Summary:  Sam and Dean take an unexpected break that leads them into uncharted territory.
A/N:  This fic has been the bane of my existence for the past month now, so I figured I better start posting it before I seriously lose my mind. This will be a LONG fic, which is always a scary thing, considering my aversion to writing things with a plot. Therefore, it starts off a bit slow, in my opinion, but there is a conflict that will eventually mount hopefully, maybe. The idea, however, is not my own, so much thanks to Lauren, who gave me the idea and let me run with it. Hopefully it doesn't hit too far from the mark you were envisioning. And, always, always, always, thanks to geminigrl11. I can't even express what she's done for me and this fic. Gem, next time I get it in my head to write a long fic, will you please talk me out of it? PLEASE! By the way, uoy kcor ym ecaf ffo!
Disclaimer:  I just like to play, I really do.

"O! what a noble mind is here o'erthrown"
-from William Shakespeare's Hamlet

There were two things that Dean knew better than anything else.

The first was his brother. He knew Sam inside and out, could read him like a book, or at least he thought he could. He knew when Sam was lying to him, even if he didn’t know what he was lying about or why he was lying at all. He knew when his brother was happy, really happy, which was a rare thing anymore. He knew when his brother was upset, not just annoyed in the petulant, little-brother sort of way, but truly bothered, which thankfully wasn't as often as most people would think, Sam's masterful brooding aside.

After all, he had practically raised Sam. He’d changed his diapers, fed him, put on his Band-Aids, and even told him about the birds and the bees. There was very little Dean didn’t know about his brother, his proximity as older brother nearly guaranteeing such.

The other thing Dean knew better than anything else was his car. He’d known that car even longer than he’d known Sammy, and a car was far less averse to exposing its imperfections than a little brother was. He’d learned to drive in it, learned to kiss in it, learned to make a nearly reckless escape in it. He’d seen it through a few minor fender benders and a host of costly repairs that grieved him almost as much as anything possibly could.

Sam was more important than the car in all the ways that mattered, but they were both giving him fits right now.

He’d first noticed the problem with Sam when they’d finished their last hunt. It had been a haunting in southern California, which had started and ended normally enough, and neither of them had been any worse for wear when they set out. But as soon as they set out on the road, Sam had been different, been off. At first, Dean let it slide, hoping that Sam would normalize on his own, but last night he’d caught his brother surfing the web at 3 AM with nothing more than a feeble excuse of not being tired.

He’d cursed at Sam and guilted him back into bed, where Sam awoke a mere hour later from a nightmare. A nightmare, Sam assured him, not a vision, but it was bad enough. He’d been hoping that the nightmares were behind them--they had tapered off ever since their trip back to Lawrence--because Sam was irritable when he didn’t sleep, and Dean got tired of cracking jokes no one laughed at.

But while the lack of sleep on Sam’s part concerned him, it was the car that was garnering his attention at the moment.

Dean first noticed the noise an hour outside of California. It was small, nearly imperceptible, but he could hear the unusual timbre of the humming engine just below the sound of the highway.

He listened to it with a scowl, and considered pulling over, but the highway was lonely and barren and the day was hot. He spared a glance at Sam, who was staring out into the countryside.

"Do you hear that?"

Sam squinted at him. "What?"

"That noise," he said, nodding toward the front end of the car.

Sam listened for a moment. "No. Why?"

"Really?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "You’re paranoid."

"Just careful, Sammy," Dean said. "You’ve got to be aware of the little things, keep track of the signs, or they become big things."

"Whatever."

Sam was slumped down in the seat, arms across his chest, his face set in its typical brood. It was a familiar enough sight, but Dean could see that there was still something off, something more off than the uncertain twinge of the engine.

"You get any sleep today?"

Sam simply kept his eyes out his window.

"Sam?"

"Not really tired," Sam mumbled.

Dean snorted. In the afternoon sun he could clearly see the dark circles that were entrenched under Sam’s eyes. "You look worse that she sounds," he commented with another nod to the car.

"I’m fine."

"Right." Dean turned his eyes in exapseration back out to the highway. "You're always fine."

A moment passed between them with nothing but the sounds of the road filling the car. Sam offered no further explanation and Dean ventured no further concerns.

When it was clear Sam didn't plan on discussing his problem any time soon, Dean considered another tactic to lure Sam out of his funk. Humor, especially at the expense of his kid brother, never failed to make things seem normal, and sometimes acting normal was the first step in attaining it. "I think you need to apologize for your unkind words."

"What words?"

"About me being paranoid."

"Oh, come on."

"You can never be too careful about these things. If not for this car, how would we get anywhere?"

"You’re a freak."

"Go to sleep," Dean ordered with a grin.

With a frustrated sigh, Sam sunk farther down in his seat, turning his head away from his brother. "I’m not tired."

"Aw, does Sammy need a lullaby?"

"Shut up," Sam grumbled and closed his eyes.

Dean snickered and pressed down on the gas, heading into the Utah desert.

It was only a half hour later when Dean stopped for gas. As he pulled into the station, he noticed the clinking sound seemed to become more vigorous as the engine whined to a stop.

He glanced at Sam, who was doing a pathetic job of pretending to sleep. "You need anything while we’re stopped?"

"I’m going to run to the bathroom," he said, sitting up. "You want me to get you anything?"

Dean peered at the road stretching beyond the gas station. "Nope. I think I’ll wait for someplace a little more interesting to stop for real."

Sam just rolled his eyes and got out.

Climbing out after him, Dean moved around to the far side, readying the pump to fill the car up. Putting the nozzle in, he started filling, and leaned back on the car, taking in the surroundings.

The town was nondescript enough to be any of the nameless places they had passed through in their lifetime on the road. The gas station was just on the edge of town, and he could see that the road went straight through, impeded only by a single stop sign up the road.

Sam returned just as the car was filled. "You want me to drive?" Sam asked.

"You haven’t slept."

"Yes, I did."

"You’re a bad liar, Sam."

Sam relented. "I rested."

"And I’m driving," Dean insisted.

"You need to rest, too, Dean."

"I can rest while driving. Besides, I’d never get any sleep worrying about your tired ass behind the wheel."

Sam patience with his brother's concern was waning. "You need to let this go."

"Just get in the car," Dean ordered.

"You’ve been driving all day. And all day yesterday. Give me the keys."

Dean stared hard at his brother, noting the defiance in his stance, and considered. Sam could function under remarkably little sleep, and he'd never known his brother to nod off at any time that wasn't appropriate. His own eyes were weary, and suddenly he craved some rest. "Fine. But I swear—"

"I’m not going to hurt your stupid car."

Dean threw the keys at him and slid into the passenger’s seat.

Sam plopped down behind the wheel, turning the key into the ignition.

The engine rumbled, spluttered cacophonously, and then died with a series of intermittent clanks.

They both stared ahead in the silence that followed.

"You hurt my car."

"Shut up," Sam said curtly, trying the key again.

The engine didn’t turn this time, only offered a few pathetic grumbling clinks, before stilling.

"You still think I’m paranoid?"

"Shut up."

Dean generally didn't trust mechanics, especially not with his baby, but beggars couldn't be choosers in rural Utah.

Sam said it was fortunate that the gas station had a body shop. Dean didn't think anything about the Impala breaking down in the middle of the desert was fortunate.

The mechanic on duty was a greasy-haired kid who looked younger than Sam. He was skinny like Sam too, but Dean could tell there was little muscle under the kid's stained jumpsuit. He had stuffed himself under the car right in the parking lot, and when he came scooting out, his nose was wrinkled thoughtfully.

Dean tried to be patient. Sam had already disappeared after buying a paper, to see what was up in the town, leaving Dean alone with his angst over his car. "So what’s wrong with her?"

The mechanic looked pensive. "Hard to say. I’m going to have to do a full inspection to be sure."

"We’re kind of on a tight schedule," Dean began.

The kid seemed unfazed by Dean's subtle urgency. "We’ll be working on her. But it may take awhile."

"Awhile?"

"You want a thorough job, right? I mean, I could guess and say it’s the transmission right now, but do you really want to pay for all the parts and labor for it to be something else?" the kid asked, in a clearly rhetorical tone of voice. Dean detected a hint of sass in his youthful voice and cringed as the kid tried to smooth over his anxieties. "You let us do our job. Your baby’s safe with us."

"We’re just passing through—"

"There’s a nice little motel up the way," the kid said with a nod down the street. "Other end of town. Across from the pizza place."

Dean struggled to maintain his cool, to not go off on some kid for being greasy and annoying. He forced a smile. "When are you going to know?"

The kid shrugged. "Boss'll be in after lunch. I'll get her towed into the shop and get her up. We'll see. You can call us tonight before 8 and we'll tell you what we know."

Dean glanced at the car, then back to the kid, then back at the car again, and grumbled his acquiescence.

Taking a business card and leaving a fake name, he emptied the trunk of their meager travel necessities, checked to be sure the weapons were locked and concealed, and left the parking lot on foot and headed toward the heart of town.

It wasn't hard to find Sam. His kid brother was lounging on a park bench in the quaint town square, flipping absently through his newspaper.

He sauntered up to his brother, dropping the bags at his feet. "Well, Sam, how would you like a little time off?"

Sam raised his eyebrows, glancing at Dean from behind the paper. "Time off?"

"Sure," he replied easily. There were few things that could improve his mood without fail. Tormenting his younger brother was one of them. "We can take in the sights and action in wonderful New Junction, Utah." He flicked at the newspaper.

"Here?" Sam lowered the paper.

"Why not?"

Sam glanced around, taking in the two block long main drag of town. Gazing to the left, they could easily see where the road dwindled into open land, mountains in the distance. "Dean, the main attraction in this town is probably karaoke night. Not exactly your ideal vacation spot."

Dean grinned. "We know how good you are at karaoke."

Sam rolled his eyes. "The car’s that bad off?"

"They’re not sure what’s wrong with her," Dean replied with a sigh, plopping down next to Sam on the bench.

"You know, the car has been breaking down a lot lately."

"Sam." Dean’s voice carried a warning.

"I’m just saying." Sam tried to sound innocent.

"Well don’t," Dean said, grabbing Sam's duffel and tossing it at him. "Not if you value your life and your ability to have children in the future."

True to the greasy mechanic's word, there was a rather decrepit looking motel on the far edge of town. The paint was peeling on the doors and three cars were parked in the lot. The VACANCY sign flickered, clearly on its last legs, and Sam figured that the NO had never seen any action whatsoever.

Dean had gone in to secure a room, and left Sam in the sweltering afternoon.

Leaning against the outer wall of the motel, Sam took in the surroundings. The motel was on the way out of town, on the left side of the road next to a café and a Laundromat.

He glanced inside. Dean was leaning over the corner, smiling widely at the young woman behind the counter. She was leaning into him provocatively, and Sam could see her seductive upward glances at his brother.

With a snort, Sam turned his attention back out to the scenery. He took in the wooded area just behind the sparsely populated motel parking lot.

His eyes wandered across the road, where a rundown pizza joint was standing, its grimy sign boasting the name "Ricky’s Pizzeria."

No, New Junction wasn’t exactly the ideal place of a vacation, but Sam couldn’t deny that he was looking forward to some time away from the hunt. The continual travel was wearing, and recently he had found himself uncomfortable on motel room beds--he was so used to sleeping in the car that the roar of the engine and the trembling of the car over the pavement had become soothing. He could no longer remember where he was half the time, always someplace in between it seemed, always just passing through. The names and faces of countless waitresses and motel clerks were blurry, and he craved a semblance of stability, if only for a while.

With another quick look at Dean, he could see that his older brother fully intended to enjoy his stay in New Junction any way he could. The girl was laughing, and her chest buoyed up nearly into Dean’s face as she bit her lower lip suggestively.

Sam could not stop from rolling his eyes. This could take awhile.

With nothing better to do, he pulled the newspaper he had bought at the gas station from his back pocket. He had already scanned the front page, and now opened to the middle, instinctively looking for something noteworthy. After all, even if they slotted a vacation into their schedule, Sam knew from experience that evil didn't take holidays, didn't even believe in a day off, much less a prolonged hiatus. You could never be too prepared, and part of preparedness meant staking out the territory.

A light breeze suddenly came from nowhere, rustling the pages. Sam looked up. The day had been still and hot up to this point.

The breeze came again, and this time he heard it.

A distant whisper, barely louder than the crinkling of the paper in the breeze.

His eyes narrowed and the wind stopped again. Hesitantly he turned his eyes back to the paper.

This time it was undeniable and made him forget about the lackluster headlines for next week’s town meeting. Stuffing the paper back into his pocket, he pushed away from the wall, following the direction of the breathless sound.

Instinctively, Sam made his way toward the woods, and the murmur seemed to swell. As he cleared the edge, a shudder raced through him and his heart rate increased.

There were more sounds, overlapping and of varying intensity, and he could feel them pulsing throughout his body, alerting every synapse.

The world seemed to skew and the foliage began to blur as he tried to sort through the whispers.

"Sam?"

He blinked, his world refocusing suddenly. He realized he had forgotten to breathe and inhaled a deep breath. He recognized Dean's presence without looking. "I…I thought I heard something."

"Right. Well, if you’re done with your little nature walk, let’s get settled in."

Sam nodded distantly as Dean made his way back toward the motel. Sam gave one last look into the still woods before following.

So far, "time off" had meant watching Dean try to entertain himself in the cramped motel room. His older brother had started by flipping through the meager selection of TV channels. When he'd exhausted them, pausing long enough to snicker at a documentary on the mating habits of elephants, he resorted to perusing the phonebook and laughing at the more unfortunate names.

Sam had tried watching TV with his brother, but his brother's frenetic and illogical viewing patterns made his head hurt, so he resorted to surfing the net instead.

The afternoon finally vanished into twilight, and Dean picked up the crusty motel room phone and dialed the garage. The conversation was short and forced, and Sam could see Dean's back was rigid with frustration.

When Dean hung up, he swore at the phone. The news wasn't good.

"They won't be able to tell me for sure until tomorrow," Dean said shortly.

Dean's attitude was so pouty, so juvenile, that Sam could not resist ribbing his brother. "You know, that thing gets terrible mileage," Sam said pointedly.

Dean shot him a warning glare.

"With gas prices on the rise..." Sam could barely contain his grin.

"Yeah, well, you may be cheaper to maintain but you're not nearly as useful, so don't keep talking, little brother."

The conversation with the mechanic had left Dean cranky, and the room had fallen into a sullen silence. But a John Wayne movie on TV finally nabbed Dean's attention, and he sprawled out, the remote resting just beyond his outstretched hand. He punctuated the movie with his own commentary, reflecting on the quality of acting, the storyline and, "Dude, this movie is hilarious. Did you see that guy get shot? Great effects."

Sam had started off nodding to his brother's quips, sometimes countering, but soon barely acknowledged his brother's comments. He had given up on the laptop and resorted to a book instead, but it made his eyes droop, and he shook himself awake several times before it all slipped away.

He vaguely felt Dean taking the book out of his hands and pulling off his shoes with as much care as he could manage.

" 'm not tired."

"Sure, you're not," Dean replied, pulling the blankets over his brother. "Just rest your eyes for a little bit, okay?"

Part of Sam wanted to protest again, wanted to resist, but he couldn't remember why he didn't want to sleep and resting just for a moment couldn't hurt.

Drip.

Drip.

Something was dripping on his forehead. He could feel it pounding into him with the force of bullet.

No.

He knew what it was, but he could not keep himself from opening his eyes, from seeing it again. Jessica.

She was sprawled above him, her leg at an unnatural angle, her blonde curls plastered back by an invisible force.

"Why, Sam?" the voice asked. She deserved an answer. Gutted and pinned to the ceiling, she deserved an answer.

But the fire erupted and consumed her, the flames licking away from her, stealing his breath.

The heat approached him next and he didn’t fight.

Sam jolted upright in bed, his breath catching in his throat as he gasped for air.

No.

His eyes adjusted and he realized there was no fire, there was no Jessica. He was in a motel room with Dean.

Sometimes it surprised him how real the dream was, how it took him back and gripped him, leaving him as broken as the night it actually happened.

When they had first left California, Sam had been continually haunted. The vision of her on the ceiling had been branded behind his eyes. But months had passed, and he'd had moments of reprieve, moments when he could remember the way she smiled, the sound of her laugh, the feel of her skin, rather than the look of horror on her face as she died above him.

But the memory always came crashing back, always revisited itself upon him as if to make him remember what he'd done, what he'd lost, what he had to make right.

It had been weeks since he'd last had the dream, and a twinge of guilt flashed through him. Maybe he had been lazy in his grief. He didn't know for sure if it was his fault, if the demon had been after him or something else, but he always knew that she shouldn't have had to die without knowing why.

He leaned back onto the pillow, letting his breathing even out.

He felt so weary, so drained. But the escape of sleep hardly seemed appealing. With a sigh, he reached for the remote. He flicked on the TV and turned the sound on mute, letting himself get lost in infomercials.

It was nearly eight when Dean heard the sound of water running in the bathroom. He groaned and rolled over, wishing again for the solace of sleep. He had been driving for days straight, and as much as he hated for his car to be in a body shop, it did him good to sleep on a flat and soft surface.

He had hoped it would be good for Sam too. His little brother had been so exhausted. When Sam had zonked out early, Dean had been more than a little relieved.

Burrowing deeper under the sheets, Dean attempted to salvage a few more minutes of blessed rest before Sam came out and discovered he was awake. His mind had just lapsed into a state of near sleep when he heard the bathroom door open.

Groaning, he cracked his eyes open to look at his brother. Sam was dressed, toweling his hair dry, looking clean but definitely not rested. Sam's eyes were open but bleary, and he seemed to be moving sluggishly. Dean scrunched his nose at him. "You look like crap, man."

Sam shot a perturbed glance at his brother. "Morning to you, too."

"Just saying. Didn't you get any sleep last night?"

Sam tossed the towel on the bed, shrugging as he sat down and reached for his tennis shoes.

Dean sat up in bed, eyeing his brother more critically. "Sammy?"

"A little," Sam said with a frustrated sigh as he tied his shoes.

"What's up with you?"

Sam's jaw was set. "Nothing."

"Nothing. Just a little insomnia to make the world go 'round," Dean commented dryly.

Sam said nothing but viciously pulled his shoelaces tight.

"Right," Dean said, rolling out of bed. "I'm taking a shower."

When he emerged, Sam was sulkily watching a daytime talk show. "Good TV?"

Sam ignored him, and Dean could not think of another quip to try to wrest his brother from his bad mood. He knew Sam hadn't slept, and the sudden regression of Sam's sleeping habits was already wearing on both of them. He had thought the days of sleeplessness and recurring nightmares had faded, slowly dissipated as time passed. But this recent trend seemed worse than ever.

Dean frowned as he collected his things, wondering if Sam was keeping something from him. After all, Sam had been pretty slow in telling Dean about his initial visions about Jess, but ever since they'd crossed that boundary, they had both taken the visions seriously. He couldn't think of a reason for Sam not to tell him if something was going on.

He eyed his brother surreptitiously as he dressed, deciding to keep a closer eye on him.

For now, though, their paths lay in separate directions.

"I'm heading over to the car shop."

"Okay. I think I'll look around town a little. See if there's anything going on," Sam said, sitting up and turning the TV off.

"Great. Meet you at the diner on the main drag in a half hour."

They exited the motel room together. "Remember, Dean, killing the mechanic won't make the car get fixed any faster."

"Yeah, well, if I had access to the parts and tools, I'd do it myself. Want to make sure those small town hicks don't screw up my car worse than it already is."

"I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Easy for you to say. Your car isn't cooped up in some shop with two mechanics who don't understand her."

"I don't have a car. And if I did, I would develop such an irrational attachment to it."

"You're just jealous," Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Right."

"It's okay, Sammy. Get some sleep and I'll let you drive her when we blow this town."

Sam let out an incredulous laugh and watched as Dean strode purposefully down the street. He shook his head, amused at his brother's determination. When Dean had his mind on something, he didn't let it go, and he was ruthless in his persistence.

Sam, however, did not have anything to be persistent about. The car was a necessity, but he knew it'd get fixed one way or another, and there was no pressing news story calling them across the country.

Besides, there were some things Sam wanted to look into himself. He could still feel the echoes from yesterday, resounding in him, and he shuddered involuntarily. He couldn't shake the feeling, this inexplicable, deep-rooted feeling, that something was off. He couldn't put his finger on it, not yet, and he had nothing more than suspicions to go on.

With a sigh, he headed out, his pace far less strident then Dean's. He only made it to the end of the parking lot when a wave of sleepiness passed through him, and he could not stifle his yawn. He would never make it through this day on his own.

The weariness that seeped through him was encompassing, and the café next door looked so convenient.

The small shop hosted a few customers, all seated at tables, chatting and reading newspapers. Sam wandered up to the counter, where a middle-aged man was leaned against it, flipping through a magazine. He smiled up at Sam with an avuncular grin. "What can I get for you?"

"Yeah, can I have a coffee? And a paper?" Sam asked, nabbing one from the stack on the counter.

The man nodded easily, moving lazily behind the counter. "You passing through, son?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "My brother and me--we needed a pit stop."

"Ain't much to do here, but it's quiet enough," he replied casually.

Sam smiled half-heartedly. "Any news about town?"

The man cocked his head as he fiddled with the machine. "News? You mean like the new curfew they're trying to pass?"

"Curfew?"

"For the kids. They try it every summer so they stop drinking out by the lake. Doesn't work," he said. "But not much is new. They're thinking of building a Phillips station on the other end of town, but old man Richards' doesn't want to part with his land. Been in the family for five generations, you know."

Snapping a lid on the cup, the man swung back toward the counter with a cordial grin. "Sorry, not much else to report, I'm afraid."

Sam took the coffee and blinked himself awake. "No, thanks, you've been a real help."

"That'll be $3.03," he said.

Pulling out his wallet, Sam paid the man.

The man behind the counter offered him the cup. "Have a good day, now," he said.

Sam smiled absently and turned to go.

A low voice filtered in his ears from behind. Betrayer.

Stiffening, Sam turned. "What?"

The man looked up from his magazine. "What?"

Sam narrowed his eyes but shook his head, moving to leave again.

You are the betrayer.

Sam turned again, quicker this time, but the scene was the same.

The man glanced up again and looked at him critically. "You need something else, son?"

"Did you…say something?"

The man looked perplexed. "No."

Sam nodded imperceptibly, and looked around the empty café. He turned uneasily toward the door and left.

Exiting the shop, he gave one last uncertain glance of his shoulder before taking a sip of his coffee. The hot liquid burned his tongue and he pulled the drink away from his lips immediately in frustration.

Shaking his head clear, he blew through the lid, and began his way down the street.

Dean never thought he'd miss the greasy, too-young excuse for a mechanic he met yesterday, but as he rested his chin on his hands, propped up against the counter, he would have given anything to see his youthful gap-toothed grin.

The owner of the shop was greasy too, though he had less hair to show it. For what he lacked in hair, he seemed to make up for in weight, and his belly bulged under the threadbare jumpsuit.

The name embroidered on it said Gene and clearly he was not the savvy professional Dean would have preferred.

"Well, we've checked the engine, and it could be one of the valves or it could be the exhaust system. We're going to test the electrical today." The man's laconic speech and unhurried movements made it clear that haste was not going to be a priority.

"So, in other words, you have no idea what the problem is." Dean bit the inside of his cheek, trying to rein in his growing temper, reminding himself that there was no other car shop for miles.

"Well, now, we've narrowed it down..." Gene drawled the words out, with no clear conclusion to his thought.

"Great." Dean pasted a fake smile to his face and made up his mind to haunt the garage like Casper. "You just keep me posted then."

Gene nodded benignly, and Dean headed to the diner.

The day was in full swing and the town was moderately buzzing with morning business. Milo's Diner, one of two restaurants in the town, had attracted the majority of the morning eaters. The diner was half full, populated by a few farmers, a handful of teens, and a pair of young mothers and their infants.

Sam had finished and discarded his coffee and was seated in a booth by the door. The sunlight beat through the windows, settling over him, and he felt himself stifle a yawn. He considered ordering another cup of coffee.

Before he could make a motion to the waitress, Dean strode in. He found Sam immediately and made his way to the booth.

"So?"

Dean slumped sulkily.

Sam eyed him quizzically. "That bad?"

"They have no clue what the problem is. 'Gene' is still running tests."

Sam could tell Dean was less than pleased with the progress that hadn't been made. If he'd been more awake, he would have taken advantage of the opportunity to tease Dean about leaving the care of his baby to a stranger. But it wasn't worth the energy.

"So we're stuck here another day?"

Dean sighed dramatically. "At least."

Sam let out a long and slow breath. "Well, guess we really could use the time to recharge our batteries."

"Whatever," Dean muttered picking up a menu. "Have you ordered?"

Crinkling his nose, Sam shook his head. "I had some coffee on the way over."

"Coffee, college boy, is not breakfast," Dean said, making eye contact with a roaming waitress.

The woman, in her mid-30s with her hair pulled in a messy bun, smiled wearily at them. "You two ready?"

Grinning broadly at her, Dean said, "Sure. I'll have the...Milo's Breakfast. With scrambled eggs."

She jotted it down before turning to Sam. "For you?"

"Just a coffee, thanks."

"Make that two Milo's Breakfasts," Dean interjected forcefully. "He likes his eggs overeasy."

Sam just rolled his eyes and the waitress glanced between them. When neither said anything, she shrugged and wandered off to the window.

"Dude, I can order my own breakfast."

"But you didn't."

"I'm not hungry."

"Right, so why can I hear your stomach growling over here?"

"My stomach's off."

"Because you haven't eaten more than a French fry in days."

Sam looked away but couldn't deny it. His eating habits had been deteriorating with his sleeping habits. Though he knew his stomach was empty, the thought of eating something made him queasy. Unfortunately, he was getting the feeling that Dean was becoming suspicious of his sleeping and eating. When Dean got into mother hen mode, Sam knew it was best to stop protesting and at least pretend to comply.

The breakfast was quick in coming, but the sight of the greasy eggs on the plate made Sam's stomach turn more than he had anticipated.

Despite Dean's threats, Sam ate little more than half a pancake and a forkful of egg.

"Dude, what's with you?" Dean finally asked. "Are you sick or something?"

Sam grimaced as hot coffee slid over his already scalded tongue. "I'm fine. Just not hungry. It happens, you know?"

Once again, Dean's eyes narrowed. Sam's excuses were pathetic; his brother wasn't even trying to effectively deter Dean's questions. Not that he could anyway--the continual companionship between the brothers made secrets nearly impossible to keep, especially when it came to daily routines. He had seen Sam through some difficult times, and they seemed to be headed that way again, only this time, Dean had no idea why. Whatever was going on with Sam, it was definitely starting to effect more than just his sleeping patterns. If things didn't change soon, he would have to resort to more drastic measures to make Sam take care of himself.

With nothing else to do, Sam and Dean caught an afternoon matinee at the movie theater, and found themselves as the only audience members, save two elderly women who sat three rows ahead of them.

Dean bought popcorn and tried to trick Sam into eating some, but his brother made it through the movie only ingesting a handful of greasy kernels.

Afterwards, the two brothers lingered outside the cinema. Sam squinted against the waning summer sun, feeling the tendrils of a headache blossoming in his skull. He tried to ignore it and focus on what Dean was saying.

"I think I'm just going to ask around a little," Dean said. "See if I can find someone with a life."

Sam merely nodded, and Dean cast him a worried glance. He tended to take his brother at his word, even when he knew his brother was fudging the truth. It was a family policy that had kept them from facing all kinds of uncomfortable topics.

"You sure you're feeling okay, Sam?"

Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose, hoping to alleviate the pressure. "Yeah. I just--I'm a little tired."

That's the understatement of the year. "You want to come with?" Dean asked.

Shaking himself, Sam forced his eyes open. "No. I think I'll just head back to the motel. Maybe lay down for awhile."

Part of Dean would have preferred to go with his brother--he didn't like the slightly pale hue in his brother's face--but he knew if he went back to the motel now he was likely to go stir crazy after an hour. If they were going to be stuck in this town for awhile, Dean needed to find some way to pass the time, because if he and Sam spent it all together, they would probably kill each other before the end of the week. Besides, Sam didn't need a babysitter, and the kid was actually volunteering to lay down. "Okay. Meet you back there in a few."

By the time Dean had disappeared around a corner, Sam realized he had forgotten to start walking. With a self-deprecating chuckle, he forced his sluggish body to move.

He only made it a few steps when a breeze tickled his face. He let his eyes close, the coolness refreshing his tired body. But the breeze brushed passed him as quickly as it came. When he opened his eyes, he was suprirsed to find a dog at his feet, a mangy looking thing with dirty brown hair.

He looked at it curiously before beginning on his way again.

The dog followed him, trailing a few feet behind him. He stopped, curiously, turning to face it. The dog stopped too, sat back on its haunches, and looked up at him expectantly. Sam almost smiled and started to move again, well aware of the dog trotting behind him.

Sam stopped again, moving closer to the dog this time, kneeling to examine it. But as he reached his hand out to ruffle its fur, its eyes flashed black and a vicious snarl escaped his mouth as he nipped at Sam’s hand.

Betrayer.

Sam yelped and stumbled backwards.

He regained his composure and set to look at the dog again, but it was panting happily now, its tail wagging and tongue lolling from its mouth.

"Baxter!" a small voice called.

Sam watched, fascinated and dumbstruck, as a young girl in a sundress skipped toward him.

"Baxter," she said, looking sternly down at the mutt. "You’re not supposed to get out of the yard. Mommy will be angry."

Sam stared.

She smiled at him. "Sorry. He didn’t bother you, did he?"

She looked so happy, so peaceful, and her voice was so bright that Sam couldn’t stop himself from nodding.

With a grin, she clipped a leash to Baxter’s collar, and turned to skip merrily down the street.

Sam was almost convinced he had imagined it, but before the dog stood, its eyes flashed in darkness yet again. Sam gaped, his eyes wide, but the dog was up and following the little girl down the street.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, wondering if perhaps he needed more sleep than he realized. Straightening, he turned back toward the motel.

"Sam."

Someone was calling him.

"Sammy, what are you doing?"

Hazily, Sam realized he was nearly asleep. He realized a beat later that he was not on a bed and that he was not in a motel room. He startled to wakefulness.

Blinking against the sun, he managed to make out the form of his brother standing warily above him.

Dean's face was obscured by sunlight, but Sam could see the cock to his head that suggested an uneasy mixture of mocking and concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said unconvincingly as he straightened.

"You know, we do get motel rooms for a reason, Sam. If you want people to think you're homeless, at least put a tin can beside you to see if we can earn a little extra cash."

Sam didn't acknowledge Dean's joke as he rubbed the tiredness from his eyes.

"I thought you were heading back to the motel."

"Yeah," Sam said, standing up uncertainly. "I was. I just--I just sat down for a minute. What are you doing here? I thought you were looking around?"

"Looked and then some, bro. It's been nearly three hours. You been sleeping on a park bench that whole time?"

Confused, Sam looked at his watch. His eyes struggled to focus on the small hands, his vision blurring and he realized he was swaying.

Dean caught his brother's arm, steadying him. "Dude, you okay?" he asked, forcing Sam to the bench again and following him down. He looked hard at his brother. Sam was more than a little off his game.

"Yeah," Sam said distantly. "Must be more tired than I thought."

Dean snorted. "That's what happens when you don't get any sleep for a few days," he said. Then he added pointedly, "And when you don't eat."

Sam ignored him, his brow creasing in concentration as a chill tickled his spine. "There's something weird about this town," Sam said.

"Yeah, they must be bored out of their minds. There’s literally nothing to do here. Why couldn't the car have broken down someplace a little more…populated?"

"No, that’s not what I’m talking about. Something weird weird is going on."

Dean grunted in frustration. "As long as the car's out of commission, we're on vacation, bro. I thought you wanted some time off."

"I do, it's just--I can't explain it. Something feels off here."

Dean became moderately serious. "You been having premonitions?"

Sam shook his head, squinting into the sunlight. "No. Just...vibes or something."

Dean felt relieved. Sam's premonitions had been taxing on them both, and Dean did not relish the thought of another encounter with Sam's precognitive abilities. "Well, vibe this. I found quaint little pool hall just outside of town. Looks like a good way to earn some extra cash."

Sam didn't respond; he was still staring out into the park.

"Sammy? Earth to Sam," he called, but his words fell on deaf ears. "Plus I thought we could paint your nails, put you up in drag, and bring you along to distract the crowd."

Sam shook himself. "What?"

Dean shook his head with a low chuckle. "You know, for a college boy, you sure need to work on your listening skills a little bit."

"I’m just distracted."

"Ah, yes. Since there’s so much to be distracted by in a town of 4,000."

"You really don’t feel it?"

"Feel what? The sound of boredom on a Saturday night?"

Sam did not respond to Dean’s sarcasm. "I think we should keep asking around. About the town, not just where the hot girls are."

"Whatever, Sammy. You can do whatever research you want while I clean up tonight, okay?"

They had been in worse places.

That was about all Sam could credit to the dingy pool hall. It was called The Pit, which Sam figured was about as apt a name as any. It sat on the highway, just beyond a trailer park. The neon sign burned starkly in the night sky, illuminating the whitewashed clapboard walls of the small building. Inside, things hardly looked any better. The place was tight and cramped, packed with tables, chairs, people, and alcohol. What it lacked in character, it made up for in spirit, because the jam-packed crowd seemed excessively jubilant.

Dean had started out the night at the bar, where Sam joined him, both nursing a beer. Dean had started his second when he jumped into the pool game on the lone table. The crowd was amiable, if a little rough around the edges.

Sam had taken up a table adjacent to the pool table, and spent it straining in the dim light to peruse their father's journal. If there had ever been anything suspicious in the area, his father would have kept a record of it. But his dad's notes on Utah were sparse and nothing fit the profile Sam was looking for.

Not that he knew what he was looking for. The only concrete evidence he had of strange happenings was his own experience. The whispers. The sensations. The dog.

Or had he dreamed the dog?

He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember back to this afternoon.

Looking up, he realized that Dean was no longer at the pool table. Scanning the area, he found his brother leaned in close to a girl at the bar. His brother seemed to be in fine form tonight, soaking up the atmosphere and eliciting the positive attention of the inebriated bunch that surrounded him.

He watched for a moment, half-amused, half-aggravated at his brother's...social skills. With a shake of his head, he turned back to his notes, but his eyes refused to focus and the words blurred in front of him. Another wave of fatigue washed over him.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, then rested his forehead against his palm. Maybe it was time to call it a night.

Looking up again, he searched for his brother, who seemed to have migrated with the crowd. He finally spotted him on the other side of what looked like a bachelorette party, judging from the number of young women congregated and drinking shots. With a deep breath, he managed to stand without wavering, before weaving his way slowly through the tables. The short journey seemed to take much longer than it should have.

"Dean," he said, pulling him away from the bar.

Dean smiled at the girls briefly before allowing Sam to pull his attention away. "Dude, what do you want?"

"I think I’m going back."

Dean was winking at the girl. "Back?" he asked, looking back at Sam. "What? It’s early."

"I’m just not feeling up to it tonight."

"You never feel up to it," Dean whined. He had been patient with his brother, very, very patient, and he wanted just for once for Sam to loosen up for both their sakes.

Sam looked ready to protest, but sighed instead. "Look, whatever," he said. "I’m not asking you to come. I’m just letting you know that I’m heading back."

"You sure, Sammy? I mean, come on," Dean said, nodding back toward the girls.

Sam glanced at them and recognized the one from the motel. "Let me guess: Brandi with an
i."

"Close. Her name’s Candy. It's short of Candace," Dean said with a devilish grin.

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "Yeah. Anyway, I’ll see you later."

"Much later, little brother," Dean said, moving back toward the bar.

With one last snort of laughter, Sam watched his brother move back toward the girl.

His body felt exhausted. Sleep may have been elusive recently but genuine rest had been nearly nonexistent. It seemed that every nightmare he’d ever had was coming back to him, entering his unconsciousness with a renewed vigor.

The neighborhoods were quaint, becoming more kept up as he distanced himself from the trailer park near the bar. Rows of two story homes stretched neatly down the way, complete with picket fences and front porch swings. The upstairs windows were open to the summer night, and the sound of crickets chirping filled the stillness.

Sam had always dreamed of a home like that on a street like this. The stately houses proclaimed stability, longevity, security—traits that were the antithesis of his childhood.

Jess had lived in a neighborhood like this, in a upscale suburb of Sacramento. Her father had mowed the lawn on summer nights and her mom tended the flowers in the beds along the front walk. Part of him had never believed people really lived that way, he didn’t know how they could, but Jess had let him in on that life. When he first visited, he had been nervous, tentative, scared he would break some of the perfect normalcy they seemed so immersed in. But by the end of the weekend with the Moores, he had felt himself melting into their warmth, relaxing inexplicably into the hospitality of fresh baked cookies and barbecued chicken while lounging on the back porch in the waning afternoon.

She had wanted a life like that: the house, the kids, the yard. He had wanted to give it to her. He had wanted to give her safety and security and love in all the ways she needed and wanted and deserved.

Instead he had given her lies, half-truths, and an early grave.

He turned his gaze from the houses, ceasing his musings on the people who lived there and how happy they must have been. He kept his eyes trained on the uneven pavement, just wanting to get back.

Years of hunting and being on the road had made Sam attentive, if not a little paranoid. Their father always said it was better to be safe than sorry, and as much as Sam wanted to rebel against some of the things his father forced upon him, he could not deny the validity of his self-protection techniques.

He slowed his pace, and the hairs on his neck rose.

Insects buzzed, houses settled. Nothing moved.

Sam moved ahead slowly, his senses sharp. There was something there, there had to be, because it felt too real.

A whisper of wind passed through him and he stopped cold. Whatever it was, it was close.

Betrayer.

Why, Sam?

It was behind him. Stilling his shaking, Sam fingered the gun tucked in the waistband of his pants. Usually he didn't walk around armed, but his suspicions had been strong enough that carrying it made him feel marginally safer.

Why did you betray me?

Pulling the gun, he whirled, aiming it wildly behind him.

Blackness splayed before him and he could hear the lullaby of the cicadas in the warm night. There was nothing--no other sounds, no movement in the darkness.

He let his arms relax and his aim dropped.

Whatever was going on, he knew his lack of sleep was not helping him, and that pointing guns in quiet residential neighborhoods was probably not a good way to go about figuring it out. With a half-hearted, self-deprecating chuckle, he put the gun away. I must be paranoid.

With a steadying breath, he continued his walk back at a brisker pace, his eyes more alert.

After all, his paranoia had rarely turned out to be wrong. He had written off the dreams about Jess as paranoia. Dean had tried to convince him that his vision about a car in Michigan was paranoia. He had thought that finding the cat under the car in Minnesota was paranoia. He had thought that Dean's sense about the car was paranoia.

But now Jess was dead, Max Miller had murdered his family, he had been abducted by a bunch of homicidal hillbillies, and they were stranded in the middle of nowhere with the Impala in the shop.

No, his track record did not suggest that paranoia was something he was prone to. But on his trek back to the motel, nothing leaped out of the shadows at him, and the hairs on the back of his neck stayed in place the whole way back.

When he finally got to the room, he was surprised to find how relieved he was. He shut the door behind him firmly, resisted the urge to use the chain, and leaned his back against it with a sigh. Maybe even psychics could just be paranoid.

He thought about taking a shower, but managed only to brush his teeth. He kicked off his shoes and contemplated taking off his jeans and shirt. The motel room was hot, and he suddenly realized he was sweating.

But as soon as he sat on the edge of the bed, he could not resist sinking into it.

With a sigh, he fell back onto the pillows. Tiredness weighed his limbs down and he felt the pull of sleep beckoning him. He let his eyes drift shut, and felt himself floating steadily toward oblivion.

But something tickled his senses and he jerked awake, sitting upright and staring into the darkened room.

A moment passed in stillness, no sound except the harsh breaths entering and exiting his body.

Logically convinced of his solitude, Sam let himself lay back down.

This place was familiar. The dingy, paint-peeling walls. The rusted equipment. The musty smell of decay and death.

The tang of something in his mouth, something in the air. Blood.

He blinked. He recognized the face, knew the person who lay prone in front of him. Prone but defiant.

"You hate me that much?"

Sam didn’t know the answer, didn’t know what to say, but could feel the gun so comfortable in his hands, his aim so certain, so close—he couldn’t miss.

"Pull the trigger then."

Sam shook, feeling his resolve crumbling. He wanted to defy, wanted to disobey the order that he knew wasn’t right, but the anger, the need—it was overwhelming.

The face below him turned red—all he could see was rage, anger, hatred, failure.

"Do it!"

His will broke and he obeyed. With relish. Once, twice, three times, four.

His vision cleared in time to see Dean’s face again. The disappointment.

Betrayer.

He woke up to the sound of his own yell.

Panting, he trembled, the dream lingering in his mind.

He pulled the trigger. He always pulled the trigger. Why?

Sam's breathing had evened out and his heart rate had calmed, but he felt jittery and uncertain.

He couldn't do this. Not again. Please, not again.

This was a question he couldn't answer, a question he didn't want to answer, a question he couldn't even define but that demanded answers. His dreams asked it, over and over again, in different ways, but always the same question. Why, Sam?

Not sleeping was better than the dreams. With a sigh, he slid off the bed, making his way to the laptop. Turning it on, he rubbed his eyes and hunkered down, preparing for the long night ahead.

It was nearly seven when Dean stumbled in. He attempted stealth, trying to will his legs to move fluidly, but he abandoned it when he saw Sam sitting in front of the laptop.

"You’re up early," Dean commented, moving sluggishly to the bed.

Sam merely peered at him over the top of the laptop. "You’re home late."

Dean laughed. "You should have stayed, Sammy. I’m telling you. You should have stayed."

Sam barely acknowledged him.

Dean flopped back onto the bed. "Just give me five minutes, bro, and then we’ll head out and get some breakfast. Okay?"

With raised eyebrows, Sam watched as his brother relaxed on the comforter. Only seconds passed before Sam saw the even rise and fall of his brother’s chest and knew he would not be waking up in anytime near five minutes.

He glanced at the clock. He could probably get in some research around town and be back before Dean even got up. It was better than staring at the computer--his eyes burned after his long night.

Once outside, the morning sun was glaring, seeming to find every metallic surface and reflecting into Sam’s sleep-deprived eyes. He wished he had Dean’s sunglasses for a moment, but instead squinted and moved ahead.

He had only made it a few feet when a yawn pulled through him, and he didn't try to fight the sudden, uncontrollable need for caffeine.

With a sigh, he made his way into the café.

The café was as close to deserted as it had been the day before, and Sam wondered fleetingly how it stayed in business. After ordering his coffee, Sam sat at a table, head in his hand, as he tried to piece together all that had been happening since they arrived in New Junction.

But his thoughts kept running in circles, and he could never quite remember what had been dreamed and what had been real.

A man paused beside his table, and it took a moment for Sam to look at him. They knew no one in town, aside from the oh-so-helpful garage staff, and he hadn't really expected anyone to be speaking to him.

The man gazed at him with an odd intensity, but Sam was too tired to fully notice.

The man, with closely cropped dark hair, stared a second longer, before cocking his head. "You passing through?" the man asked.

Sam nodded distantly. This was a conversation he was used to. "Yeah."

"But you stay not by choice," he said, his voice carrying a certainty that made Sam focus.

He studied the man, trying not to appear unnerved. "What do you mean?"

"You are not here by choice," the man said again, his eyes narrowing as he focused in on Sam. Then he offered his hand. "My name is Dominic."

Sam took the proffered hand slowly. "I’m Sam."

"Sam. Why are you here?"

"Our car broke down and we have to wait for the parts to come in."

Dominic leaned in. "I could sense you the moment you came to town. Your aura—it’s like a beacon."

Uncomfortable, Sam shifted in his seat. He could sense me? My aura? Nothing seemed to make sense.

"And this town—you’ve sensed this town since the moment you got here, haven’t you?"

Sam stared at him, drawn in by the lure of information. "What about the town?"

"I don’t know," Dominic said plainly with a noncommital shrug. "But I can tell you it's a new thing. This--whatever it is--has only come for the last few days. It's only come with you."

Sam tried to keep up with Dominic's vague answers. "What do you mean?"

"You need to be careful, Sam. It's everywhere."

Sam tried to contain his frustration. "What's everywhere?"

Dominic narrowed his eyes further, looked intensely at him for a moment.

Sam waited, attempting patience, hoping he didn't look as confused as he felt.

Finally Dominic sat back. "Here," he said, holding out a card. "In case you need anything."

Sam took the card, looking at it slowly. It was a simple card, just a name, address, and number. Dominic Neville. 66 Enders Lane. (515) 555-7663.

He stood, looking down at Sam, an expression Sam couldn't read plastered on his face. "It's near you, Sam, and only you."

Sam's confusion mixed with a sudden foreboding that made him feel sick.

Dominic offered him a half-smile. "Maybe I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah," Sam replied thickly.

Dominic turned to go. Betrayer.

Sam opened his mouth to ask him to repeat himself, to ask if he'd said that or heard it, but Dominic was halfway out the door before Sam could give the words voice.

Sam’s stomach growled as he got out his motel room key.

Dean was up, lounging on the bed with the remote poised in his hand. "Where’d you go? Told you I’d be up in five minutes."

"Wasn’t gone that long," Sam said, plopping down on the other bed.

Dean glanced at the clock. "Five hours? I’ve been out to breakfast and back."

Sam looked surprised. "Five hours? It can’t be."

"It’s almost noon. Didn’t you think to leave a note? And turn on your cell next time. I don’t want you wandering off where I can’t find you. You don't have a good history around hicks in small towns."

Sam just kept staring at the clock in disbelief.

"Where’d you go anyway?"

"Just…exploring," Sam said distantly, trying to recount his steps. "Met a guy at the café."

Dean raised his eyebrows.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I think he knows something. About this town."

"What about the town?"

"What’s going on here."

"And what is going on here?"

"I told you, Dean, something’s off."

"Right, psychic boy," Dean said, his skepticism barely masked. "Your vibes."

Sam gave Dean a perturbed look. "I’m serious. The guy at the café said it had started suddenly, that it was new, but that it was real."

"Yes, and we believe everything that strange men tell us in small town cafés. Dude, we need something more than some guy's testimony and your vibes. Something concrete. We can't exorcise air." Dean hated to write of Sam's concerns so quickly, but his behavior was becoming more than slighlty problematic. He didn't want to admit just how worried he'd been when he couldn't contact Sam, and anger seemed to be the best way of hiding it.

"That's why we need to keep looking."

"We have been looking, Sammy. No one--besides your weird psychic vibe guy--says anything strange is going on."

Leveling Dean with an irritated look, Sam said, "The only thing you've talked to the locals about is where to hook up."

Dean looked ready to protest but it melted to a grin. "You know, Candy said there's a swimming pool. Her friend, the little curly-haired one--she's the lifeguard. I figure I'll check on the car, and we get a little water-time in." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, but Sam didn't respond to it.

"I'm taking the EMF and sweeping the area. I'll meet you for breakfast."

"Lunch, Sammy. Lunch. You're skipping meals."

Sam let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine. Whatever. Lunch, then."

"No more than 20 minutes, Sammy. You look like you could use some food."

"Yes, mother."

Dean tapped his finger impatiently against the Formica tabletop. He fiddled with the salt shaker, spinning it around, but always keeping his gaze on the front door.

A man in a suit came in, all rushed, and went straight to the counter.

Two teenage girls came in, smacking gum and giggling, and retreated to a corner booth.

But no Sam.

He checked his watch. Sam was supposed to be here an hour ago.

He pulled out his cell phone and considered trying Sam again. But the last three attempts had been fruitless. Sam's phone was off or dead.

The waitress refilled his cup of water and he offered her an empty grin, which she barely acknowledged.

The bell on the front door rang again, and Dean's eyes jerked up to see the tall figure of his brother coming through.

Dean didn't know whether to be relieved or angry.

"Where have you been?" Dean asked, his annoyance clear, as Sam sat down.

"Just down the street. There’s a pawnshop. I saw some odd relics in the window, just wanted to check them out."

"Right. So when I said 20 minutes, you thought give or take an hour?"

"What?"

Dean shook his head. "Did you find anything with the EMF?"

"No. Place seems clean."

"So, what about these relics? Something going on with them?"

Sam glanced at the menu noncommittally. "I’m not sure. The old guy said some traveler had sold them to him. He couldn’t tell me for sure where they came from or how authentic they were. But they looked Celtic to me. They had some strange engravings--some Gaelic. Once he found out I was interested though, he played them up and made the price way too high."

"Need to brush up on your bargaining skills, little brother."

Sam acted like he hadn't heard him. "I think we should ask around. See if anything strange is happening."

"I know," Dean said. "You told me that this morning."

"I mean, now. We should get going."

"Whoa, slow down there. We haven't eaten yet."

"Dean--"

"You're eating. Then we can research. Otherwise no deal."

Sam tried his puppy dog eyes.

But Dean could see the bags under Sam's eyes and the pale tinge to his skin. "We're eating."

Sam sighed, but sank back into the seat.

Sam ordered a meal, but was too fidgety to eat, too anxious to be bothered with food. When Dean was finally dragging his last French fry through his ketchup, Sam was sliding toward the edge of the seat.

"Let's get going."

"I’ve got to take a leak, okay? Then we’ll go checking around to your freaky little heart’s content," Dean said.

"Make it quick," Sam muttered, collecting his bag and the check. He stood and made his way to the counter, waiting for someone to come out and take the payment.

It was a kid who came out, no more than 18. "Did you enjoy your meal?" he asked with a friendly drawl.

Distracted, Sam glanced at him. "What? Yeah?"

The boy looked the bill over. "It’s going to be $11.23," he said.

Absently, Sam pulled out his wallet, emptying a ten and two ones onto the counter. "Keep the change," he said.

"That’s mighty kind of you, sir," the boy said. "You just passing through?"

"Yeah," Sam said distractedly.

"Strange place to stop at," the kid commented.

Something in the kid’s voice made Sam stop. "What do you mean?"

"I’m sure you’ve felt it," the kid said. "No one talks about it, most people don’t even feel it, but it just feels wrong here. Not all the time, mind you, but recently."

Sam’s interest had been piqued. He leaned in closer. "What are you talking about?"

The boy’s eyes narrowed and he leaned in too. "Like something’s coming," he said in a hiss, his eyes darkening momentarily. "But you already know that. Betrayer."

Confused, Sam opened his mouth to reply, when a voice came from behind. "Dude, you paid it yet?"

Sam jumped and turned, finding Dean waltzing up behind him. "Yeah, I—"

"No one around to take it?" Dean asked.

"No, I—" Sam stopped. The bill was still on the counter with his twelve dollars. The kid was nowhere in sight.

"Well, leave it. They’ll figure it out."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, to ask the question, but found himself unable to formulate the anything.

"Who were you talking to?"

"Just an employee."

Dean stared at the counter. "Where?"

Sam looked at the empty counter. "He was…" he began, confused. "He must have gone in the back."

With a skeptical glance, Dean eyed the counter and his brother again. "Whatever, dude."

Perturbed, Sam headed toward the door. "I'll take the library. You can have the police station."

"So?" Dean asked.

"So nothing," Sam said with a sigh. "No unusually violent, unsolved deaths. Nothing too mysterious--nothing's raising any flags. I'm thinking we're not looking at a haunting anyway. The effect seems to be too widespread and not nearly violent enough to be that straightforward."

"Right, well, nothing much from police records either," Dean said. "Some pranks recently, but just kids messing around. Can't blame them. They've got to make their own fun in a town like this."

Brooding, Sam's jaw clenched. "We have to have missed something."

Dean patted Sam's shoulder. "Maybe this time your vibes are just vibes," Dean said. "I've told you, your visions and stuff--freak occurrences."

"But--"

"But nothing," Dean insisted. "Look, we've done the research thing, now let's kick back and relax. If we have to be here, we might as well make the most of it."

"Right," Sam said sarcastically. "And what are we going to do here? Herd cattle?"

"Well, I don't know about you," Dean said slowly. "But I kind of said I’d meet Candy after her shift at the motel."

"Dean, come on."

"What? What else are we going to do? The town’s clean. Don’t know quite else to tell you. No mysterious police reports, no one’s seen or heard anything. Unless you count how that cow ended up on the second floor of the high school. I’m sure that was an angry cow spirit come back to spite the man who killed his mother."

Sam continued to stare at his brother.

"It's not like I'm trying to ditch you," Dean explained. "You're dead on your feet, Sam. You look like a long stretch of bad road."

Sam started to protest. He understood his brother was protective, but Sam really did hate when Dean took to mothering him, as though Sam couldn't care for his own basic needs.

Dean didn't let Sam speak. He needed to get the issue out on the table and make Sam deal with it. Sam was and all-or-nothing kind of person, and when he was in something, he tended to lose perspective. He doubted his brother even realized just how haggard he looked. "The not sleeping, the not eating. It has to stop. Whatever's going on, that's not the way to solve it. Now listen--I've got to check on the car again before I meet Candy--they said they'd be ordering the parts today. And I'll do some asking around, okay? But only if you agree to crash for awhile."

"Dean--"

Dean was resolute. "I mean it."

Sam could see that Dean would not be flexible on this one. Trying to talk Dean down when he was in this mood was nearly impossible, and Sam doubted he had the energy to put up much of an argument. "Fine," Sam finally agreed. "But then you've got to lay off for awhile, you know? I'm a big boy. I think I can take care of myself."

Dean gaze was marginally affirming, but as he watched his brother retreat toward the motel, Dean wasn't so sure.

It was late when Dean finally made his way back to the motel. He'd checked on the car, only to find that the two valves had needed to be replaced and had to be ordered from Seattle. Much to his chagrin, Gene had guessed they wouldn't arrive for at least three days, and that installation would take at least another day.

Luckily Candy was in an unusually perky mood, and by the time he headed home, he was feeling much more upbeat. He could still smell Candy's perfume in his nostrils as he neared the motel, and wished for a moment that he had stayed longer.

He didn't have Sam's vibes, and he could sense nothing unusual about the town, but his younger brother's behavior still seemed to warrant his attention. Family before pleasure, he supposed, and from the looks of things, he'd have more than ample opportunity to spend time with Candy until the car was fixed.

He was quiet as he opened the door, hoping that he would find his brother asleep.

As the door creaked open, his hopes faded. The light was on and he could hear Sam shuffling around.

"Dude," he said, as he pulled the door shut behind him. "Aren't you going to get some sleep?"

The question went unanswered. He moved farther into the room.

Sam was clawing frantically through his bag, muttering incoherently.

"Sam?" he asked hesitantly, moving forward. "What are you doing?"

Sam showed no indication he heard his brother and continued throwing items violently to the floor.

"Sammy?" he asked again, concern edging away his hesitation. He stood, moving to his brother. "Sammy?"

His voice made no impression on the younger boy, and Dean could see Sam was pale in the dim room, his body jerking with exertion.

He grabbed his brother, a firm hand on his arm. "Sam!"

Sam was cold and continued his search despite the hindered arm. Dean felt his stomach churn. What was going on? Possession? Sleepwalking?

He tightened his grip and Sam’s movement intensified, his muttering louder. "Find it…I’ve got to find it…Find it…"

Sam’s voice was reaching a breathless pitch and Dean didn’t know what to do. He grabbed his brother’s shoulders, turning him forcefully toward him. He shook him. "Snap out of it, Sam."

Sam’s eyes were open but unseeing. "It’s hidden in the darkness. I have to find it—I have to—"

"Sam, stop!" Dean yelled now, giving his brother a violent shake.

But Sam twisted, trying to pull away. He thrashed against his brother, his lean from freeing itself from Dean’s grasp and returning to its hysterical search.

Panicked, Dean fumbled after his brother, and they struggled together. Sam began to kick, his legs finding purchase painfully on Dean’s shins. Desperate, Dean did the only thing left he could think of. Clenching his teeth, he let his hand form a fist and cringed as it connected with the side of Sam’s head.

The blow made Sam stumble, and he reeled back against the bed. Dean immediately followed him, hoping the punch had been hard enough to wake Sam up but not too hard to cause any real damage.

He had Sam pinned as a precaution, but Sam’s movements had stilled. He blinked once, twice, before his eyes focused on the face above him.

"Dean?" he asked slowly. "What…what happened?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

Sam looked confused and his brow knitted thoughtfully. "I had to find it," he said dimly.

"Find what?" Dean said, easing the pressure of his brother’s body.

Sam made no attempt to move; he stared distantly past Dean’s ear. "The gun. I had to find the gun."

"Why?"

Sam looked at Dean. "I had to find the bullets. Guns are no good without bullets, Dean."

"Sam, what are you talking about?"

"Don’t you understand?" Sam sounded distressed. "It’s coming. I don’t want to be caught off guard. Last time you didn’t put bullets in the gun, but this time we need to."

"Sam, I think you need to get some sleep, buddy," he said apprehensively, sitting back on the bed. Sam wasn't making any sense.

Sitting up, Sam looked at him with wide eyes. "No," he insisted. "Please, Dean. We need to be ready."

It took all of Dean's resolve to stay calm. With effort, he kept his voice even and stern. "Sam, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re acting crazy. I think this will all be better once we both get some sleep."

"But—"

"No, buts, Sammy. You’re sleepwalking and can’t tell the difference between dreams and reality. A little more and you’ll be ready for a straightjacket."

Sam looked hurt.

Dean softened. "You haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in days and you know it."

"The dreams…"

"Are just dreams. You’ve had them before. I can hear what you mumbled in your sleep; these are nothing new."

Dean’s words filtered slowly through the haze of Sam’s brain and suddenly made sense. "Yeah," he said.

Seeing his opening, Dean seized it. "Let's get you back to bed."

Part of Sam wanted to protest, didn't want to sleep, knowing that the refuge so many found there would not be so welcoming for him. But Dean's words were so gentle, his actions so firm, that Sam could not stop himself from being herded back toward the bed.

"We can talk about this in the morning, you know," Dean told him quietly. We WILL talk about this in the morning.

"I can't sleep, Dean," Sam tried to explain.

"Yes, Sam," Dean replied plaintively. He was tired of running in this circle of logic. "You can. You're going to kill yourself if you don't start getting some rest. You'll feel better when you sleep," Dean explained.

He barely felt Dean take him by the elbow and all but push him into bed, his knees bending more than willingly.

Sam seemed to want to resist, so Dean kept a hand on his brother's shoulder, forcing Sam to lie down. He pulled the comforter over him and Sam tossed, trying to get comfortable.

Sensing Sam still needed some kind of affirmation, Dean offered him a half-truth. "Tell you what, you sleep, and I'll keep watch, okay?"

Sam's eyes started to drift closed, his body's demands overriding his fears. He managed to breathe out a "thanks" before his head turned into the pillow and he was asleep.

Dean sat by him for several long minutes, trying to quell his own worries. He would never admit the depths of his concerns to Sam, especially not when Sam was so unhinged as it was. But he couldn't fight the unnerving fact that Sam was acting progressively stranger. "What is going on with you, Sammy?"

Sam turned restlessly in the bed, flopping on his side, but he didn't wake.

Dean patted him on the shoulder, willing him to stay asleep. He had to cling to the hope that everything would be better if Sam just got some sleep. Hesitantly, he went over to Sam's bag and recollect his brother's things. He came across Sam's gun, the one they hadn't left in the lock box in the trunk. He kept it out and zipped in the rest of the messy contents. The last thing he wanted was to worry about Sammy sleepwalking with a loaded gun. He'd lock this back up in the car tomorrow when he checked on it.

He sighed, sitting back down on the bed. He spent the better part of the night true to his promise, perched on his own bed, watching as Sam tossed and turned.

TBC …