Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing this for me. Thank you also Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for helping me hammer out the ideas. Much love ladies xxx

Chapter Three

Dean was lying with his face pressed against the blankets, and Charlie could not think of a single thing to do to help him. She had never seen him like this before. She had seen him scared; in that hellish djinn induced nightmare, when he had seen Sam as one of the patients they had to protect, he had been afraid, and then, worse, after, when he had come back and seen Sam's actual state, he had been truly scared. But to see him physically lose control like this was new and frightening.

It had been different to read the books. Though Carver Edlund had painted pictures of what Sam and Dean went through in the books—Sam's death at the hands of Jake, Dean's by hellhound, Sam's dive into the cage—he hadn't captured this raw emotion she was seeing now. Dean was usually so composed, only giving release to his anger and rare happiness, that this was frightening her. It was like seeing a whole other side to him she didn't know existed, like she didn't know him at all.

She knew enough that she shepherded Ezekiel and Dorothy out of the room though to give him some privacy. She thought perhaps she should leave, too, but she couldn't make herself. She just sat on the edge of the bed in a show of silent support.

After what seemed like a long time, Dean sat up and wiped at his face, facing away from her.

Are you okay?" Charlie asked tentatively.

Dean nodded and drew a deep breath. "Yeah, fine.

Charlie didn't think he had ever been further from fine, but she didn't remark on it. She knew Dean would hate that.

He stood and walked out of the room without a backward glance. This was more familiar to her. She knew Dean pulled back when he was overwhelmed, even from Sam. She felt slightly reassured that he was acting like the man she knew again.

She followed him out and along the halls to the library. Walking right past Dorothy and Ezekiel, Dean made straight for the cabinet that housed their liquor. He poured himself a generous measure of whiskey from a crystal decanter and slugged it back. He poured himself a second glass and cradled it against his chest as he dragged his eyes up to Ezekiel.

"Did you see what I saw?" he asked.

"The memories?" Ezekiel asked.

"Yes. Does he… Do you see that stuff a lot?"

Ezekiel nodded, his expression somber. "He dreamed and thought of those things often."

Dean winced. Charlie wondered what it was he had seen, but she didn't ask. She didn't think Dean would want to tell her anymore that she really wanted to know. Whatever it had been, it was enough to make Dean thrash around and cry out like he was in agony. Something did resonate with her, though. Ezekiel had said dreamed and thought, past tense not present.

"Dreams," she said pointedly. "He dreams and thinks of these things."

Dean's eyes flickered between her and Ezekiel, scowling.

"Yes," Ezekiel said. "That is what I meant."

Charlie narrowed her eyes at him.

"So you were unable to reach your brother?" Dorothy asked, steering the conversation back to something Charlie was more comfortable with.

"Yeah," Dean said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I mean I found him easy enough, like I did Bobby and Charlie, but he just couldn't sense me. I did my damndest, but he was just… blocked I guess. I was like a ghost there. It wasn't like that last time."

Charlie turned her attention back to Ezekiel where he stood by the bookshelves. It was bizarre to look at Sam's face and not see him looking back. The eyes, the expression, were wrong; even the way he stood was not Sam. "Have you any idea what might have happened to him?"

The angel shook his head. "I have never known anything like this to happen before." She believed him.

Dorothy wandered over to the bookshelves and then turned to Dean. "You are Men of Letters. Has anything like this, someone… disappearing into himself, ever happened before to your knowledge?"

"Not like this," Dean said. "Not to us."

"But to others?"

"I don't know," Dean admitted. "Me and Sammy, we're not like the Men of Letters you knew. We're legacies, but we didn't know anything about them or this place until less than a year ago. They were out of action for a long time."

"Still? There have been many centuries of the Men of Letters. They would know if it had happened. Do you have records?"

"Thousands," Dean said. "We found a whole room of them."

"Just one?" Charlie asked. "This place is huge. And like you say, they were around centuries. There could be millions." It seemed like an impossible task. "Don't suppose they have some kind of card catalog system, do they?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes!" Dean said. "Sam was adding to it, too, with things we've learned over the years." His eyes came alive with something like excitement. "Hell, I bet the big geek found something like this months ago."

"Wouldn't he have told you?" Dorothy asked.

Dean grimaced. "We have our own strengths. Sam is knowledge guy. I'm action guy."

"Dean," Charlie chided, "You're so much more than that."

He held up a hand. "Another time, okay, Charlie? For now, let's just get my brother back."

"I'll hold you to that," she replied.

Dean smiled slightly. "I know you will."

"Where is the catalog?" Dorothy asked.

"Here," Dean said, walking over to a cabinet made of small drawers. He rested his hand against it for a moment and then pulled out a drawer. "Okay, I'm taking Aa to Ae, grab a drawer and get to work." He carried his drawer over to the table and sat down. He drew a deep breath and then set to work flipping through the small index cards.

Charlie took the next drawer and Dorothy another. Ezekiel didn't move to help.

"Hey, Zeke," Dean said, "earn your keep. Either grab a drawer and start searching or go make coffee. It's going to be a long night."

A pinched look of annoyance spread across his features. It was so Samlike that Charlie looked away. "I will make coffee," he said.

Charlie listened to his footsteps drawing away. When they had gone she said, "He's not exactly jumping to help."

Dean glanced in the direction he had gone and spoke in a low voice. "I know."

"Why do you think?" Charlie asked.

Dean lowered his voice further so Charlie had to lean close to hear. "Because he's hiding something."

"Do you think he know what's happened to Sam?" Dorothy asked in a whisper.

Dean shook his head. "No, not about that, but he's hiding something. Don't worry, as soon as we get Sam back, we'll find out what it is."

They worked at it well into the night, reading card after card and searching for a clue as to what had happened. When he had delivered coffee, Ezekiel joined the search. They found nothing. At some point in the early hours of the morning, Charlie fell asleep over the table and was woken by a gentle hand on her shoulder.

She woke quickly, fumbling with the cards she'd been using as an accidental pillow. "I'm sorry. I'm awake."

"You need rest," Dorothy said sternly.

"I'm good."

"Dean?" Dorothy prompted.

Dean looked up from the card in his hand to Charlie. "Yeah," he said vaguely. "Sleep. Both of you. I'll wake you when I find something."

"I can help," Charlie said, though the offer was undermined by the yawn she was unable to stifle.

Dean smiled at her. "No, you're okay. Rest up and then you'll be good to party with us when I get Sam back. I'm thinking a piñata and lots of tequila." His casual words were forced, Charlie knew.

"Okay." Charlie made a neat pile of the index cards she hadn't yet searched and got to her feet. She walked slowly from the library and through to the living quarters of the bunker with Dorothy at her side. "I'll show you where to sleep," she said. "These guys have the bedroom situation more than covered."

Dorothy nodded, looking pensive. "Thank you."

Charlie came to a stop and Dorothy took a few more steps before realizing Charlie wasn't with her.

"What?" Charlie asked.

"Pardon?"

"What aren't you saying?" Charlie asked.

Dorothy looked uncomfortable. "Nothing."

"Did you find something in the cards?" Charlie asked.

"No," Dorothy said quickly. "It's nothing."

"Sam's my friend. If you know something…"

"I don't, Charlie," Dorothy said "I don't knowanything. I just had a stray thought is all."

"What was the thought?" Charlie asked.

Dorothy lowered her voice. "I was just wondering if perhaps Sam has done this to himself."

Charlie frowned. "Sam would never hurt himself like this."

"That's not really what I meant…" She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. I'm just tired. I'll be able to think better in the morning. Come on, Charlie. You're almost asleep on your feet. Sleep and we will all be able to think clearer in the morning."

Charlie wanted to push, to find out exactly what Dorothy was thinking, but even the word sleep made her eyes close. She decided she would have to trust Dorothy to explain it better when they were rested.

They carried on along the halls to the bedrooms. She walked past Sam and Dean's rooms and led Dorothy into a free one. Dorothy thanked her and, after extracting a promise to be woken as soon as Dorothy was awake, Charlie went along the hall to the bedroom she had claimed as her own.

She closed the door behind her and stumbled straight over to the bed, dropping down onto it fully dressed. Sleep claimed her almost immediately.

She dreamed of Sam. He was curled in on himself in the corner of a vast dark room. He looked up at her and said, "Help me, Charlie. Find me." When she woke in the morning, with Dorothy's hand on her shoulder, she found her pillow and face were damp with tears.

Charlie was sure Dean would have woken her himself if there had been a breakthrough, but she was still disappointed to find him in the same position she had left him hours earlier, still poring over the cards. The only noticeable change was the addition of a few books in front of him. The sight of the books gave her a little hope; she thought maybe he was working towards something. But his mournful eyes quickly quashed that hope.

"Nothing," he said in response to her unasked question. "I found a bunch of references about angelic vessels and possession, but it's nothing we don't already know."

Charlie closed her eyes, disappointed. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"Yeah, me too," he said dully. "I'm on the last drawer." He said it like it was an admission of guilt, as if he had failed somehow.

Ezekiel came into the room then, a tray of coffee in his hands. "I heard you get up," he said in explanation.

Charlie took a mug gratefully and moved to sit beside Dean at the table. She reached to take a stack of cards out of the drawer, but he shook his head and dumped his own down. "What's the point?" he asked. "There's been nothing in the whole alphabet that might help. It's unlikely X through Z are going to."

"You don't know," Charlie said, taking his cards and starting to flick through them. "The answer could be on the very last card. We'll only know by looking."

Ezekiel set a mug of coffee down in front of Dean and he murmured, "Thanks, Sammy," without looking up. The room fell absolutely silent. Charlie could hear her own breaths in her ears like roaring wind.

"Zeke," Dean corrected himself. "I meant Zeke, dammit."

"I understand," Ezekiel said. "It must be very confusing for you to have me here looking like Sam without being Sam."

Dean grunted a laugh. "Confusing? Yeah. That's one word for it. Impossible is another."

"Would you like me to leave?" Ezekiel asked, his brow creased.

"No," Dean said harshly. "You have to stay here. When we work out what's happened to Sam, we're going to need you here to help fix it."

"Okay," Ezekiel said simply.

"Okay. Good." Dean reached for his mug and took a swig of coffee then went back to the cards.

Charlie slowed her actions as she came to the end of the stack, hoping that by taking her time she wouldn't miss something, though it was unlikely she would with an almost eidetic memory. As she set her very last card down, Dean did the same with his own. For a moment, he looked eerily calm, and then he lurched to his feet and swept his hand across the table, scattering the cards.

"Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!" he shouted. "Dammit, Sam!"

Charlie leaned away from him, almost afraid of his outburst. She had read about his sometimes volatile temper, but she'd not seen it to this extent before.

"Dean," Dorothy said quietly, glancing between him and Charlie pointedly.

Dean looked at her and seemed to sag. "I'm sorry," he said.

Charlie knew it wasn't a word he said often, especially not when angry, and she gave him a small smile. "It's okay."

"No," he said sadly. "It's not. It's just…"

"It's Sam. I understand."

Dean flopped back into his chair and leaned his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. "I don't know what to do," he said.

Charlie glanced at Dorothy, remembering the conversation, or rather the lack of, they'd had in the night. "Your stray thought," she prompted.

Dorothy looked stricken as Dean's head jerked up. "Do you know something?" he asked.

"No," she said quickly. "I don't know anything."

"You're obviously thinking something," Dean growled, "so spit it out."

"Please, Dorothy," Charlie said. "We're kinda at a loss here. If you have even an idea of what might've happened…"

Dorothy came slowly to the table and sat down. She rested her hands in her lap and fixed her eyes on Dean, seeming to be forcing herself to look him in the eyes as she said, "Shellshock."

"What about it?"

"In the Great War, men were rendered incapable by what they'd been through. Some of them were so damaged that they stopped interacting with the world altogether. They were like living corpses."

"Catatonia," Charlie said. "It was… Oh." She saw what Dorothy meant now, and it gave her a twist in her guts. It made sense, too. Sam had been through so much. Perhaps the witch's possession had been the final straw. And with an angel running the switches, it would present differently to how it would look on anyone else. It also explained why Ezekiel couldn't find him. If Sam had shut down, he would be untraceable.

"No!" Dean said harshly.

"Dean…" Charlie said softly.

"No, you don't get it," Dean said. "Sam would not do that. He wouldn't just give up."

"It's not a choice," Charlie said. "It's a reaction. Sam's been through a lot. Don't you think there's even a chance that it could have been too much for him?"

"No, he's been through worse before. Some witch isn't going to make him check out."

"She didn't," Dorothy said reasonably. "She pushed him down, like the angel said. Do you think it's possible he just didn't have the strength to fight his way back up?"

Dean closed his eyes and sighed. "I don't," he said, but there was no certainty in his tone. He was doubting now.

Charlie pressed the advantage. "Think, Dean. You told us Sam was ready to go with Death. He was prepared to die. Could it be that this time it was just too much for him?

Dean bit his lip. "It's not like that," he said quietly, speaking to himself not them.

"Like what?" Dorothy asked.

"There was this time a few years back, when Sam was actually being driven mad by something. He got tired, real tired, and he just couldn't… But Cas took… He's stronger now. No, I don't believe it. He's not given up."

"There's one other option," Dorothy said quietly.

"What?" Dean asked hopefully. "Dammit, what?"

Dorothy lowered her eyes. "Maybe he really did go with Death this time."

So… Dorothy isn't remotely a doomster, is she? Raise your hands if you think Sam's a dead'un.

Until next time…

Clowns or Midgets xxx