PUPPETMASTER

SUMMARY: As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both Winchester brothers' lives in jeopardy. Set mid to late Season 2. The story follows the events of Bridging Two Solitudes and Grave Consequences.

RATED:T for some cursing, including the occasional f-bomb.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. They belong to the dastardly Eric Kripke. Once again, I am encamped in his most awesome sandbox, playing with the incredible characters he created.

A/N: Again, a great big thanks to everyone added this story to alerts and sent along reviews, comments and PMs – they're hugely appreciated. To Caitlin: I can't PM you, but THANK YOU! To the Amazing A's – Ann and Amy – you rock! Thanks for the beta, the encouragement and the occasional butt-kicking. Any remaining goofs post-beta can be blamed on my chronic tweaking. A big thanks, too, to Heather for the medical info. Hope you enjoy.

CHAPTER 3

Sam felt tired and stiff, his movements sluggish. The tension in his neck, shoulders and back suggested too much time behind the wheel, running on too much caffeine and far too little sleep.

He groaned as he pushed open the car door, the oppressive heat slamming into him as he stepped out of the air-conditioned comfort of the sedan. He gripped the door frame as he pulled himself to his feet, frowning at the tightness in his chest. It was hard to breathe.

Coughing, he slammed the door closed, then walked slowly around the car and up the path that led to the front door of the neat Spanish-style bungalow. Carefully tended hedges framed the house, running the length of the property before turning to run parallel to the manicured fairway of the golf course behind the upscale development.

Sam was breathing heavily by the time he stepped into the shade of the covered porch, pulled off his sunglasses and pressed the doorbell.

He heard a male voice, muted by the heavy door between them, call out inside the house. "It's okay, Isabel. I've got it."

The voice was both strange and familiar. Sam tucked his sunglasses into the left breast pocket of his shirt as the ornate wooden door opened, revealing a slim man in his 60s. His hair was white and he sported a neatly trimmed beard and mustache.

"Yes?"

Sam smiled. "Retirement agrees with you, Judge Matthews."

The judge frowned. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

Sam's eyes stayed locked with the judge's. "You had a very big impact on my life. I just wanted to return the favor."

Judge Matthews had no chance to react before Sam plunged a knife into his chest.

The judge stared at Sam in shock before his eyes fell from the smiling stranger in front of him to the hilt of the hunting blade protruding from his chest. His shaking hand reached instinctively for the knife.

Sam's smile widened. "Here, let me help you with that."

He reached forward and, with a sharp tug, pulled out the knife. The judge swayed slightly as he stared incredulously at the blood stain blossoming across his chest and quickly soaking through his pale blue golf shirt.

Sam shifted his grip on the knife, then plunged the blade into the judge a second time, this time driving it straight through his heart.

Death came quickly. The judge slumped to his knees before toppling over onto his side, his eyes open and fixed in a glassy, unseeing stare.

Sam reached down and coolly pulled the knife from the man's chest. More blood spilled from the fatal wound, pooling on the ceramic tile beneath the dead man. Sam stared at the murder weapon, at the blood staining the blade and slowly running down the hilt onto his hand and wrist.

He frowned then crouched down, wiping the blade clean on the judge's khaki pants before slipping the knife back into the sheath on his right hip. He then pulled the judge's golf shirt loose from where it was tucked neatly into his waistband and used the hem to wipe the blood from his hands.

Sam's head snapped to the left at the sound of a woman's scream. She was small, her graying hair pulled into a twist at the nape of her neck. The 'Isabel' the judge had called out to, he guessed.

Sam smiled coldly as the woman stared in horror at the body of the judge lying on the floor in a growing pool of blood. She screamed again. Sam stood up and stepped over the body, carefully avoiding the blood and reaching again for the knife.

"Sam!"

At the sound of his name, a sharp pain ripped through his head.

"Sam. You in there?"

He stumbled as pain hit him again, clutching the side of his head and blinking rapidly as his vision blurred and the room around him began to twist and skew. A tightening band of pressure around his chest made it increasingly harder to breathe.

"Sam! Look at me."

The knife fell from his hand, clattering against the ceramic floor. Sam dropped to his knees, both hands clutching at his head. He screwed his eyes closed and felt himself falling.

"Sam!"

His eyes snapped open. As they focused, he realized he was back in their motel room, lying on the floor and Dean was hovering over him, his face a mix of fear and worry.

"Look at me, Sam. I need you to calm down."

But Sam did anything but. His eyes widened and his rapid, shallow breathing escalated even further. He reached out and grabbed his brother's arm. "He's dead, Dean. I killed him."

Dean startled at his brother's admission. The reaction was mirrored in the face of the man at his side, but Sam wasn't done.

The words tumbled out, tripping over themselves in his confused panic. "It…it was me. I stabbed him. I was the killer."

"Sam, hey!" Dean forced a smile, gently pushing down on Sam's chest as he struggled to sit up. "Lie still. I need you to chill. You hear me?" He motioned with his head toward the man beside him, who was listening intently to the conversation. "You had a seizure. Dave, here, is a paramedic. He's gonna take care of you. Video games will have to wait."

"What?" Sam stilled in Dean's hold, his eyes darting between his brother and the paramedic as he tried to figure out what Dean was telling him. "Video games?" Sam's rapid gasps to draw in air were still escalating. "No…I…"

"Seriously, Sam…relax." Dean turned to the paramedic. "He got addicted to Hunter-Killer 3 while laid up after surgery. As of right now, he's officially cut off."

"Sam." This time it was the paramedic's voice. "You're hyperventilating. I need you to concentrate on your breathing and slow it down, okay?"

Sam's eyes widened in panic as Dave leaned in to fasten an oxygen mask over his face. He batted it away reflexively, his chest still rising and falling rapidly.

The paramedic glanced at Dean. "We need to get his breathing under control."

"Sam. Look at me." Dean's voice was calm, steady. "Dave is just trying to help. You're gonna pass out if you don't chill. Now let him help you." He glanced over at Dave and nodded.

The paramedic reached forward again with the mask, placing it over Sam's mouth and nose and fastening the strap around his head. He quickly turned to the side to adjust the flow on the oxygen tank, then looked down at Sam. "Okay. Now concentrate. Breathe nice and slow. Follow me - in...and out...in..."

Sam tightened his hold on Dean's arm, watched Dave and tried to mimic the rhythm of his breathing. The plastic bag attached to the mask expanded with each exhale, the expansions growing further apart as Sam's breathing gradually slowed and became deeper.

As Sam's respiration returned to normal, Dave used a stethoscope to listen to his lungs, then nodded favorably. "That's better." He smiled as he removed the mask. "I've played Hunter-Killer 3 with my brother-in-law. It's easy to get hooked. Who's better, you or your brother?"

Sam swallowed as his eyes jumped from Dean to the paramedic and back again. "Dean cheats…'specially when…I'm the killer."

xxxXXXxxx

Dean breathed a silent sigh of relief that Sam had picked up on the cover story, flimsy as it was. "It's not cheating, Sam – it's strategy."

His smile was a paper-thin mask over the worry gnawing away at him. Every instinct told him to grab Sam, throw him in the Impala and hightail it the hell out of there. Confessing to a murder in front of a complete stranger was never good ; but with the FBI gunning for you it was also an open invitation to unwanted attention.

Dean glanced again at the paramedic, who was busy treating his brother. Dave seemed to buy the video game story, but he also seemed smart enough not to give himself away if he thought he was sitting beside a killer and his accomplice.

Sam's words kept echoing through Dean's head. "He's dead. I killed him." They obviously had another vision to deal with, with more details than the last one given Sam's outburst, but why the hell would he think he was the killer?

Sam closed his eyes and licked his lips. "M'thirsty."

Dean squeezed his brother's shoulder as he glanced over at Dave. "Is it okay to give him some water?"

Dave nodded. "Just a little. And take it slow, Sam, okay?"

Dean pushed himself up, grabbed a bottle of water from the dresser, and returned to Sam's side. He and the paramedic helped Sam sit up, and Dean steadied the bottle as Sam took a drink. Sam still looked pale and tired, but at least now his skin had lost the gray tinge from just after the seizure hit. "Better?"

Sam nodded sluggishly.

Dean frowned. He and Dave were holding Sam up and he was slumping heavily against them. "How you doin' in there?"

Sam's eyes were drooping shut as he turned to look at Dean. "Tired. Head hurts."

Dave helped Dean lower Sam back down so his head was resting on the pillow on the floor. "That's pretty typical after a seizure, not to mention the whack on the head you seem to have given yourself. I'm gonna start an IV, then we'll get you loaded up for the trip to the hospital. See if we can figure out what's going on, okay?"

Sam nodded, but his bleary eyes stayed on Dean, whose jaw clenched noticeably. Both wanted, needed, to talk about what the hell was going on, but talk would have to wait.

Dean glanced down to where Sam's hand retained a firm grip on his arm. "It'll be okay, Sammy. Let's get you seen to first, make sure everything's good. We'll take care of everything else later."

Sam nodded, tightly holding on to both his brother's arm and the assurance he offered.

Jim returned with the gurney and Dean moved out of the way, scrubbing a hand over his face as he watched the two paramedics pick up his brother and place him on the stretcher, cover him with a blanket then arrange the medical equipment around him.

Sam was barely awake as the gurney was pushed out of the room and toward the waiting ambulance.

Dave looked back at Dean. "You riding with us? There's room in the back."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Just let me grab his medical records from the car and I'll be right with you." He shrugged at Dave's raised eyebrows. "We're on the road a lot. Anything we might need comes with us."

He turned back into the room, grabbed Sam's computer bag, and then closed the door before walking over to the Impala. Dean opened the trunk and pulled out Sam's medical file. Thanks to Doc, it was completely updated with every test and procedure from Stanford, all in the name of Sam Page, which matched their current health insurance. He slammed the trunk shut then moved quickly to the waiting ambulance, climbing in the back to sit beside Dave. Sam's eyes were closed and Dean shot a worried glance at the paramedic.

Dave smiled. "Relax. He's just sleeping. Best thing for him right now."

Dean nodded as Jim closed the doors behind him before moving around to the driver's seat, turning the ignition and steering the ambulance to the nearby hospital.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam slowly peeled open his eyes, blinking to bring the room in focus. He was in the ER, lying on a narrow gurney and covered with a pale green blanket. His left hand, resting on his chest, had an IV taped to the back of it, the tubing snaking through the safety rails of the gurney and to the IV pole to the left of his head.

His head was pounding and his mouth felt dry and pasty, like he'd been out of it for a while – a fact confirmed when he realized he was wearing a hospital gown; the last time he'd come to in this room he was still wearing his own clothes. There had also been a crowd of strange faces around him, barking medical terms at each other and peppering him with questions. Now there was no one. The room was silent, save for a quiet tapping sound. Sam glanced around, his gaze settling on a familiar figure in the corner, seated on a stool and steadily punching keys on the laptop set up on the counter beside him.

"Dean." Sam's voice was hoarse, strained.

Dean's eyes snapped from the computer screen to his brother. He pushed himself off the stool and crossed quickly to Sam's side. "Hey. How's the head?"

"Okay." Sam squinted at Dean, the sterile light in the room amping up his headache. "How long was I out?"

Dean glanced at his watch. "It's been about five hours since we landed in the ER. You remember waking up just after we got here?"

Sam nodded tiredly.

"How 'bout during the trip upstairs for the MRI?"

Sam frowned and shook his head.

Dean smiled tightly. "Yeah, you seemed a little out of it that time."

Sam cleared his throat, glancing round the ER exam room. "But I'm okay now. You wanna get me my clothes so we can get outta here."

Dean tapped the safety rail of the gurney as he shook his head. "They're admitting you, remember? The doc is trying to line up a room so he can run more tests in the morning. They want…"

"No."

Dean's eyebrows arched. "No?"

Sam struggled to sit up. "I'm not staying, Dean. Whatever's wrong with me, it's not physical. Or at least it's not caused by anything physical, so no tests are gonna fix it. Just get me my clothes."

"They cut your sweat pants off you, Sam. Why don't you just…"

Sam was rattling the safety rail in annoyance as he tried to lower it. "Then get me my jeans out of the car."

Dean shook his head. "Besides, car's back at the motel. I came here in the ambulance with you."

"I don't care if I have to walk down the street in this hospital gown. I'm not staying here, so– "

"Sam, stop!" Fear and worry mixed equally in Dean's voice. He banged the safety rail with the side of his fist. "I find you out cold on the floor, I watch you have two seizures – and then you wake up and confess to killing someone. I know a vision's behind this but it's ripping you apart, man. We can't just ignore that."

Sam swallowed, concentrating to keep his voice level. "Hospital tests won't figure this out. You and I can. And the sooner we get outta here, the sooner we can start."

Dean blew out a breath to calm himself down. "We hear what the doc says first. Now, what the hell did this vision show you?"

Sam tensed at he memory. "I…I stabbed a man to death."

"You stabbed him?"

Sam nodded curtly.

"Self-defense?"

Sam shook his head. "No. I just smiled at him and stabbed him."

Dean was pacing now at the side of the gurney. "Well, something's off because you're no killer."

Sam snorted. "We kill things all the time."

Dean scowled at his brother. "Things, Sam – not people."

Sam's voice dropped noticeably as he stared at the IV in the back of his hand, picking at the tape that held it in place. "Tell that to Steve Wandell."

"Oh for f…!" Dean stopped pacing and glared at his brother. "First, that was Meg, not you. Second, you haven't been out of my sight. If you're supposed to kill someone, and that's a big if, it hasn't happened yet.Now, tell me what happened."

Sam swallowed. "I walked up to the front door of a house and rang the bell. A man answered and…I stabbed him." He looked up at Dean, his throat closing around his words. "Then I pulled the knife from his chest and stabbed him again – right through the heart."

Dean's face was stony. "Your vision showed you killing him."

Sam shook his head. "I was the killer. I was seeing everything like I was doing it."

"No. Something's off." Dean leaned forward, resting his forearms on the gurney rail. "You still remember all the vision?"

Sam nodded. "Every sickening second."

"Okay. Close your eyes."

"What for?"

"Because you killing someone makes no sense. There's gotta be some clue in that vision to what's really going on. Now, close your eyes and replay it in slow motion."

Sam dropped his head back on the gurney, closed his eyes and exhaled.

Dean's voice was a low monotone. "Don't get caught up in what you're doing. Look around you for any details that'll tell us who the victim is, where the murder takes place, anything that'll help us figure this out."

Sam felt sick as he relived the vision at half speed. He watched himself plunge the knife into the judge's chest, pull it out and stab him again. He saw the judge fall, eyes open and vacant, he saw himself wipe off the knife and his bloody hands.

His eyes snapped open. "They're not my hands."

Dean's expression didn't change. "Because…"

Sam stared down at his hands. "They're too small and I'm…the killer…is wearing a wedding ring."

A slow smile spread across Dean's face. "Told you it wasn't you."

The wave of relief that washed over Sam was fleeting. "Then why am I seeing the murder through his eyes? Why are these visions hitting so hard? Why-"

"Whoa, whoa." Dean grabbed the stool, rolled it to the side of Sam's gurney and sat down. "You thought you'd killed someone and now you know you didn't. That's huge. For everything else, let's go one step at a time. What about the victim? You recognize him?"

Sam again closed his eyes, picturing the man's face. "No, but the killer did. The victim was a judge....He called him…Judge Matthews."

Dean pushed the stool away from the gurney and toward Sam's laptop on the counter at the side of the exam room. "You get a first name?"

Sam shook his head. "No, but I think his wife's name is Isabel." Sam suddenly felt sick. "God, Dean, I think she may be dead, too. I…the killer…was going after her with a knife when I…when I snapped out of it."

Dean looked over at his brother. "It's a vision. As far as we know, no one's dead yet."

"Yeah, but–"

"Don't hijack trouble, Sammy. There'll be plenty to go around when we've got the facts lined up in front of us." Dean turned back to the laptop and punched a few more keys. He tapped his fingers impatiently as he waited for the requested information to appear, then frowned when it popped up on screen. "Well, according to your trusty Law Society database, there are 497 Judge Matthews currently doling out justice in the continental U.S. of A." He turned back toward Sam. "You got anything we can use to narrow it down?"

Sam's brow furrowed as he sifted through his memory for any useful details. "I said to him, 'Retirement agrees with you' so he's not practising any more. And his house is on a golf course."

Dean's eyebrow quirked. "A retired judge who lives on a golf course? That should really cut down the list."

Sam screwed his eyes closed again to try to push back the headache that was clouding his thinking. "Look, just find me some scrubs, anything, so we can get the hell out of here. Then…"

"Are we really that bad?" The new voice belonged to Dr. Chuck Reynolds, the physician who had been caring for Sam since he was admitted to the ER.

Sam turned to face the doctor. "No offence, doc, but I've had my fill of hospitals lately. I just want to go home."

The doctor moved to the side of Sam's gurney. "I'd rather you stay. Two seizures in that short period of time is nothing to take lightly. I'd like–"

"What did his tests show?" Dean interrupted before Sam could.

The doctor looked down at the large manila envelope in his hands. He pulled an oversized piece of film from it, walked to the side of the room and clipped it to a light box on the wall. He flipped a switch, turning on a light which illuminated the scan of Sam's head. Dr. Reynolds pulled a pen from his pocket and pointed to section of Sam's brain, just above his right ear. "There's some evidence of scar tissue here, probably from the earlier head injury your brother told us about."

Dr. Reynolds turned to face the brothers. "Scar tissue is thicker, denser than normal tissue. When the brain sends out a signal to the body, scar tissue makes it harder for the message to get through, causing a short-circuit if you will. That abnormal electrical activity can trigger a seizure."

Dean glanced at his brother as he took in the information. "So that's what happened with Sam? He short-circuited?"

The doctor dropped his pen back in his pocket, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That's one way to put it. But it's also why we'd like to do more tests. If we-"

"No." Sam squared his shoulders stubbornly. "My doctor at Stanford, she knew about the scar tissue. If there was anything to worry about, she would have said something."

Dr. Reynolds folded his arms across his chest. "True. But the seizure you had at the pool the other day was, then, thought to be a one-time occurrence. Now we have three seizures within a week. That's-"

"No." Sam cut him off. "Sorry, doc. I'm not staying."

Dr. Reynolds looked surprised by Sam's emphatic response but, before he could say anything, Dean cut in.

"Has there been any change, any further deterioration, in his condition since the tests that were done at Stanford?"

The doctor's eyes widened further. "You mean other than the seizures?"

Dean's jaw clenched. "Yes – other than that."

Dr. Reynolds shook his head. "While there's no overt damage, the seizures themselves are a symptom of–"

Dean interrupted again. "Does Doc – Dr. Caine – think these tests are necessary?"

Dr. Reynolds sighed as he glanced from Dean to Sam. "She told me I was likely in for a fight if I wanted to admit you and she definitely wants you back in her office when you get home to California." He walked up to the side of the gurney. "But, like I said, there's no further deterioration. Nothing has changed physically from the tests last week or last month. The scar tissue is noted on all your Stanford tests but was never flagged as a cause for alarm because seizures were never a factor before.

"Our job now is to figure out what's triggering the seizures. I still recommend that you let us admit you so we can figure out what the cause is, but," he raised his hand as he saw Sam about to object, "if you're more comfortable with Dr. Caine handling this, then I'll get you AMA papers and you can leave."

Sam nodded. "That's what I want."

Dr. Reynolds held up two fingers. "Two things, however, are non-negotiable until you've been properly diagnosed and cleared by Dr. Caine. First, no driving."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean barely lets me drive on a good day. What's the second?"

Dr. Reynolds turned to Dean. "I want him left alone as little as possible – at least for the next couple of weeks. If a seizure hits again, there's less chance of him hurting himself if someone's with him. And if he does have another seizure, seek medical attention right away. Just because there's no additional damage now, doesn't mean there won't be if this continues."

Dean nodded. "Not a problem, doc. I'll watch out for him. Always do." He glanced at Sam, and cleared his throat. "Listen, your ER crew went all Edward Scissorhands on my brother's sweatpants. Now, personally, I think some of your nurses would get a kick out of being mooned by him in that skimpy little gown, but Sammy's a little shy; any chance of rustling up something not quite so air-conditioned in the back?"

Sam quickly turned red behind the scowl he directed at Dean.

Dr. Reynolds shook his head. "Big brothers, huh? You got any more of these at home?"

Sam's eyes widened. "God no."

The doctor smiled. "Then consider yourself lucky. I've got three of them." He glanced at Dean before turning back to Sam. "I think we can spare a set of scrubs. I'll have a nurse bring them in while I get the papers ready. Probably take me an hour or so. In the mean time, just relax, let the painkillers in the IV do their job, then, unless you change your mind, you're free to go."

Sam nodded. "I won't, but thanks."

As the door swung closed behind the doctor, Dean turned to Sam, serious again. "You sure about this?"

Sam's jaw clenched. "Yeah. The best way I can think of to stop these seizures is to figure out who this killer is and why the hell he's in my head."

xxxXXXxxx

Dean glanced up from the laptop to check on Sam for what must have been the hundredth time since leaving the hospital.

His brother was sprawled on his stomach, face half-buried in his pillow, socked feet hanging off the end of the bed. But the furrows in his forehead and the way his right hand clenched the bed cover beneath him suggested his sleep was anything but restful.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, a subconscious attempt to erase the worry lines he knew were etched there. He hated what was happening to Sam, hated even more he couldn't do anything to stop it.

After Sam was released from the ER, the brothers had taken a cab back to the motel and Dean had hurriedly packed the car. Between the first responders and the hospital, too many people knew where they were if someone caught sight of an FBI wanted poster or Dave the paramedic suddenly had second thoughts about Sam's 'confession' to murder.

They were well into the next state before Dean decided it was safe to stop for the night. The décor of their current motel room was little better than the last but, here, at least the air conditioner worked.

Sam had slept through most of the car ride, despite his determination to keep surfing the net until he found a full ID on Judge Matthews. At one point, Dean had pulled over onto the side of the road and pulled the laptop out from under Sam's hands, his brother sound asleep with his fingers still poised over the keys.

When Dean had parked in front of their current digs, Sam had woken up long enough to drag himself inside the room and turn down Dean's offer of something to eat, before flopping fully-clothed on the bed and falling right back to sleep. The doctors had warned Dean that he would likely sleep through much of the next 24 hours as his body recovered from the trauma of the seizure, but he still hated seeing Sam so still for so long. It didn't help either that he'd wrestled off Sam's jacket, outer shirt and boots without so much as a mumble of protest from his brother.

Dean sat at the small laminate table in front of the window, nursing a cup of coffee as he tapped away at the laptop trying to narrow down their search for the judge. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. They were dry and burning from staring at the screen too long. He was tired, damn tired if he was being honest, but he was still too wired to sleep.

There had been no seizures, no visions, no whispered voices since leaving the hospital, but Dean was still on edge. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Sam convulsing on the floor of the motel room or convulsing on the bottom of the pool.

Dean's eyes snapped again toward to his brother. The incident at the cabin and Sam's latest vision had both been preceded by convulsions. But what was the link between the voices and the apparition at the pool and the judge's murder? And why had the vision put Sam in the role of the murderer?

He glanced again at Sam, watched his brother's hand clench and unclench the blanket beneath him, then frowned when he realized Sam's eyes were darting back and forth behind closed lids. He stood up, walked over to the bed and reached down to place a hand on Sam's back. "Relax, Sammy. I told you…we'll figure this out."

Sam started at the touch but didn't wake. He shuffled slightly, then ground his face deeper into the pillow, his eyes now still.

Dean withdrew his hand, rubbing the back of his own neck in an attempt to ease away the tension. Moving back to the table and sitting down, he blinked slowly, as he stared again at the computer screen in front of him. "Judge Matthews – who the hell are you?"

He took a sip of his almost cold coffee then returned to surfing through news websites. Five minutes later, as he clicked open a new window, his eyes widened at the headline emblazoned across the screen. "Oh, fuck."

Sam's head jolted off his pillow at the sound of his brother's curse. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light. "What's goin' on?"

Getting no response from Dean, whose eyes remained glued to the computer screen, Sam rolled onto his side, swung his legs off the bed and pushed himself up. He scratched his head and yawned as he glanced behind him at the bedside clock before turning to look incredulously at his brother. "Dude, it's five in the morning. You get any sleep?"

Dean sat back in his chair. "Never mind sleep. I've got an ID on the judge." He looked at Sam and his voice softened. "Judge Abner Matthews was stabbed to death late yesterday.

Sam looked like he was going to be sick. "Yesterday?"

"Yeah." Dean turned back to the computer. "According to the Arizona Republic website, he was attacked in his home in Scottsdale – right around the time you had the seizure."

Sam pushed himself off the bed and limped over to his brother. Dean turned the laptop so Sam could see the screen. "This the guy from your vision?"

Sam leaned in to look at the photograph under the headline 'JUDGE MURDERED, KILLER SHOT DEAD'. It was an older photograph, showing the judge in his judicial robes.

"Yeah. That's him." Sam stared again at the headline, the furrows in his forehead deepening. His voice was barely audible. "What do they mean 'killer shot dead'?'"

Dean glanced up at his brother as he turned the laptop back toward him and read aloud from the news report displayed on the screen.

SCOTTSDALE – A retired criminal court judge and his assailant are both dead following an unexplained confrontation late yesterday.
Judge Abner Matthews, 65, was fatally stabbed in the front entrance to his own home in the gated community of Arrowhead. His killer, Donald Chapman, 57, was shot to death moments later by a private security guard called to the scene by the judge's housekeeper, Isabel Stanton.
Stanton told police that Chapman arrived unannounced at the judge's home. She said the two men had a brief conversation but when she entered the front hall moments after Chapman arrived, he was crouching over Matthews's body, wiping his bloody hands on the judge's shirt.
 Sources close to the case say the two men were unknown to each other prior to yesterday's confrontation and no motive for the murder has yet been established.
Marty Forbes of ACP Security, which polices the gated community, arrived at the home less than two minutes after a frantic call from the housekeeper. She had been forced to hide in a downstairs bathroom when Chapman threatened her life.
In his statement to police, Forbes said Chapman was kicking in the bathroom door when he entered the house. Chapman ignored repeated orders to stop. When he broke through the door and moved to stab Stanton, Forbes shot him.
Chapman was rushed to Shea Medical Centre, where he was pronounced dead.

Dean looked up from the screen. "There's more…neighbors shocked, speculation on motive…but nothing really useful to us."

Sam sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed. "It happened just like in my vision."

Dean sat back in the chair. "Yeah. Except for the part where you were four states away at the time."

Sam blew out a breath and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Who the hell is Donald Chapman, and why would I see him commit murder – through his eyes?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't know, Sammy, but we're sure as hell gonna find out." His eyes narrowed as he took in Sam's tired features. "You still wanna go to Bobby's – or should we head for Scottsdale?"

There was no hesitation in Sam's answer. "We're goin' to Arizona."

"Okay then." Dean glanced at his watch. "Scottsdale's about 11 hours south of here. We head out now, we could be there by late afternoon, early evening. You gonna be okay in the car that long?"

Sam sat back and stretched, scowling at Dean. "I'll be fine, but what about you? You haven't slept. You can't drive 11 hours unless you let me take a turn and…"

"No way. Doctor's orders – you're not driving." Dean stood up and paced in front of his brother. "I just need a quick shower, another cup of coffee then I'll be good to go." He stopped pacing and waved his hand at Sam. "Lie down."

Sam eyebrows arched incredulously. "What? No."

"You're not supposed to be left alone." Dean walked over to his duffel, ferreting out some clean clothes. He paused when he realized Sam was staring at him expectantly. "If you lie on the bed, hopefully you won't hurt yourself in the five minutes I'm in the shower."

Sam's jaw set stubbornly. "No."

"Sam." Dean's voice dropped an octave. "You need-"

"I'm not a kid. I can take care of myself."

Dean took a step toward his brother, eyes flashing with worried anger. "I've noticed – oh, except for the part where you almost drowned, knocked yourself out and publicly confessed to a murder you didn't commit. Am I missing anything?"

Sam bit back his retort when he saw his brother's eyes flash. Dean was tired, tense, spoiling for a fight, and Sam knew it. He held up his hands in surrender.

"Whatever." Sam pulled his legs up onto the bed, lay back, nestled his head into the pillow then crossed his arms defiantly across his chest. "This mother hen routine is gonna wear thin real fast."

Dean waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, well sucks to be you. Deal with it."

The shower started running almost as soon as Dean disappeared inside the bathroom.

xxxXXXxxx

Sam sighed and rolled onto his side, staring at the laptop on the table beside the bed. He needed to read that news article, see if there was something else, something that might…

Pain flared suddenly behind his right eye. Agitated whispers again filled his head, multiple voices, each battling to be heard. Sam screwed his eyes closed, turning his face into the pillow and slamming the heel of his hand into his temple. A lone voice cut through the din, soft but clear. "Help me."

The pain then disappeared as quickly as it hit, silencing the whispers. Sam forced open his eyes, breathing heavily.

He glanced at the bathroom door. "De-" His brother's name was cut off when intense pain again stole his breath. This time though the pain was in his lower back. He bit his lip, driving his face further into the pillow but unable to completely stifle a loud gasp. Again, the pain dissipated quickly.

Sam swallowed, his heart pounding viciously. He shivered as the temperature in the room dropped suddenly.

"So arrogant, so sure he'd won…but I'm patient." The voice was clearer, louder than it had been before. "He'll never see this coming."

Sam rolled onto his back and pushed himself up onto his elbows. Still breathing heavily, his eyes darted around the room. It was empty.

But it seemed unnaturally quiet. Even the sound of Dean's shower faded away until the only sound Sam was aware of was his own breathing.

"You again…" The voice now sounded surprised.

Sam jumped, head snapping to the right when movement caught his eye. A man stared back at him from the far side of the room – and then he was gone, blinking in and out in a heartbeat. Sam's eyes widened in shock; it was the same man he'd seen at the pool in the Ellisons' cabin.

Heart rate escalating rapidly, he tried to push himself up but fell back on his pillow when pain again exploded inside his head.

"Stop." The plea was barely audible, muffled behind gritted teeth as Sam grabbed his head in his hands.

The stranger's voice again filled his head. "You're different than the others. Harder to control …" He laughed softly, coldly, "…but not impossible."

Sam writhed against the pain inside his head, against the quiet laughter that echoed long after the threat faded away.

xxxXXXxxx

Dean felt the tension in his shoulders melt away as the hot water pounded down on him and knew immediately the shower had been a mistake. He couldn't afford to relax. Not now. He had an 11-hour drive ahead of him, and needed to watch out for Sam until they could figure out his latest vision. He needed to stay awake, stay sharp. Sleep was a luxury that would have to wait.

With a sigh, he reached for the tap and turned off the hot water. He shuddered as the massaging warmth of the water morphed into stinging needles, quickly jarring him awake. He turned to let the cold water play against his chest, gasping as it stole his breath. He bent forward, letting the icy spray pound against his head, then turned around, allowing the water to pummel his shoulders and back. His teeth were chattering when he shut off the tap but the cold water had done its job. He felt more awake; another cup of coffee and he'd be good to go.

Dean pushed aside the curtain and grabbed the towel he had thrown onto the vanity, rubbing the water from his face as he stepped out of the tub.

"Hey, Sam: you still in one piece?" He rolled his eyes, anticipating a smartass reply from the other side of the door. None came. "Sam?"

Wrapping the towel around his hips, Dean snatched open the bathroom door and stared out into the motel room. His eyes widened at the sight of his brother. "Sammy!"

Sam was still lying on the bed where he'd left him five minutes earlier but now he was writhing in pain, his arm wrapped protectively around his head.

Dean moved quickly to the side of the bed, crouched down beside his brother and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Sammy?" Dean pulled Sam's arm away from his head, his frown deepening at the pain etched into his brother's face. "Talk to me."

Sam's eyes stayed closed and his words were spat out through clenched teeth. "The voice…it's back."

Dean's eyes flashed, anger burning through the worry. "What the hell …?" He tightened his hold on Sam's arms, subconsciously trying to siphon off his brother's pain.

Slowly, Sam relaxed, blowing out a long, shuddering breath. He swallowed, then slammed his fist onto the bed in a release of pent-up anger. He peeled open his eyes and nodded at Dean. "It's okay. M'okay."

Dean's eyebrow peaked disbelievingly. Sam offered a wan smile. "Really, I'm good."

Dean didn't budge.

Sam swallowed again and allowed his eyes to slide closed. "Okay Maybe 'good's' too strong a word. Just, um, give me a minute."

Dean released his hold on Sam, pushed himself up and sat back on his own bed, facing his brother. "What did it say this time?"

Sam rubbed a hand across his eyes. "I think he's gonna kill someone else."

"The killer's dead, Sam."

Sam shuffled uncomfortably. "I know. But it was the same voice. And he spoke in the present tense that someone will 'never see it coming.'"

Dean rubbed a hand across his neck. "Oh this just gets better and better." He scowled across at his brother. "What else?"

"That his victim was arrogant, sure he'd won, whatever that means. And, um…" Sam looked away from Dean. "He…"

"Spit it out, Sam." Worry sharpened Dean's tone.

"He said I was different than the others." Sam spoke slowly, carefully as he wrestled with the implications of what the voice had said. "Harder to control…but not impossible."

Dean's stomach lurched. "He's trying to control you? How?"

"Damned if I know." Sam rolled onto his back. "And I saw him again."

Dean froze. "What?"

Sam waved his hand at the corner of the room. "Over there – just for a fraction of a second."

Dean stood slowly, kneading the growing knot of tension at the base of his neck. "Damn it, Sam." A quick glance around the room told him the salt lines and protection symbols were all intact. "First the cabin, now the room – how the hell's it reaching out to you, whatever it is?"

Sam pushed himself up on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, and shaking his head. "I heard the other voice, too. He just said, 'Help me.'"

"With what?"

Sam frowned. "Dunno. But I don't sense a threat from him. Not like-" His gaze slid back to the corner of the room.

Dean studied his brother. "Just now, you were in pain but…it didn't look like a seizure."

Sam shrugged. "I just felt this white-hot pain in my head and then my back right before I saw him."

Dean stopped pacing. "Your back?"

Sam nodded.

Dean scowled. "You didn't mention back pain to Doc, or at the hospital."

"Didn't feel it before." Sam shook his head. "It's the same kind of headache each time, but before it came with a pressure in my chest, like not being able to breathe, you know?"

"Drowning will do that…so will hyperventilating." Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "What about now? How you feeling?"

Sam pushed himself up and swung his legs off the bed. "Pain hit hard and fast, but it's gone now. I'm okay."

Dean's eyes narrowed, far from convinced his brother was telling the whole truth. "Sam?"

Sam sighed, recognizing all too well the numerous worries layered within that single word. "I'm tired, I have a headache, but I'm okay."

Dean moved quickly to the bottom of his bed. Grabbing the clean shirt he'd pulled from his duffel earlier, he pulled it over his head.

"Fine. Pack your crap. I wanna be on the road in five minutes. The sooner we get to Scottsdale, the sooner we can start to figure out what's going on and get that spirit, or whatever it is, the hell out of your head."

xxxXXXxxx

Sam again put the travel time to good use, using his laptop and his cellphone to dig up more information on both the victim, Judge Abner Matthews, and his killer, Donald Chapman.

"Thanks Officer. You've been a big help." Sam clicked his phone closed and looked over at Dean. "Okay, so from all accounts Judge Matthews had a stellar career as a prosecutor in California before being called to the bench in 1985. He presided over some pretty high-profile criminal cases, including some precedent-setting ones. Hell, I probably covered some of his decisions when I was at school."

Dean glanced over at Sam then took a sip of the coffee they'd picked up during a gas stop 20 minutes earlier. "Criminal cases, huh? That means he pissed off a lot of bad guys who might want revenge."

Sam nodded. "But Donald Chapman doesn't seem like one of them." He glanced at the notes he had taken while talking to the Scottsdale police. "He's a plumber from Idaho. A wife, two kids, three grandkids. No criminal record. Other than a couple of unpaid parking tickets, there's nothing out of the ordinary. The family told the cops he was fighting lung cancer, doing really well and then just upped and disappeared. They filed a missing persons report three days before he showed up in Scottsdale and stabbed Judge Matthews.

Dean frowned. "And there's no prior connection between Chapman and the judge?"

"No, just like the newspaper speculated." Sam reached over the seat to put his laptop in the back. "The cops weren't just being vague with the media – they can't find a connection between the two men."

"Well I highly doubt a plumber with no criminal record just woke up one morning, drove halfway across the country and murdered a judge he'd never met for no reason." Dean glanced again at Sam. "Option Number One: Chapman was possessed."

Sam shook his head. "No. Security guard shot him with an ordinary bullet and he went down. No reports of black eyes or strange black smoke."

Dean took another sip of his coffee. "Option 2: Shapeshifter."

Sam shrugged. "Possible. But why would a shifter take the form of someone in Idaho then travel halfway across the country to murder a judge?"

"Damned if I know." Dean tapped the steering wheel. "Option 3: California has the death penalty: Possession by pissed-of spirit of someone he sent to the gas chamber." He scowled at the flaw in that possibility. "But how would the spirit get from California into an Idaho plumber?"

Sam squeezed his eyes closed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I can check to see if any executed prisoners were sent back home to Idaho for burial but I'd say that's a long shot. And none of those options explain why any of this is linked to me."

"Damn." Dean stifled a yawn. "What about the judge's housekeeper? Didn't sound like you got much from her."

Sam shook his head. "No, that was her sister I was talking to. She said Isabel was resting but would be more than happy to meet with us in the morning. Hopefully she'll give us something that'll tell us what it is."

Dean glanced down at his watch. They were still about two hours from Scottsdale. "That'll give us chance to rest up, then you can work your charm on the old ladies and…"

Sam gasped in pain and Dean's head snapped back toward his brother in time to see him screw his eyes closed and drive the heel of his hand into his eye socket. "Sammy?"

Dean heard Sam's sharp intake of breath before his brother stiffened and pitched forward, the tremors racking his body escalating rapidly as he was caught in the throes of another seizure.

"Shit…" Dean had the steering wheel in his left hand, the cup of coffee in his right. The coffee was the first thing to go; he dropped the still half-full cup at his feet and slammed his right hand against Sam's chest to stop his pitch forward. But as Dean pulled his foot off the gas pedal and moved to slam it onto the brake, a spasm caused Sam's left hand to shoot out, catching Dean hard under the nose.

Dean saw stars, his right foot slipping forward and jamming into the gas pedal. The car sped up as Dean's left hand slipped down the wheel, jerking the car to the left and into the oncoming lane.

Reflexes dulled by lack of sleep and driving one-handed as he struggled to push his brother back against the seat, Dean over-corrected the steering. The lurch to the right sent the big Chevy into a 360-degree, clockwise spin across the road and then onto the sandy shoulder where the passenger-side front tire clipped a large rock. The impact threw both brothers to the left. Dean's head hit the driver's side window hard and an unconscious Sam toppled sideways, landing slumped against his brother.

The Impala hit another rock, the jolt throwing Dean forward, his forehead colliding with the steering wheel, and tossing Sam onto the floor. With both driver and passenger unconscious, momentum alone carried the car forward. It continued in a straight line across the hard desert, diagonal to the road, before colliding with a boulder, the right front headlights shattering on impact, and the car coming to an abrupt stop.

The throaty rumble of the Impala's engine was the only audible sound in the late afternoon desert. A cloud of sandy dirt, kicked up by the Chevy in its unplanned off-road trek, surrounded the car. Inside its two occupants were unmoving, Dean slumped against the wheel, Sam sprawled on the floor, his head resting against Dean's leg, his own legs bent awkwardly in the space much too small for his 6'4" frame. A slight twitching of his left hand against his chest was the only remaining evidence of the seizure that had set this latest series of events in motion.

To Be Continued…

A/N: I know, I know…another cliffie. I really can't help myself. :) I'd love to know what you think. Your notes and comments make it like Christmas in August. Thanks so much for reading. Next chapter up Wednesday or Thursday. Hope to see you then. Cheers.