A/N: Beta'd by the lovely Happypancreas!

Chapter Twelve

(Dream On) Dream Until Your Dreams Come True

The first night of April, Sam dreamed of a sketch book, large and old fashioned, with a faded ivory cover. Inside, the pages were sturdy and thick but flexible enough to roll without creasing. Next to the sketchbook were pencils lined up in a neat row, each with a point sharper than a needle. He had no idea how many pencils there were in front of him - it could have been ten or it could have been a hundred.

When Sam woke, the images faded away but he felt uneasy all day.

On the next night, he dreamed that he was drawing. With a hand that was not his own, he held the pencil like an artist and used it to carefully shade areas of the paper. Again, once he woke, he forgot the dream, yet an edgy feeling remained inside him and did not go away.

On the third evening, he dreamed of drawing in a room that was so dark that he shouldn't have been able to see what he was sketching, yet he had no problems seeing clearly. His pencil made soft scratching sounds on the paper as he shaded in areas until the blank space in the middle of the paper took on a shape of its own. Swiftly, the details were expertly added - the delicate arch of an eyebrow, the soft outline of full lips, the loose waves of hair; until the face of the person was as recognizable as a photograph. When Sam woke, he knew that there was something important he should remember, but he could not recall what it was. He was distracted and irritable all day.

Lastly, he dreamed of a room where the walls were papered with the same image, the same face. He stood in the center of the room and gazed at each drawing, large and small, with satisfaction.

"Almost time, sweetheart. Almost time." He whispered and, as it had been with his hand, some part of him knew it was not his voice. He wasn't Sam. In this dream, in all of these dreams, he was someone else.

Sam woke up, his heart hammering, sweat soaking his sheets. He couldn't remember what he had dreamed but he knew he had never felt so ... panicked and he was overwhelmed with the urge to just-

Leave.

Sioux Falls

His dad found a job in South Carolina which meant another move. Another town. Another shitty motel.

Another school.

While his father and Bobby pulled out old state maps to find the most direct route, Sam researched the history of a particular plantation home on the ancient computer (a difficult task since he kept disconnecting from the internet), doing his best to stem the tide of resentment. At any other time, he might have enjoyed a case that centered over a civil war plantation home and what seemed to be a murderous spirit but just knowing another move was on the horizon sucked away any enthusiasm he might have felt.

He didn't want to go but his dad made it clear that, once again, Sam had no choice.

When the printer ran out of paper, Sam volunteered to run to the superstore to pick some up just so he could breathe. Bitterness bubbled beneath the surface of the calm exterior that Sam tried to maintain, but he couldn't help the occasional snarky comment from escaping from his mouth. Said comments earned him more than one level look from his father, letting Sam know that he was pushing it.

Grabbing the keys to a '79 two-tone Chevy Caprice Classic that Bobby had christened Wilma, Sam left the house. He had been driving since he was fourteen but had only gotten his license in the last year. Since he was rarely allowed to drive the Impala with Dean around (and Dean never strayed far from his beloved car), Sam took advantage of the plethora of vehicles available to him whenever they stopped at Bobby's.

Lately, however, there was one car that Sam preferred.

Of all of the cars at Singer's Salvage, Wilma was the chattiest. Whenever he took Wilma, he was always surprised by the variety of sounds she seemed to occasionally emit (and on one memorable occasion – belch). Bobby joked that Wilma only seemed to "talk" when Sam drove her; Dean joked that Christine would have been a more appropriate name for the car. Sam felt obligated to defend the car's honor and retorted that although Wilma was chatty, she was always got him to his destination.

Later, he remembered the drive to the store, especially the part where he got behind a passive aggressive old lady in a tan'87 Lincoln Continental, who drove at a snail's pace on the one lane road but promptly sped up when the road opened up into a two- lane highway.

He remembered the drive home, because Wilma would occasionally let out an alarming sound that was part groan and part squeal interspersed with a whole lot of clicking (and one stressful fifteen second span where she whistled). He remembered thinking he would need to tell Bobby to take a look at her.

He remembered walking back into the house, hanging up Wilma's keys, loading the paper into the paper tray of the printer and looking at the sunset out of one of Bobby's windows. The house was empty - Dean was tinkering with the Impala in the garage, still trying to restore his baby back to her old self before the gremlins had rewired her; Bobby and his dad left to go meet with a few hunter friends who were passing through town.

Almost time.

The thought seemed to come from nowhere.

Time for what? He wondered as he sat at the kitchen table and absently sharpened a pencil.

"What about this one?" Willow asked.

Buffy gave no response. At this point, she realized that Willow would supply her own answer as soon as she asked a question. Sure enough, with barely a pause after her question, Willow continued. "Nah, not this one, it's too plain." Quickly, Willow tossed the garment aside.

Once again, Willow stepped into her closet and began sliding hangers from side to side, muttering to herself. Buffy was relaxing on Willow's bed, enjoying the sight of an excited (and more than slightly nervous) Willow as she tried to pick an outfit. Willow had a date – with Oz – and Buffy was delighted to note that the smile hadn't left her red-headed friend's face since she had said yes. Even now, as she tried to pick out the "perfect" outfit for Friday's dance, her grin went from cheek to cheek.

Buffy was grateful for the distraction as well.

Lately, she had begun to dream about the Master. He was still trapped between dimensions and, in her dream when he reached out his hand, for a brief moment the air vibrated. Rather than reacting with anger, he cackled.

"It's almost time, Slayer. I'm waiting for you. I'm waiting…"

It shouldn't have unnerved her; she had dreamed about the Master before when she first arrived at Sunnydale. She knew he was still trying to escape his dimensional prison, but when she had stopped dreaming about him, she had stopped thinking of him as a threat. Last night's vivid dream reminded her that the Master was all too real.

Willow's voice redirected Buffy's attention toward her. "What about this one? No, it's too fancy. ..this is too casual…too frumpy…too small- oh ! That's too bad. This would have been perfect!"

Finally, Willow turned away from her nearly empty closet, her bright smile dimming.

"Buffy, what am I going to do?"

Buffy waited a few beats to make sure Willow's question required an answer. When Willow continued to look at her, Buffy sprang to her feet and reiterated her first suggestion.

"You are going to go to the mall with me and I guarantee that we will find something fabulous." Buffy grabbed her jacket. "I know you still haven't spent that birthday money your grandmother sent you and I will get to use the money I earned cleaning up the basement for my mom. It's a win-win sitch for the both us, Willow."

"Okay." Willow sighed, but her perma-grin was back on her face.

"Yay! But we have to hurry; the mall closes in two hours." Together, they went downstairs to see if they could get a ride from Willow's mom.

"Check out Picasso. This is really cool, Sammy." Dean leaned over Sam's shoulder. "Who is it going to be?"

"What do you mean, Dean?" Sam asked absently. He reached back and rubbed the back of his neck, then put his hands on his waist and stretched his back. Why was he so sore? And when did it get so dark outside?

"Sammy, what do you mean, 'What do you mean, Dean?' That!" Dean jabbed a finger toward the table, "Who is that?"

Sam looked down and stared at the table.

"Dean? Is this a joke?" Sam asked, slowly. "Where did you get this Dean?"

"What the fuck is wrong with you? I didn't get it from anywhere, you drew it. I thought it was pretty good - I have never seen anyone draw like that."

"I drew this?" Sam looked at the paper and something in his gut twisted and he grimaced as he felt a low throbbing pain behind his eyes.

"Nice Sam. Nice. Look – you don't want to tell me anything, that's fine. I just thought it was pretty good. I didn't know you could draw so well." Dean backed away, scowling at Sam.

Sam shook his head.

"I can't Dean. I can't draw at all." Sam looked at the table for the first time since Dean had come into the kitchen. "Dean. Where did all this stuff come from?" He pointed to the sketch book, packs of pencils and pencil sharpeners.

Dean scowled. "Quit playin' Sammy. You bought it -you must have, stuff doesn't just appear out of thin air."

"I didn't buy this stuff, Dean. I would have remembered it."

Dean picked up a slip of paper and waved it at Sam. "It says here that you bought this stuff at the superstore at 4:25 pm along with a pack of pencils and a ream of printer paper."

"What?" Sam jumped out of his chair and walked toward Dean. He snatched the paper and stared at with disbelief. He didn't remember buying anything! Quickly, he thought back to his trip to the store. He remembered driving to the store and driving home. The rest was a blank.

Dean picked up the sketchbook that lay open on the table. "You have been busy for the last few hours Sam. Look at all of this. "

Sam took the sketchbook and flipped through it quickly. They were all sketches of Buffy - and Sam didn't remember drawing them.

Images, flickering like the pages of a book

Sketchbook with an ivory color

Pencils, newly sharpened, with

needle sharp tips

Shading areas of the paper

Delicate arch

Full lips

Waves of hair

The face,

(the same face!)

Covering the walls of a room

(Almost time.)

Buffy.

Sam closed his eyes against the confusing images that he could see in the sketchbook overlaid with a series of similar images in his mind. It was like he was seeing double. With a soft thump, the sketchbook slipped from his fingers on to the floor and Sam swayed drunkenly. Something is wrong. The low throb immediately became a sharp screaming pain that fired in his brain.

"Hey Butterfingers." Dean looked at his brother and his teasing grin faded when he saw Sam's squeeze his eyes shut and bring a shaky hand up to his forehead. "Sam? Sammy?"

Sam shook his head and then slowly opened his eyes. Dean's eyes widened in alarm because for a moment it looked as if…

"My head hurts, Dean, can you get me an aspirin?"

Dean stepped backwards slowly and then turned to pick a small container of aspirin from one of the kitchen cupboards.

It must have been a trick of the light Dean told himself because for one split second, he thought the irises of his brother's eyes were black.

Sam reached out his hand and used the kitchen chair to steady himself before slowly sinking down on it. Then, like a flash of lightening-

Buffy lying on a bed, her head twisted at an unnatural angle, her lifeless eyes staring.

With an anguished groan, Sam put his hands to head. Alarmed, Dean turned around and watched as the pupils of his brother's eyes widened until only the slim ring of the hazel could be seen.

"Buf-" Sam began.

Then he fainted.

Five hours (and two new outfits) later, Buffy strolled through Ridgewood Cemetery, her ever-present stake in her right hand. Of all the cemeteries in Sunnydale (and there were a lot), Ridgewood was her least favorite. It was neither ridge-y nor wood-y, so the name always bugged her (coincidentally, this could be true for most of the cemeteries in Sunnydale – none of the names matched their location).

Ridgewood was also ugly and unkempt, the soil dry, cracked and as hard as concrete when one fell down. The grave markers were old and cracked; some even had chunks that were missing. It was surrounded by an old rusty chain link fence that had long ago given up the fight to stay upright.

It was also one of the furthest away from Buffy's home, so when its rotation came up, she always patrolled there first.

Yep. She had a rotation of cemeteries to check. With twelve Gothic cemeteries and at least another twelve private, family owned cemeteries, Buffy had her hands full with patrols. Ridgewood was first on her list tonight and, if things weren't too busy, she might even be able to work her way north to Lakeside Cemetery (which was not near a lake). At least, she hoped.

In the distance, a dog howled and Buffy shivered, glancing around warily as she walked. For some reason, she found herself on edge the last few weeks, feeling as if every move was being watched. She hated it – the feeling that something intangible and malevolent was just out of reach of her senses. Helplessness was so not in her color-wheel.

She finished her loop of Ridgewood and then headed north, toward Crestview, trying really hard to ignore the feeling that she was being followed. She should have said yes to Willow's offer to come on patrol tonight, at least she wouldn't have been alone. Patrolling alone had never bothered her before, but lately, she felt…safer when she was with other people. Which was laughable, because she was The Slayer. Her Slayer senses told her there was nothing nearby, so it couldn't be vampires or demons.

It must be the dreams she decided.

A cat jumped out a shrub she was passing, hissing angrily and causing Buffy's heart to pound a little harder than usual. The cat gave one last growl (yowl? she wondered) as it streaked past her toward Ridgewood. Buffy gave a shaky laugh. You need to get a grip and stop acting like some silly twit from a bad horror movie! The dreams, combined with the feeling that she was being watched made for one extra-wigged Slayer tonight.

Tightening her hand around her stake, Buffy straightened her spine and tossed her head.

"There you are." the familiar voice seemed to come out of nowhere, startling her.

"Angel? Jesus - you startled me." Buffy turned and continued walking as Angel fell into step beside her.

"Since when can a vampire sneak up on The Slayer? I thought that was impossible." At his words, Buffy paused briefly, before continuing with her walk.

"Unusual, but not impossible." She said aloud, because once in a blue moon, her attention had wandered and she had been surprised by a demon or two. Very unusual…almost impossible she privately thought.

"Guess I'm a little off my game tonight." She sighed.

Angel put his hand on her shoulder and Buffy's step faltered. Before, Angel's touch was something she welcomed; now she had to resist the urge to shrug his hand off. It felt wrong - too cool, too heavy and not at all welcome.

"Are you okay? You seem …a little on edge."

"It's nothing. I'm just a little distracted, that's all."

After Sam's departure, she had talked with Angel and told him that they could only ever be friends. Needless to say, he did not react very well when Buffy told him that she was going to stop seeing him - especially when he had asked how long Sam would be around and she had reluctantly admitted that Sam and his family had already left Sunnydale. Buffy had been surprised by the bitterness of Angel's tone during the rest of the conversation. She had always thought that he would be relieved - she felt that his feelings for her were not as strong as the ones she had for him.

Angel had been absent for a week, before unexpectedly turning up on one of her patrols and apologizing for behaving like a jerk. Her friendship was important to him, he had assured her and he wanted to still be able to hang out with her without any awkwardness. Buffy worked hard to keep to keep their interactions light and friendly but she couldn't help but feel (irritated) uncomfortable when he seemed to show up night after night. She saw more of him now that she ever had when they were (not) dating.

Dean sprinted a few steps toward his brother, catching him just before Sam hit the floor. Gently, Dean laid his brother down as he did a quick check. Sam appeared to be breathing, which offered Dean a small measure of relief.

"Sam?" Lightly, Dean smacked him on the face. No response. Concerned, Dean did what any caring brother would do -he smacked Sam across the face again, harder, and was rewarded with a groan from Sam. Sam opened his eyes and blinked his hazel (oh thank god, they were hazel) eyes.

"Dean...'happened?" Sam asked, his voice hoarse. He tried to sit up and groaned once again as he put a hand to his forehead. There was something he needed to remember.

Concerned, Dean helped Sam sit and then stand up. Fuck! His hands feel like ice Dean thought as he walked Sam over to the couch.

"Don't move an inch and I mean not-one-inch Sammy."

For once Sam didn't argue.

Dean told Sam he would be right back with some aspirin and returned to Bobby's kitchen. He pulled the little bottle from the counter, where he had left it, and took a glass from the cabinet. He ran the water but didn't fill the glass. Instead, he stared at the water as he absently chewed the inside of one cheek- one hand on the faucet and the other still holding the glass - thinking about the last few minutes.

With a fleeting, surreptitious glance over his shoulder, Dean continued to let the water run as he pulled open a nearby drawer and removed a plain silver flask. Placing the glass on the counter, he unscrewed the lid and poured some of the clear liquid into the glass, his green eyes full of worry.

After screwing the lid back on the flask and returning it to its home inside the kitchen drawer, Dean turned off the faucet and carried the glass and the aspirin to Sam.

Sam held out his hand as Dean shook two small tablets into his, quickly tossing them back into his mouth and swallowing the pills along with a mouthful of water. Immediately, he grimaced and coughed.

"Something wrong?" Dean asked, watching his brother cautiously.

"Wrong way." Sam gasped. "Jesus Christ!" He coughed a few more times then quickly drank the rest of the water.

"I swallowed the water the wrong way." Sam stated, his voice sounded clear but his eyes were still clouded with pain. Gingerly, he laid his head on the arm rest of the couch. Wrapping his arms around his body, he shivered and closed his eyes and within seconds was asleep. Dean pulled an afghan quilt down from the back of the couch and covered Sam up.

He walked around the room, turning off lights until only the glow of one lamp remained. He looked at his brother and tried to decide on the right thing to do. Sam slept restlessly, his head tossing and mumbling incoherently. Dean walked closer, trying to decipher the nonsense.

"Time…ready…coming…you…no" The last word was anguished.

He needed to find Bobby and his Dad.

Angel insisted on walking Buffy to her house. As wigged as she was, she had to admit that she should have been grateful for the escort. Yet, she wasn't. She couldn't put her finger on it, but there was something different about Angel and she felt like she was missing something important where he was concerned.

Maybe she was just tired. That would explain her uneasiness and might explain why she didn't sense Angel earlier. Out of everything – that unnerved her the most. Ever since she had been called, she could count on her awareness of vampires, that tingle that caused her scalp to tingle and the back of her neck itch. Tonight, it had been strangely absent and she hadn't realized it until Angel showed up.

She got herself ready for bed and slipped under the covers.

Angel wasn't sure how it happened.

Once Sam had arrived in Sunnydale, Angelus had stopped being the voice in his head that he ignored as the steady, mindless ranting of a lunatic and instead became the voice of reason.

If you won't kill him, then find a way to make him leave Angelus had suggested. So he did.

He had stood in the shadows of the Sunnydale Motor Inn and watched as the Winchesters pulled out of the parking lot, taking Sam away. Angel regretted that it had been necessary to take such extreme measures to manipulate John, but the end result was something he could live with. Killing the kid (no matter how much Angelus had urged him) was not.

Angelus also had other ideas, ideas that made sense – like Rack.

He had heard references to the warlock a few times over the year. Although no one knew the exact age of the warlock, most demons agreed that Rack had been around for a long time. The latest gossip reported that he had set up shop in LA.

In the past, when Rack's name came up, Angelus would seize the opportunity to whisper to Angel how useful a cloaking ability would be to a vampire and Angel would ignore him. Lately, Angelus' insidious whispers began to make sense and Angel had found himself agreeing with his soulless alter-ego.

After Buffy had given him the "friend" speech, he impulsively decided to seek out Rack. Angel reasoned that he only wanted the ability so he could watch over Buffy and protect her when needed, Angelus assured him that no one would ever think otherwise.

It took a few days of searching through the LA slums, but Angel found Rack's den. Angel tried to hide his distaste at the sight of the junkies that waited their turn on the ratty couches while Angelus rubbed his hands with glee at the sight of their misery.

Expecting a long wait, he was surprised when the warlock came out of his "office" and pointed at him.

"You are next." He had said, blatantly ignoring the whining and moaning from his other clients.

Angel followed the warlock through the door into a nondescript room. After closing the door, the warlock circled Angel.

"I don't get a lot of vampire visitors," he murmured "especially those that have been touched by magic.

Rack leaned forward, eyes closed "Mmmm...there's a smell that brings back memories," he said as he sniffed Angel's neck. "Gypsy magic, powerful gypsy magic mixed in with something...else"

Rack pulled back and regarded Angel critically for a long moment. "What brings you here, vampire?" he asked finally.

"A spell."

Rack laughed and then shook his head. "I suppose you want something predicable and mundane like Thrall. How disappointing."

"Thrall?" Irritated, Angel frowned at the warlock. "Do I look like I need Thrall?"

Rack shrugged. "Easy mistake."

"I want to cloak myself." Angel scowled at the warlock when he chuckled.

"Well, well, well. A Cloaking spell?" Rack leaned in close and Angel resisted the urge to step back. "What are you hiding from, Vampire?"

"Look, if it is too hard for you, just say so and I'll be on my way..." Angel almost smirked when the warlock scowled.

"I didn't say I couldn't do it, but a spell like that comes with a high price. Are you sure you can pay?"

Angel nodded and the warlock grinned.

"Good. This spell requires a deposit though." Without warning, Rack's hand shot forward and was placed on Angels chest, causing an exquisite burning sensation to radiate out his palm and spread through Angel's body. Angel understood why so many humans got addicted to magic.

Just as quickly as the sensation began, it stopped.

Rack stepped back and licked his lips. "You are full of surprises vampire. It seems you are not alone in there."

For a moment, Angel felt lightheaded and he heard himself speak, but it was if the sound was muffled by water.

"The name's Angelus, warlock. So, let's talk price, shall we?"

It took five nightly visits to Rack before he got the spell, but the price was steep. On the last visit, Angelus left Rack's den and the warlock gained a new power source- Angel's soul.

He perched on Buffy's roof and watched her go through her routine for bed. Unbelievable as it seemed, she appeared to have no idea that he was so close. It was a useful ability, and luckily it came with an off switch. He remembered when he had surprised her earlier and took a moment to savor her uneasiness. He had to admit, it was a lot easier to follow her so closely while she had no idea he was around and enjoyed watching her expressions over the last couple of weeks go from quizzical to cautious and then to uneasy. Clearly, she sensed something was different, but hadn't linked anything to him. She had swallowed his line about "her friendship was very important to him too" and when he was ready to approach her, he just turned "off" his cloaking ability and she would sense him.

The light in her bedroom flicked off and he gazed through the window at her face. Her eyes were closed, but her pinched face told him she was far from relaxed.

Almost time he whispered softly.

Silently, Angelus leapt off of the room and headed back toward his place. It was time to leave her a gift and he knew just the thing to present to her. What woman could resist a drawing?

Sam was in an orchard - apple orchard he guessed, since the scent of apples permeated the air. The weather was a perfect blend of sunshine with warm breezes and the occasional chirping of birds added to the ambiance. A rustling of branches drew Sam's attention to a ladder that was leaning against the base of a large tree and Sam began to walk toward the tree. As he neared the tree, Sam realized he was not alone in the orchard; a pair of battered work boots came into his view and a figure was climbing backwards down the ladder, holding a basket full of apples. Uncertain of what he should do, Sam stopped walking.

The figure turned around with a delighted smile at Sam. "Here you are!"

"Here I am." Sam said, with an appraising look at the man. "Have we...? I know you..."

"Well of course you know me, m'boy." The man hefted his basket and walked a few yards to a large blanket that was spread on the ground. Sam, remembering his manners, moved quickly forward in an attempt to aid the man but was waved off as the man placed the basket on the blanket and took a seat beside it.

"Joshua?" Sam picked the name out of thin air, but the name seemed to fit the older gentleman, who nodded appreciatively at Sam.

"Hungry Sam?" Sam caught the shining, red apple that was tossed his way and inspected it. The exterior was flawless - the peel was a beautiful shade of red with no imperfections, he had never seen an apple so perfect. It smelled mouth-watering. He raised the apple to take a bite, but hesitated when he noticed the other man watching him closely.

Sam lowered the apple. "Is this a test?"

Joshua chuckled "Test? Like in the Garden of Eden? No test, m'boy. It is what it is - just an apple."

Feeling somewhat embarrassed, Sam took a bite of the apple. It tasted...heavenly.

"What do you think, m'boy?"

"Delicious." Sam said, covering his mouth self-consciously as he spoke when chewing.

Joshua pulled out an apple for himself and bit into it, sighing in pleasure. "Not bad for a day's work, eh m'boy? Not bad."

Taking another bite, Sam nodded and moved to the blanket. For awhile, the pair ate their apples in silence until Sam looked over at Joshua and noticed...

"Ummm...Joshua..." unsure how to proceed, Sam pointed to the apple Joshua was eating "You're apple has a bad spot on it."

"Is that so?" Joshua pulled back his apple and looked at it. "Indeed, it does. It's called Sooty Blotch - a type of fungus."

Sam looked at his apple and noticed that his apple had a blemish on it as well. "I guess they are rotten." he was disappointed.

"You think so? Look closely m'boy and tell me what you see."

Sam looked at his apple. At first glance, his shiny apple looked perfect, but then a splotchy area would appear for a moment before disappearing again. "It seems to come and go." he said.

"In your case, m'boy, it does, doesn't it? Now look at the inside and tell me what you see."

Sam narrowed his eyes as he carefully looked over the parts of the apple where he had bitten into it. "It looks fine." he said doubtfully.

"Because it is fine. Tastes good, smells good doesn't it?"

Sam turned his apple until he could see the area where the splotch would appear and disappear. "But shouldn't I throw it away?"

"You tell me Sam. What do you think?" Sam raised his eyes and found himself looking at the dark brown eyes of his companion. "Does one little blemish on the surface mean the whole apple is bad?"

He looked at his apple again and poked at the speckled brown area that continued to appear and disappear on his apple. The spot was firm.

"Do you want to look underneath?" Suddenly, Joshua was handing him a small knife, handle out. Sam took the knife and gently cut away a small part of the skin to look at the flesh underneath.

"It looks fine." Sam stated.

Joshua chuckled at his surprise. "Of course it's fine m'boy! Doesn't even affect the taste." To prove his point, Joshua bit into his own apple, where Sam had first noticed the blemish.

"But you said it was a fungus."

"It is a fungus, just a surface flaw. But it doesn't mean that the apple is rotten."

Sam used the point of the knife and peeled away the affected area, then, hesitantly took a bite. Thoughtfully, he chewed and nodded in agreement. "It tastes fine." He continued to eat the rest of his apple until the core remained and three seeds fell into his palm - or two seeds and one seed that looked like part of it had broken off. A forgotten memory...

"I've been here before!"

The scenery changed and Sam was standing in a greenhouse looking at a row off potted plants.

"Indeed you have, m'boy." Sam smiled in memory.

"I was here with you...and Buf...Buffy!" Sam's smile faded away and his heart began to pound. "She...needs me...something...someone wants to..." Joshua nodded gravely.

"Heed that call, Sam." Sam nodded.

"And Sam?" Joshua leaned forward, his expression solemn, "just because there is a small flaw on the outside of the apple doesn't mean it's rotten." Then Joshua poked him in the forehead.

Sam became aware of his surroundings slowly. His eyes opened and he was grateful that the room was dark. Cautiously, he experimented by making small movements, aware that although his headache was not as severe as it had been and the steady throb told him that he needed to be careful. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, but it had been long enough for his Dad and Bobby to have returned. He could hear the muted sound of a conversation going on outside. Although he didn't know what they were saying, Sam easily picked out the distinct rumble of his father's voice that alternated with his brother's. The throb in his head lessened.

Sam stretched, cautiously moving his body until he was sitting. He looked around the darkened living room, a faint light from the kitchen allowed Sam to see objects without hurting his eyes.

Slowly, he stood. His headache was almost completely gone, except for one spot in the middle of his forehead. Gingerly, Sam touched the area with his fingertips. The skin felt firm and Sam shook his head, laughing at himself. He almost expected the area to feel swollen.

The voices outside rose in pitch and Sam realized that Dean and his dad were having an argument.

Curious, Sam walked closer to the window in the living room and the words became more distinct.

"I'm telling you Dad, they were black...his irises went black. Something was going on with him and for a moment, I thought..."

"Now Dean, you can't think..." Bobby's began, but was interrupted by Dean's voice.

"Yeah, well, I did think. I gave the kid holy water, Bobby! I was a split second away from cutting him with a silver dagger when he started choking."

"What?" his dad interjected sharply.

"Yeah well, the water went down the wrong way, so he was coughing. I only started relaxing when he said 'Jesus Christ'. But, I know I didn't imagine it Dad. He was looking at those drawings that he didn't even remember drawing and then he was muttering something and his eyes had gone black, just like a demon."

Sam blinked and suddenly he remembered looking at the drawings. The drawings! How could he have forgotten them?

Lightheaded, he turned and went into the kitchen. The sketch book lay on the table and Sam reached out to touch it-

-and his mind was flooded with the same rapid flickering of images he had seen before.

It was sometime before Dean, John and Bobby walked into the house. Dean noted the empty couch and was glad that Sam had gone back upstairs to his room, Sam's bed was more comfortable than Bobby's couch. Dean felt bad for his reaction earlier, but seeing Sam's eyes go black had disturbed him. As he was crawling under the covers, Dean realized something...Bobby had said that it was impossible for Sam to have anything demon in him but his father hadn't. As soon as he had the thought, he dismissed it.

The next morning, Dean was the first to rise. Wanting to give his brother some space (and not willing to face his brother because he had suspected he was a demon), Dean spent most of the morning outside, going over Baby's transmission. Bobby was the second to be up and about and spent his morning in the Singer Salvage office. Customers were few, but he needed to get his tax forms ready, April 15 was not far away. John woke shortly after Bobby. He tapped hesitantly on Sam's door, hoping to have a private moment to talk to Sam but decided to let Sam continue sleeping when he got no response.

Lunch came and went.

At three o'clock, Dean looked at his watch and sighed. He had been cowardly for long enough. He went inside and washed his hands before going to Sam's room. He knocked door, softly and then harder when he got no response.

With an exasperated "God he is such a girl!" Dean opened the door.

"Okay, Sleeping Bitch - time to get your lazy ass out of-"

Sam was gone. A quick glance around them room told Dean that Sam's belongings were gone too.

A/N: Yep, I went there! Enjoy the cliffie folks.

Stay tuned...