By the time morning rolls around you're feeling more like your normal self. You managed to sleep relatively untroubled by dreams of Charlie. You woke once but you don't think that particular dream belonged to you. You suspect it was a little something Charlie left behind for you.
Sam is nowhere to be seen. There's no noise from the bathroom and a cursory glance around the room reveals a missing jacket and, more importantly, a distinct lack of Impala keys. Wherever he's gone, he's taken the car – your car – and he's not left a note. That's not like him and as you start pulling on your clothes you begin to worry. A look through the window confirms that your car isn't where you last saw it. In fact, it's nowhere in sight. You try to stay positive. Maybe he went to get coffee, or do some laundry. Yeah, right. Last time either of you did laundry it was the result of a three hour argument over whose turn it was. Sam lost.
You notice it's gone 10 o'clock which would explain the bright sunshine but doesn't explain where your brother is. You fumble in your jacket pocket for your phone. Glancing at the message log you're disappointed but not surprised to find it empty. You bring Sam's number up on screen as quickly as your fingers will move. You hesitate, a little scared that the call will go unanswered and a little more scared that Sam will pick up and you won't like what he's got to say. You push the call button anyway and raise it to your ear.
Sam's phone rings and rings. You're willing him to just pick up, pick up, pick up damn it! But after eight rings it goes to voicemail. You bring the phone down and stare at the screen as if it knows where your brother is but won't tell you. You resist the urge to hurl it across the room and instead redial. It's the same story – eight rings and voicemail. The worry you felt is escalating and it won't be long before it's a full blown panic. You're not normally one for over reactions but when it comes to Sam you've got it down to a fine art. You briefly wonder about trying his phone for a third time before dismissing it as a waste of time.
You hurriedly throw your jacket on and grab the keys to the room. You make your way across an ominously empty parking lot to the motel office. There's nobody behind the desk so you thump your first against the bell a little too hard. You hear some shuffling in the backroom and a middle aged guy appears in front of you.
"What?" he demands. You're a little taken aback by his attitude but, all things considered, it's the least of your concerns.
"Have you been here all night?" you ask. You don't have time for pleasantries and you wouldn't really want to share them with this guy anyway. He looks at you and shrugs in the affirmative.
"All night. Drew the short straw this week."
"Did you see the guy I checked in with at all?"
"Yeah. I saw him. Left about 6.30 in that car of his." You grit your teeth and resist the urge to punch the guy. It's your car, for God's sake. The guy leans forward conspiratorially and lowers his voice. "Looked like a guy on a mission."
"Which way did he go?" You're not interested in any missions, you just want to know where the hell your brother has got to. The motel guy backs off slightly at your aggressive tone but you don't care.
"He took the road into town. Looked like he had the devil after him."
You thank the guy and spin on your heels. The office door rattles behind you as it swings shut. Out in the parking lot the sun has got warmer but it can't lift the chill from your bones. Sam is missing. He took your car, he's not answering his phone and he didn't leave you a message. When that boy gets back you're going to rip him a new one. Because one way or another, he is coming back, you're sure of that.
It's too far to walk into town so you take the Winchester way. The parking lot is empty so you have to venture a little further afield till you spot a lone Honda down a side street. It's not the sort of vehicle you'd normally be seen dead in but these are desperate times. It's the work of few seconds to get into the car and a few more to get it started. You furiously slam your hand against the radio's dial when it starts to blare out Kenny Rogers. Whoever this car belongs to needs a serious music lesson.
But credit where credit's due, it's in good condition and moves smoothly through the streets. You don't know where you're heading but you're not really surprised to find that you've wound up back at Jaspers. Your Sammy radar hasn't let you down before so you don't expect it to now. There's no sign of the Impala but that doesn't mean Sam wasn't here. Slamming the door of your borrowed car, you cast your eyes up and down the street. It's a normal working day and people are milling about, window shopping, catching up on the gossip, hurrying to meetings or just wandering around. Jaspers looks decidedly closed and behind the shop windows the display cabinets are empty, no lights shining on sparkling diamonds and rubies. As you get nearer the shop you spot a shoddily handwritten sign announcing that Jaspers is 'closed until further notice'.
Closed shops have never posed a problem before. The back of the store is concealed from public view. It's a risk, breaking in in broad daylight, but it gets your adrenaline going. It's a challenge and the stakes are high. You just know that Sammy's been here. You're praying he's left you some sort of clue as to where he's gone and you just hope he's gone there on his own volition.
The lack of high tech security system at the jewellery store amazes you. You wonder that it's never been broken into before. Or maybe it has. Davey didn't seem that bothered about anything other than his own carnal desires when you met him. Perhaps he's been hoping for a heist so he can claim off the insurance and disappear to Hawaii. Whatever the reason, you're grateful. His laziness has made your job that bit easier today. You're in the shop within minutes, all the alarms, pitiful though they are, disarmed and harmless.
It looks as though Davey has done a runner. The safe in the back office is hanging open and empty. The lack of stock anywhere doesn't bode well for a relaunch of the store. It doesn't look as though there's been a fight and you wonder if this is how Sam found it here or whether this happened after he'd been here. Because you know he's been here. You can feel it in your bones.
Unfortunately that's not all you can feel. The temperature is dropping like a stone and your breath is misting in front of your face. You're getting really sick of Charlie popping up like this. You're ready for him this time though, your gun fully loaded with rock salt. You don't want to resort to shooting him, not here. It's too public but you just don't have time for him right now. You pull your weapon out from the back of your jeans and spin round to face him.
Except it's not him.
The man, ghost, in front of you isn't Charlie and you only just manage to bite back that groan of despair. Just when you thought you were getting somewhere up pops ghost number two and screws it all to hell. This one just looks at you. He looks pathetic and lost, like he shouldn't be here, which you have to agree with. He doesn't seem to know what to do with himself and if you weren't so focussed on Sam you'd almost feel sorry for him. He isn't making a move and you want to get this show on the road, time's a wasting here. You wave your gun at him in what you hope is an encouraging manner.
"Who're you?" It's as good a conversation opener as any and the ghost casts doleful eyes at you.
"Am I dead?" he asks you in a bewildered tone. That throws you for a moment. You've met ghosts who don't realise they're dead before, of course you have, but they've never asked before. You've always had to tell them.
"Um… yeah, you're dead. Who are you?" You don't let your gun drop, you're too canny for that. You've made that mistake before, a long time ago but you can still remember the bruises and Dad's face when you told him how it happened. The spectre in front of you seems to process the information.
"Why am I here then?"
"I don't know. Who are you?" for the third time of asking. You feel like you're banging your head against a brick wall with this one.
"I'm dead? Like, really dead?" he asks you again and if he had a corporeal form you would be beating him to death yourself by now.
"Yes! You're dead! Now, who the hell are you?"
"Oh," he seems to snap back to the conversation at hand. "I'm Callum Waters. Or was, I guess." He pauses and looks at you as though he's only just realised he's not alone. "Who're you?"
Now it's your turn to be confused. You've never been asked who you are by a ghost. They generally already know, or they're too busy trying to kill you in varied and gruesome ways. The name he's given you sounds familiar and you think you should recognise it. You wish Sam was with you because he's always got the answers. It's on the tip of your tongue when he interrupts your thought process.
"Who are you?" and he's advancing on you. Just slightly, not enough to be a threat but enough to bring you back to your current situation.
"I'm here to help you," you answer, evading the actual question. "How long have you been here?"
"I've seen you before. You were here with your friend, the tall one." and he takes another step forward. "He's no good for you, you know. I've seen his type before. They always cheat in the end."
"What?" Why does everyone seem to think that you're the loser in this imaginary relationship Sam has invented for you two?
"I can see it, in your mind. He's hurt you and he'll do it again. You should leave now, before it's too late for you. Like it was for me."
And that's when it hits you. This is the saintly Callum that Christine Rosenberg was in full mourning for. He could be the clue you've been looking for. If he's been here all morning maybe he knows where Sam has gone. You don't feel comfortable doing this but you decide to play on his sympathies for you. You cast your eyes down, letting your shoulders slump forward.
"Do you know where he is? I've been looking for him all morning." You look up hopefully but Callum doesn't seem inclined to help you.
"He's no good for you, you need to leave him, leave here. Before it's too late."
"But have you seen him? Please? I need to find him." God, you hate how needy you sound but it's all for the show and you need Callum on your side if you're going to get any information out of him. "I miss him."
"I missed Christine too, at first," Callum admits, "but it gets easier. You have to accept that you don't mean as much to him as he does to you. Chrissy was a liar, just like your friend. He doesn't care about you. If he cares, why was he here this morning? Without you? Talking to that man?" The disgust in Callum's voice shines through and you feel both elated that Sam was here and a little worried that he was talking to Davey without consulting you first. Just for a minute you wonder if this is what everyone means when they tell you Sam is cheating on you.
"Did they leave together?" You almost don't want to know the answer but Callum shakes his head and you feel a weight lift off your shoulders.
"No, your friend left first. Davey went about an hour after him."
You nod at Callum and turn to leave the shop. Before you can get to the door though, he's in front of you, blocking your way.
"Leave him be, he doesn't deserve you." And then he's gone, disappeared in a puff of smoke, literally, and you're none the wiser as to where Sam is other than you're on the right road.
Back in the street you make your way reluctantly to the Honda waiting patiently for you where you left it. You speculate absently if anyone has reported it stolen yet. You sure as hell wouldn't if it were yours. Just as you're about to open the door your phone rings. Ripping it out of your pocket at record speed you glance at the screen. It's Sam and the relief is indescribable. You feel your knees sagging and you lean against the car as you hit the answer button.
"Sam? Where the hell are you?"
"Dean?" Sam's voice is distant and sounds confused. Your anxiety rockets up a notch.
"Sammy? Where are you?" you repeat, listening intently for any background noise. There's a long pause before Sam answers again, too long.
"Dean? I'm… I don't know where I am."
"Are you hurt?" and the worry is hovering around a panic level.
"Dean… I need you." And the panic is now fully blown.
"Sam, where are you hurt? C'mon. Talk to me, dude." But there's a silence on the other end that's broken only by your brother's ragged breathing. After what seems like forever you hear him take a deep breath.
"I'm okay, Dean. Just … lost. I don't know where I am, Dean. I don't know how I got here." He's speaking rapidly and you can feel his fear down the phone. Although you're panicking yourself you need to keep him calm if you're going to stand any chance of working out where he is.
"Sam, it's okay. Okay? Slow down. Take a deep breath. Okay?" You can almost see him nodding. "What can you see, Sammy?"
"Um… there are trees… birds, I think I can hear the river."
"Okay, that's a start. That's good. What do you remember?" Because if he can remember where he was, and how long ago that was, you can pinpoint a rough location.
"I remember being in the motel room. You were asleep, and then I was at Jaspers and then … I don't remember, Dean."
"That's a start, Sam. I'll find you. Okay? Can you see the car?" You're already rooting through the glove compartment of the Honda looking for a map. You pull the contents out in an uncontrolled fashion, suppressing a whoop of glee when a map falls out. You flip it open on the roof of the car.
"I can't see a road, or the car." Sam sounds defeated. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm really sorry."
"It's okay. Stay where you are. And please, tell me you're armed?"
You reckon Sam must have been travelling along the road that runs beside the river, but he's obviously left the car somewhere and walked down into the surrounding woods. Right now you're more interested in where he is but you know once you've found him you'll have to tackle the question of why he left in the first place without at least waking you. You narrow your search area down to a couple of square miles that you reckon you can tackle easily without the equipment you'd prefer to have. That's in the Impala and you reckon once you've found that, you'll be in spitting distance of Sam.
Driving down the country tracks out by the river isn't as easy as it would be in your own car but you're a skilled driver. You can't believe your luck when you spot the Impala within the first hour of your search. It's down a dirt track off to the side of the main road to Mrs Harrison's trailer park. You bring the Honda to a squealing halt behind it and throw yourself out. Running your hand lovingly down it's flank you pop the trunk, basking in the glow of your weapons cache. You quickly take what you want, a machete to clear the way if you need it, a few more rounds of rock salt and a shot gun. You don't know what Sam has so you take an extra knife and hand gun.
Turning from the car you look into the woods. Despite the bright sunshine they look dark and foreboding. A shiver sweeps over you and you know it's not from the breeze dancing through the leaves. Cradling your gun in one hand, you step forward. You're desperate to shout out for Sam but you know that could attract unwanted attention to either yourself or your brother. You know Sam said he wasn't hurt but you need to see that for yourself before you believe it. He's been known to underplay injuries before, you both have. It's the way you were brought up. You can't help it.
You're fully alert as you press deeper into the woods. The ground underfoot is soft and slightly damp. Old leaves conspire with hidden roots to trip you up and you have to go slower than you would have liked. You're no good to Sammy with a broken leg though. Less haste, more speed is the mantra that takes up residence in your head. Listening out for any sound that doesn't belong in the wilderness, eyes sharp, you make frustratingly slow progress. Eventually you can't stand it any more and you call out for Sam, listening for any response.
Nothing answers you. Not a bird, not a squirrel, not a ghost and not Sam. Your heart sinks. You're losing faith in this search, beginning to question yourself. Are you headed in the right direction? Did you take the right turning where the path broke into two? Have you got your bearings right?
And then, just as you're about to give up and turn back, you hear it. A faint moan ahead of you. You'd know that sound anywhere. You've heard it often enough and each time it strikes the fear of God into you. It's the sound Sam makes when he's in pain and trying not to let on. You break into a run, or as close as you can get through the undergrowth. Your homing instinct is spot on and it only takes a few minutes before you can see Sam's form, hunched up beneath a large oak tree. He's shaking violently and you break into a sprint.
Skidding to a halt on your knees next to him, you're taken aback by the way he jerks away from you, eyes wide and unrecognising. You put your hand on his shoulder to hold him down and to reassure him.
"Sammy, it's me. It's just me."
He looks at you and then you feel him relax under your touch.
"Dean?" he breathes. "What are you doing here?" And that simple question has you more worried than the bedraggled look your brother is currently sporting, more worried than the spots of blood covering his hands, more worried than the vacant gaze he's turned on you. Because that one question tells you that somewhere along the line Sam has suffered some sort of head injury. One you can't see and he didn't deem fit to mention to you on the phone.
You gently probe his head with your fingers. There are no lumps or bumps that weren't there earlier and your hands come away clean, no blood or grey matter. Sliding your hand round to his forehead you note that his temperature is slightly raised, but no cause for concern. You move his head so you can see his eyes. You're relieved to see they're reacting to the light as they should be. But he still looks confused so you give him a reassuring smile.
"Hey Sam. I told you I'd find you."
"You did?"
"Yeah, Sam. I always find you." You sit back on your haunches and regard your brother carefully. You have no idea when he got here, or why, but you do know that you need to get back to the motel. You need to check Sam out, make sure he's okay. You can work on the minor details later. "Can you stand?"
Sam looks at you as though you've just asked him to solve Fermat's last theorem, which he probably could, and raises his eyebrows. In silent answer he pushes up on his hands and you're pleased to see there's no damage to his limbs or his co-ordination. He sways briefly once he's fully upright and you automatically put a hand out to steady him. He rights himself and waves off your help, looking purposefully in the opposite direction to the one you need to be heading in. You silently grasp his shoulder and turn him around, giving him a gentle shove onto the right path.
The walk back to the Impala doesn't take as long as you were expecting. Sam's sense of direction has never been as good as yours but it gets you back to where you want to be. There's no conversation and you spend the whole trek keeping a close eye on your brother. Every so often he looks back at you and whether he's checking you're still there or whether he's getting pissed off with that hand at his back the whole time, you don't know and, quite frankly, you don't care. You just want to get him back to the motel and start figuring out what exactly happened here today.
You have a thousand questions reeling through your mind. You have a sinking feeling that Charlie has been messing with your little brother. You want to know why Callum is still hanging around and what the hell he was talking about and you're curious as to where Davey has gone. But mostly you just want to get Sam somewhere safe so you can work this all out.
The relief you feel when the car comes into sight is only tinged slightly with guilt about that Honda you borrowed. You know you won't be returning it now but maybe later you can make an anonymous call. Or, more likely, Sam will make that call. He's always been that little angel on your shoulder, persuading you to do the 'right' thing. It's caused more than one fight over the years. You smile subtly when you remember some of those fights. Little Sammy was quite a handful at times.
You get Sam settled in the passenger seat before sliding round to your side. You always feel at home in the Impala, as though nothing could ever hurt you in here. In here, you're in charge. Worringly, the keys are still in the ignition, presumably where Sam left them. It's a pretty quiet spot here so the chances of someone actually passing by with the intention to steal a car are slim but even so. You glance at Sam again. He's sitting in exactly the same position you deposited him in and the best thing you can do is get moving.
The Impala purrs into life the instant you turn the key and you're back on the road. Sam has relaxed and is leaning against the door slightly. If he knows your eyes are alternating between him and the road, he doesn't show it. He's got his eyes closed and for a minute he looks like that 14 year old you used to ferry to school and back. You're listening out for his breathing but it's all normal. If you didn't know better you'd think he'd just had a late night and was catching up on his sleep.
It takes just over an hour to get back to the motel. You nudge Sam gently on the shoulder to rouse him and he grunts an acknowledgement at you. He doesn't seem inclined to move just yet though so you nudge him again, a bit harder. That seems to do the trick. He opens his eyes and glares at you. He's all there this time. There's no momentary disorientation or, when he clambers out of the car, any swaying. Moving swiftly, you open the door to your room, not forgetting to check out your security measures.
Sam pushes past you and heads straight to the bathroom. You sit on the edge of your bed and watch the bathroom door, waiting for your brother to reappear. After five minutes of silence you can't take it any more and stand up. Hovering outside the bathroom, you raise your hand to knock on the door.
"Sam? You okay in there?" You are answered with a shuffling and muttering and then the door flies open so quickly it nearly knocks you across the room.
"I'm fine," he tells you, pushing past you into the room. "Just a bit… bothered." He grabs a bottle of soda from his duffle and sits down at the table, taking a long swig. You regard him closely. He really does look fine. The physical check can wait till later, you decide.
"What do you remember, Sam? Where's the last place you remember being?" You know he was at Jaspers but after that, well, he could have gone anywhere, done anything. He shakes his head as though he's clearing cobwebs from his brain but you can see the cogs turning from where you're standing.
"I remember waking up and just having to go to Jaspers. I don't know why. It's like there was this voice in my head and I couldn't get rid of it until I went."
"Did you have Charlie in there with you?" you demand, all the while promising yourself that you're going to have a long, long conversation with him as soon as you pin him down. Sam looks up at you.
"Maybe, I don't know." He pauses for a long while to think about it. "It could have been. It didn't register at the time. I remember being at Jaspers, don't remember how I got there, just being there. Durrant was there. He looked like he was in a rush but he, um, I think we fooled him with our act. I think he tried to come on to me." That last statement is rushed out and Sam has turned an interesting shade of pink. You smirk a little.
"That's your own fault, dude. It was your storyline, not mine." Sam glares at you and decides to ignore you.
"Anyway, I think we argued. He told me that you weren't worth it and that I'd be much happier with someone else, anyone else. And then he kinda touched me."
"What d'you mean he touched you?" you interrupt, not liking the sound of this and remembering those spots of blood on Sam's hands. Sam looks puzzled for a moment as if he's trying really hard to remember something that's just eluding him. Then, like mist clearing in the early morning he has a moment of clarity.
"He tried to hold my hand." He sounds surprised, whether because he can remember or whether it's because of what the memory is, you don't know. To your bemusement he suddenly looks sheepish. "I hit him," he admits and you can't decide whether to laugh or cheer out loud. Serves the son of a bitch right.
"Okay, Sammy. What happened then?"
"He told me to get the hell out and I left. Next thing I remember is trying to call you." He looks at you helplessly and you feel useless. You have no idea why Sam ended up at the river although you suspect Charlie isn't as innocent in all this as his mother would like to believe. Charlie's no angel and the sooner you put a stop to his little games the better. You scrub your hand over your face, feeling old beyond your years.
"It's okay, dude. We'll figure this out."