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.) This takes place after 'Further And Further Out', so you'll probably want to read that first :)

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, I'm glad you liked the first chapter :) Crazy!Sammy is so much fun to write, even if his mind is a scary place! The next chapter should go up after Christmas some time, so look out for it, and Merry Christmas!

Chapter 2

"He had a vision, Jim. And now dad's not answering his phone." Dean spoke softly but firmly. "We have to find him."

Sam looked up briefly from the kitchen table. The scrambled eggs in front of him had turned dry and cold while he was listening to Dean talk, letting the deep rumble of his brother's voice permeate his veins like a second heartbeat. Jim sat to one side of him, distractedly chewing on the same mouthful of breakfast.

"Dean, you can't take Sam on a road trip to god-knows-where. If you're going to go and track John down, you'll have to leave him here with me."

Dean shook his head violently. "No. No, I am not leaving Sam. You didn't see him at Missouri's, he was freaking out without me around and I was only gone for one night. Two hours weeding is one thing, but days? Weeks? No." He dropped his fork onto his plate with a clatter, like that was that.

Jim took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "And how are you going to go about finding your dad with Sam along with you? You're going to take him into bars, questioning people? And if John is in danger from something supernatural, then what are you going to do? Leave Sam in a motel room? Dean, think about this."

Sam watched as Dean seemed to deflate in front of him. "Jim, what else can I do? I can't leave my brother behind, and I can't abandon my dad if he's in trouble."

Jim stood, emptying the remains of his cold breakfast into the trash. He began loading the dishwasher, and Dean got to his feet automatically, clearing the table.

"You could call someone else. Bobby maybe, or Joshua. Call in a favour, have someone else try tracking John down. Your dad left you and your brother here so you could get out of that life. He doesn't expect you to do this."

Dean slammed the dirty plates down on the countertop. "He's my dad! I don't care if he expects me to come after him or not, I'm not gonna leave him when I know he needs help!"

Sam watched quietly as the two men argued, the sore feelings from both filling the room and making it hard to breathe. He wanted to go to Dean, have the older man make a fuss of him like he had last night after finally understanding what Sam was trying to tell him. But it was bad, not in front of other people, won't understand. He stayed put, eyes sharp on both men as they descended into an uneasy silence.


Taking care of Sam was a full-time occupation, one that Dean was happy to do most of the time. Except for right now when he couldn't help but wish that Sam was all the way with him, able to hunt at his side like they'd never gotten a chance to do before Stanford. Or hell, he'd even take a Sam that was still at school and not talking to him, just for a few days. Just long enough for Dean to find their dad.

Because Jim, as much as Dean hated to admit it, was right. He couldn't take Sam with him. And he couldn't leave his baby brother behind either.

Dean opened the door to the backyard, stepping outside. The cool wind ruffled his hair and he closed his eyes, taking a breath.

Jim was in the living room, supposedly composing sermons, but Dean knew an avoidance tactic when he saw it. The old man was a good friend. Dean would never be able to repay him for taking them in. But he would never be able to rest easy with Sam out of his sight either, not even knowing that Pastor Jim was taking care of him.

His little brother was different now and Dean wasn't ever going to forget that it happened while Sam was apart from him.

"Dean?" Sam was suddenly by his side, and Dean startled a little.

"Jesus, Sam, you scared me."

"Sorry." Sam smiled sweetly, taller than Dean but somehow still managing to look up at him, like he was a kid again. In his arms, Sam was holding a blob of brown and white fluff. Dean frowned at it.

It moved. "Sam, please tell me you haven't stolen someone's pet cat."

Sam took a step back, holding it tighter like he was afraid Dean might try to take it away. "It's the kitty I was in my dream last night. Can I keep it?"

Dean closed his eyes, letting out a heavy breath. As if he didn't have enough shit to deal with. He opened his eyes to Sam's best pitiful expression and stifled a groan. "Sammy, it's probably someone else's kitty. They'd be sad if you kept it."

Sam looked down at the cat, now rubbing its head against his chin and purring loudly. Dean could see the beginnings of a pout forming on his lower lips and quickly moved to distract his little brother.

"Sam, can you remember anything else about the vision you had last night? A street sign, the name of the bar that dad was in? Anything?"

Sam's brow creased in that way that says he's thinking hard. After a moment or two passes, he shook his head. "It was a bar. It said so on the sign."

Dean sighed quietly. Sometimes Sam was so with it he could forget, pretend everything is how it was. That he'd just picked him up from Stanford and continued with their life like nothing had happened. Sam got this look, this knife-blade sharpness to his eyes that said he knew everything, past present and future. All Dean had to do was ask and he could know too. It was dark and seductive and Dean wanted to lose himself in it.

And other times it was like Sam was five years old again, trying so hard to please his big brother because that was all he knew.

The cat make a chirruping sound and sniffed at Dean's jacket suspiciously before settling back in Sam's arms.

That moment back at Missouri's, that fraction of time Dean was drawn into Sam's head to see what Sam saw, it brought him closer to Sam than he'd ever dreamed he could be. But there were also times when thinking about it depressed Dean like nothing else. When he wished he could forget it and just go on in confusion. Because what Sam saw on a regular basis was enough to make anyone go batshit insane, and he struggled through it, righting his head in the only ways he could. All for Dean.

He hadn't been able to stop crying for hours after Sam had spoken.

"You saw. Did you get it?"

Yeah, he got it all right. And after, when he'd been paralysed by his tears, his belly cramping and his chest aching from the wracking sobs, Sam had been there to trace the tear-tracks with soft fingers and wonder in his childish eyes. Sam had been there to help him undress, to lay him on his back in Missouri's big double bed and soothe him into sleep with his scattered presence.

Sam bent on the patio beside him, letting the cat jump to the ground. It looked up at Dean for a second, its eyes as mysterious and unnerving as Sam's own. Then it wound itself around Sam's legs, making him grin brightly, and bounded off into the backyard to get lost among the flowers and long grass.


"Thanks Joshua. I'll let him know." Jim put the phone down as Dean guided Sam into the living room. The old man looked up with an unreadable expression and Dean's heart sank with a sick swoop. He busied himself settling Sam on the worn sofa, adjusting his brother's limbs so he could sit comfortably next to him, side to side.

Jim didn't speak even once Dean was seated and looking at him. Dean screwed his eyes shut for a second. "Well? What did Joshua have to say?"

Jim looked down at the carpet between his feet. "He says John was supposed to be on a hunt in Montana. A town outside Yellowstone County. He called a few days ago asking Joshua to do some research for him, and Josh hasn't been able to get in contact with him since."

The vertical stripes of the wallpaper, soothing in browns and beiges, suddenly began to swirl in Dean's vision. Beside him Sam turned, touching a hand to his chest like he could steady the heartbeat that was racing beneath his palm.

Dean took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "So," he said, trying to keep his voice steady "I guess I'm going to Montana."

His hand reached up to take Sam's without his permission. As if he understood, Sam let him squeeze tight to his fingers despite the fact that the grip must have hurt him.

"Will…" Dean's voice dried up before he could get the sentence out. He looked up at Jim, turning his eyes away just as quick. "Will you take care of Sam for me?"

"Dean, you don't have to ask. You know I will. I promise, nothing will happen to him."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know. I know that." Even to Dean's ears the words rang false.


Something was wrong. Dean was projecting zigzags of sharp anger and despair that hurt whenever Sam came up close to him, and Jim wasn't much better. He wished he could concentrate, just enough to put together what was going on.

"Okay Sammy, you're gonna have to be good for Pastor Jim. I'm not gonna be gone long, I promise you, so don't you play up just 'cause I'm not there to tell you off. Jim's gonna tell me all about your behaviour when I get back." Dean was studiously avoiding his eyes, keeping his hands busy with a duffle bag.

Sam trailed him to the bedroom they shared, stood watching him as Dean marched back and forth from the wardrobe, the bathroom, the chest of drawers in the corner. Carrying things to put in the duffle. And not once meeting his gaze.

"…and Jim'll take you down to the park, feed bread to the ducks on the pond. You like the ducks. Maybe you can do some more weeding, too. And I'll call, every night. And if you ever need me, you just tell Pastor Jim. I'll leave my cell phone on all the time, I promise." Dean's voice seemed to crack at the end of the sentence.

Sam frowned. Dean was speaking, he could tell that much. And normally he was pretty good at keeping track of a conversation, but the overwhelming emotion pouring off Dean kept him distracted and a little scared. When he finally realised what the packed bag meant, his brother was already halfway out the door.

"Dean!" Sam strode across the room, barring Dean's way before he could leave.

His brother's eyes were shiny. "Sam, you gotta move."

Sam ignored him, clutching at Dean's shoulders hard enough to whiten his knuckles. He pressed his body into Dean's, rubbing his face in the hollow between neck and collarbone.

"Sammy…"

"No, Dean."

"Sam, I gotta go." He could tell the exact moment Dean started to cry, like a pinprick on his nerves. "Sammy, I gotta. Dad, he's in trouble and I have to go help him."

"I don't want you to."

That seemed to be the final breaking point for Dean; his face shattering into pieces and his hands coming up to grasp at Sam's body greedily. Sam was tugged close, closer, into Dean's chest and arms and body like Dean wanted to absorb him into his skin and carry Sam with him. He rubbed his face in the hair at the nape of Sam's neck, wetting the collar of his tee shirt.

"I don't want to either, Sammy. But dad needs me. Can you understand? Sammy? Please."

The pleading tone reminded Sam of something, a spark in his mind that called up some memory he'd forgotten. But that couldn't be right; Dean never begged. Dean, with the world-class poker face, clamping down on any negative emotion long before it could show on his face.

Except…

"Sammy, I need…I need you to…"

Dean. Crying, clutching his hand as Sam lay unseeing on an anonymous motel bed, lost in phantasmagorical dreams. Begging him to come back, to be there again.

"Please. Sammy, please."

Sam pulled back, just far enough to see Dean's face. His brother's bloodshot eyes and blotchy face made him look like he hadn't slept for a week. Previously unable to meet Sam's eyes, now it seemed Dean couldn't look away, staring at Sam like he never wanted to see anything else. The desolation in his expression made Sam want to cry too.

Instead he pulled his lips into his brightest smile, the one that always made Dean feel better. Making it reach his eyes was harder still, but for Dean he would do anything.

"It's okay, Dean. I understand."


Sam didn't understand. Even if he did, he'd forget, and in a few hours he'd be asking Pastor Jim where his brother was. Dean knew it like he knew he had to leave.

It was harder to do than he'd ever thought possible, and he'd always known it would be pretty fucking hard. It was like ripping out one of his kidneys; a non-essential part of his body, but one he'd rather have in its rightful place nonetheless. By the time he'd passed by the city limits he was watching the road through a steady stream of tears.

It would take at least two days to drive through to Montana, and once he got there he had no idea how to find his dad. Yellowstone was a big place, and looking for a random bar on a random street would be an impossible task. Dean cursed John Winchester in his head; why did the older man have to be so goddamn secretive about everything? It wouldn't cause an apocalypse if he kept them updated on which town he was in, the name of the motel he was staying at.

And there was also that little matter of Dean being wanted for kidnapping a mental patient from a psychiatric hospital. He'd just have to hope that no one in Montana was expecting a fugitive to show up and start asking strange questions.

Dean drove. For hours on end, he stared blankly at the road being eaten up by the tires of the Impala. Once he'd believed all he'd ever need in life could be found on the road. But that was before. He put his foot down and spurred the car faster.

When Dean finally reached Montana, his chest felt hollowed out and his eyes were itchy from staring too long at the lines on the road. Two days of constant driving, stopping when he felt like he was about to drop dead from exhaustion. He'd spent the first night in a motel room trying to ignore the empty second bed across from his. The second night he'd been too drained to do more than pull over by the side of the road, far enough in the ditch that no one would sideswipe the car unless they were blind drunk. He'd barely turned off the ignition before passing out in the driver's seat.

He'd called Jim's cell phone at seven on the dot both nights. Listening to Sam's bemused voice on the other end was like the ache of an amputated limb, but it was worth the pain to know that he was coping without Dean.

What he didn't expect was the rush of hot jealousy that bit into him, hearing Jim talk about Sam helping bake cookies or washing the car. Dean had expected a full-blown tantrum when Sam realised that he couldn't find his big brother, and really, was that too much to ask when Dean's entire life revolved around making sure Sam got every little thing he wanted? He knew he was being irrational; that Sam surviving out of Dean's sight was a good thing. Dean could leave him for a few days, maybe help their dad on hunts once in a while. On the other hand, it meant Dean could leave him. That Sam could survive by himself, albeit with someone else to make sure he ate and washed and got his daily requirement of vitamins or whatever. But that someone didn't have to be Dean.

The welcome sign flew past his window in a blur, barely noted.

Dean had called Joshua the night before, collecting all the research John had asked for. Widespread crop failures on lowland farms, dying countryside on higher ground. And it had all begun at around the same time a few months back. John had been stumped, even after nosing around the town for a week. And so he'd called Josh, who'd presented a few vague theories but nothing concrete.

At least Dean knew what to look for in locating the town John had been staying in. Now all he had to do was the research. Great. His favourite part of the job.


Sam knew, in a distant and half-formed thought stream, that Dean had gone away. That he would be coming back, and that Sam could talk to him anytime by calling his cell. He also knew that Dean was upset about leaving him behind, more than he let on in his too-cheerful calls that always ended with I miss you Sammy.

So Sam did the only thing he could to help, the thing that made the most sense with the most parts of his mind. He didn't call Dean every time he wanted to, which was roughly every three seconds. He waited for Dean to call him, sitting in front of the loudly ticking alarm clock in the bedroom that used to be theirs but was now, temporarily, just his. And when Dean did call, he made sure to tell him what he'd done that day, what Jim had cooked for dinner, how he'd sneaked the last cookie from the plate after the church service on Sunday.

There was a tiny buzz in the back of his head that he knew as Dean, but the emotions Sam was accustomed to feeling from his brother were gone. Only his voice on a crackly phone connection, and Sam tried his hardest to actually listen to every word, to keep the buzz of Dean alive in his mind. His greatest and most secret fear was that without his brother's presence his scrambled head would drift away again. It had been Dean who brought him back. What if without Dean, he disappeared?

Seven o'clock, and on cue Jim's cell phone rang on the table beside the alarm clock. Sam picked it up before it could ring a second time, pressed the green button like Dean had shown him many times before.

"Hey Sammy." Dean sounded worn out. Not the good worn out that came right before sleeping, when Sam would wind himself into all the crevices and curves of Dean's body. Bad worn out, like he'd been staying awake past sleeping-time, like he'd been worried. "How's it goin', little brother?"

"Hi." Sam grinned big, even though Dean couldn't see him. "I had macaroni and cheese for dinner. It got in my hair."

"Yeah?" Sam could hear the tension slipping out of Dean's voice. "Was it good?"

"Yep. I ate it all."

"Good job, Sammy."

"Did you find dad yet?"

A muffled sigh, like Dean hadn't wanted to be reminded of the reason he wasn't at home. "Not yet, Sam. But I found the town he was in. I'm gonna go talk to some people who might have seen him later tonight."

The bedroom door opened with a squeak and Jim stepped in, a kind smile on his face. "Is that Dean? Can I talk to him for a second? I'll give the phone right back, I promise."

Sam pouted but acquiesced without an argument, handing over the phone with reluctance.

"Dean? It's Jim. Sorry, I know you wanted to talk to Sam, but…" Jim trailed off, a frown tugging his features downward into unfamiliar lines. He glanced over at Sam, sitting patiently on the bed. "No, no, everything's fine. There was just something…" He turned to the door, motioning to Sam to stay seated. Sam did, despite the unease rumbling around in his stomach. He waited, watching as Jim left the room, as the older man's voice grew fainter. Disappearing, and taking Dean with him.


"Sam had another vision. At least I think it was a vision; I didn't really know what I was looking out for. But he said something about your dad, about him being trapped somewhere?" Jim spoke in a hushed voice.

Dean clutched the phone tighter in his hand, ignoring the protesting twinge of cramping muscles. The motel room seemed to contract around him, the window that displayed a scenic view of the parking lot darkening like night had fallen early. He tried to speak through a suddenly dry throat. "What-when did this happen?"

"Last night. I woke up and saw a light on downstairs, and when I got up to turn it off I found Sam. He was scribbling on the back of a magazine. The picture he drew is…strange."

Dean took a deep breath that did nothing to soothe his roiling thoughts. "He…he drew a picture?" Against his will he recalled the confusion-filled days when all Sam would do was scribble picture after crayon-picture. Since coming back to himself Sam hadn't shown any urge to draw at all.

"Yes. It's like a child's drawing; stick figures and wavy lines. I asked him what it meant, but all he would say is 'dad's stuck in her head', whatever that means. He doesn't seem to remember it at all today."

"'Dad's stuck in her head'? That's all he said? What does the picture look like?" Dean asked, trying to keep the shake out of his voice.

"There's a stick man, which I assume is supposed to be your dad. He's lying down on a bed of some kind. There's another figure at the foot of the bed which I think is the 'her' he's talking about, and there are lines coming from her toward John." Jim said, the sound of paper rustling on the other end of the line. "I came down just as he finished drawing it. I asked him what he was doing up, but it was like he didn't hear me. I thought he might have been sleepwalking or something until he spoke."

Dean's blood was pounding through his veins so hard he thought it might actually precipitate some kind of heart attack. He didn't know what to do. On the one hand Sam's new vision proved that John was indeed in some kind of trouble. But if Sam was slipping…

Jim read his mind. "Dean, you have to help your father. Sam's fine with me at the moment, and if you were to rush back here and leave John to get hurt you'd never forgive yourself."

He clenched his jaw so tight his head started to ache. "Jim, you tell me if he gets any worse. I mean it. I need to know."

"Of course I will, son. You just focus on finding John for now." Dean nodded silently. Jim seemed to sense his distress and changed the subject quickly. "Sam's behaved well today. Did he tell you he ate all his dinner?"

A shaky half smile grew on Dean's face. "Yeah. Yeah, he did."


The bar was thick with smoke and the smell of sweat. Music pounded the air so loud that Dean could barely figure out what song was playing. The bass line thudded in the floor, feeling like a second heartbeat in his chest.

It was just the kind of dump Dean hated. Crowded, messy, dirty, couldn't take two steps without someone spilling their drink down his shirt. There was a pool table in the back, but the only use it was being put to was as an extra surface to hold drinks and coats. Slutty girls in clothes unsuited to the cold outside danced in jittery spasms, throwing arms about regardless of anyone standing beside them.

Dean had come here in the hopes of finding someone who'd talked to his dad, but the noise level of the place told him he'd be lucky if the bartender could hear him shout his drink order.

He shoved his way to the bar anyway, reluctant to admit defeat so soon.

The pretty redhead pouring drinks turned his way as soon as he stepped up, unabashedly looking him up and down. "What c'n I get ya?"

"Beer. Whatever's on tap." He shouted to be heard above the boom-chuka beat of the music. She smiled slow and nodded, ignoring the other patrons jostling for her attention and leisurely drawing his drink.

"There. Now why don't you tell me what a guy like you's doing in a place like this?"

The boldfaced come-on startled a laugh out of him. "You don't think I belong in places like this?"

She smirked, her eyes deliberately flicking downward to where the bar concealed his bottom half. Her long hair fell forward over one eye and she carelessly tossed it back with a hand.

Dean was about to reply when a bleach-blonde girl with orange hued skin plastered herself to his side. "Wow, I'm so sorry, did I spill your drink?" She grinned up at him, her eyes blurry with alcohol. "Let me buy you another one."

"Uh, no thanks, I'm good." Dean carefully removed her hand from his chest. He'd need to take a shower when he got back to the motel. Maybe two.

The blonde girl flounced off with a sulky pout on her rouged mouth. When Dean turned back to the bar, the redhead was at the other end of the bar with her back to him. He huffed and pulled out a stool from the mass of people. He'd wait.


Dean sat patiently until closing time, sipping on the same beer. During that time he watched three bar fights break out, a girl burst into tears as her boyfriend swapped spit with her best friend on the pool table, another girl in hysterics with caked-on makeup running down her cheeks, and two men drinking down bottles of beer like it was a competition to see who would puke on the floor first. And once they'd both taken a turn, they got right up and started drinking again.

The redhead didn't so much as glance his way all night.

Dean watched her as she ran from one end of the bar to the other, pulling pints and measuring out vodkas. Her long hair shone in the dull lights of the bar, and at one point she tied it back with an elastic band. The worn jeans and white tee shirt she wore hugged her figure, offering a hint of the full curves underneath.

She smiled like she knew every person who asked for a drink, engaging some of them in quick conversation. The men, and even some of the women, walked away with a dazed look on their faces, like they couldn't quite believe she'd chosen to talk to them.

Dean's eyes were pulled to her hands, pale and soft and deft as they worked. They fluttered sharp-quick, never making a mistake.

Finally the bar began to empty. The irritating music was shut off, and Dean couldn't help the heavy sigh that ran through him at the relief of dead air. He lifted his glass to his lips, drinking the last of his beer reluctantly.

"You stuck around. Guess this is your kinda place after all."

He spluttered on the beer, coughing and wiping at his mouth with a sleeve. Smooth. The redhead seemed to find it entertaining, a lopsided grin lighting her face.

"Did I catch you at a bad moment?"

Dean tried to control his coughing, red-faced and embarrassed. "Well, it's not my best."

"Lucky for you, I find it endearing." He turned to face her, pulling his own cocky smirk onto his lips and hoping his blush subsided.

"Yeah? Well, that works out for both of us then."

She winked at him and hopped up onto the bar, swinging her legs over gracefully and landing on her feet on the other side.

"Yes, I suppose it does." Dean's smirk turned into a sloppy grin. She was close enough for him to smell her perfume, a subtle musky scent that put him in mind of autumn forests and freshwater rivers. He leaned in until he could see every hazel fleck in her amused green eyes. For a second he thought this is it, and then she was striding away, a swing to her hips and a towel in one pale hand. She glanced back at him over one shoulder, a coy tilt to her plush mouth. "Sorry sweetheart, gotta finish my chores before I can go play."

He leaned back in his chair, watching her wipe down tables with nimble wrist-flicks, the same stupid grin still plastered to his lips.

A buzzing sound distracted him. He tried to ignore it and concentrate on the redhead, now clearing the pool table of empty bottles. It was persistent though, and eventually he realised it was coming from his jacket. His cell phone.

Half in a daze, he flicked it open. "'Lo?"

"Dean? Dean, where are you?" Jim's voice sounded frantic on the end of the phone. The sound of it was like a cut from a blade, slicing through the fug of his brain.

"Jim? What's wrong?"

"It's Sam, he…I don't know, he keeps asking for you, he's…Christ." Hearing the blasphemy, and coming from Jim of all people, instantly threw Dean into panic-mode.

"He's what? He's what, Jim?"

"He's…he's scratched up his arms, his…fingernails, he was…" There was a crashing sound on the other end of the line.

"Jim? Jim!" Dean was on his feet, scrabbling in his pockets for his car keys with one hand while the other held the phone to his ear in a deathgrip. "Jim!"

The line was silent. Dean was about to check the connection, redial, when; "Dean?"

"Sammy? Oh Christ, Sammy, what happened? Are you okay? Where's Jim?"

"I'm okay now, Dean." Sam's voice, calm and sweet and normal brought Dean's heart rate down a notch. He slumped back down in the bar stool, the stunted adrenaline rush leaving his head spinning and his body wrung out and suddenly boneless.

"What happened, Sam?"

"I had to talk to you." On the other end of the line Dean could hear Jim's voice in the background, an indistinct murmur.

"Why, Sammy? What was wrong?"

"You were gonna be in trouble, Dean. You were gonna be like dad." Sam said plaintively.

There was another mumbled conversation between Sam and Jim, and then Jim's voice came back on the line. He was breathing heavily, like he'd been in a struggle. "Dean, Sam seems to think that whatever got your father is after you, too. He says it knows you're there looking for John. He was…I didn't know how else to convince him you were okay." He left out a long breath. "Are you okay? Nothing was attacking you?"

"I'm fine. I was asking around, trying to find out if anyone in town had seen dad. Nothing was going on. So, it's all good now, right? Sam's good?"

"He seems to be fine now. I think he wants to talk to you again."

Dean listened as Jim passed over the phone, slouching forward on the sticky bar top. His eyes drifted closed.

"Dean?" The absolute relief of hearing Sam's voice was still a miracle.

"Hey Sam. Listen kiddo, you can't scare us like that again. I know you don't like being apart; I don't like it either, but…"

"No, Dean." Sam interrupted, his voice urgent. "You were gonna be like dad. I saw it, it was gonna happen. I had to call."

"Sam, nothing was gonna happen." Dean said, trying to put his dying patience into his words.

"It was. She was gonna lock you in her head too, like dad."

Dean blinked, suddenly alert like he'd been splashed with ice-water. He turned around fast, his free hand going for the handgun in the pocket of his jacket.

The redhead was gone, the towel lying discarded on the floor.