Okidoki, here ya go. Sorry to post in the middle of the night--again--but with Dad home and on the computer all the time it's the only time I get to write. I usually write better late at night anyway, for some reason....

Anyway, this chapter was both hard and easy to write. I've had peices of many of these scenes in my head from the beginning, almost, so I can't wait to know what you think of them. Thanks so much for all ya'lls support on my first SPN fic so far! :) Enjoy. (Or cry, or...whatever.)

ABBY NOTE: In case ya'll were wondering if I had a face for Abby...I do. Maybe not at first, but with all the Gilmore Girls I've been watching, it definately became Alexis Bledel--like circa early season five-ish as far as hair, by how I described Abby at first. Maybe it's a little cliche, but what can I say? I was a total sucker for Rory/Dean from the beginning, and ya gotta admit that even though I didn't start out thinking about Alexis, Abby did turn out not to be so different from Rory except for the whole being-a-Christian thing. :P Oh well, lol.

Chapter 21

Dean barely slept. He spent most of the night staring across the space between the beds, watching his brother sleep—watching his brother alive. He hadn't dozed off for long before he was up for the morning, unable to sleep any more. He packed everything that wasn't already in a bag and loaded his own things in the car, waiting for Sam to wake. By the time he did, Dean was getting off the phone with the roadhouse.

He must have sounded angry, because though Sam blinked up at him groggily, there was definitely some concern in there. "Dean? What's up?"

"Hey. Ah…Ash still doesn't have anything—not on the demon, or…anything else. That's all."

"'M sure he's trying," Sam mumbled.

"Right. Yeah. Anyway, ah, we've still got that address in Wyoming. We should get going, because when I said we might want to stop at Bobby's on the way through, I meant we have to. He kind of insisted—not that I have a problem with that. We can stop there tonight and keep going in the morning."

"Sure…" But he still wasn't quite awake, and didn't really seem to be listening.

"Sam, hey," Dean said, and shook him a little.

His brother started, wincing. "What…?"

"Time to go…" he said uneasily.

Sam glanced up, caught a glimpse of the clock and groaned. "Right…sorry."

Something about the way he looked and the way he was moving made Dean swallow and re-think. "Or, you know, we don't have to. We can wait until tomorrow."

"What? No…I'm getting up."

"You sure? If you're feeling bad then you should just rest. It's okay, really."

"These days if I rested when I felt bad I would never get out of bed," Sam snorted quietly, clumsily pushing the covers away. Without thinking Dean moved as if to help, but his brother gave him a firm look that made him quickly back away.

"Right, uh…you get ready, and I'll just…wait."

Sam nodded once and got up. He was agonizingly slow getting dressed and packed, but that was hardly new by now. Still, Dean had a bad feeling he couldn't shake. It didn't help when Sam fell asleep again barely fifteen minutes into the trip to Bobby's, and it was hard waking him up when they got there. On top of his own lack of sleep, he didn't know what that could mean.

Bobby had to come out to help him get Sam inside—pulling the generator so they wouldn't have to take him off it to bring him in. They settled him in the bed in the room they used when they were here, and Bobby quickly pulled Dean back out into the kitchen. The man was nearly in panic mode, and Bobby didn't panic.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me it was this bad?"

Dean blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"I saw him two weeks ago, and he wasn't this bad."

"I told you when we talked he's been getting worse ever since, but not even I knew how much worse until last night. Apparently he's been coughing up blood, and believe me when I say that I sure as hell would have told you that if I'd known."

Bobby grimaced. "God." It took him a moment to process that one. "Dean, still…couldn't you tell he's worse just by looking at him? I…" He let out an unsteady breath. "I don't think you understand."

"Understand what…?"

"We're out of time," he answered quietly.

Dean swallowed. "I know we're running out of time; I've known that for weeks."

"No, Dean; I mean we're out of time."

"W-hat the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Bobby swallowed now, and wouldn't look at him. "I don't think we're working with any more than a few days here—maybe a week or two."

Dean just stared at him incredulously. "You can't be serious." The look on his friend's face said he was. "But…but we were supposed to have months—a lot of months; six or eight or ten, not three or four. It can't be that bad yet," he protested desperately.

"You think I want this?"

"No! I just…no. You're wrong," he said rigidly. "You have to be wrong." He couldn't accept anything else. He couldn't accept it, because he had to hold on. He'd promised Sam he would hold on.

"Dean—"

"No." His jaw clenched, and he was hard pressed to unlock it again to finish the conversation. "I'm not hungry. I'm going to bed. We're leaving for Wyoming in the morning." It was only late afternoon, but he didn't have the willpower to stay awake when it could lead to thinking.

Bobby nodded slowly. "It's worth a shot, but let me come with you."

Dean shook his head immediately. "I can take care of this."

Bobby looked at him for a long moment, and it didn't help that his eyes weren't dry—neither were Dean's. "All right…but if nothing turns up there I want you boys to come right back."

He knew why Bobby wanted that, but he refused to give the thought full form. Instead Dean just nodded, because there was no reason not to agree. "Okay."

Sam had known things were bad, but he knew they were worse when Dean let him sleep late without even trying to wake him up earlier at first. He knew they were worse from the way Bobby hugged him before they left—trying to make it seem casual, but holding on too long—and the way Dean skipped checking in at a motel first and headed straight for the address he had on a piece of paper in his shirt pocket.

He knew because of the way Bobby had looked at him before they left, and the way Dean kept looking at him now.

Sam knew because he could feel it. Everything hurt and air was harder and harder to get, and he couldn't stay awake. He couldn't stay awake, but he was almost afraid to fall asleep. He was becoming afraid that the next time he fell asleep he wouldn't wake up.

"Dean…"

More than once, he tried to say something—something, anything, everything—but his brother cut him off every time.

"Don't, Sammy," he said quietly. "You're not going anywhere. I'm not letting you go."

It hurt that Dean wouldn't let him say what he thought needed to be said, but then again, hopefully there would be a few more chances. If not…maybe it was enough that Dean had listened to him two nights ago. Sam felt he could be satisfied with that, if he had to be.

He didn't want to go anywhere, but if he had to it was enough that his brother had listened to him then.

It told him that Dean loved him, and that was all Sam needed to know. He could even go without seeing the demon dead himself, as long as he had that.

The house was on the outskirts of a small town that was barely there, and while the only sign by the mailbox spoke a generic "Welcome" the beaten-down grass and gravel of the driveway that was also barely there told the tale of many visitors. It was the only thing that set the house apart from any nearby.

Sam sat forward a little, already grimacing but acting as if he thought he should be getting out. Dean held him back with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Just hang here for a few minutes, okay? I'll come get you if there's a reason to."

His brother gave him a weary look and nodded, and settled back into the seat again. Dean climbed out of the car and hurried up the porch steps.

The woman who answered the door was blonde, but it was natural. She didn't seem to be any older than her late thirties—maybe. She didn't look bad at all. If he'd had the presence of mind for such things he would have been hitting on her already. And this was an address Bobby had supposedly dug up from twenty years ago or more?

"Yes?"

"Uh…hi. Uhm, a Bobby Singer sent us here…I don't know if you—"

"Of course I remember Bobby. You must be one of John Winchester's boys."

He frowned in confusion. "You knew Dad, too?"

"Not exactly…are you Dean?"

"Yeah…"

She nodded and stepped away from the door. "Come in, Dean."

The inside of the house was just as ordinary as the outside, but for the presence of an unusual number of books—not unlike Bobby's house, but much more organized.

"Well…Bobby must have lost my address through the sands of time, or he probably would have sent you here sooner. Then again, I'm sure I remember him better than he remembers me. It's always that way. Anyway…I've been expecting you to show up any day now."

Dean turned in surprise. "So what…you're a psychic, too?"

She shrugged. "It's not what I'm best at, but yes."

"Then do you already know why I'm here?"

"Your brother is sick."

He nodded in answer, and the truth he hadn't let himself think spilled out before he knew it was going to. "I'm losing him. I'm losing him right now, while he's sitting out there in that car, and there's nothing I can do about it—there's nothing anybody can do about it."

The woman winced a little, and the expression she gave him held too much sympathy for Dean to want to hear what she said next.

"Dean, I'm sorry. I can't help, either."

He wasn't really surprised. It wasn't by any means what he'd wanted to hear, but he wasn't really surprised. "Oh."

"Don't blame Bobby; I'm sure he thought I could. I've healed before, and that must be what he remembers, but I've never been able to help anyone terminally ill." She hesitated. "I think I can only do what the Lord allows."

Dean's eyebrows went up tiredly. "Then you're a believer."

"I am," she nodded. "I've always believed that's where anything I can do comes from. There are those who would argue the opposite, and those who say such abilities don't come from anywhere in particular, but…I believe what I believe," she shrugged.

"Whatever floats your boat, I guess."

She smiled sadly. "I'm sorry I can't help you. But…if your brother needs somewhere to rest before you move on, the two of you are welcome to take my guest room for the night."

Dean tried to swallow, but his throat was all but closed. "Thanks, but we'll just find a motel," he said roughly.

"All right. There's one back just on the other side of the interstate exit."

He nodded once more in thanks and swept past her for the door, eyes on the floor because he didn't want this virtual stranger to see the tears there.

"Dean…"

He stopped, holding open the screen door and with a hand on the knob of the outer one. "What?"

"If it's not his time to go, then he won't. Anything could happen. You should be prepared…but you don't have to give up."

Dean shrugged and let out a breath. "Sure. Thanks."

Sam was still awake when he got back to the car, but not by much. It seemed he'd only been holding onto consciousness to hear what happened inside. "Anything?" he asked quietly.

Dean didn't have to say anything to answer. Sam fell asleep again quickly, and he called Bobby as he pulled out onto the back country highway.

Sam didn't wake up when Dean hauled him into the motel room he checked them into, and he didn't wake up the next morning. Not really. When he tried he got a groan, or a few mumbled words. Sometimes his eyes opened, but not for long.

Sam's phone rang, late in the morning. Dean picked it up and answered it before he thought to check the caller ID.

"Sam?"

The voice was female. "Excuse me?"

"Dean? Is that you? Where's Sam?" the voice asked insistently.

It dawned on him. "Abby?"

"Yes!" The voice was worried now. "Where's Sam? He calls me every week or so, but I haven't heard from him in almost three weeks now."

"Oh…uhm…he can't come to the phone right now," Dean grimaced, lowering himself into a chair at the table and glancing anxiously over at his brother.

"He—"

He rested his forehead in his free hand once he'd braced the elbow on the table. "He's sleeping," he answered.

"But…it's…"

"I know what time it is," Dean snapped, more harshly than he'd meant too.

Abby let out a breath, and fell silent for a long moment. "He's getting worse, isn't he?" she asked softly.

He stared at the table top for about the same amount of time before answering. "Yeah," he said dejectedly. "He's worse."

The next question was barely audible. "How much worse?" Dean couldn't answer that one, and eventually he heard a quiet sob from the other end of the line. "W-where are you?" she asked finally.

"Wyoming."

Another sob, muted but laced with frustration. "Finals are coming up in a few days. I can't get there."

Dean sighed. "It's okay. I don't think he'd expect you to."

"But…maybe I could. I don't have to study every waking hour. I-I could borrow money from Michelle; I know she has it. I could fly out there, and—"

"Abby, no. Don't take any chances. I don't know what Sam may have told you or not, but because of all the crap we've had to deal with, he never got to finish school. I'm…sure he wants you to do your best. Make sure you graduate."

"My grades are all fine…" she protested weakly.

"But could they take missing or failing your finals? Even if you still graduated all right, would you be happy with that?" She didn't answer. "Take your exams, Abby. To be honest, by the time you got everything straightened out to get here…" He couldn't think it, and he couldn't finish the sentence, but he got that far. He didn't want to accept it, but the truth was the truth and she deserved to know it whether he wanted to or not.

Abby sobbed again. "So…there wouldn't be any point?"

"Probably not," Dean gulped. "Look, if…if it helps any, he wanted to come to your graduation—if we found a way to fix this."

"No; that just makes it worse," she whispered.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay…I'm sure I'll be glad I knew that later…"

Dean's jaw clenched again, and his eyes closed. "I should go." He couldn't handle this anymore.

"Fine, but Dean?"

"Yeah?"

The request was faint, on the end of taxed emotional nerves. "If you get a chance, please tell Sam I'm thinking about him…and that I'm still praying." If Dean knew anything about these Christian girls…or at least about this one—and through this one, his opinion of them all was going up—it was her way of saying she loved his brother.

It took a moment before he could answer that.

"Okay," he managed finally.

"Goodbye, Dean," she said faintly.

"Bye, Abby."

When Sam finally seemed to wake up, sometime after lunch, though he was coherent he didn't want to move. Dean had to help him to the bathroom door to get him to go, and once he'd gotten him back into the bed Sam didn't seem interested even in the idea of eating. It was a struggle to get him to drink any water. Then he was out again.

Dean waited the rest of the day, but Sam didn't surface again. By then he was on the verge of panic. He tried calling Bobby for nearly half an hour before the older man picked up.

"Sorry, Dean; I was trying to get more research in. What is it?"

"It's Sam. He didn't want to get out of bed, and he wouldn't eat, and he barely drank anything, and now he just won't wake up—at all. What the hell's going on, Bobby? What am I supposed to do?" he said quickly.

For a moment there was silence on the other end of the line. "Are you still at the motel in Wyoming?"

"Yeah, right off the interstate near that address. Why?"

"I'll be right there."

"But can't you just tell me what to do? I mean, shouldn't I get him back to you? Come on, Bobby; give me more than that. What do I do here?"

He could almost hear Bobby making a face. "You wait right there; you shouldn't move him now. I'm coming to you."

"But…why?" He didn't really want to know the answer.

Bobby sighed miserably, and his answer was barely audible. "I want to see him again, Dean."

Dean snapped the phone shut before he heard anything else, and leaned heavily on the wall, pulling in heavy breaths. No. No no no NO…

His legs didn't seem to want to cooperate with him, but he dragged himself to Sam's bedside and dropped to his knees on the floor, barely remembering to catch himself on the edge of the bed. He clung there for a long moment, immobile, until a hand moved seemingly of it's own accord to run gently through his brother's hair and push it away from his face.

Sam's skin felt too cold and clammy, but a warm breath that hadn't come easily blew across his hand as he pulled it back to grip his brother's arm.

"You can't go anywhere, Sam. You can't." Dean gave a dry sob, and told the truth. "I'm not ready, Sammy," he whispered. "I'm not strong enough."

It was the middle of the night when Bobby made it to Wyoming, to mostly the middle of nowhere, but Dean was still wide awake. Bobby found him with red-rimmed eyes and a set jaw, waiting.

He was concerned for Dean, but Bobby couldn't focus on him until he'd seen Sam. He sat on the edge of the bed for several long moments, and almost wished he hadn't seen enough in his lifetime to know what he did.

"Bobby?"

He stood slowly, and he wasn't sure why he eased the boy back across the room to talk to him, but he did it anyway.

"Well? Why won't he wake up? Can't we do something?"

Bobby took a deep breath and shook his head. "No, Dean. There's nothing we can do. This is just…the way it happens sometimes." God…why? He'd seen these boys grow up. He had no desire to watch one of them die—especially when he knew it would kill the other.

Dean looked away; he seemed to have been expecting the answer. "Would it make any difference at all if we got him to a hospital?" he asked tightly.

He shrugged. "Maybe a couple of days…"

"So not really."

"No…"

Dean blinked back tears. "What about now?"

Bobby swallowed; he didn't want to answer that question any more than the boy wanted to hear the answer. "I'd…be surprised if he makes it through tomorrow, Dean." He hesitated briefly. "I don't think he'll wake up."

The first sob came then, as Dean braced a hand on the wall to hold himself up. If he'd still been a child Bobby would have pulled him into his arms, but he wasn't, and he didn't know what to do now.

He couldn't make it better.

Bobby put a hand on Dean's shoulder, and the boy reached up to clamp a hand on his arm for a moment in return before he composed himself, shoved away from the wall and let go. He didn't say a word as he paced across the room, scrubbing at his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Bobby heard himself say. If only he could do more than offer useless platitudes.

Dean stopped his pacing by the door, and looked over at Sam. He stared for a long moment before his gaze shifted to the keys that had been left on the shelf beside him.

In seconds he had snatched them up, thrown the door open, and stormed out.

"Dean!"

Bobby followed him quickly, stopping in the doorway. "What the hell are you doing?" he shouted, watching the boy climb into the Impala.

"Something besides sitting around and letting my brother die!"

He would have stopped him, but there was no way to do it. He would have followed, but he couldn't leave Sam alone. Bobby had no choice but to watch Dean leave.

For a long time there was nothing, really—snippets of words here and there, and not always understanding. He remembered Dean, and that was really all. Then nothing. There was nothing, but he didn't even know it was nothing because it was nothing.

Then there was something.

Images.

A vision?

The images were blurry and distorted at first, like the visions, but it didn't hurt like the visions usually did now. It was just there.

There was a woman, and a house, and…no, it wasn't just a house.

It was the house. It was the house where Leah had started all of this—the house where she had killed him.

There was a woman, and she was there, and when she spoke her voice was familiar. You look so much like him…so much like him, she whispered sadly. I couldn't save him. I couldn't save any of them. But perhaps…

Perhaps what?

You must come…

Then she was gone, and the house was gone, and the nothingness was gone, and everything hurt again, and Sam opened his eyes.