A/N: Just wanted to say a big thank you for all who have favorite, followed, read and/or reviewed all my fics, not just this one. Your support is amazing, it's just fantastic to see so much love and appreciation! Thanks especially to deanstheman and mandacncie for your continuing support, it's wonderful and greatly appreciated! DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. Credit goes to Kripke and Co.

Chapter 8

"So we find the guy half dead in his cell, right around ten or so. Tried to drown himself in the toilet." CO Jenkins nodded his head casually at the toilet in the now vacant cell, shaking his head a little in disbelief. Sure, prison suicides were pretty common, but Jenkins could think of a lot better ways to go than drowning in a goddamned toilet. Fucking disgusting. Beside him, the two CSIC agents, one incredibly tall and the other one obviously trying to hold back a smart ass comment, were writing furiously in their little notebooks. The tall one at last looked up and shot a warning glance at shorty before continuing.

"Was Mr. Long suicidal? Looking through his records there seem to be no signs that the prisoner was in danger of taking his own life."

"And would he not have been placed in isolation or under surveillance if that were the case, Mr. Jenkins?" Dean added, barely looking up from his own note pad. This time the guard did little to hide his annoyance at Dean's seemingly arrogant demeanor and shot him a glare. It was only when Sam nodded that he answer the question that Jenkins spoke up, and even then he did little to hide a hint of his own arrogance in his tone. After all, if the guy can dish it, he sure as hell can take it too.

"No, Mr. Long had never shown suicidal tendencies before, but that doesn't mean that he decided to check out of the hotel. Last time I checked, living in one of these cells isn't exactly a room at the Ritz. And to answer your question, agent" (with a glare at Dean) "we would obviously have placed the inmate under 24 hour surveillance if we believed him to be a threat to himself or others. This prison is in no way liable for this man's death. Besides, you know what the fucker did. Yeah, he was an ok prisoner but he fucking drowned his girlfriend. By tying her to the fucking seat of her fucking car! I say good riddance."

"Yes," Sam rambled, flipping to a fresh sheet. "Was there anyone around the cell at the time who could have possibly killed Mr. Long? A gang member or another inmate wanting revenge?"

"No, sir. Like I said, he killed himself. It happens. Now if you excuse me, unless you have any other questions, I have to get back to work."

"Is it alright if we take a look at Mr. Long's cell? We need to cover all possible angles, narrow down any other possible explanations."

"Fine. Be my guest. Just don't take all day. Gentlemen." With a curt nod to both brothers before striding along the hall. Pompous ass, Dean thought to himself, following his brother into the cramped living space that had been Nathan Long's home for nearly fifteen years. The brothers searched the cell thoroughly, searching for any signs that maybe Long really had killed himself but it seemed unlikely. For one, the toilet was at such a height that it would be awkward for one to drown himself without someone (or something) physically restraining him. For another, Long's behaviour was far from suicidal. He had a parole hearing scheduled within a few weeks, and while the odds were not likely in his favour, it wouldn't make sense for someone facing potential freedom to try to off himself. And there was the testimony from other inmates claiming to have heard a female voice saying "come to me". Fit their baddie's MO to a T. But the star witness was Long himself, who had shared the story of his ordeal to the Winchesters with very little persuasion on their behalf.

"I swear, I heard her saying "come to me" before I face planted in that toilet. And I felt this, I dunno, kinda presence holding me back, but there was no one there, man, you know? I was alone, no one else in the fucking cell. I'm telling you, the fucking bitch tried to kill me."

"You're telling me the girlfriend you killed over ten years ago tried to kill you." Dean had pretended to act skeptical, but managed to steal a quick glance over to his brother. That was Vanessa MacLeod, without a doubt, and she had failed in her attempt to kill her murderer. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Let me guess. You don't believe me." Long closed his eyes, leaned back as far as his shackles would allow. "Not that it matters, I'm stuck in this dump anyways. Bet ya that crazy bitch is going to go after me again. Round two."

"I assure you, Mr. Long, we are open to any possibility right now," Sam added, leaning ahead slightly across the table. "This may sound like an unusual question, but was there anything that your late girlfriend was particularly attached to? A diary, favorite stuffed animal, the like?"

"What the fuck are you talking about? What kind of federal agents ask shit like this? God, I must really be losing it…"

"You're the one who claims that his dead girlfriend came back from the dead to try to drown you in a toilet," Dean growled, and Sam kicked him in the shin. Laying it a bit too thick, Dean. "Look," he corrected himself. "I know that this sounds kinda hard to believe, but you need to answer the question, Mr. Long. Was there something Vanessa MacLeod couldn't give up, no matter what?"

Long hesitated at first, glaring at the smart ass agent before him, but finally gave in to thinking, looking back on the year they had spent together. "Well, um, she did have this picture of her family, think she was about seven or eight when it was taken. Think it was of her and her grandparents. Both dead now, forget how. Anyways she always had that picture on her, in her wallet. Never left without it. Probably still with her."

Shit! Scratch that idea off the list. Dean and Sam exchanged frustrated glances. No picture, nothing to connect the body to the spirit realm. Another busted lead. "Are you sure it was the picture?" Dean was grasping at straws and he knew it, but there was a slight possibility that Long was wrong, or that maybe the picture was still in Vanessa's room. Maybe…

"No, sir, that girl was fucking obsessed with that picture." Long sighed, leaned forward and stared at Sam squarely in his eyes. "Now, can I go now?"

XXX

"That was awesome," Dean groaned, ripping his tie loose and plopping on the motel bed, slipping off his leather shoes in the process. "This case has been nothing but one wasted lead after another. I mean, seriously? What the hell? This is beyond messed up."

"Understatement of the year."

Dean sighed, watched as Sam tossed his FBI suit in his duffle, kicked off his own shoes, and rummaged for some more comfortable clothes. His brother looked exhausted, even more so than usual. It was as if he were the one facing Hell, and not the other way around. Sam had always sworn that he would figure out some way to save him, regardless to how useless Dean knew those efforts would be. It was exhausting him, perhaps even affecting his judgment on the hunt. To be fair, this one was particularly screwy, and Dean had been just as in the dark as his brother, but something kept nagging at him that the Sammy of a few months ago would have probably figured out a solution, or at least a few more leads.

Dean knew that Sam should just drop it, forget about the deal and focus on the now, but would Dean be able to do that if the situations were reversed? Hell, the whole reason for this damn mess was because he couldn't live with his brother dead. Couldn't bear to hunt alone, to spend the rest of his life without his annoying kid brother at his side. Sure, he was the biggest fucking hypocrite to think that way, but he was the older brother, right? It was his job to protect Sam at all costs. If it mean selling his soul to a crossroads demon, then that's the way it goes.

Shit, this is messed up. Our lives are one clusterfuck after another. Dean looked up, realized that his brother had been eyeing him rather suspiciously, and quickly sat up and reached for his duffle.

"What?"

Sam knew exactly what his brother had been thinking, or at least had an idea. It was obvious that he looked like shit, and no amount of coffee or forced energy could hide it. And knowing is big brother, Dean was worrying over him when he should be worrying about his own ass. Typical Dean Winchester. For a moment, he considered a confrontation, admitting that he was pissed about Dean's bravado and macho behaviour when he knew without a doubt that he was scared out of his mind. Let him know that putting that much of a burden on his younger brother's shoulders was selfish and that what he was really doing was slowly killing him, in a more painful way than Jake had ever done in Cold Oak. At least that had been relatively quick, and had been at the hands of a stranger. But this torture, sitting back and doing little as he watched his brother slowly die before him…

Sam thought about voicing these thoughts, instead looked at his brother's equally tired eyes. No, he couldn't. At least not today. He had a year to confess how he felt to his brother, but after how miserable this hunt was going, the last thing he, or Sam needed, was an argument.

"Nothing. Never mind." Sam sat on his bed and powered up his laptop. "Guess we need to make another visit to the MacLeod's."