The man was about Sam's age, with a twitchy, worn-thin look and papery skin. He crossed a car park, kneading his temples with one set of knuckles, fumbling for his keys with his other hand. It was night, water glistening on the concrete, and the place seemed deserted.

A warehouse chimney spewed smoke, and if the man had looked behind him he'd've seen a figure silhouetted against it. Then the figure sank back into the building's shadow.

The man got his keys out at last, then yanked the car door without unlocking it. He cursed. There was sweat beading on his forehead. He tried to stick the key in the lock and missed, hands shaking too hard; the key carved a scratch into the paint. 'Shit. Shit.' He tried again, the key glancing off the metal, and again, and again, hands trembling worse and worse each time; then he dropped the keys.

Behind him, footsteps.

The man was practically crying, scrabbling round under the car for his keys, not realising they were by his foot.

'Need a hand with that?'

The man froze, on his knees by the car. Then he started to get to his feet, very slowly.

The first stab caught him in the stomach; he clutched at it, eyes protruding as the blade slid out, then viciously in through the ribcage, with a crunch of bone and cartiledge, bursting a lung.

The blade pulled back, sliding through the shredded mess of his insides. Blood drooled from his lips, black in the light. His knees hit the ground-

-and Sam slammed into the floor with enough force to jolt himself awake, having rolled off the bed in a tangle of quilts. He scrabbled past layers of bedspread to pull his t-shirt up and run his hands over his chest, feeling for wounds, taking in a breath to check his lungs went unpunctured.

His skin was hot and smooth; unbroken. He breathed in deep enough to feel dizzy.

There was a helplessness to these dreams. He felt like he was watching the events from behind a camera, but he couldn't direct where it went; trapped behind it, it only showed him what it wanted him to know. He'd itched, tonight, for a look at the killer; instead it was the victim's fear-drawn face that he couldn't unsee.

He got up, using the mattress for leverage, and stumbled off to splash water in his eyes. His family were going home after another day. He had to get his act together.

When they were gone, it'd just be him and Brady and Luis and Becca and all the other friends who could barely look at him. Over the past four years, Jess had become such a part- not just of him, but of his routine. Helping each other make breakfast in the morning- Jess walking round the kitchen with a bit of toast held in her mouth, Sam kissing her on the nose- helping each other with notes, principles, memorisations later on, maybe crashing in front of a movie on a Saturday, legs tangled together on the sofa, her hair tickling him whenever she shifted.

Their last movie together had been a fortnight ago. Only fourteen days. They'd watched- God, what had they watched? What had they watched?

'Sam? You okay?'

Brady. Sam didn't take his head out of the sink. 'Yeah. Fine.'

The Shining. That had been it. If he'd known it had been the last movie they'd ever see together, he'd've pulled Jess closer. Paid a little less attention to Jack Nicholson.

Sam sluiced his face again.

For the past few days, he'd been staying in the motel room next to Dean's. Yesterday, Brady had offered to let him stay at his apartment til he got his feet back under him; it wasn't like he could cling to his family forever, so Sam had consented.

But, God, if he could cling to them, he would. Over the past week, he'd come so close to just begging Dean to just drive away with him in the Impala, put thousands upon thousands of miles between him and Palo Alto. And Dean might, if he really milked it. Dean had been very allowing of him lately.

If he did that, though, would he ever come back?

He bolted the bathroom door, drew the broken blind as far down as it would go, and stepped into the shower, turning the water to the coldest setting. He brushed his teeth in there, trying to get the taste of smoke and soot and blood out.

When Sam went into the kitchen, Brady was already putting his jacket on, holding his keys in his mouth.

'Hey,' said Sam.

'Hey.' The keys dropped from Brady's mouth. Sam flinched, but went to pick them up, handing them back to his friend.

'You okay?' Brady said, not looking round at him as he unlocked the door.

Sam cleared his throat. 'Yeah. I'm fine.'

'Cause, Sam...' he paused. 'Look, I was thinking.'

Sam looked at him questioningly, aware that he was standing in the middle of the kitchen. It felt a little... exposed. Which was ridiculous. It was a kitchen.

'Maybe you should take a break,' said Brady carefully. 'Have a little time off, yeah?'

'I am taking a break,' he said, pretending not to get it.

'No. I mean, like, a holiday. A road trip. A change of scenery. Anything.'

And for a moment Sam felt it, that tug towards the open road. But leaving... leaving would make it final. Leaving would mean that he'd lost her. For good.

'Thanks, Brady. I'll think about it.'

He sat down at the table and pulled a newspaper towards him. It was open on a double spread, and his eyes drifted idly over it as Brady turned to go-

-and snagged on a face.

Sam stared for a moment. Then he pulled the paper closer, checking to see if he was right, if it was really-

It was.

SPN SPN SPN

Dean put the car into gear and pulled out of the motel drive with a squeal of tyres, nearly flattening a Honda. The diner was all of a five-minute drive; he managed to shorten it to two, white-knuckling the steering wheel and overtaking several grocery vans. He parked the Impala, got out, realised he'd put it in a disabled spot, got back in, reparked it, and half-ran into the diner.

At nine in the morning, it was virtually empty. In fact, Sam was the only person here, hunched over a limp salad in the corner booth. Dean strode towards him. 'Sam! Sam? What's the matter?'

Sam looked slowly up at him, red-eyed, and huffed a tiny laugh. 'You must have scorched your tire tracks into the road.'

Dean slid into the opposite side of the booth. 'Dammit, Sam, what is it?' The words were at odds with the gentleness of his hands on Sam's shoulders.

Sam shied his head away. 'Dean, you have to promise me something.'

'Anything.' His eyes stayed fixed on Sam.

'It sounds crazy. I mean, at first I thought I was going crazy, but now- I can't be.' He put his head in his hands. 'Which is so much worse.'

'Sam!'

Sam looked up, but they were interrupted by the waitress. 'What can I get you?' she asked Dean, deadpan.

'Double cheeseburger, please,' he said automatically. She bustled off, and Dean turned back to his brother.

Sam lowered his voice, aware of their surroundings now. 'You have to promise you'll believe me.'

'I swear. Look, you want me to shake on it or something?' He spat into his palm and offered it.

Sam looked faintly nauseated. 'That's okay.'

Dean withdrew the hand. 'C'mon, man. You gotta tell me. Something's eating you.'

But Sam only twitched and blinked. 'Maybe this was a bad idea,' he muttered.

Dean had never really known how to help his little brother. Not when he grazed his knees because another kindergartener shoved him over; not when he caught the flu so bad he was hospitalised; not when his dog died and, aged twelve, he cried for a week.

But this time he had to, because there was no-one else capable. And this wasn't something you could just stick a band-aid over.

'Sam,' he said, gently as he could. 'I can't begin to imagine what you're going through, man. And I'm not gonna come out with a load of crap about time healing, because how would I know, right?'

Sam looked up, sad-eyed.

'But, Sam- you can't let whatever it is torment you like this. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get you back on your feet, you hear me? But you gotta open up to me. You gotta let me help you.'

'I- I don't-'

'Sam,' he said. 'What would Jess say?'

His brother looked at him, and then something broke. Dean watched it happen, watched as Sam makes a tiny noise like an bewildered kitten and pressed his fists into his eyes and started crying, right there in the brightly-lit diner. He makes no noise, but tears trail out from beneath his fists, and Dean just sits and mutely watches, wishing to god that he hadn't said anything.

Above them, someone cleared their throat. 'One double cheeseburger.'

'Thanks,' says Dean as she laid it down and walked away, totally indifferent.

Sam just kept on silently crying.

After a minute, he got a grip, dragging the sleeves of his sweater over his face and snivelling. 'D-Dean?'

'Yeah, Sam?'

'Look, I know this sounds crazy, okay? Like, really crazy. But you just have to please believe me.'

'Go on.' Dean was biting into the cheeseburger. A man had his needs, dammit.

Sam closed his eyes, then said, all in one breath, 'I dreamt about Jessica's death the night before it happened.' He opened his eyes. Dean had stopped chewing. 'Like, the exact way it happened. And I thought it was just, like, some kind of weird backwards memory phenomena, I guess I didn't want to admit to myself that there was something more going on, but then last night I dreamed about this guy getting stabbed and then this morning it was in the papers, Dean, he'd been murdered the exact way I dreamt, one stab wound to the abdomen and one to the heart, and I recognised his face, and I think I might actually be psychic, like for real, and it's scaring the fuck outta me.'

Dean's mouth hung open.

'Dean,' said Sam.

Dean continued to stare.

'Dean,' said Sam.

'You're right,' said Dean. 'That is weird.'

'Do you believe me?'

'I said I did, didn't I?'

'You said that before I said that I had multiple premonitions of my girlfriend being burned alive on an aertex ceiling.'

Dean shrugged. 'Well, maybe I'm just a superstitious guy.' He pushed the plate away. He was no longer hungry. 'So what do you want to do about it?'

He knew he'd said the right thing when Sam's face slackened with relief. 'I need to get out of here, Dean. I need to look for answers.'

'So what,' said Dean, 'you're thinking Great American Road Trip?'

It seemed a wise option. After all, if Sam was nuts, it couldn't do him any harm to get away for a it, and if he wasn't- well, they'd tackle that when they came to it.

And Sam had this look of longing on his face, but then he shut it off. 'What about your job?'

Dean shrugged. 'Screw the garage. I'll take a month out, tell them it's a family emergency. They owe me time anyways.'

Sam looked a little more tentatively hopeful, but not all the way there yet. 'And- and Carmen?'

He considered. 'Maybe she can stay with Mom. I mean, those two are always plotting together. They'll love it.'

Looking like he was about to collapse with relief, Sam said, 'Thank you.'

He held up his hands. 'No problem. You're still a little shit.'

A weak grin from Sam. Dean felt suddenly, inexplicably happy.

'Dean,' Sam said, and made a strange, jerky movement towards him, but Dean was already getting up, tossing a ten onto the register. 'C'mon, Samantha,' he said. 'Pack your crap. I'll go tell Mom and Carmen.'

Sam blinked. 'What, we're leaving now?'

Dean slung his jacket over his shoulder. 'You got a better idea?'

'God no,' said Sam vehemently, and scrambled out of the booth. 'No way.'