A/N: Warning-eating disorder coming up. Also, I borrowed the scene and some of the dialogue from the episode where Yellow Eyes gets in Sam's dream and takes him to see the night his mom was killed. I revamped it to fit this story's purposes.

Chapter 7

TJ threw her car keys on the tiny counter that separated her miniscule kitchen from the living room of her even more miniscule apartment. It was a cheap, one-bedroom efficiency a few miles from the SDSU campus and Shorty's, where, luckily, she still had a job.

She had narrowly escaped getting fired from the bar and grill after the whole Grapes of Wrath incident, despite Chanel's best efforts to get her canned. Dean had worked his magic on Katherine and Phil, and TJ had survived yet another pissed off customer. Even better, Chanel and her lackeys had boycotted the place after they saw that TJ still worked there, making TJ's job a lot easier.

Dean had given her a stern lecture, however, about how she had to watch her mouth, and she had realized that it wasn't just herself that was affected every time she got into trouble. It was a hassle for Dean, too—a hassle that TJ felt bad for causing him—and she had been a good girl, biting her tongue more times than she could count in order to keep them both out of the line of fire.

She went into her bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. As usual, she was unimpressed with what she saw—straight, lank brown hair, unremarkable brown eyes, annoying freckles that refused to be covered by any kind of makeup. She closed her eyes, wishing with all her might that she had at least one feature that wasn't so plain Jane and that might actually be called pretty—something that would make Sam attracted to her.

She was tired of always being the best friend, just one of the guys—especially with Sam. Her feelings for him were more intense than she'd ever felt for any guy, even her six-week first "love" that she'd had in high school. She wanted to be near Sam every minute of the day, but, at the same time, it was torture when she was with him.

She wanted to touch him the way a girlfriend touches a boyfriend, to touch her lips to his, to tell him how awesome he was, but she knew it would be the death of their friendship and she wasn't willing to risk it. She'd been there and done that. Instead, she constantly had to restrain herself, had to pretend that she thought of him in the same way he thought of her, had to pretend that she wasn't falling in love with him.

It had been around thirty minutes since she'd taken Sam home, and it was past midnight. The rest of their evening had gone by mostly without a hitch. Of course, they'd had to reverse the process of getting Sam in the restaurant to get him out again, but, since the tables and chairs in his way had already been moved, it wasn't as much of a production when he rolled out of the place. Despite the usual tick in his jaw, he hadn't seemed quite as uptight when Marco and Robert had helped him down the stairs, either.

Sam was so smart—brilliant, in fact—and he had so much potential and so much to give that TJ was making it her mission in life to make him see that he could still have fun and be happy, even if he had to do it from a wheelchair. She knew with Sam, though, that just telling him that wouldn't do him any good. He was too stubborn and angsty for that, so she would have to show him, like she had tonight.

She'd made sure that most of the places they'd gone were accessible and knew it had been insensitive of her to take him to a restaurant that wasn't, but she'd done it on purpose to show that he could deal with unforeseen obstacles and that he would survive even if every little thing wasn't planned out. It was a fact of life that sometimes he just needed help—everyone does—and she figured the sooner he got over it, the better. If she'd pissed him off a little, so be it. It was worth the risk of alienating him in order to hear him admit, albeit a little grudgingly, that he'd had a good time.

If anything, she was the one that shouldn't have been at the restaurant tonight, not him. She'd been very bad.

She took off her cardigan and shirt, leaving on her jeans and bra, and turned sideways to look at her stomach in the mirror. It was sticking out five miles, along with the lower part of her abdomen—her pooch—and she felt the sickening guilt begin to consume her. She was so full from dinner it was painful. She pulled on the skin of her pooch, and it stretched out over the waistband of her jeans. Muffin top, she thought with disgust.

She'd been so good for the last month, had maintained her strict diet of five hundred calories a day. In fact, she ate less than that on most days, and she hadn't binged in weeks—until tonight. It had been the bread. The smell of the rolls had been irresistible, and she'd almost been shaking with anticipation when Robert had first set them on their table. She'd jonesed for them like an addict joneses for heroin, and the first bite of the warm, crusty bread had given her a euphoric high that she imagined must be a little like actually taking heroin. It had been hard to hide her gluttony from Sam, but, in a way, it was a blessing that she'd ticked him off. He had been too preoccupied with his indignation and annoyance to notice.

She'd lost count of how many rolls she'd eaten, not to mention how many calories must have been in the Marsala. She was tempted to look it up on her calorie journal web site, but she couldn't make herself heap even more guilt on tonight. Besides, she didn't need to look it up to know that she'd gone way over her limit. She glanced at the toilet, wanting desperately to purge everything she'd eaten, wanting to wipe the slate clean.

She hated sticking her fingers down her throat, though, hated the way some of the vomit inadvertently came out her nose instead of her mouth, hated the way some of the toilet water would splash in her face when the food that had been ejected from her body hit it. There was also the issue of the tiny dots she'd get on her eyelids and around her eyes from blood vessels that had burst, even though most people assumed they were freckles unless they knew what to look for and knew her past history.

She wouldn't do it tonight. It had been too many hours since she had eaten and the food had already begun to digest; it would be too hard on her body. She should have excused herself and done it right away in the bathroom at the restuarant, but she was afraid Sam would figure out somehow what she had done, like maybe her breath would smell or something, even though she always carried a toothbrush and toothpaste in her purse, a washcloth to wash her face, and makeup to refresh once she was done.

Making herself barf was a disgusting thing to do and didn't really make her feel any better about herself. It made her feel defective, made her into someone with an eating disorder. She would die if Sam ever found out, would never be able to face him again. It was her dirty little secret. No one knew, and she was bound and determined to keep it that way.

She'd been a yo-yo dieter since age eleven, gaining and losing the same twenty-five pounds over and over again until she'd gone to college, where she'd finally gotten a handle on it. She'd finally found a way to resist temptation for the most part, except for the occasional binge and purge.

The purging had started when she was a freshman and had escalated so badly her sophomore year that she'd gotten sick, and, because she still lived in the dorms, her residential adviser had found a counselor for her. She'd done what the counselor asked, had kept a journal with all her feelings of self-hatred toward her body and a food journal, had started eating again to appease everyone, but, deep down, she knew she was still an Amazon.

At five-foot, eleven-and-a-half inches—technically not six foot—the charts said she was supposed to weigh between 148 and 162 pounds, but she still felt gigantic and fat at the minimum weight recommended, had felt her "healthy" weight was really a lie, a conspiracy by everyone else to keep her fat. She'd done what they wanted, had stayed precisely at that weight and not a pound more, and they'd pronounced her cured, but she'd just been waiting until she was free of them—the counselor, her parents, her friends—to start again.

Her roommate had graduated last semester, and instead of finding another one, she'd rented the small efficiency so she could live alone, so no one would notice her eating habits or her purging habits. She'd blown off all her old friends, had told them so many times that she was just too bogged down with work and classes to go out that they had finally stopped calling.

At first it had just been five more pounds she'd wanted to lose, but when she'd reached that goal, she'd still been fat, could still see the bulges, still felt like a Goliath. In the last few months, she'd lost twenty-five pounds, but it wasn't enough. She knew her parents would tell her she should stop, knew they would say something was wrong, but they were in Kentucky, and it would be at her graduation in a few months before she saw them again. They would say she was anorexic or bulimic or both, that she needed help; but she'd gotten "help" before, and she knew what she was supposed to do. She just didn't want to do it.

Besides, while she would admit that she maybe had anorexic and bulimic tendencies, she still ate, and she only purged when it was absolutely necessary. If she had an eating disorder, it wasn't severe, and she could handle it. She would stop dieting eventually. She was almost there. If she could just avoid binges like tonight, she would probably already be at her goal weight, although her body seemed to hold onto every pound now with a vengeance. It enraged her, this lifelong battle she'd had with her hulk of a body, the way her body refused to cooperate with her, but she was finally winning. She couldn't do anything about her height, but she could damn sure control how much she weighed.

Each day she went without cheating, without binging, she felt a triumphant sense of power. She felt successful and in control, even though, sometimes, the hunger would literally bring her to her knees, like it almost had the first night she'd talked to Sam at Shorty's. She'd come really close to passing out that night, but that was because she'd been so busy that day, hadn't really eaten anything, and she'd been more careful since then to make sure that she at least consumed two hundred calories a day.

It wore her down, sometimes, constantly fighting the painful, addictive hunger. Some days, it was all she could think about. She would be eating lunch and obsessing about what she would eat for dinner at the same time. It was like being an alcoholic, except, in her opinion, it was harder, because she couldn't give up food cold turkey like an alcoholic could stay away from alcohol. She had to have food to survive.

It was depressing that she couldn't be like other people, that it was all or nothing with her. She wasn't like those lucky, naturally thin girls who could stop at one or two pieces of pizza. With TJ, one bite of pizza would lead to eating four or five or even six pieces (oh, hell, who was she kidding? She could eat the whole damn thing), so it was better not to take a bite at all, if she could avoid it.

She turned away from the mirror, unable to look at herself anymore, done with assessing the damage she'd done tonight. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, put on an oversized t-shirt and cotton pajama pants, and got into bed, although she was a little wired. The hunger usually drained her, and she was always wiped out by the end of the day, but the overload of carbs she'd eaten tonight and the fact that she'd just spent several hours with Sam had her almost sizzling with energy, despite the guilt and discouragement of her failure to control herself.

She consoled herself with the knowledge that she would make up for her binge tomorrow and the next few days by eating less and finding time to exercise more. She vowed not to lose her grip on her willpower, although there was always the fear in the back of her mind that the latest slip-up would be the beginning of an eating rampage, like an alcoholic that falls off the wagon and goes on a bender.

She wouldn't let that happen, though. She would be back in control again tomorrow. She would be good.

XXXXXXXX

It was later than usual when TJ dropped Sam off, and Bobby had already crashed out on the sofabed. However, Dean had just gotten home from Shorty's, so he was able to help Sam get undressed and ready for bed so that Sam wouldn't have to rouse Bobby to help him.

Dean had just gone to crash himself, and Sam felt a pang of guilt that his brother had looked absolutely exhausted. Maybe Bobby and TJ were right. Maybe it was time Sam tried to find something to do with his life; that is, if he didn't take the deal Yellow Eyes had offered him. Even with all the evil things he'd seen and hunted, it still seemed surreal that he had such a proposal before him, especially after the last few weeks with TJ, where he'd felt more like himself and things had seemed sort of normal.

He was lying in bed on his back, right arm in the sling which he would hopefully be rid of soon, and he forced his thoughts away from the deal and the unthinkable to his evening out with TJ. He usually hated it when people manipulated him into doing things they thought were supposedly for his own good. The fact that she'd taken him to a restaurant that she knew wasn't accessible still irked him, but, after the hassle of actually getting him in the restaurant and to the table, he had to admit he had eventually enjoyed it. Of course, who knew what the bathroom was like in the place or if he could have even gotten to it, but thank God he hadn't run into that problem, and thank God he hadn't had to call it to TJ's attention.

He could feel himself getting sleepy and closed his eyes. TJ's face danced across his memory, the light in her eyes, the vitality she exuded that seemed to spill out of her and into him. He couldn't stay ticked at her, and she knew it. She had taken advantage of that tonight, and he should be angry, but, strangely, he wasn't. She was one of those rare people that, the moment you met her, you felt like you'd known her all your life, and she could get away with things that a normal acquaintance couldn't. She was like an old friend that had no qualms about telling you if your fly was unzipped and made good-natured fun of you in the process.

She was a lot like Dean in some ways, and Sam had begun to miss that easy banter between Dean and himself. He'd felt his resentment toward Dean begin to soften, could feel himself start to thaw where his brother was concerned. Deep down, he knew he hadn't been fair to Dean, and he remembered Dr. Salazar telling Dean that sometimes the people who were loved the most bore the brunt of the wrath. He hadn't wanted to analyze his anger toward Dean too closely before, had needed a target, an outlet for the bone-jarring rage, humiliation, and injustice he'd felt, but maybe it was time to take a closer look. Maybe he was ready.

"Hey, Sammy."

Sam's eyes flew open, and his pulse instantly began to pound.

Azazel was leaning over him, eyes glowing yellow, a pleasant smile on his face. "I believe you and I have unfinished business."

Sam closed his eyes, not ready for this, not ready to say yes; not ready to say no. But he knew what the answer would be, what it had to be. He wanted to shout to Dean and Bobby for help, but he was afraid of what Azazel would do to them, remembering what he'd done to Dean in the cabin with their dad. He'd almost shredded Dean from the inside out.

"Are you ready now, Sam? Are you ready to fulfill your destiny?"

Sam's breathing was too rapid, and he closed his eyes, trying to will himself to calm down. He swallowed and forced himself to look Azazel in the eye. "You can take your offer and shove it up your ass."

Azazel seemed to ponder that a moment, the expression on his face unreadable as he met Sam's gaze. "Hm, Sammy, maybe it's time you and I took a little walk down memory lane."

Azazel reached his hand toward Sam.

Sam winced and braced himself, expecting pain. Instead, he saw Azazel pull the covers off of him and touch his leg. After a few seconds, he not only saw Yellow Eyes touching him, he felt the warmth of the demon's hand on his leg—felt it—and then his body was suffused with an intense, yet not unpleasant, tingling sensation.

He was stunned to realize that he could feel his entire body, not just the upper half. He could feel the cotton of his sweatpants on his legs, could feel the drawstring waist cinched on his hips, could feel the elastic waist of his boxers underneath. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the meaning of such a simple thing, by the sheer relief of it, and couldn't stop the few warm tears that flowed down his cheeks.

"Here," said Yellow Eyes, throwing Sam a pair of jeans and a hunter-green pullover shirt. "Put these on. Time's a'wastin'," he said with a Jack Nicholson-like grin.

Slowly, Sam engaged his abdominal muscles, all of them, and sat up without having to use his arms. He shrugged his shoulders and was surprised to find that the usual pain and soreness in his right shoulder was gone. He took off the sling and raised his right arm without any effort, rotating his shoulder several times, not feeling even a twinge of pain.

He felt almost hypnotized as he swung his now muscular legs—his legs the way they had been before his injury—over the side of the bed, stood, and took off his sweatpants. He took the jeans Azazel had thrown him and put his feet in the legs of the jeans, pulling them up without effort. It was such an easy thing, something that most people took for granted, but Sam relished it.

He put on the pullover over his thin, gray t-shirt, and Azazel threw Sam's favorite pair of Pumas onto the floor near Sam's feet that the demon must have found in the back of Sam's closet. Sam didn't know why he still had them. He hadn't worn them since rehab because, for some reason, they had caused a skin rub on his left heel that had almost become a nasty pressure sore, and they didn't seem to stay on very well, even when tied. It was just another thing he'd lost with his injury.

It seemed ridiculous that he had to be selective of what kind of shoes he wore since his feet never really touched the ground and he couldn't feel them, but it was an issue a lot of people with SCI had to deal with. He'd eventually gotten a pair of hated brown Merrell loafers because he'd read on an SCI web site that a lot of people liked them because they didn't cause skin breakdown and they stayed on well, even with spastic feet. In that sense, they were adequate, but they weren't what he would have normally picked out, and it was just another thing that had chipped away at who Sam Winchester had been, another part of himself lost.

Azazel snapped his fingers near Sam's face. "Wake up, there, Dazed and Confused. We don't have all night."

Sam slipped the shoes on without socks and tied the laces, savoring the feel of the slight tightness across the top of his feet and the feel of his toes wiggling inside the leather. Then, he stood to his full height, towering over Azazel, and a lump formed in his throat. Again, unbidden tears escaped his eyes, and he turned his head away and quickly scrubbed away the moisture, hating the show of weakness.

It had been a long time since his line of sight had been above belt buckles and doorknobs. Except for the few times he'd been in a standing chair during his PT sessions with a therapist back in Iowa, his height had gone from six-foot-four before his injury to a little over three-and-a-half-feet tall when he was sitting in his wheelchair. That had been one of the hardest things for him to get used to, having to look up at people all time. Not that he had really ever gotten used to it. It was kind of like sitting in the very front seat of a movie theater all the time.

Azazel raised his brows. "Wanna go take a leak? Now's your chance to do it standing up, like a man."

"Fuck you," said Sam with venom.

Azazel patted Sam on the arm. "Sorry I don't have a lady friend for you so you could enjoy all the benefits of having your body back, but I'm afraid we don't have the time."

Sam exhaled harshly, feeling his blood boil, detesting Azazel for saying that and detesting himself for wishing he could bury himself in the first willing woman he saw until he was spent and utterly satisfied. He ground his teeth together and hissed, "Why are you doing this?"

"There's something I want you to see, Sam," he said matter-of-factly. "Follow me."

Sam watched as Azazel headed toward the closed door of his bedroom, the demon unfazed by the fact that Dean and Bobby were just beyond it.

After a moment's hesitation, Sam took the first steps he'd taken in over a year and walked, following the demon out the door. Sam couldn't help but grin at the elation he felt from walking again with ease, enjoying the comfort and sense of self that reconnecting with his entire body gave him.

He was so euphoric that, at first, he didn't care about or register his surroundings as he and Azazel stepped through the threshold into what should have been the hallway of the apartment but was, instead, a room that seemed both foreign and familiar at the same time. Then he saw his mother standing a few feet from him, and he stopped cold in his tracks.

"Recognize any of this?" asked Yellow Eyes.

"Mom?" said Sam, awed by the sight of her.

She had no reaction. She seemed to be staring right through them.

Sam turned around and saw that, behind him, was a baby crib, and there was a baby lying in it, its eyes wide open and crying at a dark figure leaning over it. Sam realized with horror that the baby was him.

In the next instant, Sam was no longer standing in front of the crib but was standing with Azazel in a far corner of the room. "Best seat in the house," crowed the demon. "Shoulda brought popcorn."

"John?" asked Mary with uncertainty.

Sam could feel his heart rate speed up. "Mom!"

"Relax, Sam," said Yellow Eyes. "This is just a hi-def, instant replay. Enjoy the show."

Sam turned his attention back to his mother, feeling his blood pulsing through his veins, pounding in his ears.

Mary frowned. "Is he hungry?"

"Shh," said the dark figure, face unseen.

Mary turned to leave. "Okay," she said, with uncertainty.

"Wait, Mom. Mom!" yelled Sam, as he watched her disappear through the doorway.

Azazel rolled his eyes. "What did I just tell you, Sam? She can't hear you. This isn't real."

Sam stared at the dark figure hovering over the crib in morbid fascination. "Who is that?" he asked Azazel.

"Shh," the demon admonished. "This is the good part."

The dark figure sliced his own wrist with his long, grotesque fingernail. As dark, crimson blood ran from the wound, he let the blood drip into the baby's mouth.

Sam was repulsed and horrified. "What the hell is it doing to me?"

"Better than mother's milk," Azazel taunted.

"Does this mean I have demon blood in me?"

Azazel chuckled.

"Answer me!" cried Sam, as a nauseating panic swelled within him.

Suddenly, Mary rushed back into the room.

The dark figure turned to her, flashing its yellow eyes.

"You bastard!" shouted Sam to Azazel. "It's you!"

Mary took a step toward the crib. "No! Get away from my baby!"

The demon from the past raised a hand, and Mary was forcefully pinned against the wall, held by invisible bonds.

Sam stood, frozen with terror, as his mother was slowly moved up the wall until she was pinned to the ceiling.

The look on Mary's face was one of shock, confusion, and pain.

A memory of Jessica in the same position flashed before Sam's eyes, and he felt as if all the blood was draining from his body, his heart stopping. "No! No!" Sam wanted to run to her, but Azazel grabbed his arm.

Azazel looked almost contrite. "I don't think you wanna see the rest of this." He snapped his fingers, and they were back in Sam's room. The demon tsked and said, "It's past your bedtime, Sammy." Again, he snapped his fingers.

Before Sam really understood what had happened, he found himself back in his bed lying on his back, his right arm in the sling, the soreness back in his shoulder, the lower half of his body unresponsive and utterly devoid of any sensation once again. He was wearing the sweatpants and gray t-shirt he'd gone to bed in. The clothes and shoes he'd been wearing were gone along with his ability to move, and his heart plummeted to his gut. The realization that he was paralyzed again was devastating, and hot tears of rage streamed from his eyes. "Why did you do this to me?" he rasped.

"I wanted you to see that your noble resistance to me is ridiculous and futile. You're already tainted, Sam. You have demon blood coursing through your veins; your destiny is with me." As an afterthought, he said, "Oh, and wasn't it just fantastic to feel the soles of your feet, to be able to wiggle your toes again, to walk? I just wanted you to have a taste of what you've been missing."

Sam clenched his fists and breathed hard, trying to fight the bile that threatened to come to the surface. "You son of a bitch. You ruined my life. You killed everyone I love."

"Had to be done. I couldn't let you become a tax lawyer with a wife, two kids, and a mortgage on a McMansion. You're special because you grew up as a hunter, Sam. College wasn't for you. I needed you to go back to hunting and hone your fighting skills."

"If I hadn't gone back to hunting, I wouldn't be paralyzed!"

"Just a small setback. Agree to be my soldier, my leader, and that can be fixed."

"Fuck you. I'm gonna tear you to shreds, I swear to God."

Yellow Eyes gave him a patronizing look, taking in Sam's paralyzed legs with scorn. "Yeah. Give it your best shot, tiger."

Sam closed his eyes, sickened by the fact that he was so useless and defenseless.

Azazel pulled the covers back over him and tucked the blanket around him. "Sleep tight, tiger," he said with mock tenderness. "I think the next time I visit, you'll be ready." Then he was gone, leaving the room eerily silent.

Sam could feel the muscles straining in his neck, could feel the searing heat of building frustration and rage in him that was about to explode. He was flooded with overwhelming grief for those he had lost and the life that should have been his, the life that had so brutally been torn away from him. With blind fury, he let out a fierce, throaty howl of pain and soul-wrenching desolation that came from deep within him, not caring who heard.

The next thing he knew, he was being shaken, and he could hear Bobby calling his name.

"Sam! Wake up!" demanded Bobby.

Sam was panting, could feel moisture on his face from sweat and, to his embarrassment, tears. He couldn't open his eyes, couldn't face Bobby.

Then he heard Dean. "Sammy!" He felt himself firmly embraced by his brother, Dean's strong hands supporting his back. "It's okay, Sammy. It's just a nightmare," Dean assured in a gravelly voice.

The strain of their relationship momentarily forgotten, Sam wrapped his good arm around Dean, hugging him tightly, wadding the fabric of Dean's white cotton t-shirt in his fist. Sam felt like he was drowning, and Dean was his lifeline. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and he could feel himself near the point of hyperventilation.

"Listen to me. It's okay, man. It's not real," said Dean. His tone was firm and sure.

Sam fought to get control of himself, fought to push the feelings of self-disgust and horrific despair away. He wished it weren't real, but even if he'd been asleep and Azazel had fucked with him in a dream, he knew it was still all true. God help him. He had demon blood in him. He felt his throat closing, and it was hard to suck in air.

"Look at me, Sammy," coaxed Dean, and he loosened his embrace and grabbed Sam's jaw with his hand.

Sam opened his eyes to see Dean's face. Dean's brows were drawn together in concern, but, as usual, his natural air of self-confidence and strength came through. "Breathe with me, in and out," he commanded.

Sam forced himself to listen to his brother, forced himself to match Dean's breaths. He had to get control of himself, couldn't let Dean and Bobby know what Yellow Eyes had told him. They would think he was a freak, something to be hunted, and maybe that wasn't too far from the truth.

As he started to regain his composure, he remembered with photographic clarity those all-too-brief moments of bliss when he'd been whole and walking, and another wave of crushing grief washed over him, chipping away another piece of him, whiddling away his resolve to say no to Azazel.

XXXXXXXX

Dean jerked awake, his adrenaline instantly kicking in at the sound of his brother's roaring howl. It was like Sam was being tortured, like he was being torn apart, the sound of it disturbing and thoroughly heart-breaking.

Dean was wearing nothing but his boxers, and he quickly threw on his t-shirt and the jeans he'd worn to work at Shorty's. He'd thrown them on the floor earlier before collapsing with exhaustion into bed.

He ran to Sam's room at the end of the hall. The door was already open, the light was on, and he squinted from its brightness. He saw Bobby shaking Sam's good shoulder, trying to wake him, Sam still yelling. When Bobby saw Dean, he stepped to the side so Dean could take over.

Sam's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his breathing rapid and heavy, sweat and tears on his face. "Sammy!" Dean barked, trying to break the grip the nightmare had on his brother. He pulled Sam into a tight hug, careful of his bad shoulder. "It's okay, Sammy. It's just a nightmare."

Sam wrapped his good arm around Dean, bunching the cotton fabric of Dean's shirt. Dean could feel Sam trembling, could feel the hitch in Sam's chest as he gulped in air, the sound like a sob. He consoled Sam, tried to get him to slow his breathing, and Sam finally seemed to begin to calm down.

"You good now, Sammy?" Dean asked with gruff concern when the immediate crisis seemed to be over.

Sam nodded, and Dean carefully lowered him back to where his head was resting on the pillow.

"You wanna talk about it?"

Sam closed his eyes, forehead creasing. "No."

Dean looked at Bobby.

Bobby met his look, worry etched on his face. "Sam—"

"Like Dean said, it was just a nightmare," interrupted Sam, his voice quiet. He opened his eyes and they seemed almost dead, like he was broken inside.

It sent a chill down Dean's spine.

"Go back to bed," said Sam. "I'm just gonna watch TV until I can relax. I'll be fine." He turned his head toward Dean. "Could you hand me the remote?"

Dean studied Sam for a moment, disturbed by how quickly Sam had gone from full-on freak-out to unnerving calm, but he grabbed the remote from the nightstand and handed it to him.

Sam pointed the remote at the small TV they'd gotten at a thrift store. He was staring at the TV screen, his face now a mask of stoic strength, hiding any emotion.

Bobby and Dean shared a look.

Sam must have sensed their wary skepticism because he sighed and, in a flat voice, said, "It was just a dream. I was up walking again, and it...felt good. Then I was paralyzed again." He was flipping through channels, never looking at Dean or Bobby.

Dean just sat there on the side of Sam's bed, wanting to do something or say something to make it better but knowing he couldn't. It was such a basic, abbreviated account of the nightmare, but Dean ached for his brother, knew without hearing the details how dispiriting the dream would have been. He also knew there was more to it, but it was clear that Sam was done talking about it. Dean was surprised Sam had offered that much.

"Turn out the light on your way out," said Sam, eyes still glued to the TV.

Dean shot another look at Bobby.

Bobby nodded.

Dean reluctantly stood and squeezed Sam's good shoulder. "Night, Sammy."

Sam's jaw tensed, and his brow furrowed for an instant as if he were maybe in pain, but he never looked at Dean or Bobby, stubbornly staring at the TV.

Dean walked to the doorway and turned off the light. Blue flashes from the TV danced across Sam's stony features as Dean shut the door.

Out in the hallway, Bobby inclined his head toward the living room and kitchen, and Dean nodded and followed. When they reached the kitchen, Bobby leaned against the counter and said, "You buyin' that?"

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "I think he gave us the CliffsNotes version."

"What do you think's going on?"

"He's holding something back, has been since he hurt his shoulder."

Bobby thought for a moment. "He seemed better, not quite as depressed lately. Maybe we're reading too much into it."

"I know my brother, Bobby. I've seen him have nightmares before, but he's never reacted as violently as he did tonight, not even after Jessica. I think something's fucking with his head."

"Yellow Eyes?"

"It fits. That night in the cabin—" Dean stopped and exhaled, steeling himself. "The night Yellow Eyes possessed my dad, he told us that he killed Mom and Jessica because they got in the way of his plans for Sammy and all the other children like him."

Bobby narrowed his eyes. "What the hell did he mean by that?"

"I don't know. But you know about the visions Sam had, right?"

"Yeah. You think they were connected to Yellow Eyes?"

"He said 'other children like him.' Other children with visions or some other kind of powers, maybe?"

Bobby sighed. "I thought Sam's visions stopped after he got hurt."

"They did. Or, at least, I thought they did, but something's going on with him. Something's eating at him. I mean, I thought that..." He trailed off.

Bobby gave him a shrewd look mixed with understanding. "You thought that the demon lost interest in Sam because of his injury?"

Dean almost felt guilty for admitting it, like he was saying Sam was damaged goods—which wasn't fucking true. Reluctantly, he said, "Yeah. I mean, whatever his plans were for Sam, the fact that Sam got hurt and was paralyzed would have thwarted them, right? But what if the demon uses the injury to somehow get to Sam instead?"

Convinced, Bobby said, "All right. I'll make some calls, see if there's been any signs of demonic activity around here."

Dean nodded.

"Should we salt the apartment, take precautions?"

Dean shook his head. "It's immune to all the normal protections. Its only weakness is the Colt."

Bobby raised his brows.

Dean hardened his jaw, a feeling of intense hatred snaking its way through him. "There's one bullet left in the Colt, and it's got that son of a bitch's name on it."

TBC