CHAPTER 2:

Sam leaned back against the wall of the narrow stairwell, the palms of his hands flattening against the cool surface as the fat woman came abreast of him, heat radiating off her obese frame.

Her arms were weighed down by four or five shopping bags with tins and cartons pushing their way through the cellophane; their transparent handles dug into thick folds of cellulite.

I should help, Sam thought, pushing himself off the wall just in time to see her waddle her way off the landing, down the second flight. I should help her. But he stayed still, watching as she trudged on; her breaths came and went in rasping puffs as she struggled to stretch out a flabby arm toward the sleek banister.

With a heavy sigh, he made his way up the stairs. His legs felt stone-like as he dragged himself upwards, the brownstone and brick trapping in the thick summer heat that swirled up and down the stairs of the three-story walk-up.

Sam could feel the moisture mounting inside his shirt and down the legs of his jeans as he reached the second floor. He then remembered the creaking noises of the hulking, pre-historic a/c unit sitting in the living-room, the image of the thick ice forming beneath its plastic frame doing nothing to ease his suffering.

But then again, nothing ever will.

He sighed again, feeling in both jeans' pockets for the jangle of keys, as a small twinge of pain spiraled through his lower back. His head hurt too, the thudding at his left temple intensifying as he got nearer the apartment. The long ride in the Impala had finally taken its toll.

It was bad enough trying to avoid his brother throughout the whole trip, but watching Dean's apprehensive glances as he looked out for teeming pedestrians and windshield-cleaning winos made it unbearable. Especially when Dean had leaned out of the car window and yelled, 'Touch my car and die', every five seconds.

He rounded the stairwell and climbed the last flight. Using the metal banister as leverage, he pulled himself up the soot-colored stairs. As he sighted the narrow hallway with its dim lights and infinite doorways, he felt relief flooding through him.
He walked past the five doors that preceded Ron Skilling's apartment on the left. Room sweet home.

He slotted the key into the brownish-yellow lock, the stench of rotten wood mixed with smelly furniture seeping through the door. He gagged slightly, wondering why Ron Skilling lived in such a dump.

Wait Sam, there's more.

The door creaked open, rusty hinges welcoming Sam with loud shrieks as he closed the door behind him. A few cockroaches rushed across the scuffed, hardwood flooring. The sofa stared at him accusingly with its unraveling threads, a few cane chairs lay abandoned around it. The floor still lay littered with duffel bags and pizza boxes he and Dean left there the night before, about to collapse from exhaustion.

They had driven all day, all night because of Ron Skilling. Ron, who'd, arrived at Bobby's place two days ago, his eyes wild with grief while he moaned into Bobby's dusty carpets. The heart wrenching sounds of a parent that had lost his only son.

Everyone knew he was a tad emotional. And he was well known for his over-the-top Pacino-like performances when he needed help from other hunters; but Sam couldn't help but feel a pang of pity as he saw the older man bury his face in his hands. His heart going numb as he watched Ron's shock of bright-red hair fall over his face, guilt clawing at the older hunter's soul.

This was the reason Dean and Sam tore past the lolling fields of South Dakota into the confusion of Manhattan, avoiding right turns on reds, keeping eyes peeled for street signs while shunning fire hydrants. Looking back, Sam had to admit that Dean had done all that alone. The only thing he'd done was stare at the pre-war architecture that sprawled upward into the sky, wondering how many people milled behind glinting windows. Trembling as he wondered how many days it would take Lucifer to destroy it all.

Dean was right. This was the worst time in the world to take a case.

He walked past the sofa, through a minute passage as he headed for the huddled kitchen. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds as he stared at the one fridge, stove and microwave. The 20th century items looking out of place amidst the cracked Formica, old cupboards and two chairs plunked in the middle. Despite the rising damp on the walls and the cracked tiles, it was the cleanest part of the apartment. Ron had obviously spent a lot of time here, judging by the sleeping bag under the window and the green tooth brush on the sill.

Maybe I'll sleep in here tonight, he thought dryly as he headed for the fridge. The cool air bathing his face as he pulled it open, reaching for piece of pizza wrapped in cellophane. Thrusting the meaty slice into the battered microwave on the kitchen table, he remembered how both he and Dean sunk to the floor, duffel bags and all. Scuffed oak-paneling tearing into their backs as they tried to get to sleep. Inevitable images of blinding white light and Ruby's triumphant smile tearing through his mind, forcing him awake, with a silent scream behind his lips.

The world will burn. The world will burn and it's all my fault.

The clicking noises of a door opening startled him. He looked up sharply, the pizza slice steaming in one hand while he gripped the grimy handle of the microwave in the other.

"Sammy…" the voice was deep. Tired.

Sam felt his back stiffen, closing the microwave quickly as he hurried to one of the only two chairs in the room. As he felt his back ease onto the horizontal wooden planks that made up the back of the chair, he forced a welcoming smile to his face. He had to make Dean think everything was okay.

"Sammy…" the scuffing noises of leather boots against oak flooring got louder. " Where are you?"

"In here."

He watched Dean amble into the kitchen, his earth-toned jacket with stonewash Levi's hanging over his narrow frame while he lugged black duffel over his shoulder. Sam knew his brother had lost quite a few pounds over the past few weeks. But in the harsh rays that filtered through the window behind them, he hadn't been prepared for the haggard lines that were etched into his brother's face. The newly formed wrinkles at the corner of his eyes were evident as his eyes stared wearily around the kitchen.

I did this to him. And all he did was save my life.

Dean's eyes finally rested on Sam, more specifically on the half-eaten pizza in his hand.

"Well…you've been having fun," he said, his voice terse as he pulled up a chair. "Didn't think of keeping a slice for your big bro, did ya?"

Sam snorted. "Maybe you should've thought of that before you ate everything but the box this morning," he said, his voice a little too cheerful. That's it. Let him think everything is alright.

Dean shrugged, leaning back while he rested the long black bag with a dull thud beside him. "I left you that slice, didn't I?"

"Thanks."

Dean sneered in response, running his hand through his close-cropped hair in one quick movement. "Left some beers this morning too. They're still there, right?"

Sam curled his lips into a mischievous smile. "Maybe,"

Dean rose up sharply, ripping the fridge door open as he thrust his head into its inner recesses. The cold air billowing all around him in a cloud as he muttered a sigh of relief. Sam forced a snicker as he watched his brother uncoil himself from the fridge's innards, a triumphant smile creeping across his face as he curled his fingers across a Heineken can. Pulling the tab with a slight pop, he put the can to his lips, brown liquid escaping down his two-day stubble.

It's taken its toll, Sam thought as he watched his brother free the can from his lips. On both of us.

Dean took another swill, his eyes looking less weary now as he sat back down, the tired lines around his eyes disappearing. "Never…" he said slowly. Never trust a chick with a beard."

Sam coughed slightly, bits of cheese sticking at the back of his throat. "What?" he sputtered as he waved away his brother's proffered beer.

"Remember where we parked last night? The lot that took us forever to find."

"Yeah?"

Dean sneered. "The 'five dollar all day one'? With that guy who looked like some kind of washed-up car salesman?"

Sam remembered Dean's sigh of relief when they'd seen the parking lot last night, his even greater cry when the attendant-with one of the deepest voices he'd ever heard-had let them in.

"Yeah…the fat guy with the beard."

"You mean the fat chick with a beard."

Sam sputtered again, reaching out and taking the beer this time.

"Well, I get there this morning and guess what?" Dean spat, his eyes narrowing as he recalled the memory. "She slams me with a sixty dollar tab. And that was before she charged me with the extra sixty that comes with overnight parking. Obviously we didn't read the small print," he finished with a snarl.

Sam felt his eyes widen. "What? What did you do?"

"What else? I yelled. I threatened," he shrugged. "I begged."

"So…she let us off, right?"

"Nope. I paid."

Sam stared dumbfounded as his brother slid back into the chair and as he took back the beer can. "D-Dean…" he stammered. "We don't have that much money. The only reason we're in Ron Skilling's apartment at all is because we can't afford anywhere else."

Dean looked straight into Sam's eyes for a few seconds, his lips tightening into a straight line. "She said she could arrange something…" he sat up. "If I followed her home."

"Oh."

Dean leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs across broken tiles. "I hate New York." He looked up suddenly, his expression changing to one of concern.

He's going to say it, Sam thought, feeling a cold flood rush through him.

"We shouldn't have come," Dean said quietly. "Not yet. Not until we heard from Castiel. Bobby was wrong."

Sam sighed heavily, the cold still prickling at his skin even though the heat hung heavily around them. The last thing he needed was this. Dean's face twisted with perpetual concern, his green eyes watching every movement he made while he tried to figure this out. Ever since that first night when Dean had been all up in his face with his 'Are you ok, Sammy?', 'It's going to be ok, Sammy', he knew he had to stop him. He knew he had to stop him or he would go completely mad or worse.

Much worse.

"I think we should've let things lie a while, you know? Go underground." he heard Dean say. "Wait to see if …wait to see if you-know-who shows up."

Sam suddenly felt very tired. Images of shafts of light tearing through a circle of Lilith's blood scuttled through his head. "You mean when, Dean."

"Yeah."

Sam looked at his brother's haunted eyes, watching the creases at the corners of his eyes deepen; worlds away from the mischievous grin that turned up in Stanford five years before.

You did that to him, Sam. You sent him to hell. Now the whole world will follow.

Sam smiled, feeling its tightness against his face as he leaned back into the harsh ridges of the wooden chair. "We've got to help Ron Skilling find his kid, Dean. You saw him,"

He watched as Dean arched his eyebrows, knowing he was seeing the same thing in his mind's eye that Sam was. The image of the older hunter hunched over his crooked frame on Bobby's couch, his shock of red hair long and matted as he begged the Winchester brothers find his only son. Jonathan Spade. The son he gave up all rights to years ago when his wife left him.

"Yeah, but why us?" Dean asked his tone irritable. "We're not 're hunters. It's possible the guy just took off, right? It's not like he's twelve."

Sam snorted. "He promised he'd meet his Dad and never showed up."

"Yeah. Ron shows up out of the blue after like…a gazillion years and he's shocked that his kid doesn't wanna to know."

Sam took another bite out of his pizza. "Well, Bobby asked us to help. Ron's an old friend of his and he couldn't just ignore him, could he? And anyway, he felt it would be good for us. Help us forget…" he faltered, feeling his words trail off into the distance. The grizzly hunter's words echoing in his mind.

"Ron's crazy as a loon," Bobby had whispered, his trucker's hat off-kilter. "But he's good people. And he's been troubled for a long time. His ex-wife really did a number on him. Just help him find his snot-nosed kid, huh?" He looked straight at Sam that time. "And be careful."

Too late for that, Sam thought as he looked up at his brother.

Dean lips tightened into a frown. "Yeah, I know. But he's a hunter, why can't he do it himself?"

"You saw him, Dean. He cried the whole night. He's broken."

"Ron's always been broken. And a sap," Dean snapped. "And that's another thing. Giving up all rights to your kid just because you don't want him to become a hunter or somehow think he'll be safe…" Dean shook his head, his face twisted in disapproval. "That's just crap. Dad had his faults, but he'd never have done that. He'd never have abandoned us with anyone else."

Sam looked down at the pizza slice in his hand, the crumbs twirling down to the floor; memories of his father forcing something small and tight into his throat. He knew that was another reason Dean hated taking this case. The fact that another hunter had done something different from his dad, preferring to give his son up than share this life with him, irritated Dean. That would mean their Dad was wrong. Or worse still, their whole lives were wrong. Dean wouldn't…couldn't accept that.

"And another thing," Dean snapped. "If he was so sure his kid was safe without him, why did he –out of the freaking blue- want to see the guy now? I mean…what changed?"

"Maybe he missed his son."

Dean said nothing, swilling down the contents of the aluminum can, the crinkling sound getting louder as he increased his grip on it.

"It's too late to moan about it now," Sam said, looking into his brother's tired eyes. "If we don't find him, Bobby'll kill us. "

A small smile flitted across Dean's face. "Yeah, he's going out of his mind. Called me this morning. Ron's eaten everything but the kitchen sink." Then just as suddenly, the smile disappeared. "You've been here all morning?"

"Yeah," Sam lied quickly, recognizing the sharpness in his own tone. "Been waiting for you."

Dean looked at him, his eyes searching. "Nothing else? Just been waiting , huh?"

Uh-oh. Sam got up quickly, striding across the room over to the window. The air all around him had gone stale again. It was stifling. Choking. Just like it had been this morning. Change the subject.

"Ron still lives with his mom in their townhouse on the Upper East Side. I figured we'd go there first and see what else we can find out. " He whirled round, his eyes searching Dean's for any signs of suspicion. "What do you think?"

Dean got up slowly, tossing the can into the small bin by the fridge, the noise deafening despite the rumble of traffic from beyond the window. Sam watched as the can rolled around in the blue basket, the spinning noise getting softer and softer as the seconds past. Of course he wouldn't miss. He's perfect. A warrior.

"Ok," Dean said his tone managing to sound both soft and tight at the same time.

He saw right through Ruby. Right through. I couldn't . It's all my fault.

"I'll just hit the shower…"

Now the world will burn.

"Then we go." Dean finished with a smirk as he bent to pick up the bag. He tossed it over his shoulder and sauntered back through the narrow doorway; he hummed a shaky version of Three Dog night's Shambala as he rounded the kitchen door jamb, disappearing behind crumbling wallpaper, heading further into apartment.

Sam turned back to the window sill, watching the cars outside speed along the asphalt, trying to still his trembling hands, praying his brother didn't see.

I have to make it right. Right for Dean. Right for everyone.
Even if it kills me.