulous dressings.

"Don't expect to see you dyin anytime today," Bobby told him firmly, not so much observing but informing Sam that he would do no such thing. "Still, you need to get your rest. The body can only take so much."

Got that right, Sam thought, thinking of Ryan. God, Ryan, his ear, his tongue—

"Dean," Sam said urgently, trying to get up again. This time, Bobby wasn't so gentle when he pushed him back to the bed. "No," Sam said. "Dean, Dean, he's—"

"Out like a light," Bobby said, "due to some good drugs or a certain spell." He frowned down at Sam, disapproval written all over his face. "Dammit, Sam, I thought you knew better than to be messing around with witchcraft like that. Ignoring the lunar cycle, just casting when you damn well please—"

"Well, it worked," Sam said, lifting one shoulder in an awkward shrug. "Anyway, I didn't have much of a choice, Bobby." He shifted himself upwards slowly but kept his eyes down on the mattress. "Bobby, you know Dean's . . . well. . .Dean's—"

"I know," Bobby said quietly. "Missouri filled me in." Sam thought about asking how Missouri knew Bobby (was it through their dad? was it through someone else?) but Bobby was shaking his head, looking more sad than angry. "Dammit, Sam," Bobby said again. "Son, why didn't you call me?"

Sam looked away then, swallowing, unable to meet the near-grief written on Bobby's face. He had wanted to, God, he had wanted to, and Lord knew he could have used the help. It wasn't like Bobby was just another hunter—Bobby was family, even if he wasn't a Winchester. He had wanted to be able to trust Bobby, lean on Bobby, and the fact that he hadn't made him both ashamed and angry.

"I couldn't," Sam said, now looking at the ceiling, anything other than Bobby's face. "I couldn't—I couldn't risk it, not if you thought Dean needed—if you thought he needed to be—" put down, were the words that instantly came to mind, but Sam couldn't utter them in connection with his brother's name.

"I was scared and I needed to save him, Bobby, and I couldn't let anyone stop me from saving him. Bobby, man, he did this for me, he did it to protect me, to save me, and I couldn't—I couldn't let him stay like this, not for me, man, not after everything he's done—he's good, Bobby, Dean's good, and I—I couldn't let myself trust you. I'm . . . I'm sorry."

Sam let his gaze fall from the ceiling and forced himself to look in the other man's eyes. Bobby stared at him in silence for a moment, finally, slowly, nodding to himself.

"Stupid ass," Bobby said, fondly, and patted him on the back when Sam started to cry.

III.

It was Sam's voice that dragged him into consciousness, of course—Sam in hushed tones of melodrama heaped upon angst. Words like, "So hard, man," and "No idea what Dean's become," and it made Dean want to laugh, because he had only become what he was meant to be.

Dean blinked his eyes open sluggishly and watched the world focus slowly around him. Sam was sitting on the next bed over, all puppy dog eyes and trembling lips. Christ, Dean thought sourly. He oughta be a fucking cartoon.

Then he noticed who Sam was looking at, who Sam was pouring his heart out to.

"Aw, jeez," Dean drawled, amused by Sam's startled jump. "It's like our own little demented family reunion. Hey, Bobby, how the hell are you? Ellen coming next? How about Jo?"

Dean smiled, the movement slow and lascivious across his face. "Mmmm," he said. "I could stand to see Jo again."

Bobby turned to look at him. As usual, Bobby seemed pretty nonchalant—took a lot to ruffle Bobby's feathers, wasn't the easiest guy to get a rise out of it. Of course, Dean was a master at pissing people off. A challenge was good for him, every now and then.

Bobby raised one eyebrow slightly. "Dean," he said.

Dean grinned. "In the flesh," he replied. "It's good to see you, Bobby. I'd shake your hand, but . . ." He jerked his head at the restraints that somebody had gone a little overkill with. "Don't suppose you'd care to take these off."

"Can't say I would."

"Asshole," Dean said, but amiably. He glanced over at Sam, who was still watching him with the Weepy Eyes of Doom. "Jesus, Sam, aren't you done crying yet? Christ, you're like a kid who just found out Santa Claus was trampled by his own fucking reindeer."

He looked at Bobby with one eyebrow raised. "Kid's soft," Dean said. "Always has been, always will be."

Bobby shrugged his shoulders. "Knocked your ass out pretty good," he said, and this was exactly why Dean hated Bobby, laid back sonofabitch that he was. Knew just what to say and how to say it to irk the fucking shit out of you. Dean wanted to rip that placid, grizzly head right off his goddamn shoulders, but being tied down made that sort of impossible at the moment.

If he could lift something, say, the Colt, sitting only twenty feet away . . .

But when Dean tried to move it by narrowing his eyes, all that happened was a big fat nothing. And that was when Dean remembered the spell, the piece of obsidian, the tangerine hallway, Sam . . .

"Sonofabitch," he muttered. His fucker of a brother had stolen the power right back.

Dean frowned, thinking about that. It had to be true, obviously, because he remembered Sam in his dream, he remembered the obsidian, and the results? Kind of obvious. The gun no move-y means the power kinda gone-y. Except . . . Dean didn't feel like it was. Not completely.

It was hard to put his finger on it (particularly because he still felt kind of numb and zoned out) but something was different, only he didn't have much time to concentrate on it right then. Bobby and Sam were still looking at him, waiting for a cocky response. Dean was never one to disappoint. He grinned lazily at both of the time.

"So," he asked, "what's the plan? Keep me tied up here for eternity—maybe lock me in the trunk while you two carry on with the demon huntin? Cause that's a swell plan right there, lemme tell you. I mean, really, just foolproof and everything."

Dean grinned wider at them, even as his eyelids began to droop a little. His whole body felt heavy, like he was sinking under the fresh tide. Sedatives ain't out of your system yet. Gonna be sleeping again pretty damn soon. But he wanted to make the most of his time, see how miserable he could make Sam in his spare, few minutes awake.

"You got me dead to rights," Dean said dryly. "You got my powers, got me beat. But you don't got the Dean you used to know, do you? That Dean's dead, and he ain't ever coming back. So, what's the point of this, huh? What's the point of even keeping me alive?"

Bobby seemed to almost flinch a little that (ha, Dean thought, who's so fucking unflappable NOW?) but Sam just leaned forward, doing that intent-determined jaw clench thing of his. "I'm not giving up on you, Dean," he said. "So save your breath. I'm getting you out of this."

I'm going to save you, Dean, Sam thought. I'm going to save you—only Dean heard it, heard Sam think it.

And that's when Dean knew the spell had gone a little awry, after all.

IV.

They stayed at the motel they were at (the Sandman, Dean realized belatedly) for three very long days. In that time, Dean tried to glean every last bit of information he could.

Escape, he realized quickly, was pretty much out of the question. Dean was tied to a fucking bed (and godDAMN he could use a cigarette) and the only time he was let up was to go to the damn bathroom. And even then, Bobby and Sam pumped him full of enough drugs that he couldn't even feel his godamned feet as he was led to the john. It made him wonder, in a bemused, not-all-there sort of way, where the hell they were getting this endless supply of drugs from. Not that it mattered. They had them and they were using them; that was all that concerned Dean.

Most of the time, Dean could more or less think—he knew what was happening around him and that he was in some massively deep shit here—but his attention span was next to nothing, all 'escape' and 'kill' then 'oh, look at the shiny'. His reaction time was also shot to hell—he wouldn't be able to outrun a fucking turtle, at this point.

So, yeah, the great escape? Not feeling too Steve McQueen at the fucking moment. So instead of escape, Dean was on reconnaissance. He needed to figure out what the hell Sam and Bobby's game plan was.

You didn't have to be psychic to know they didn't have much of one. They were constantly researching—the floor was less carpet now than old books and print-outs. Bobby was almost always on the phone, and Sam hadn't turned that laptop off once in three days. But whatever they were looking for, they hadn't found it—didn't have to be psychic to know that, either.

But Dean was still psychic, at least a little—and it was weird, man, because it was different than it had been before. The telekinesis was gone, back to Sam, and the visions probably to (hard to tell, what with them being spontaneous and all) but there was this . . . connection, or something . . . between him and Sam. For the life of him, Dean couldn't figure it out.

It was like Dean was still psychic, could do the whole random-thought-snatch thing from anyone . . . he picked up very tiny things from Bobby, mostly flits of emotion that never quite touched Bobby's face . . . but that was it. Nothing else, not from Bobby. But Sam, Sam was a whole 'nother story.

Dean could feel Sam, wherever he was . . .not like reading his mind or anything, he just . . . just knew. Like Sam was another part of his body or something, some kind of demented third arm growing of his back. Dean could just feel him, know where he was, how Sam was feeling without even thinking about it. Like Dean wasn't just Dean anymore.

It was starting to creep him out.

Sam felt the connection to; Dean knew he did, but he also knew that Sam didn't know exactly what it meant. Kid was distracted, all on a saving souls mission—he didn't have time to wonder why he could feel Dean more strongly than he could before. And he certainly didn't notice that the connection was a two-way street. This, Dean figured, was a good fucking thing.

At first, Dean was pretty pissed off about this whole psychic crap. (I'm tied up, useless, AND I still have to listen to Sam's emo bullshit?). But after he'd thought about it, after he'd stopped looking at all the shiny instruments in the room and thought about what he could do, he realized that what he had was his little secret weapon. His only secret weapon, as annoying and as limited as it was.

Dean had a way to look at the coach's playbook without anyone being the wiser—and if he knew what was coming, he'd have a better chance of stopping it from coming to pass. Sam and Bobby had no clue that Dean wasn't all Joe Normal again. Dean could figure out what was going on, make his move, and kill them before they even knew something was wrong.

Be about fucking time, too.

Unfortunately for Dean, this whole psychic BS? Still as inconsistent as fucking ever. Dean didn't even bother with Bobby—man was like a fuckin brick wall—but Sam, he could read. Sam, he understood. The problem was navigating. Dean was so overloaded with impressions from Sam he had a hard time sorting out the ones he wanted and the ones that were useless. Mostly, he kept running into the useless ones, the ongoing, repetitive mantra that went a little like this: Dean monster Dean have to get him back Dean have to save him have to save Dean Dean Dean . . .

Fucking codependent baby.

Dean tried to will his brother into thinking something useful for a change—like a list with bullet points on "How I'm Going to Bring Back My Evil Brother's Soul" but Sam just refused to cooperate, the bastard. He was so full of trivial knowledge and whiny fucking feelings that it was no wonder the asshole never got anything done.

Right now, Sam was standing outside the motel room, talking to Bobby about . . . something. Dean wasn't quite sure what. He looked down at his body, lying prone in the motel bed, and made a useless tug on his restraints—he did it occasionally, just to make sure his muscles didn't atrophy away and die. After he determined that his body was still working and he was still tied down, Dean closed his eyes and made an effort to concentrate on his brother.

Psychic eavesdropping was way less fun than real eavesdropping. You didn't hear an actual conversation, not like standing behind a slightly open door and just listening. Instead, you got disjointed words and weird impressions, thoughts chasing one another round and round, from out of Sam's head and into Dean's. It was a pretty crappy way to spy on someone, really, but at the moment, it was all Dean had.

Sam was sitting on the step outside the door, fingers trailing over the words in some book, Bobby looming over him . . . asking him questions . . . did he have anything, but no, Sam had nothing, Sam had had nothing for weeks now, just what Bobby had told him, but they couldn't try that yet, not without some kind of plan . . .

Try WHAT, Dean thought, exasperated, but Sam didn't concentrate on the details of whatever Bobby had told him. It was just save Dean, save Dean over and over again, until Dean was ready to gnaw off his own arm and beat himself in the head with it, just to save himself from Sam's whining.

Focus, Dean told himself. Patience, remember? Gotta be patient, gotta concentrate.

Easier said than fucking done, tied to a bed with a whole pharmacy of sedatives shooting through him. Dean was shoving one of those needles into Sam's eyeball when he got out of this.

Focus. Focus. Yeah. Right.

Sam was looking up, sunlight glaring into his eyes. Bobby's face was all shadows and darkness under the protection of that cap. Dean couldn't hear the words, but Sam was suddenly buzzing with excitement—Bobby had something, some idea—and Sam standing up now, legs still a little weak . . . exhaustion, hunger, blood loss, blood sugar . . .

"The fuck do I care about blood sugar, Bobby," Dean muttered. "Get to the fucking point."

Plan, dangerous plan, that much was sure. (Also, sort of ludicrous, like how weird is that, and a sudden image of Stephen King, Stephen King, of all people). But as weird as it sounded, it was real, and it WAS dangerous, like DANGER DANGER DANGER, red alarm going off and off, and that robot too, Danger, Sam Winchester, danger, and Jesus, maybe he does need to get some sleep but no, this isn't the time, even though a pillow sounds nice, Jesus, he can see one so clearly right now, just imagine sinking right into it, but he can't because (Dean) he needs to save him, he needs to look at this, this (chud) isn't going to be a walk in the park. DANGER DANGER DANGER and it's likely to get him killed.

Smashing the alarm, then, shutting it away, because this was their chance, this was Dean's chance, and Bobby rubbing his chin, worried. "Need supplies. Don't got em here." (Bobby's house, suddenly, the image planted in front of Sam's eyes, guard dogs and old cars and a good ole Devil's Trap to seal the deal). Bobby, shaking his head, all, "Sam, this might not work," but Dean can feel Sam's confidence, Sam's HOPE, rising in him, bubbling like yeast, like pizza dough, higher, higher, higher. Sam with his wide eyes and "Could it? Could (chud) could it work, would he (fall) go for it? Is (chud) is it the answer?"

Dean screwed up his face against the pressure, the pain that was starting to come in. The connection he had with Sam took no effort at all, but trying to navigate it like this was harder than he had expected . . . so many images, so many feelings, it was giving Dean one mother of a headache. And he still couldn't make out the details of this plan—chud, was it? He kept getting that word, over and over. Chud and chud and last chance, man, only chance. What if he could get his brother back, what if (Dean) he could save him, (Dean, need to check) what if he could finally make things better ("I better check on Dean, Bobby" )

"No, I'll go. You just look at these, think about things. I'll go check on your brother . . ."

Dean pulled his thoughts where they belonged, closing his eyes against the pressure that had accumulated in his temples. The front door creaked open and Bobby stepped inside. When he saw that Dean was awake, he raised his eyebrows at him. "How're you doin there, boy?"

"Oh, fantastic," Dean snapped. "I'm having the time of my life."

Bobby smirked, just a little. "Good," he said mildly. "Always nice to hear." He sat down at an empty chair and started flipping through a book, seemingly at random. Dean wanted to concentrate more fully on what Sam was doing, but he didn't want Bobby to catch on. Bobby was too observant for his own damn good, sometimes. Dean was so fucking sick of Bobby hanging around.

Uncle Bobby. Jesus, what a loser. Didn't even have his own family to obsess over. Used theirs as some kind of sad excuse for a surrogate.

"Anything good, there?" Dean asked, hoping to irk Bobby because he sure as hell didn't have anything better to do. "How about it, Uncle Bobby? How about a bedtime story for old times sake?"

Bobby didn't even look at him. "Don't think you'd like none of mine."

"Yeah? They all about a bunch of rednecks like you? Fighting the good fight, living the dream?"

"Nah, not all of them. But they all pretty much got happy ends." Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Guess I'm just another sentimentalist," he said dryly.

"Fucking sap," Dean replied. "You're worse than fucking Sam." When Bobby didn't respond, Dean pushed himself up a little higher in bed, even as his headache pulsed behind his eyes. "Let's cut the fucking bullshit, Bobby. We've known each other a long time. We both know there's nothing that's gonna fix this. I don't play for the white hats, not anymore."

Bobby set his book down on the table and looked at Dean silently. Dean stared at him, trying to get some clue of what this plan was, what this . . . chud . . . was. "There's no way to save me," Dean said quietly. "You know that, right? You know it's hopeless."

But Bobby just continued looking at him, giving absolutely nothing away. "You never know, Dean," he said. "They say nothing's ever hopeless."

V.

Sam sat on the steps outside the motel, pouring over the notes that Bobby had made in the margins. He flipped another page and studied the ritual again. Danger, Sam Winchester is right, he thought to himself. Jesus, this is like suicide.

Which was why Bobby had been reluctant to show it to him, why he had hoped that Sam had found something himself. Bobby knew Winchesters. He knew how willing they were to throw themselves in front of trains.

And Sam was willing. He didn't like it, but he was more than willing. This could give them time, and that, more than anything, was what they needed.

Assuming it worked, of course, but the ritual looked legit enough . . . it just struck Sam as a little absurd, because, well, chud. This ritual wasn't actually chud; chud was just a fictional thing, something he'd read once in a Stephen King book, but it's what it reminded him of all the same. Maybe it was where King had gotten the idea, who knew. But this ritual was the real deal.

And it could help him get his brother back. Dangerous and desperate as it was, it could help him get Dean back.

And really that was all that mattered.

Which was what he had told Bobby, but Bobby still didn't like it. Thought it was a damn fool move—"What if it doesn't work, Sam? What if you get killed—how will Dean feel then? You think he'll just be okay with it?"

But Sam didn't care, was beyond caring by this point. He grew more excited the longer he looked at what Bobby had written. He had to save Dean, and that was all there was to it. If he had to die to do it, well, that was an acceptable loss.

Sam skimmed over the ritual one more time and then shut the book, nodding to himself. This was it. This was what they were going to do. He stood up, stretching (he was still pretty damn sore, after three days) and walked back into the motel room. Bobby and Dean's eyes cut to him—Dean almost before he walked into the room, like he'd been expecting him.

There was something weird going on with Sam's abilities . . . he didn't know why, but he was unusually connected to Dean, almost felt like they were attached by some invisible cord. He knew when it was time to dope up Dean again, not by looking at him and judging his responses but just by feeling it, feeling the varying states of Dean's sluggishness. Right now, Dean was pretty aware, pretty sharp, and it made Sam uneasy for no real reason he could pinpoint.

There was something definitely strange (something wrong, Dean-In-His-Head tried to point out) but he didn't have time to puzzle it out right then. They had work to do.

Sam crossed to the table and picked up a syringe—they had used almost all of their sedatives, not that Dean needed to know that. When Sam turned back to look at him, Dean was rolling his eyes theatrically.

"Always with the drugs, man," Dean said dryly. "If you're not careful, you're going to turn your big brother into a damn junkie." And good CHRIST, I could use that cigarette anytime now, Dean thought, and Sam frowned, still surprised at the idea of his brother smoking (as if smoking is really the thing to be worried about, Dean-In-His-Head snarked.)

"Sorry," Sam said, in response to Dean's silent nicotine craving. "No smokes, man. We're trying to minimize the bad habits. But you can get some sleep now. This is all going to be over real soon."

"Yeah, when I bash your freakin head in," Dean muttered. He eyed Sam balefully as Sam walked over and stuck the needle into Dean's arm. At this point, Dean really did look like a junkie, unshaved and with dark bruises staining his fair skin. If only, Sam thought, which was kind of sadly funny. His brother as a junkie would be a dream compared to this.

Dean's eyelids fluttered. "Sorry," he said thickly. "You just ain't that lucky."

Sam blinked, startled. "What did you—" he started to say, but Dean was out before Sam could finish the question. He frowned down at his unconscious brother, trying to put his finger on whatever had been bothering him. Something's wrong, he told himself again, but he just didn't know what—

"We lookin to head out?" Bobby asked, quietly, from behind him. Sam turned away from his brother to face the older man.

"Yeah," Sam said. "This is what we gotta do."

Bobby scrubbed his face with one hand. He looks tired, Sam suddenly realized. "Sam, there might be another way—"

"No," Sam said. "This is the only way."

TBC