Long chapter this time, and it should be getting a little more interesting now. Thanks to every one of you who followed, favorited, and reviewed. You all make me so happy!

Hope it's all right. The rest is written but I'm still changing things, and if you have any suggestions at all let me know and I'd really appreciate it. All feedback is welcome. Enjoy!

"Bobby, hey," Dean said as his friend answered the phone, closing the door to stand outside the motel room. His brother was inside showering. "Listen, we've got a problem."

"What's going on?" Bobby said, his familiar, gruff voice a relief to Dean. "Is the hunt going okay?"

"Well, we kind of hit a dead end, but that's not the point. It…it's Sam."

Bobby was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again his tone had lost its relaxed tone from a moment before. "What happened?"

Dean outlined the case, and then explained the attack the ghost had made on Sam. He told Bobby about how Sam had been acting strange and forgetful in the hours after the assault—the headache, the dizziness, the confusion.

"And he couldn't…he didn't know who Jess was, Bobby. I kept trying to get him to remember, but he has no idea who she was. I don't know if he's just trying to screw with me or what, but it's freaking me out."

Once again Bobby was quiet for several moments. He cleared his throat. "I don't think Sam would fake something like that. Are you sure he didn't hit his head?"

"I checked for signs of concussion and trauma, but I didn't find anything. Bobby, what did that ghost do to my brother?"

"Well, I dunno for sure, Dean, but…I might have a theory."

"What? What is it?"

Bobby sighed. "It might be a type of spirit that can cause…changes in the mind."

"Changes? Wait, you mean like Ellicot, who amplified anger?"

"Exactly. Think about the victims you've talked to. One of them killed her husband in an unprecedented fit of rage, the second guy couldn't control the urge to kill himself, then the moment he did the deed he went back to normal."

"Right, just like the first woman. So…you think it's like an infection that slowly causes changes in your mind? The first woman, it was insanity, the second guy, suicidal thoughts, and then…oh god, Sammy."

"If I had to guess…"

"Memory loss." Dean's eyes widened in horror. "Oh, shit. Bobby, how do I stop it?"

"You get rid of the ghost before it takes him over completely. Salt and burn the bones."

Dean swallowed. "And if the infection takes him over…what happens then?"

"I don't know, Dean. But if the first two people were any indication…"

Dean scrubbed one hand over his face, struggling to stay calm. "What do I do?"

"Keep him remembering," Bobby said, voice solemn. "Make sure he doesn't let go and lose it more quickly."

"All right. Thanks Bobby."

"Sure thing, kid. Let me know if you need anything."

"Right." Dean closed and pocketed his phone, then took a moment to gather himself before reentering the motel room. He had to keep his game face on, so he could fix what was happening to Sam, because damn it, he wasn't going to let his brother lose his memory.

Sam exited the bathroom soon after Dean came back into the room, and Dean quickly wiped the worry and despair from his expression, smiling at his little brother. "Hey," he said. "How you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Sam said, running his fingers through his damp hair. He read the anxiety in Dean's eyes and cast him a reassuring smile. "I'm okay, Dean, really. What did Bobby say?"

Dean explained Bobby's theory. It was difficult to get through, to see the look of fear that flitted across Sam's face. "I think he's right," Dean said finally. He and Sam sat across from each other on the two beds, knees almost touching. "So I'm not sure how much time…well, anyway, I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"I know you didn't." Sam shook his head, his expression now carefully calm. "It isn't your fault." It looked like he was going to say something else, but instead he just swallowed and bowed his head, like he was trying to hide his face.

"Hey," Dean said. "Don't worry, Sam. We'll figure this out. You're not going to lose your memory. I'll fix it, I promise."

Sam raised his eyes and nodded, regarding Dean with the absolute trust of a little brother relying so heavily on the older. Normally this would send a feeling of warmth through Dean, knowing that Sam still needed him, that he still had such firm belief in him—he relied more than he'd like to admit on that knowledge alone. But now he felt a pang in his chest at Sam's expression. Because if he couldn't put a stop to this…Sam might never look at him like that again.

Sam might completely forget who he was.

Figuring Sam would have trouble keeping his head straight, Dean set out to do some research and figure out who this girl was. Sam fell asleep sometime later, but Dean stayed awake, having no desire to sleep while Sam was in this predicament.

He ended up dozing off at some point, however, with little to go on, frustrated with what this hunt had turned into. He passed out with his head in his arms and woke up with his neck aching to the sound of moaning from the other side of the room.

"Sammy?" he mumbled.

He glanced at the clock. It was still early, half past seven. Looking over to the bed, he saw his brother was still asleep, but Sam's face was creased with what was undeniably pain.

In a flash Dean had crossed the room to the bed and had his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sam? Hey, Sam, wake up."

The lines of agony only deepened on Sam's face and a whimper escaped his lips. Alarmed now, Dean shook his brother more roughly. "Sammy. Wake up, man."

Sam's eyes flew open and he gasped, breathing heavily. "Dean," he panted. "I—I was—shit—"

"Sam, calm down," Dean said, removing his hand as Sam sat up, pawing at his forehead. "Nightmare?"

"Yeah. Kind of. I was…dreaming about that wendigo we hunted…with dad. Ten years ago. Remember that?"

Oh yeah, Dean remembered. That was the first hunt where dad had let them be separated—in a sense. Dean and Sam had stuck together, but they'd been away from their father, who in past hunts had insisted on keeping Sam close to him. Sam, nearly fifteen, was aching for more independence, and his father had finally relented.

It had not turned out well.

Dean sat down at the edge of Sam's bed. Keep him remembering, Bobby had said. This was not a particularly fond memory, but if it would help Sam, Dean would indulge it.

"Yeah, I remember," Dean muttered. He laughed mirthlessly "That was one of the worst hunts of my life."

"Why?" Sam said.

Dean shot him a look that clearly said, why do you think? "Because I was being an idiot and almost got you killed, that's why."

"But you didn't. You saved me and almost got killed yourself in the process."

"Like I said, worst hunt ever."

Sam chuckled. "I guess I was the one who killed it though, wasn't I? With the flare gun. My first real kill."

Yet another reason it was one of the worst hunts Dean had ever experienced. Seeing Sam's first honest-to-god, on-a-hunt kill, had been indescribably painful to watch. The look in Sam's eyes as he made a desperate lunge for the flare-gun, as he pointed it with deadly accuracy, pulling the trigger…

His eyes had been cold and lethal and determined and focused—it was the look Dean had seen in John's eyes thousands of time, the look that was not my little brother, but rather soldier, hunter…killer. It was an expression Dean would see in the mirror many times, but not one he wanted to see in the gentle face of his baby brother.

It had hurt to acknowledge that Sammy was more grown up than Dean had wanted to admit, that he was capable of killing and not thinking twice about it, and he was reminded once again of the innocence that had been taken from Sam so long ago.

And then the moment the wendigo was dead, Sam had looked toward Dean, bleeding and panting on the forest floor nearby, and had crawled over to him, his expression completely changed—back was the need and fear for Dean, for him to be all right and solid and there.

Dean. Dean! Are you okay?

Yeah…yeah I'm fine, Sammy. A weak grin. Good job, little brother. You took that son of a bitch out without batting an eye.

Yeah…I guess I did. Listen, I'll get dad. You'll be fine. Just stay awake, okay?

No way I'm passing out on you, Sammy. Gotta protect my baby brother, don't I?

A roll of Sam's eyes. It's Sam. Besides, I obviously I don't need protecting, do I?

Which had almost been the most difficult thing to accept—that Sam was strong and capable and nearly grown up now. He didn't really need to be protected, as he had just displayed so well.

John had arrived, cleaned the deep cuts on Dean's chest, and all had been well, but Sammy had never been quite the same in Dean's eyes. It had been frightening, watching his brother kill like that. And yet…

"I was proud of you," Dean said. "I don't think I ever…told you that. But you really saved by ass back then. All by yourself. I was impressed."

"Yeah, well I've saved your ass plenty of times recently, too," Sam said with a wry smile. "That wendigo…I'll be honest, it scared the hell out of me to try and kill it. But it scared me more to watch you die."

He let this proclamation hang in the air for a moment, and the two brothers were silent, recalling the time when Sam's childhood had been snatched from him in favor of this, ghosts and demons and monsters and…

"You didn't hesitate then, did you?" Dean said. "You didn't think about it when you killed it."

"When I killed what?"

Dean looked up quickly to meet his brother's gaze and was about to say, the wendigo, but he saw the blank look in Sam's eyes, the complete lack of recognition, and realized that Sam had already forgotten. So he closed his mouth and shook his head once. "Nothing," he muttered, standing up. "Uh…let's go get some breakfast."

They found a small place about half a mile away and settled in to eat and so Dean could tell Sam the vague theories he'd come up with.

"It's flimsy," he said, "but I think the girl you saw might be Michael Jones's niece. I was looking at his myspace page online—"

"He has a myspace page?"

"Don't change the subject. It seems like it hasn't been used in years but the point is, there was a photo of this girl online who looked kind of like the ghost who attacked you. And there was a caption under it that said our beautiful niece Ashley, or something like that. The only difference was…well, this girl didn't have any hair."

"Cancer victim?"

"Maybe. That would explain how she died."

The waitress arrived with a short stack for Dean and eggs and toast for Sam. Surprised at how hungry he was, Sam tucked into his food immediately, as Dean continued on about grilling Michael Jones to find out who this girl was.

Sam agreed it was a good place as any to look, and was about to say so when the pain returned. His head whirled and the room spun and he groaned, lowering his head into his hands, eyes shut tight. He heard his brother saying his name but it faded out as the dizziness and agony overtook him.

He reached out, however, and grasped his brother's arm, needing something to anchor him as the pain faded and clarity returned. More slowly this time—the episodes of pain were getting longer.

Sam realized as he came back to reality that he was clutching his brother's wrist to the point of cutting off his circulation. He loosened his grip but didn't let go, and Dean didn't seem to notice, because his eyes were fixed on his brother's face.

"Sam?"

Sam breathed deeply and nodded. "I'm fine. I'm okay."

He clearly was not. Dean felt a twist in his gut as Sam pulled away, his protective instincts kicking in, telling him to keep Sam close. Seeing the fear and residual pain on Sam's face he knew he needed to do something to keep him grounded. Keep him talking. Keep him remembering.

"Hey," he said. "You, uh…you remember that time on your birthday when Dad brought us to Bobby's?"

Sam gazed at him blankly and said, "Who's Bobby?"

Dean tried not to show the pain in his chest that twisted at those words, merely swallowing hard and continuing, "Well, we…that was one of the only times we ever tossed around a Frisbee like normal kids."

"That was the day I broke my ankle," Sam said, eyes widening as he remembered.

"Yeah," Dean said with a grin. "I left you alone for five freaking minutes and you fell out of a damn tree."

"I was trying to get the Frisbee out of the tree because you are a terrible throw."

"It was the wind."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"Shut up." Dean leaned back in his chair, thinking back to the moment of panic when he'd heard Sam scream in pain, when he'd found him sprawled on the ground, ankle twisted all wrong, pain etched in every line on his brother's face.

"I had to carry your ass back to Bobby's," Dean said. "You scared the shit out of me that day, man."

Sam laughed, though the laughter was strained, and he was still massaging his skull. "Not the best birthday ever, huh?"

"I dunno. We had some pretty good cake the next day."

"You don't even like cake."

Dean shrugged. Sam laughed again.

"It did remind me of the first time you got injured on a hunt, though," Dean said. "When you were ten. Ghost got you, remember? You had to go to the hospital." He hadn't been there on the hunt, but he remembered hurtling into the waiting room of the hospital to face John, furious and panicked. He remembered getting up in his father's face, yelling at him for not keeping Sammy safe, for bringing him instead of Dean, but really he was just angry at himself, for letting Sam get hurt, for not being there to protect him.

Later he'd stood at Sam's bed and just watched him breathe, tears pricking his eyes, reminding himself over and over that he's okay, he's okay, he's okay.

And he remembered saying to Sam, once he'd woken up—Don't go without me again, all right? Don't do that to me again.

"You remember what I said?" Dean asked now, looking up at his brother. "In the hospital?"

Sam hesitated and then shook his head slowly. "No, I…I don't remember, Dean. Sorry. I was ten?"

Dean felt another sharp pang in his chest but shook it off. "Never mind. Forget it."

Sam's face twisted in apology. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"No, it's fine, Sam. Don't worry about it." Dean cut into his pancakes, not wanting to talk about the past anymore and then see the vacancy in Sam's eyes. He didn't like talking about the past in the first place—it brought back painful memories of John, of hunts gone wrong, of the times when he'd watched Sam's childhood being stolen from him. But now talking about those memories was even less appealing.

They were quiet after breakfast, as they headed to the hospital to talk to Michael Jones about the girl who they thought might be his niece.

"Do you know this girl?" Dean asked, holding up the photo of her.

Michael looked at the picture for a long moment and then nodded slowly. "Yes…she was my niece. She died several years ago. Brain tumor. Why is she important?"

"She isn't," Dean said. "Not at the moment, anyway. But, uh, can you tell us where her family lives?"

Fortunately, he could. Unfortunately, the address he gave them existed several hours away by car.

"We'd better pack up and go right away," Dean said as they left the hospital. "The sooner we find out where she's buried the sooner this can end." Sam didn't reply as Dean jogged down the stairs. "You want to get some lunch or something first?" No answer. "Sam?"

He turned and saw Sam still halfway down the stairs, clutching the railing with one hand and his head with the other. He was doubled over, face clenched in anguish. "Aw, man, Sammy," Dean muttered, heading back up the steps. These episodes of pain were getting worse, and more frequent. They had to take care of this, and fast.

Sam panted as the pain faded and opened his eyes, looking blearily at Dean. He exhaled. "God…I hate this…"

"You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah. I'm—" Sam swallowed hard and a look of panic crossed his face. "I…I can't remember…" He raised his eyes full of fear to Dean. "Dean, I can't remember dad's name. I can't remember what he looks like. I—" He blinked. "He's alive, isn't he? Where is he?"

"Sam, calm down," Dean said, holding out his hands in an effort to placate his brother, though internally he was just as frightened. "You know this, Sam. John Winchester. Dark hair, beard, died to save my life after a car crash. You remember that? The car crash?"

Sam nodded, struggling to pull out those memories. It has been dark, he had been driving, and then the semi truck had come out of nowhere…he'd come to in the middle of a field, the impala a smoking wreck, his dad and his brother unconscious…

Dad…dad?

No answer. Sam had begun to panic.

Dean…DEAN!

Dean could not be dead. Sam needed him to be alive, for him to fix this, for him to be all right so everything else could be all right. John had been gone for months, he'd left them alone, but…he could not lose Dean.

Sam blinked, and suddenly the memory was gone. He looked up at his brother, a new wave of desperation overtaking him as he fought to dredge these memories back up. "No. I don't remember."

"Okay. Okay. Um…" Dean tried to stay calm. "Do you remember what our dad told me right before he died? What he told me about you?"

"He said…" Sam closed his eyes. "He told you that you had to save me, and if you couldn't…" He opened his eyes and blinked.

"If I couldn't…?" Dean prodded.

Sam looked at Dean, the panic gone from his face, replaced by a blank, unknowing expression. "What?"

It was gone. Dean tried not to let his disappointment show, but it was quickly replaced by fear as Sam continued to look at him with a blank expression. "Sammy?" he said, trying not to let his voice shake. "You know who I am, right?"

Oh, god, Dean thought as Sam's eyebrows pulled together. No, no, he's already forgotten who I am. He can't have forgotten who I am. Not yet.

"Yeah, of course I do, Dean," Sam said, frowning, and the wave of relief he felt almost made Dean's knees buckle.

"Right," he said. "Yeah. Okay. C'mon, let's get back to the motel and pack up, okay?" He slipped an arm behind Sam's back and helped him towards the impala, wondering how much longer this would last.