Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) If you haven't read Full Moon, Fast Cars and Cracks in the Glass yet, you'll probably want to read those first or this probably won't make sense… Betaed by the wonderful Phx :)

Thank you again to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I appreciate all your comments! The next chapter will be up same time next week :)

Chapter 6

Sam sat cross-legged on his bed, trying to meditate with a scented candle, of all things. He could imagine Dean's reaction if he saw him now. It would mostly consist of laughing and pointing, along with a few girl-jokes.

God, Sam missed him so much it hurt, and he hadn't even been gone half a day.

Thoughts of Dean weren't helping with the clearing-his-mind thing Missouri told him to practise, but he couldn't bring himself to push them away. His cell phone was on the covers in front of the crossed vee of his legs. Sam picked it up and checked it was fully charged and on the highest ring volume possible. It was working fine, which meant that Dean hadn't tried to call. Sam huffed and tossed it back onto the mattress. The flame of the candle flickered with the violent movement and a droplet of pink wax ran down onto the top of the bedside cabinet it was perched on. Somewhere below him he could hear Missouri talking on the phone in quiet murmurs.

He closed his eyes for a second, determined to focus on the task at hand rather than worry about Dean. Dean could take care of himself.

With a deep breath, he blinked away his worries and fixed his eyes on the tapered flame of the candle. It glowed white-gold in the darkened room, flickering with every soft exhale Sam made and sending cascades of dancing shadowlight across the walls. He let his body relax. The warm smell of white musk and melted wax filled the air around him.

Flutters like moths' wings brushed the edges of his vision, smoky-black. Sam didn't look away from the candle. The tiny fire curled around itself and straightened out again, twisting and writhing like it was trying to escape the wick that tied it down. It was angry, furious at being contained, at being held back from what it could be, what it could do. Sam wondered what would happen if he set it free.

A knock at the door broke Sam's daze and he turned quickly. It seemed like the colour in the room suddenly brightened, like someone had turned a dial up on the world.

"Come in." He called, glancing back at the lit candle. The fury he had seen in it was gone. It was just a candle. He licked the pads of his forefinger and thumb, reaching over to pinch it out.

"Sam, sweetheart, you okay in here?" Missouri stepped in without waiting for a second invitation, her long skirt ruffling. She sat herself down on the bed facing Sam. "How's the meditation going?"

"Fine. Thanks." He looked down at the bedspread by his foot, smoothing it straight in a sudden fit of self-consciousness. He blushed and hated himself for it a little; it was like he didn't know how to act without Dean there.

If Missouri read the thought, she didn't comment on it. "Good. Well, I just came up to check on you, see how you're doing. Dinner's gonna be ready in about half an hour, and then I think Margaret's going to bring over her kids – Kiera had a dance recital tonight, she wanted to show me her routine." She smiled fondly. "Her youngest, Charlie, will probably want you to play toy cars with him."

Sam tried to summon up a smile in response, but it didn't come easily.

Dean had been driving for nearly four hours when the cramp in his left leg grew too tight to ignore.

He pulled over in a service station that offered little more than a place to fill up on gas and piss by the side of the road. He winced as he climbed out of the car, stamping his leg to try and loosen the knotted muscle. The stiffness told him that a days' rest was nowhere near long enough after his manic all-hours driving spree getting into Lawrence. He bent, rubbing briskly and hoping to god that this wasn't the first sign of old age.

Across the forecourt of the rough gas station, a greasy-looking trucker with a beer belly unzipped his pants and let loose with a stream of piss, seemingly unbothered by Dean's company. Dean turned away slightly anyway, but not before catching the 'like what you see?' expression that appeared on the guy's face. He was torn between revulsion and flat-out giggling, and not for the first time he wished Sam was with him. The kid would have gotten a kick out of the situation and the resulting dirty jokes would have made the rest of the day's journey fly by.

Dean pulled out his cell, checking the time. Sam would probably be sitting down for dinner about now. It would be rude to interrupt, right?

He was pressing speed-dial one before his mind had a chance to catch up with his hand.

"This is Sam. Leave a message." Dean's lips thinned as he was put straight through to Sam's laconic voicemail message.

He'd told Sam he was going to call. He bit his lip, redialling and getting the same result; "This is Sam. Leave a message." Maybe it was too early, or maybe Sam had turned his phone off for dinner or something. Yeah, nothing to worry about.

He climbed back into the Impala, drove five feet down the sliproad rejoining the main road.

Stopped and reversed back into the gas station to a volley of horns as the trucker tried to manoeuvre his eighteen-wheeler around him.

Missouri's home number was listed as 'Missouri – crazy woman' in his contacts. Dean allowed himself a second to grin at his own genius before pressing dial.

The repetitive beep of the busy signal made him roll his eyes and let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Somehow, he could see Missouri as the kind of woman who enjoyed talking on the phone.

With just the two of them Sam was acutely aware of himself and his lacking social skills, and it seemed he couldn't go two minutes without stuttering in response to Missouri's polite attempts at conversation. He'd knocked his fork to the floor twice, and almost upended his glass of water over his plate of roast pork and boiled potatoes.

The relief he felt at Margaret's knock on the backdoor was palpable. She sent a polite smile his way, a warm one for Missouri as she stepped in, flanked by a young girl.

The girl looked to be about eight or nine, dressed in a pink ballet outfit complete with starched tutu. She ran straight to the older woman with a shrill cry of " 'Souri!"

Missouri smiled, reaching over to pat her head. "Oh, Kiera honey, don't you look pretty! How was your recital?"

"It was good, I remembered it all and I didn't trip, not once!"

"Well done sweetie!"

Kiera grinned brilliantly at the praise, her curly black hair bouncing in coils about her face. "Mama said I could do my routine for you?"

"You sure can, Sam and I have been looking forward to it all day!" Missouri said.

Kiera looked over at him for the first time at the mention of his name, her grin replaced with a shy expression. Sam shifted uncomfortably, trying to look non-threatening. He wasn't good with kids; not surprising, seeing as he'd never had a chance to talk to one before. Dean would know how to act. Dean liked children and they liked him, always running to hold his hand or show him their crayon drawings in the diners they went to. Their mothers would come chasing after them, admonishing them for running off, and then they'd see Dean's movie-star grin and turn pink and flustered, giggling like they were schoolgirls themselves.

Missouri stood up, taking Kiera's little hand in hers. "C'mon, we'll all go on into the living room and watch. Come on, Charlie, don't you want to see your sister's dance?" She held out her other hand, her smile aimed at someone behind Margaret.

Sam hadn't even noticed the other child, a little boy with the same black curls as his sister, cut close to his head so they sprang up like slinkies. He looked to be around two years old, standing beside Margaret and gripping the side of her loose linen pants in one tiny fist, his wide eyes set on Sam as he sucked industriously on the thumb of the other. He ignored Missouri's outstretched hand.

Margaret stroked a hand through his hair. "Charlie, Missouri asked you a question, baby."

He blinked slowly, his eyes flicking over to the older woman. "Wanna play outside." He mumbled around his thumb.

Margaret let out a short laugh. "But you've been playing outside all day. Now we're going to go and watch Kiera's dance routine."

The corners of his mouth pulled down and he clutched tighter at Margaret's pant leg. Missouri let her hand drop. "Well, let's all go and sit down then."

She led them into the living room, Sam trailing behind feeling like an unwanted afterthought. Charlie kept turning back to stare at him over his shoulder.

Once they were all settled, Missouri let go of Kiera's hand and the little girl bounded to the centre of the room, executing a clumsy curtsey. Apparently she'd gotten over her shyness of Sam in favour of performing for her audience, and she graced everyone with a wide toothy grin.

Humming an off-key version of the Swan Lake song, Kiera danced her way through pirouettes and little jumps, and Sam found himself smiling at the enthusiastic child. At the final bow, he applauded loudly with Missouri and Margaret.

Charlie tugged at his mom's sweater sleeve. "Mama, c'n I go outside now? Please?"

"Oh baby, it's getting dark out now. Can't you play in here?"

"Outside. Mama, outside."

"You'll get scared alone in the dark, honey." Missouri said, her hand outstretched to brush his hair back. He flinched away, huddling into Margaret's side and sucking so furiously on his thumb that saliva trailed from the corner of his mouth, glistening in the light.

"I'll go sit outside with him." Sam found himself saying. He blushed as everyone's eyes suddenly fixed on him, but ploughed on. "I mean, if no one minds. I'd-I'd like some air, anyway."

Missouri was frowning, but Margaret spoke before she could say anything. "Okay, sure. Charlie, would you like Sam to sit with you?" She cupped his face in both hands. "Maybe he'll even play cars with you, if you ask nicely."

Charlie blinked up at her for a moment, then pushed himself feet-first off the sofa and went for the door without replying. Sam laughed, feeling ill at ease. "I guess it's okay?"

Margaret smiled at him, the first genuinely welcoming sign she'd given him. "Thank you, Sam. He'll probably tire himself out soon anyway, just bring him inside when he does."

Sam nodded, hurrying out in Charlie's wake. Missouri's gaze drilled holes in the back of his neck, but he didn't turn to look.

"So, you like cars, huh?" Sam said, his voice sounding loud in the darkening garden. Charlie didn't look up; the kid was on his hands and knees in neatly mown grass, a collection of toys spread out in front of him.

Sam waited a beat, then sat himself down on the edge of the paved patio. Charlie's hands paused for a split-second and then carried on arranging the toy cars like he hadn't even noticed anyone else was there. The sound of Kiera laughing echoed out the open back door, high and shrill and almost ghostly. It would have made Sam uneasy, but something about Missouri's house seemed to calm him, brushing down his frayed edges and soothing his mind like a lullaby. Maybe it was the wards; he always felt safer in a new motel room once Dean laid the salt lines and put the knife under their pillow. Or maybe it was just being in a home that did it, a place that someone cared about, loved.

Charlie was making brrm noises under his breath as he pushed his cars around.

The heady fragrance of gardenias floated through the air, making everything seem slow and simple. If he could just stay here, stay like this forever, no hunting or demons or dad or Dean to worry about, if he could just stay, would he? Sam chewed on his lower lip, feeling the flake of dry skin against the tip of his tongue. Maybe that was the wrong question. He wouldn't stay, not while everyone he cared about was out hunting, maybe hurting. Not if he could be there to take some of their pain as his own. But if he could keep everyone here, in one place and safe…

His thoughts wandered to Dean, but he stopped them before they could get too far. Dean hadn't called yet, which didn't mean he was in trouble, it just meant he hadn't stopped for the night. He'd call later. He promised. Sam turned his mind away from that subject with effort, searching for another, something that wouldn't make his chest tight with almost-panic.

Instead he found himself thinking about his dad.

Jim Miller, who he hadn't seen or heard from since that night in New Hampshire, when he'd given Sam the Colt and dismissed him from his life. Sam thought about his dad a lot while they were on the road. Wondered whether Jim'd passed through this town or stopped at that gas station or eaten in the diner across the street. Wondered if Jim was in the same state as he was, on the same side of the country. It was stupid, and he never let on to Dean for fear of getting the older man pissed off at old ghosts yet again, but sometimes Sam missed his dad. Sometimes his fingers itched to call the man, to see if maybe they could salvage some kind of relationship out of the wreckage, even if it was just a perfunctory call every now and then to say I'm alive, or I found something you might be able to use on a hunt. In his most secret dreams, Sam sometimes thought about phone calls to say happy birthday, good luck, Merry Christmas. Those thoughts usually came on the tail of one of Dean's now-expected weekly check-ins with John Winchester, where Dean hung up with a faint pink flush covering his nose and cheekbones and a pleased twitch of his lips.

Sam sighed heavily, letting his head drop on his shoulders. Jim Miller was gone, and Sam doubted he'd ever see the man again. Dean would tell him it was a good thing. Sam would say it was a shame.

"D'you wanna play?" The quiet, hesitant voice made Sam sit up straight with a jerk, his breath catching. His eyes felt suspiciously moist and he blinked quickly.

Charlie was on his knees a few feet away, staring at Sam with wary eyes. He was holding out a toy car in one small dirty hand.

Sam's mouth tugged itself into a small smile. "Uh, okay. I-I don't know how though, you'll have to show me."

Charlie's head cocked like an inquisitive dog. "Everyone knows how to play cars."

Sam couldn't help the blush that rose, or the habitual duck of his head. "Not me. I never played before."

"Not ever?"

"Nope."

The boy pouted, staring at him for a long moment before seemingly making a decision. He crawled over to Sam, the knees of his jeans stained green from the grass. "You can be the red car. I'm the black one. Those are the bad guys," he pointed at the rest of the cars piled messily on one of the paving slabs, "and we gotta stop 'em 'fore they can get out of the house."

Unwillingly, a corner of Sam's mouth turned up in a bitter grin at the explanation. If he'd known 'playing cars' was basically hunting in miniature, it might have eased a few jealous moments in his childhood. "Okay. So is this my car?" He picked up a convertible, examining it. The red paint was chipping away at the sides and around the tiny grill, but the long sweep of the hood was a shiny cherry. It made him think of his long-gone Mustang with a pang.

Charlie directed him, shuffling around to line up the 'bad guy' cars on the edge of the patio.

"So why are we stopping them getting out of the house?" Sam said, scooting along on his butt and feeling slightly ridiculous for a six foot-something guy.

Charlie looked up with an unreadable expression. "'Cause it's bad in there."

Something shivered down Sam's spine at the little boy's tone.

And then Charlie blinked and it was gone. "C'mon, you gotta start over there."

Dean tossed his cell phone onto the crappy motel breath in a fit of frustrated anger. It bounced off the mattress and onto the floor with a thud.

He couldn't get through to Sam. He'd been trying, pressing call redial so many times his thumb was aching, and every time it just cut through to voicemail. And Missouri's home number seemed to be constantly occupied. It appeared he'd been right about Missouri being a big talker. His earlier amusement at that fact had vanished somewhere between the twentieth and the thirtieth attempt at calling the house.

Dean threw himself down onto the tiny single bed. No spare bed, not this time. No need to pretend he was going to need another when he was on his own.

And he couldn't remember ever feeling quite so alone as he did right now. Not even back in Elmstead. Even back then, he'd always known that he had someone to call, that his dad would always pick up if he needed him.

Now it seemed that every person he called was busy doing something else, busy in mortal danger or busy learning psychic tricks Dean couldn't quite comprehend. Dean was about ready to kill the person who decided the invention of voicemail was a good idea. If he had to hear one more impersonal message, one more variation of 'I'm not here right now…'

He'd been on the verge of packing his shit up and hightailing it straight back to Missouri's more than once, but then the thought of his dad's garbled phone message stopped him in his tracks.

He let out a heavy sigh, dropping his head to his hands and digging nails into his temples. It felt as if he was being stretched in two. On one hand, he could go back to Sam, make sure the kid was alright. But the probability was that he was just in the middle of some complex brain-training deal and he'd turned his phone off so he could direct his focus or some shit. His dad was the one that needed help right now. His dad was the one who had called and told Dean to hunt the demon.

But god, he was going to go crazy with worry if Sam didn't pick up the goddamn phone.

A flash of inspiration hit suddenly, and he snatched up his laptop, clicking on one of Sam's many useful - if legally questionable - links. A few searches and he had a number for a Margaret Eastham, living in the house next door to Missouri's.

The phone rang, and rang, and Dean was about to say fuck it and break some speed records on his way back to Lawrence, when a bleary-sounding woman said; "Hello?"

"Margaret?" It felt like a huge load had fallen off his shoulders. If Margaret was sleeping, then nothing too bad could have happened. Of course, then his mind helpfully provided him with a myriad of bad things that could have happened without Margaret realising it, but he decided to push them aside and focus on the positive for now.

"Yeah." Margaret mumbled.

"This is Dean? Missouri's…houseguest?"

There was a pause. When Margaret spoke again, it sounded like she was all the way awake and not a little pissed off. "What the hell are you doin' calling me? And at four in the morning?"

"I, uh, couldn't get through to Sam on his cell. And I tried calling Missouri's house, but no one answered. I just…wanted to check everything was okay over there."

"I'm still not seeing why you called me. At four in the morning! And how did you even get this number?"

Dean shrugged even though she couldn't see it. "I looked it up. Is everything okay over there? Have you seen Sam at all?"

"You looked it up? Where? This is an unlisted number, for Christ's sake! You can't just go invading people's privacy like that!" Her voice was rapidly rising to a yell.

"Hey, you should keep it down, you don't wanna wake your kids up." Dean said, unable to stop the twitch of his lips.

Margaret made an undignified squeaking noise. When she spoke again, it was in a hiss sharp enough to have Dean wincing and holding the phone away from his ear. "I really hope you're gonna be away for a good long time, you asshole, because the next time I see you I'm gonna have your balls."

"Lookin' forward to it. So, about Sam-"

She huffed loud enough to send a crackle of static down the phone line. "Sam is fine. Missouri is fine. Everything is fine."

"Great!" Dean said in a chirpy voice. "That's all I wanted to know. You can go back to bed now. Oh, um, could you pass on a message to Sam for me? Tell him I tried to call his cell, but I kept getting put through to voicemail. I'll try again tomorrow, but if he wants to call me I'll have my cell phone on all day."

"Anything else you'd like while I'm here, at your beck and call?" Margaret said acidly.

"Nope, that's it." Dean said, grinning broadly. "Thanks."

Another huff and the buzz of the dial tone was his only reply. He snapped his cell shut, still grinning like a madman. Margaret might be a bitch, but she was fun to argue with. He couldn't remember the last time he'd come up against a girl who refused to back down and bat her eyelashes at him when he sent a smile her way. He kind of respected her for it.

The smile faded quickly when his mind replayed the message he'd asked her to pass on. If he wants to call me…

He'd been sitting here panicking that he couldn't get through to the kid. But why hadn't Sam called him?

Dean was driving. Sam could feel the hum of the Impala's powerful engine like he was there, sitting in the passenger seat where he belonged. Night had fallen and the stars were out, tiny sparks that reflected off the hood of the car like spits from a fire. Dean was humming to himself, the radio playing quietly and air whispering through a crack in the driver's side window. The brick-and-cement building of Missouri's house couldn't compare to this, the feeling of

belonging wrapping around Sam's heart when he could reach out and touch Dean's arm, feel the in-out of the other man's breaths. This was home.

Sam wanted to reach out, he wanted it more than anything, to feel the clench of Dean's muscles under his palm.

But this was a dream, he knew instinctively. His body was far away from Dean's right now, getting further with every mile the Impala ate beneath her tires. Whether or not it was a true dream was up for debate, but Sam didn't try too hard to figure it out, not when he needed to see Dean so badly. He knew from hard experience that nothing good could come of his visions.

Dean was frowning. Why was he frowning? Sam looked – or tried to look as best he could in a dream he wasn't fully in control of – but there was nothing, no reason for it. Except…

A flash of something, something on the horizon…

And then the dream stuttered around him like a faulty TV, static interrupting the feed until he was blinking through snow. Dean's face blurred, out of focus.

Sam woke up gasping, sweat sticking the bed sheets to his body like a second skin. The room was dark around him, his cell phone clutched tightly in one hand. The low battery light flashed on and off in one corner of the screen.

Dean hadn't called. Sam had been waiting, the cell phone cradled in both hands, since seven in the evening. It had been gone nine when he'd finally given in, pressed the dial button himself and listened to Dean's voicemail message. Listened to it once, twice, thirteen times. He must have finally fallen asleep around one, wearing the clothes he'd been crawling around in the dirt in and still waiting for that call.

He dropped the cell onto the mattress and took a deep breath, his hands shaking like an old man's as he ran them through his damp hair.

It was only when he pushed the covers away to get out of bed that he realised.

Everything in the room was floating three feet above the floor.