Author's Note: Don't own 'em, just experimenting. Not making money, either.

The room Bill's letting me stay in is small, has two beds and I don't have to share with anyone yet. I don't fake my nightmares; I just lie about what they're about. I've been here two days and so far, John hasn't made a move to out himself. I don't know if I'm dealing with the possession of a corpse or if the real guy's in there somewhere. I don't know how to tell, either. I tried calling Dad last night to get his take on it, but I can't get ahold of him. I don't want to bother Sammy; he's busy with that Sanford law thing of his.

I made breakfast this morning; Bill's making me pull my weight since I'm sticking around. I'm "damaged" but not broken, according to him. Luckily, he's not pushing the religious bit of the twelve-step program.

"Dean, you mind taking out the trash?" Bill asks from the kitchen.

"Yeah, sure." I'm still shaky from that ipecac overdose; don't have to do a whole lot of acting right now. I don't remember a whole lot of what happened yesterday or the night I first showed up. My stomach's all fucked up, too.

"The dumpster's back by the service entrance," he says, handing me a black garbage bag. It fucking reeks.

I take it and now I hope to hell it's not leaking behind me. "Son of a bitch, that stinks!"

"That's what happens when you run a homeless shelter," Bill says with a laugh.

Yeah. Homeless shelter; I live here for now. Not that much of a difference, except I get to save some money. Dude's even my pro bono psychologist. That's just fucking weird. At least this is one of the really good ones.

There's somebody slouched next to the dumpster. Got to take care of the bag first, then check on the dude….ett. It's a woman. Jesus. Her clothes are shredded and there's blood between her….Fuck. "BILL!"

He almost stumbles out the back door. "What is it?"

"C-call an ambulance!" I don't like how my hands are shaking while I check for the woman's pulse. Blood's spurting up from her chest and getting all over my hands as I press down to try to stop her from bleeding out. I can feel the thrumming of her heart under my palms. That's not right. "I think she's been raped, man."

She gasps and her eyes open, locking on mine. God, she's so scared. "D-dem-demons."

"Hang on, help is coming. Just focus on me, okay?"

She grabs my right forearm with both hands. "Th-they know, D-Dean. Th-they w-want….a…sac…sacrifice."

"You don't have to talk, darlin.' I'll take care of you," I tell her softly.

She seizes in pain and I can't feel her heart under my hands anymore. "Come on, lady. Please."

Bill's kneeling next to me. "Dean, you don't have to be here."

"No. I can't leave. She said my name."

"I can't help you if you start having a flashback, go inside."

I wince. I hated coming up with that story, now it's gonna bite me in the ass. Luckily, I don't have to fake the nausea. "I'll be fine."

He looks at me. "Don't push this; you're still in a risky place."

I look down at the woman and shudder. Somebody had fucking sliced off her breasts. "Is she gonna live?"

"Go get me some towels out of the kitchen so I can stop some of this bleeding."

I stagger a little while getting up.

Bill puts a hand on my arm. "Dean, I mean it. Don't push yourself right now."

I shake my head and run to the kitchen.

Where are the damn towels?

Drawer under the sink.

Nothing.

"Fuck!"

There's a lady dying outside and I can't find the fucking towels!

Drawer next to the stove.

Nothing. Again.

There are sirens coming closer and she's gonna die and it'll be my fault!

I'm flinging open every single drawer in the kitchen and I can't find anything. What the fuck kind of kitchen doesn't have towels? "Son of a bitch!"

"Dean, stop," Bill says from the door. "Stop."

"What're you doing, get out there, she's gonna bleed to death!"

He shakes his head. "There's nothing I could do. The paramedics have her now."

I can't stand the cold water anymore. I turn off the faucets, stumble around for the towels. I had to do a quick search about ipecac overdosing on the internet. Looks like I'm out of commission for the next couple days. It explains the shakes, weird emotional shit and my lack of energy, though. That and my muscles are fucking aching all the time. Alcohol withdrawal or accidental self-poisoning; same thing, if you wanna get technical.

"Dean?" Bill's knocking on the door. "You doin' okay in there, pal?"

"Yeah. I'm good."

"Got supper on, we got some guests. Need you to help me dish out the food."

"Gimme a second to get dressed."

Bill's waiting when I open the door and he does a quick once-over of me. Wants to make sure I'm not trying to kill myself. Yikes.

"I'm not suicidal, man; I swear."

"Can't help it. Had a young man like you come through last month with severe PTSD. Killed himself while I stood out here."

No wonder he's hovers. "Sorry."

"Hungry?"

I haven't felt up to eating since yesterday; not sure I'll keep it down. "Not really."

"Try to swallow a little soup anyway."

Every homeless man or woman who goes past me gets a whispered "Cristo" over their plate, one flinches and I make sure to memorize her face. They know me; it's only fair I know who they are, too.

"You're alive, Bobby!" one old geezer's screaming as I pass over his roll. He comes behind the table and wraps me up in a reeking hug. "God, I saw you got your guts blown out!"

Jesus Christ. "I…Bill, a little help?" I try to get loose, but the guy's got me in a hard grip.

"Bobby, please don't disappear this time, I can't see that again," he's sobbing into my shoulder. He stinks, he's drunk and I feel like I'm gonna hurl.

"Donnie, let's get you sat down at the table, okay?"

Donnie backs up, pats my cheeks and looks at me like I'm his long-lost kid or something. "Don't you disappear on me like that."

I need to sit down, or go pass out. Maybe take a shower again. I glance over at Lady-Demon; she's staring at me, not touching her food. Do demons even eat?

"Dean, you okay?"

"Huh?"

Bill's walking me out of the dining room area with an arm around my shoulder. "Jesus, kid, sit down. You look about to pass out."

I collapse in the chair he's led me to. "Sorry 'bout that."

"For Donnie?"

I shrug.

"He does that to anyone he doesn't recognize when he's loaded. I figured you could use the space."

"Thanks." Wait a second; there's one guy I know who can maybe help me out. Thank you Donnie for reminding me. "Hey, Bill?"

He turns in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"I need to make a phone call, but it's to South Dakota. Do I gotta pay anything to do that?"

"Just as long as it doesn't start with one-nine-hundred."

"Thanks again." I look down at my hands; they're not shaking so bad. "For everything."

"It's what I do."

"You get a head count on 'em?" Bobby Singer's asking over his crackling phone line. Dude needs to update his wiring.

"Just two, so far," I tell him. "They've targeted me, Bobby."

"Where's your old man?" he asks.

"Hell if I know."

"Typical." He sighs and I can hear him moving books around. "What did you say that woman told you before she died?"

"They want a sacrifice." I try to keep fear out of my voice, but it's just not happening. "I'm not doin' so good, Bobby; accidentally overdosed myself on ipecac to get in here. Didn't mean to, but….I'm not up to my full strength right now."

He's laughing at me now. "Damn ijit. How many times do I gotta tell you to lay off the Method Actor crap? Where'd you learn about that shit, anyway?"

"Uh…" I'm not gonna admit that I sometimes watch Inside the Actor's Studio if a hotel has cable and that I read acting textbooks. Looking this good isn't enough to open doors sometimes; I gotta act my ass off. It's harder than people think. "Never mind where I heard it. Just…do you know anybody who could help, or not?"

"Ever thought about getting Sam back in it?"

"No, Bobby. He's out of this life. I didn't half-raise that kid just to suck him back here for no good reason."

"Savin' your life ain't a good reason?" He growls.

"Why d'you think I'm callin' you? I need the best, and Sammy's a freakin' pre-law student. He's out of practice."

That got him. Bobby's a sucker for my boyish charms. I think he's wanted to adopt me, actually. "Don't do anything I'll have to bail your ass out of until I get there. Hear me?"

"Can't make any promises, Bobby." I was gonna ask him something else….Oh, right. "Hey, uh, how d'you know if the person in the body a demon's possessing is alive or not?"

The line's silent for too long. Does he even know? "I dunno, son. Most times, the soul of the poor sap's stuck in there with it no matter what."

Holy shit, that's fucked up. "Seriously?"

"Demons like to run their bodies to death and feel the victim die," he says in disgust. "It's how the sick fucks get their jollies."

I shudder at that. Great, now I'm getting queasy again. "What should I tell Bill?"

"Tell 'im I'm your uncle, you're gonna come live with me for a while and I'll be there in about two days to pick you up. Keep your eyes open an' don't you start getting trigger happy."

"Got it." Two days should be enough time for me to get all the shit out of my system and get a head count. The lady this morning was the first victim this week; the numbers have gone up to three per week now and I'm on their list. "I'll do some research about rituals and stuff, too. She said 'sacrifices.' It might tell us what they're up to."

"Good thinkin'. Be safe, Dean."

"You too, Bobby."