Author's Notes: I just wanted to agree with Ster1 in these notes--it's VERY hard for poor Sam to understand just how much of using his powers is "too" much. He doesn't want to become like Jake and the others (I rewatched the last two episodes of season two while writing some future scenes, actually), and he struggles with that in later chapters, but...that's about all I can say for now. ;) I also wanted to say thanks, everyone, for such positive reviews! I haven't felt this excited and inspired to write a story in a really long time (not since picking up my Charmed story again and finishing that), so it makes me happy to know that other people are really enjoying it.

At any rate, here is chapter four! I wrote a good amount of this at night, which is when I tend to be more descriptive (for reasons I'm not entirely sure of), so there's more visuals in this chapter than in the rest. Please let me know what you think, as always, because your feedback is very important to me!

There was a McDonald's near the motel where Sam was staying. It wasn't really anything to write home about; although what made it unique to him was the fact that it had retained its old, classic 90s style of décor. Sam had been to many, many McDonald's in his life, and while he, Dean and John never quite stayed inside them for more than a few minutes—if that—he always remembered what they looked like, just as he remembered the insides of the countless other fast food joints they had frequented over the years. Why McDonald's remained the most special to him, he didn't know. Or, at least, he couldn't recall. All he knew was that he enjoyed the oddly disturbing over-usage of pastel greens, pinks and blues, the neon lights on the walls that looked like scribbles, and the smell of French fries.

The booth in which he was sitting was mildly uncomfortable, complete with the hard plastic seat and the tabletop with a polished, granite-like surface that was clearly just a cover. His Big Mac value meal was resting atop of it, spread out over a tray, partially eaten.

He had been tempted to go back to his room with the food and just eat it there. But he told himself that he wasn't going to be any good to anyone anywhere if he didn't reintroduce himself to the world outside. It may have only been two weeks since Dean had died, but it felt agonizingly longer, and each day had torn Sam away from the real world more and more. Sure, he had a bit of contact—speaking with the man in the motel reception about staying longer, ordering take out, things like that. But that involved a lot of talking over the phone without having to look at their faces. So far, aside from Ruby, the only person Sam had really spoken face to face to for more than few seconds was the McDonald's employee who had taken his order.

Sam idly plopped a few fries into his mouth, looking around him. It was still early in the morning, maybe somewhere around nine thirty, and the other patrons in the small restaurant either didn't stay long, or didn't stay at all. He didn't mind. It gave him time to think about what was lying ahead of him.

It was the fact that the afflicted individuals' health was deteriorating that had really caught his attention. So few creatures did that, and most of those who did tended to leave behind bloody messes afterward. Changelings were the first things that popped into his mind, but because the affected were adults, he ended up concluding that it was likely the work of a succubus. In a busy town like the one he was in, it wouldn't be entirely far fetched to assume that there was one lurking around. New York had an active nightlife, and plenty of victims for a succubus to latch itself on to. The fact that it was going after healthy folk, too, was another sign, given that they fed off of their target's vitality. Added in with their youth, and all signs were pointing to 'Yes' for it being a succubus.

Sam wouldn't admit it to himself, but deep down, some small part of him was relieved to have something to distract him from dealing with saving Dean's soul. The thought of his brother suffering torture had—and still—tormented him night and day, plagued his dreams, and had really done a number on his physical and mental well beings. The chance to hunt would give him the opportunity to let out that deeply pent up frustration, anger and pain that he had inside.

He took a long drink from his Dr. Pepper. Ruby had written down the address and name of the latest victim for him, and sometime today, he knew that it would be best to go over there and try to get more information. The thing about succubae was just how hard it was to try and find one without getting close enough to get trapped in its web. If he could find the place that it was frequenting—some common denominator of a location between the victims—then he would have an easier time tracking it, and eventually burn it to death.

While he sat there and continued to munch on his meal, Sam looked around him, taking in the sight of the restaurant once more. Maybe the fact that it was so plain was what drew him to liking it so much. There was nothing abnormal about the place, save for maybe the bathroom, which he had regretted going into just a few moments previous. But even that wasn't entirely strange. It was just normal.

He figured that he must have been going through one of those stages in his life he had occasionally fallen into after rejoining with Dean, wherein he longed and almost ached for normalcy. The truth of the matter was, there was absolutely nothing normal about learning how to use supernatural powers in order to save your brother's soul from Hell. And that was any way the subject was turned.

Without realizing it, in sitting there and thinking so profoundly about the matter at hand, Sam had completely finished his meal. When he went to grab another fry his fingers dug far into the red box to no avail, which only resulted in him getting salty fingertips. He looked at them almost sadly, but then wiped them off with the cheap brown napkin and then proceeded to put all of his trash together in the box in which his Big Mac had been packed. Afterward, he headed over to one of the trash bins and dumped it all inside of it, setting the tray on top.

He felt an odd sense of dread pour over him at that moment. It didn't take him long to realize that there was loneliness mixed in there as well. This was far from the first time that Sam had ever done this kind of thing without Dean beside him. But, there was a sense of fear in knowing that he wouldn't have him to go back to and convene with. There would be no sassy, teasing remark about Sam thinking it might be a succubus. There would be no smart-aleck retorts.

And, there would be nobody to call him "bitch".

Sam let out a quiet chuckle. That shouldn't have really been funny. It was, however, and also slightly pathetic. Now wasn't the time to be thinking about that kind of thing, he reminded himself. If people were being killed, he needed to get control of himself and get his A game out. If he didn't, more innocent people would lose their lives. Even if saving his brother was his top priority, he couldn't just let people die.

He just couldn't.

As Sam headed out of the McDonald's, he paused by the door, watching the way the sunlight washed into the building. It was filtered through some sign they had on one of the windows, causing an odd mosaic replica of it to appear on the floor below. A brand new Asian salad, it said. That sounded oddly good.

Maybe next time.

Sam wandered into the parking lot and slipped inside the impala, eventually driving himself back to his motel room. When he arrived there, he was just about to put his key in the door when his phone started vibrating inside his jacket pocket. Without much thought to it, he reached inside and retrieved it. But when he saw who it was that was calling him, his heart dropped a little.

"Bobby."

At first, he didn't want to answer. But it quickly dawned on him that it had been an awfully long time, and he hadn't called Bobby to talk, period. This wouldn't have been a big deal normally, but given what had just happened, and how things had been left between them, it really was. The biggest reason why Sam didn't want to talk was because of the guilt he felt over what had happened. It was one thing not to call for a few days…but it was another entirely to have not called for over two weeks.

Sam snapped out of his little thought-trap just in time to pick up the phone before its last ring. When he did, he hesitantly said, "Hello?"

The other end of the line was silent for a moment. Then came the sound of Bobby's voice. It was slightly tense. "Sam?"

"Yeah. It's me." He sighed quietly. Inwardly, he began to brace himself for an unloading.

What he got was anything but.

"Sam…how you doin'?"

"I'm all right," came his immediate response. Of course, he immediately regretted it, because it wasn't the truth. Sounding somewhat caught off guard, he asked, "How're you?"

"Been better, I'll admit," Bobby said. "Thought you might have done somethin' stupid, since you never called me back."

And there it was. Sam didn't know why he was surprised to hear it brought up, because it undoubtedly was going to be. Nonetheless, part of him wished that it hadn't been. His heart, which had already dropped once and was in the middle of recovering itself from that fall, suddenly plummeted again, now into the pit of his stomach.

"Listen, Bobby—"

"Now Sam, I can understand somewhat," Bobby said, cutting him off. "I remember how Dean was when you died. But you just can't do what you did, boy. You had me worried." Despite the chastising tone Bobby's voice had taken on, it also sounded heavily lidded with concern. "I'm glad you at least picked up the phone this time."

Sam didn't know what to do to at that moment other than apologize. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. And he meant it.

"I know, Sam. I know." Bobby went quiet, and Sam could tell he was shaking his head. "Listen, where are you? What have you been doin' these past few weeks?"

"Not a whole lot of…anything," Sam lied. "I'm in New York right now."

"What're you doin' there?" Another pause. "Did you go to your dad's lock-up?"

"Yeah," Sam admitted.

"Sam…" Bobby began.

"No, Bobby, I didn't—I didn't take anything from it, or anything like that. I just…well." He froze.

Bobby asked, "What did you do, Sam?" And when Sam didn't respond, he asked again, though more intently this time, "Sam?"

"I put Dean in there," he finally confessed.

An awkwardly long period of silence followed. Neither man spoke for some time. But finally, Bobby broke it, clearing his throat.

"Listen," he said, "I was lookin' into it, and I don't have any leads right now, but I'm sure I'll find some eventually. Why don't you come here to my place and we'll search together? Find some way to save him?" Here he sighed. "We'll find one, Sam. I promise."

"I know," Sam bit his lip. "And thanks for the offer, Bobby, but I…just can't, not right now."

"Why?"

"There's a job here. There's been talk on the news of some healthy people just…fading away and dying, and it's got a supernatural kick to it. I've been keeping up with it and was gonna investigate it further this afternoon." It should have disturbed him how easy it was to lie about this; but for what it was worth, at that point, Sam was willing to say anything to keep himself where he was. And really, it wasn't an entirely a lie. There was a job where he was, after all.

"Sam," Bobby said, voice becoming serious now, "Don't do anything stupid, all right? Don't go gettin' yourself killed just because of what happened to your brother. I'm comin' up there to see you soon. We'll get this figured out."

"Don't," Sam said immediately. "Just…let me do this, Bobby. All right?"

There was a pause on the other line. But then Bobby, sighing, gave in. "All right, fine. But you call me and keep me updated on what's goin' on or I'll be on your ass faster than you think."

Sam couldn't help but let out a quiet chuckle. That was Bobby for you. "Yeah, yeah. Fine. Listen. Bobby…" Here he finally put the key in the lock, fiddled with it to unlock the door, and stepped inside his room. Once he shut the door behind him, he asked, "Why didn't you chase after me? You had your car there. You could've followed."

"I know when someone needs their space, Sam," Bobby said. "I was angry as hell with you for runnin' off like you did, and I probably shouldn't have called right after you did it, but…I'm not stupid. I didn't want to make you feel like some chastised child. You'd just lost your brother. That's hard."

Hearing the words come out of Bobby's mouth made him a little ill. But oddly enough, at the same time, they were relieving. Why, he didn't know. "You still called a hell of a lot for someone who wanted to give me space," he said, but in a tone that wasn't argumentative, rather contemplative. "How're you holding up?"

"I told ya, I was angry. I do stupid things, too, when my emotions get the best of me." Bobby chuckled, but then let out a weary breath. "And me? Well. I'm doin' about as good as someone in this kind of situation can. You know."

"Yeah. Yeah, trust me, I know." Sam said nothing after that, which led to another silent period. It felt like the conversation was coming to a close, and as such, the young hunter cleared his throat in a finalizing sort of way. "I've…gotta go for now, though. I was gonna do some reading, then head out and talk with the latest victim's family."

"All right," Bobby said. "Sam…you take care of yourself, all right? And call. I'll be expectin' it."

Sam nodded. "I'll call, Bobby. I promise. Bye."

"Bye, Sam."

After hanging up the phone, Sam dropped it onto his bed, then promptly did the same thing with himself. If the victim had just died, he could probably get away with masquerading as a police officer or detective. All he needed to do was go out into the impala and get himself his suit.

"Show time," he murmured to himself.

. . .

Sam pulled up next to the apartment complex slowly. Not willing to impede the flow of traffic, he ended up moving to the side and parking in a space along the curb. He looked at the number on the side of the building. This was it. A small, yet oddly cozy looking apartment complex right in the middle of a suburban area. Ruby had even managed to get the apartment number and the name of the woman's boyfriend who lived with her.

He put the paper with all the info in his breast pocket, along with his pad and pen that he carried with him while doing 'detective' work. After pocketing his keys as well, he was out of the car. For a moment he stood beside it, staring up at the complex. It looked more like a house than anything else, but when he glanced through the thick pane of glass on the front door, he could see an entrance hall with a number of mailboxes on one side, an elevator at the end of it, and what looked like a door that probably led to some stairs.

It was now or never, he thought to himself.

Sighing, Sam finally rounded the impala and stepped onto the curb, crossing over it before stepping inside the building. On the inside of it, just to the left of the door, was a little intercom system with six small speakers, underneath each of which was a button and the number of the unit. He searched over it until he found number three. He stilled himself momentarily before pressing the button. He heard the little beep and scratch of the system moving into action.

It remained quiet for a second or two, but then on the other end came a greeting, albeit a brisk and slightly cold one. "Hello? Who is it?"

"Mister Jameson?" Sam asked. "This is Detective Morris. I'm on the case involving your girlfriend, Patty Brown?"

"What do you want?" Jameson replied quickly.

"I just had some quick questions I wanted to ask you. I'm sure you've already spoken with the police, but I'm here for a follow-up."

Silence followed for a moment. Then: "All right. I'll buzz you up."

As expected, there was a buzzing sound, followed by a quick click nearby. Sam figured it either belonged to the stairs or the elevator. He couldn't be sure which. In any case, he decided to take the stairs. It was a short trip up to the third floor, hardly a walk at all, and when Sam stepped through the door, he found himself standing in a narrow hallway that led only to the right and to the left. He looked both ways and found that Jameson's apartment was on the left.

When he arrived at the door he pressed the doorbell beside it, which caused another buzz. There were footsteps on the other side—it must have been a wood floor, Sam thought, given how loud they were—and soon the door was opened. Standing beside it was a man similar to Sam in both height and weight, with crop-cut blond hair and relatively pale, but clear, skin. He was wearing a pair of designer glasses and had a small stud in his left ear.

"Detective?" Jameson asked. Sam nodded, flashed him his badge, and was ushered inside. Jameson shut the door behind them. "I was just on my way out, so I don't have a whole lot of time. Is there any way we can reschedule this?"

"Actually, it shouldn't take long," Sam said with a shake of his head. He pulled out his pen and pad of paper. "I just needed to ask a few things. It'll take maybe five, ten minutes max." This seemed to either please or irritate Jameson, although which it was, Sam didn't really know. All he could see was the change in the man's stature, which had become somewhat stiff.

"All right, all right," Jameson said.

He gestured toward the plush tan couch that sat in the middle of the room. The apartment itself was surprisingly nice, which Sam hadn't expected, given the neighborhood. The entirety of it was very open, with no separation between the entryway and the living room. The way to the kitchen was through a large arch just to the left of the couch, which, along with an equally plush loveseat, glass coffee table and a tile fireplace—above which sat an LCD plasma widescreen television—was the focal point of the room. Just behind the loveseat was a sliding glass door that must have led to the patio, although decorative brown drapes hid that from his view.

When Sam took a seat, he almost felt as if he were going to be eaten by the couch. It was softer than it looked, and surprisingly comfortable. Jameson sat on the loveseat perpendicular to the couch.

"I told the police everything I know," he said with a sigh, one that indicated clear weariness.

"I understand," Sam replied gently. "Like I said, it won't take too long." He cleared his throat. "So, can you tell me if Patty was exhibiting any strange behavior the last few days, maybe even weeks, before she passed away?"

"Patty was a real busybody," Jameson said. "I told the police this. I mean, she worked forty plus hours a week, went out with friends often, and she and I went out on dates every week. She loved to cook." He sighed again. "But…I dunno. I told them, I said, after she and her friends checked out that new club that opened not too far from here about a month ago, she started acting…different."

"New club? And different how?"

"Yeah, that Egyptian Club place. And I dunno, just…different! See, Patty and I work different shifts in our jobs. She's early morning to mid-afternoon, and I work late afternoon to midnight. She would always be in bed before I was. And that's the thing; she'd be in bed. I'd say starting about two weeks ago, she started falling asleep on the couch."

"On the couch," Sam replied. "She never did this before?"

"Never," Jameson said seriously. "Plus, she was a real neat freak, so she'd always be cleaning the house and everything. When she didn't, I would. It was no big deal. But she just…stopped doing that, too. She was just so tired all the time."

"And there were no changes in her diet, or work schedule, or anything like that?"

"No, no…Patty always ate really well, and she'd go for runs at least twice a week when she got home from work." Jameson paused, reaching up to run a hand over his face. Sam could see that he, too, looked tired, but it was obviously from having to deal with everything that had happened recently. He continued: "But ever since…I'd say around Mother's Day, she just started getting more and more tired."

"Did she ever mention anything about strange dreams, or…anything like that?" Sam prodded carefully.

Jameson gave him a strange look, but apparently didn't think enough of it to retort. "Not really. I mean, she became more withdrawn, too, so maybe she did and just didn't tell me. She didn't go out with her friends nearly as much, and she asked to cancel our dates, because she could barely keep up with her work anymore. And she would sleep all the time, but it never seemed to be enough. I told her she needed to see her doctor, but she hates doctors, so she told me that she would just fix it herself with some changes to her diet and some more sleep. And then…" He trailed off, shaking his head and looking uncomfortable.

Sam had been busy writing down all of the information he could, or at least what was relevant to his search. So far, all signs were pointing to what he thought. It was strange, of course, for a succubus to go after women. But it wasn't unheard of.

"It's all right, Mister Jameson. I understand how hard this is for you, and I appreciate you taking the time to go over it all again. I just have one more question. It might seem strange, but it's relevant to the other cases we're looking into." Jameson looked at him, and Sam said, "Did your wife show any decrease in…the pursuit of pleasure?"

Jameson's eyes widened briefly with shock. "What? Why would you ask that? I—"

"Mister Jameson, please. Your girlfriend wasn't the only one who's suffered this same way, and we're taking any lead we can to find out what's behind it. It could be drug related." That was a lie, of course, but it seemed to calm Jameson down.

He grunted quietly. "She did, yeah. We were pretty regular, but…it happened less and less. She said it was because she was tired. But part of me felt…" He paused. It was obvious that what he was about to say was hard for him to admit. "Part of me felt like she might have lost interest, or something. I dunno."

"Thank you," Sam said. He folded over the cover on his pad and stuck both it and his pen back into his breast pocket. He moved to stand, and Jameson followed suit. "That's all I had to ask for now. Like I said, I really appreciate you taking the time to answer these questions. I know it's hard for you to relive what happened."

"It's okay," Jameson murmured. "As long as it helps figure out what happened to her. I was on my way to speak with my attorney about the autopsy report."

"I'll let you be on your way, then."

Jameson ushered Sam back toward the door, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries, the hunter wandered away from the apartment and made his way back down the stairs and to the impala. When he slipped inside of it, he sighed heavily. From what he could recall of succubae, this fit the bill very well. And he had gotten the name of a place, the Egyptian Club. With that in mind, he could hopefully use it as a means of searching through the other two deaths. If those men went there…then he had found his place.

All he really had to do now was go back and investigate things further.