Sorry this took so long, everybody. I had no end of writer's block with this one. I had virtually no time constraints this week, so if I'd been productive, I'd have cranked out three or four chapter and gotten ahead, but the writing gods are fickle, and denied me that opportunity.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far. I'm glad to be entertaining so many people.

Thanks especially to my beta, K. Hanna Korossy. Her comments on this chapter helped it immensely, and I'm extremely glad to have her helping me out.

So here it is: the first chapter of the second part of Disorder. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 6: Voices

Sam wasn't sleeping. He lay there, staring at the faux-stucco ceiling, waiting for exhaustion to take him, but it wasn't happening. In the three days since the confrontation with the demon, he'd gotten maybe four hours of sleep altogether. He hadn't had insomnia this bad since…well, since Jessica had died.

When he did sleep, he was plagued with bizarre nightmares, and though they felt like visions, extracting their own physical costs in the form of a headache and tiredness, they were abstract to the point of incomprehensibility; fire, death, vicious-toothed jaws, evil symbols writ in blood portending an unfathomable doom. Thoughts of those dreams haunted him day and night, his mind instinctually trying to interpret or unravel them and failing.

He wasn't talking to Dean about it, though sometimes he wanted to. He was careful to make sure Dean didn't notice how little sleep he was getting, and he had gotten good at staying quiet and in bed upon waking from a nightmare. When Dean asked him what was wrong, he didn't just dismiss the question, he actively misled him, admitting to insecurities he didn't really have so Dean would think he was being honest. The rationalization was simple: Dean wouldn't let him help if he knew what was really going on, but part of him knew that wasn't the real reason.

God, he was a fucking coward.

Sam turned on his side and shut his eyes again, trying to will himself to sleep. He lay perfectly still, and some time later—it was hard to tell how long—he finally felt himself drifting away.

"You're selfish," came John Winchester's voice from the foot of his bed, feeling for all the world like judgment.

Sam sat bolt upright, mouth open in voiceless protest, but he found no one to whom he could respond.

Oh no.

"Selfish and weak," his father said again, the voice coming from behind him, or possibly above him, neither of which was possible.

Sam's heart jumped and his throat tightened. He looked frantically around the room, hoping against hope there was some way this wasn't what he knew it to be. A hidden microphone? A ghost or spirit? Nothing. He barely stopped himself from getting out of bed and searching the room inch by inch, and only managed because he knew it would wake his brother.

"We protected you, loved you, and you abandoned us," the voice accused.

Sam couldn't help but feel it. It was like getting punched in the stomach; it knocked the wind out of him and left a kind of dull nausea. He couldn't let it go unanswered.

"No," Sam mouthed weakly. He hugged his arms across his chest and leaned back against the headboard, staring evasively at the ceiling.

"Yes! And it was because of your pride. You weren't as good as Dean at anything useful for hunting. You didn't really want a normal life; you just didn't want to be a sidekick."

Sam grunted, swallowing heavily and trying to keep it together. Dean stirred in the other bed, and Sam's eyes shot to him. Fearful. Hopeful.

Sam forced himself to still. But when Dean settled, when his light snoring resumed, he felt no relief. In fact, he felt isolated and alone, even more vulnerable than before. He stared achingly at Dean's sleeping face, turned toward him and illuminated by the blue glow of the digital clock, and realized that he needed him right now, no matter what the cost to his pride. He was about to call for him when:

"As usual. Turn to Dean for help when you can't deal. All you ever do is take."

Sam physically winced, the shame like an iron spike through his gut. Dean's name died in his mouth.

"You're a parasite, Sam. You're like a fucking vampire. And one of these days Dean's gonna run out of blood."

"It's not real. It's not real. It's not real," Sam whispered to himself, sliding back down the headboard and onto his side, resting his ear against his pillow and curling up. He folded the pillow over his other ear, practically burying his head, as though that might muffle his father's voice.

"You can't hide from the truth, Sammy," his father said, as if from inches away. "And the truth is, he'd be better off without you."

Sam barely kept in the sob, whimpering quietly into his pillow instead. He curled up tighter and helplessly waited for it to stop.

----------

Dean awoke to the trying-way-too-hard rock-and-roll theme music of the local news station. It was not a pleasant reveille.

"Turn that shit down, Sam?" Dean entreated dazedly, pulling the covers up over his head. He didn't get an answer. "Sam?"

"Yuh," Sam garbled as he popped his head out the bathroom door, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. "Gibbe min't."

"That's okay," Dean replied, blindly reaching over for the nightstand and feeling for the remote. He fumbled and found it, but only after knocking his keys and one of their journals to the ground. "I got it."

He fingered the button to reduce the volume and glanced at the set.

"According to Dr. Matthews at James Rhodes Memorial Hospital, there have been more new diagnoses of the unexplained psychotic disorder in the last three days than in the two weeks prior. Seven new cases in all…" the coiffured newscaster exposited.

"Sammy, you hear this?" Dean called. He heard Sam spit into the sink.

"Yeah," the younger man said. He came out into the main room and sat down on the foot of his bed. Dean waited for him to show some kind of emotional response, but Sam just watched intently as though it were fascinating in an academic way but not particularly relevant.

"What do you think?" Dean probed, hoping to elicit something.

"I don't know, man."

Dean sighed and dropped his head back against the headboard. "You wanna go get some breakfast?"

"Already did," Sam answered. He got up, grabbed the bag next to the TV, and tossed it onto Dean's lap. "Bagels."

A little wave of discomfort shot through Dean's stomach when he realized that his younger brother had left the room alone, however briefly. But Sam had been all right for the last few days. Dean figured he was probably being irrational.

"Coffee?" Dean asked hopefully.

"On the dresser. I grabbed like a ton of sugar. I know how you like it," Sam replied, almost cheerfully.

Dean regarded his younger brother curiously. "You're awfully chipper this morning."

"Got a pretty good night's sleep," Sam said, stretching his arms back and breathing in deeply, showing off his disturbingly large wingspan. "I feel great."

"I'm glad, man," Dean said hesitantly. As much as he wanted it to be true—wanted Sam to really be feeling this good—this seemed a little over-the-top. But Sam wouldn't lie to him. "Sam…you'd tell me," he started, a little embarrassed to ask. "If something was wrong, right?"

Sam looked at him blankly for a moment, then nodded his head emphatically. "Yeah. Of course."

Dean watched Sam for a minute, and the kid didn't crack. Maybe he genuinely felt as good as he said he did.

"Okay," Dean said. He tossed off the bedcovers and swung his legs over the side with a grimace. His knee was still swollen, and he massaged it gently.

"You need an icepack?" Sam asked, already on his feet and moving to get it.

"No. That's all right," Dean said. "Just toss me that knee-thingy."

Sam picked the nylon sleeve up off the floor next to his feet and passed it to his brother. "You shouldn't leave that lying around."

"I'll try not to, Mom," Dean snarked. He waited for the rejoinder, but Sam seemed to have lost interest. He was busy picking up the stuff Dean had knocked to the floor when he'd been flailing around for the remote. Dean snorted and wondered why his brother was suddenly such a neat freak.

Whatever. Bigger stuff to deal with.

"Okay. So the way I see it, we've got three options," Dean started, watching as Sam proceeded to pick up and fold his bedclothes and put them in a drawer. "One, we can keep chasing the demon, even though the trail's gone cold."

Sam just kept shuffling around, putting things in order. This was getting annoying.

"Hey, man! You listening?"

"Yeah," Sam said, a little too quickly. He noticed what he was doing and Dean's frustrated expression, and immediately stopped. He parked himself on the foot of his bed, then looked up at his brother intently. "Sorry."

Dean shook his head confusedly. "Anyway. Option two: we call Ellen and see what she knows about the area, 'cause we've got nothing in our journals and there's not much at that library."

Sam just kept staring up at him, more attentive than Dean ever remembered him being. It was actually kind of unsettling.

"Three, we can go talk to the shrink again. The thing's spreading faster…maybe there's a pattern now. So, what do you think?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. Whatever you want to do."

Whoever the hell he was talking to wasn't his brother. "You seriously don't have an opinion?"

"Nope."

Dean rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "Fine. We're calling Ellen."

----------

"James Washington? Hold on, let me get a pen," Dean said, searching the dresser for a writing implement. Sam fished one out of his pocket and handed it to him with a genial look. Dean glanced at him uncomfortably. "Thanks, Sammy."

Dean grabbed the little pad of paper the motel left by the phone and jotted down the address. Sam just stood there next to him, not seeming to know quite what to do with himself. This close, Dean couldn't help but notice the faint bags under Sam's eyes. For whatever reason, Sam rarely showed any physical signs when he wasn't sleeping. So as insignificant as it looked, it was something.

"No, nothing's wrong. Yeah, we'll be careful. We'll call you when we're done here." Dean pressed the button and ended the call, holstering his cell in his right front pocket.

"What'd she say?" Sam asked a little too eagerly.

"As close as you were standing, I'm surprised you didn't hear," Dean teased, intentionally trying to provoke a response. Sam smiled good-naturedly, which was not what Dean was looking for. "There's a militia-type guy who lives out in the woods. James Washington. He's a hunter. Apparently, he and Dad knew each other. Ellen says the guy's a little crazy, but she has no idea why he's not in Dad's journal."

That, right there, was an opening for Sam to say something about their father having had a falling out with every human being he met. It was a kind of bait Sam had never shown the ability to resist. Until now. His smile faded, but he didn't say anything. That was quite enough for Dean.

"All right, that's it. What the hell is up with you?" Dean snapped.

"What?" Sam asked, innocent-faced.

"You brought me breakfast and coffee. You can't stop cleaning up our shit." Dean was counting the items on his fingers, his voice getting louder as his little rant went on. "You're not arguing with me, you're not whining, and you're not making snide remarks about Dad's social skills. So I repeat: What is up with you?"

"Yeah. I can see why you're so upset," Sam said sarcastically. "Is any of that bad?"

"No," Dean fumbled. "Not…really. But it's pretty freaking weird!"

Sam shrugged appeasingly.

"I don't know what to tell you, Dean. I'm fine. Really." He came right up to Dean, put a hand on his shoulder, and grinned. "If it'll make you more comfortable, I'll try to insult you more."

Dean gave him a conciliatory half-smirk and wondered whether he was the one going crazy.

----------

They were in the car, some 70's hard rock that Sam couldn't identify blasting out of the Impala's formidable stereo. Sam felt ragged and weary, as much from deceiving his brother as from what was actually happening to him. But he couldn't bring Dean in now; he'd given his brother enough shit for a lifetime, and he didn't want to make things any worse.

"It won't work."

Sam stifled a grimace as the voice returned. He pretended to ignore it, hoping that would make it go away. He rationally understood that the voice—which had kept him up all night, switching off between his father, Dean, and Jess—did not exist independent of him. But he couldn't help but personify it, think of it as some kind of tormentor that was just following him around. In a twisted way, that was more comforting.

"You can't change who you are." It was Dean's voice now, which was all the weirder for the fact that his brother was beside him, driving the car.

He bit his lip and turned to look out the window, unsure that he could maintain his composure under this kind of attack. He hardened his resolve, let some anger in, and focused.

It was bullshit anyway. He wasn't trying to change who he was. Maybe he was laying off the bitching, and maybe he was trying not to be such a burden; that didn't have anything to do with his condition. They both needed a break, and Sam was trying to do his part to let up on Dean.

"You just keep telling yourself that."

He wanted to yell at it to shut up, but that wouldn't exactly have been inconspicuous. Sam kept his tongue and forced himself to think about the job, about what they were going to do once they talked to this Washington character. He had already learned that he couldn't tune it out, but at least he could deny it importance.

"Fascinating view?"

It took a moment for Sam to realize that the voice was actually his brother's, and he almost jumped out of his seat. His eyes shot from the window to his brother.

"A little on edge, Sammy?"

"I guess, yeah," Sam mumbled.

Dean sighed and glanced at his brother seriously. "Sam, you've been acting weird. Not crazy weird, but weird. If something's up with you, I need to know about it before we go talk to the crazy militia gun nut."

"I need to know if you're going to fuck this up and get us shot," the voice taunted.

Keeping his cool, keeping those feelings off his face was one of the hardest things Sam had ever done, but it worked. Dean didn't appear to notice anything amiss, and Sam was staring right at him. He had never been able to bluff his older brother, and some part of him, some small but vocal part of him, wished he wasn't so good at it now.

"I'm a little stressed, Dean," Sam said, putting just enough pain into his voice to convince his brother this was the admission he was looking for. "I can't stop thinking about Halstadt…about what happened to him. About what's happening to me. It's like a black cloud that's just following me around."

Dean glanced over again, and Sam saw sympathy, which suggested his brother was buying it. Sam looked down sullenly, partly to play up his "admission," and partly because he was having trouble looking Dean in the eye. He felt Dean punch him in the shoulder lightly.

"I'm trying to put on a brave face for you, man. Sorry I'm not handling this better," Sam said, the only truly honest thing he'd said to his brother all day.

"You're handling it fine. I'd be freaking out too." Dean gave him a reassuring half-smile, seemingly convinced. Sam felt a little sick. Dean looked him over one last time. "You okay to work?"

Sam nodded, unable to make himself speak.

"Even if you could get him to forgive you, it would just make it harder on him," came Jess's voice. "When you finally do what you need to do."

----------

Aphorael was running, through farmland and forests, though he wasn't sure from what. It moved in the shadows, just outside of his sight, quick and sure and desperately hungry.

It certainly wasn't those accursed hunters, though they had hounded him incessantly for a few days after their encounter. No, whatever this was, it wasn't human. And it was like no demon he had ever encountered.

The reverend's broken body was slowing him down. He had tried to leave it—his powers were too weak to completely heal it—so that he could take another host from among the insane, but something was keeping him where he was. Probably the same thing that was chasing him.

The stress on the host was causing the damage to get worse. If he didn't rest soon, the host would die and he'd be trapped inside a corpse. But he was in the middle of the forest, and there was too much cover—too much opportunity for his assailant to come upon him unawares.

Aphorael glanced to his right by chance and saw a broad, low hill with a flat top on which no trees grew. It was perhaps half a mile a way…it was bizarre that he could see that far through foliage this dense, but there almost seemed to be a corridor in the trees. He gasped painfully at the thought of making the run, but he saw no other options.

He ran hard and long, heaving and grunting with nearly every step. He tasted blood in the back of his throat and wondered if this was what it felt like to die. When he crested the hill he found himself in knee-high yellow grass. He turned and looked around; the hill was just high enough that the tops of the trees growing at its base could not be seen from the summit.

He forged on toward the center of the field, where he saw a break in the grass; a flat area of hard-packed dirt, devoid of vegetation. When he came upon it, he found a rocky outcropping and collapsed against it, exhausted.

For perhaps a minute Aphorael caught his breath, channeling what little energy he had into healing some of his wounds. He adjusted his collar; his black robes were in tatters, but he hadn't the heart to abandon them. They reminded him of what he'd lost, and what he now had to find a way to survive long enough to avenge.

When he felt strong enough he stood and looked around. When he turned to look at the rocks against which he had been resting, a shock went through his body. They were stacked upon each other, not jutting out of the ground; this was a ceremonial altar. And it was truly ancient.

He backed away from it, utterly confused and not a little frightened, but when he turned to run, his path was blocked.

A young man stood there, tall and thin and menacingly calm, a hint of a smile on his lips. The demon stopped dead, dumbstruck, sapped entirely of his will to flee.

The man advanced on him, and as he did Aphorael stood frozen, transfixed by his terrible black eyes. They were not empty like a demon's; they were like the sky on a clear night, filled with tiny lights and constellations. As he watched them, the lights swirled and danced, enacting epic pageants of the births and deaths of galaxies, hinting at the awful secrets buried in the sod of distance and time.

Aphorael ripped his gaze away and fell to his knees, trembling…and crying. The man crouched in front of him and brought his mouth up close to the demon's ear.

"It has been so long. You have all forgotten," the man whispered. "Nothing lasts forever."