I imagined punching my foot against the accelerator and flooring my Pinto down the highway, dodging cars and seeing mailboxes fly by like light streams. It was in every way as dramatic and full of burning lava in my veins as I felt right now, but that would take far too long. I had to teleport - I had to be fast. I had to find him. The GPS on his phone had been shut off lone ago. A highway shoulder. A farmhouse in Kansas. I turned frantically, eyes raking the horizon for anything like what Dean has described. A barn. A barn in a field. A barn in a field beside an empty dirt road. Nothing. I angrily teleported eight miles West, repeating my sweep.

My phone sat burning a hole in my pocket. It had been an hour since I got off the phone with Dean - he had finally caved, and called for my help. He wouldn't call Sam. Couldn't. But Cain was still present, and the damage dealt to Dean as a vessel was unspeakable; I could feel it in his voice. He hadn't been sleeping for months. Weeks ago he stopped eating. Then he lost interest in drinking. For endless long nights he sat in hotel rooms, waiting for Cain to find another course of action. Another way to get at her. Another strategy to finish the mission. All he had been doing was slaughtering hordes of demons, trying to get closed to Abbadon. The strength in his arms - impossibly inhuman - as his blade slid through body after body, flesh and gore covering him... It was destroying him.

Dean's body was falling apart at the seams. At this point, anger and willpower alone were holding him together. But Cain was driving him too hard.

I teleported into the middle of a field and whirled to see a black '67 Chevy Impala parked a mile away on the road. If that wasn't proof enough, in between them was an army of demons laying in a sea of tall blood-stained grass. The smell was horrific. Signs of the battle painted a picture of Dean's actions. My heart leaped from my chest and ran ahead of me as I abandoned my teleporting to sprint towards the barn, unable to think clearly.

There was hardly a crack big enough for a man in the large, heavy wooden doors to the barn. I shoved them aside with loud creaks of protest from their hinges, letting early-evening light pour in. The only places the shadows refused to retreat was where he sat. Crumpled against the wall. He was soaked in blood and covered in wounds. The skin visible under his gory facial was pale and gray. His eyes were closed as well, his face lifeless, and that scared me the most.

"Dean." I crossed the room in three steps, kneeling by his side. My eyes soaked him in as I tried to take in his every injury and search for signs of breathing. His chest was still. No. No, he was alive.

Holding out shaking hands, I put my hand on his shoulder, my panic spiking. "Dean, look at me." I demanded.