Cast No Shadow

Disclaimer: Obviously (and very unfortunately) I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters. This is just a fanfic. I got an idea, I wrote it down. Here are the results, one chapter at a time.

Summary: The consequences of being twice 'saved' by reapers catch up to Dean three days before his deal is up, and Sam must race against the clock to not only keep his brother out of hell, but keep him in this world at all.

A/N: This is a deal fic, but not a death fic, and I believe it's unlike any other deal fic out there. I wouldn't bother reading it if you haven't seen all of the show through season two. It's canon, with a few of my own interpretations over lingering questions thrown in. Rated for strong language. No slash, just good old fashioned Winchester angst, both hurt! and comforting! Dean and Sam at different times, and some humor thrown in for good measure. Hope you likey.

Prologue

Pulling the zipper tab on his old duffel bag as quietly as he can manage, he runs over the inventory list in his mind for the ninth time in as many minutes. He's used to traveling light of course, taking only what's needed, but this time it's different. This time he won't be able to rely on what's left in his weapon stock or make a quick stop at Bobby's to pick up more ammo and a few choice charms. This time he'll be on his own, heading into that open-ended nowhere without the slightest idea of how to fix his latest mess. And though he'd never admit it to anyone, Dean Winchester is pretty damn nervous about it all.

Just focus on getting out before…you know. He chances a look at the figure asleep on the bed at the other end of the motel room, willing him to stay like that just a few minutes longer. Tonight's weather is not cooperating with his getaway in the least, drilling rain into the roof, a multitude of spikes every second, as the thunder hammers out another part of the sky. Would have to rain, he thinks and sighs. Least the Impala is getting a free carwash… The lightning flashes on again, off again, no real rhythm to its deadly brilliance, and each flash illuminates the still-sleeping Sam through the slits in the blinds. One moment he's visible, the next he isn't. Sort of like me these days. And hey, that's why you're leaving, right?

Dean turns to leave but finds that he can't; the inevitable second thoughts make themselves known. He still feels shitty about doing this to his brother. How many times has he disappeared on you? he asks himself. How did it feel going out of your skull when you couldn't find him? Gee Deano, think he'll feel the same way?!

An especially bright flash fades, leaving the room in complete darkness again. Dean looks away, clenching his teeth and jaw as his resolve returns and drowns out those pestering doubts. "This is different," he mutters. It doesn't matter if his own inner voice is making such good sense: Dean's made up his mind. He has to go. It's for Sam's own good. Is it? challenges his inner voice, and Dean rolls his eyes at his own thoughts. Better for Sam, or EASIER for you?

Better for both of us. Dean watches Sam turn over onto his side with the next series of lightning flashes, facing his older brother now (though thankfully still asleep). Sam pulls his right arm away from his face and Dean is reminded of just why he is leaving. Sam's chest sports a series of long bandages with shadowy zigzags underneath. Several small spots of blood have penetrated through the three gauzy strips, the 47 sutures Sam had to endure already starting to fail. The deep cuts hurt so much that he wasn't even able to pull an old t-shirt over his head and torso for that night's bed rest. Now the bright hazel eyes stare at the doctors' stitch-up job, the outlines of the gashes still visible, and the guilt devours him. Sam had been torn open and tortured, and all because Dean wasn't there.

No that's not true, Dean reminds himself, even as he tries to push the memory from his mind. You WERE there. You saw the whole ordeal. You just couldn't do a damn thing about it. The memory plays on despite his efforts, and he cringes as he rehears the first tear…that godawful rrrrip of shadowy claws through flesh. Sam screaming in pain. Dean doing nothing. He closes his eyes and turns away, swallowing the tears that would just love to come out. He succeeds, but only just. The mental reliving of Sam's agony pushes Dean on toward the door, and the self-flagellation continues.

You FAILED him. And considering how frequently that's been happening lately, you might as well leave the Protecting Sam work to Sam. Without you there to fuck everything up, he'll be on his way to Wellville in no time. He smirks despite himself, knowing what sort of reaction that would get out of Sam if he could read the ever-poisonous thoughts in Dean's brain: the patented Bitchface, a poorly timed and weak curse word, and an attempted smack across the back of Dean's head. Dean turns the smirk down toward his sleeping brother's face. I'll save you from embarrassing yourself, Sammy. Just this once.

The rain picks up and pounds harder, if that's even possible, and Dean takes the car keys off the table. Hesitates. Puts them back again. Almost. Lifts them back up. Stares at them. You have to leave it. The keys don't move. Come on dammit! You won't be able to drive it anyway, you KNOW you won't. At least Sam can still use it! He starts to move his hand again, but curls his fingers up; son of a bitch, this is hard. Giving up the Impala is almost as bad as leaving Sam, but leaving them BOTH? No. He can't do it.

Dean moves to put the keys back in his pocket when the cold hits him: that sting of utter chill that bites through everything in him, then diminishes just as quickly, leaving behind the nothingness that he's grown to fear. This time it's centered around his right forearm and hand, and he holds it up to the flashes of light as they hit the room. Flicker! Half the hand and fingers remaining. Flicker! Just the thumb, keys, and key ring hooked around the knuckle. Come on Dean, he yells inside, tensing muscles and mind, hold it together… Flicker! Gone—just a faded image of what had existed before, nothing solid. His eyes fall to the floor, looking at where the car keys landed. It doesn't pay to try and pick them up—his body has made the decision for him. He steps over the duffel as well, seeing how futile it was to even think of bringing along anything but himself and the clothes he's wearing.

Stepping only with the cracks of thunder, Dean makes his way to the door, opening it at a break between lightning flashes. He doesn't look back at Sam. Can't look back at Sam. Closes the door behind him and steps out into the rain. The penetrating cold returns, frosting through every part of him until he's past numb, past feeling. He looks down at the diaphanous version of himself and nods, having known it was bound to happen. Perfect. Facing the motel's parking lot, he keeps his eyes off his baby just two parking spaces to his left and starts for the road ahead. He gets about four paces when he hears—no, senses, really—the door open behind him.

"So that's it?"

Dean sighs through his teeth and turns around. Sam is slumped in the doorway, now wearing his jacket over his otherwise bare-but-bandaged torso. He's obviously still in a lot of pain, though the pain Dean reads in Sam's eyes is a far different and much greater kind of hurt. Christ this sucks. "Sam…"

"You're leaving. Just like that. No reason…hell, no good-BYE—"

"I said good-bye. Not my fault if you couldn't hear it over your snoring. Could wake the dead with that nose noise…" He smiles, but Sam gives him a look, and the smile fades. "Or not."

"Jokes. Always jokes."

Dean puts his hands out in a 'whaddya want?' gesture. "It's what I do."

Sam looks away from him and clears his throat. "Dean…where are you going?"

Dean moves his head around, taking in the lack of scenery all around him. "To be honest, I don't know."

"But you do know that you don't want me to come along, is that right?"

"Yeah, basically."

Sam looks at him again, one of his big-eyed, straight-to-the-heart stares he's so good at. "And I don't get a say in this decision?"

Dean puts his hands in his pockets and studies a bit of gravel on the ground. "No," he says quietly. "Not this time Sammy. I'm sorry."

"You're SORRY?!"

Dean shushes him and waves his arms, stepping forward a bit. "Shut up! It's 3 a.m. genius, you want EVERYone showing up to this farewell party?"

Sam steps forward now too, out from the protection of the motel roof's overhang, and the still driving rain has him nearly drenched before he speaks. "What is this, huh? What, some penance for not being perfect all the time, that you feel you have to face everything alone?" Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam walks forward and looms over him. "I don't get it! I've NEVER gotten it, why do you do this…how can…?" He runs a shaking hand through his sopping hair and collects himself. Then he looks at his brother, who stands sharp-eyed and stubborn as ever, and sighs sadly. "Why won't you let me help you?"

"Because you can't help. And the longer I stay, the more danger you're in."

Sam grins bitterly. "That's bull and you know it."

"Oh really? So remind me, which one of us has the marked soul, huh? Which one of us can't even hold a damn toothbrush most of the time these days, much less a gun or a knife or something useful?"

Sam holds up and rubs his finger and thumb together. "World's smallest violin, man. What about me, a certain yellow-eyed bastard, and a certain dark destiny?"

Dean just looks away. "At least you're still somebody."

Sam laughs at that. "What, and you're not? Dude, since when do you care if you're famous?"

"This isn't about fame, this is about BEING. You're still whole, Sam, YOU'RE still all there. Or have you really failed to notice that only one of us is soaking wet right now?"

Sam closes his eyes and shakes his head, not wanting to acknowledge that yes, he did notice the rain falling through Dean, not on him. Dean's voice comes back, low and emotional despite what Sam knows is Dean's best effort. "Because of me, you got hurt."

Sam's hazel eyes open again beneath the dark, dripping bangs. "You didn't let it happen though, it's not your fault—"

"Because of ME, you got tortured Sam! And I couldn't do anything to stop it! Now I am not gonna sit around and wait for it to happen again, all right?" Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Dean glares him back into silence. "The best and only thing I can do right now is to go out there and find some way to fix this."

"Fine, go, but I'm going with you!"

Dean points up at him, staring all his will into his brother. "No. Absolutely not. You stay away from me, okay? Out of the line of fire."

"Oh come ON," Sam tips his head back in exasperation, "not this again. How many times…I'm not a baby anymore!" He holds his arms out to emphasize the point. "I'm not some brittle thing that's going to break after a few bumps and scratches. I can take care of myself!"

"I know you can—that's not the point."

"Then what is?" Sam waits for Dean to say something, but Dean just stands there, looking a little bored. Sam laughs again and shifts his weight, blinking up at the thunderclouds overhead. "This is so screwed up. We should be celebrating, not standing out here in the rain."

"Funny, I never asked you to come out here…"

"You WON Dean, don't you get it? You're still here!" Dean shoots Sam a dark look, and Sam winces at his choice of words. "Er, mostly…sorry." Now Dean checks his watch instead of responding, and Sam whirls his arms around, fed up. "What's your problem? Can't you even try and enjoy this victory just for a minute?!" The last word comes out strained as Sam suddenly doubles over, having torn through one of his sutures with his drama, and a scraggly line of brownish-red appears as blood oozes through the bandage. He hisses in pain and attempts to stand upright once more, so Dean reaches out to help him, just to see his hand pass right through Sam's arm. Sam sees it too and shivers as he tries to say something, but no words come. The concern leaves Dean's face as the internal walls rebuild themselves, and he turns to leave, angry at himself yet again.

"Please Dean…" Sam calls from behind him. "Don't do this. It's not right."

Dean remains facing away from him but glances back over his shoulder. "See somebody about those stitches. They didn't do a very good job." He starts walking again, only to hear a soft thump behind him. Dean looks back and sees Sam lying on his side, his weakened body finally having given out on him. Dean is overcome at the sight. "Aw Sam, why'd you have to go and do that…" Sam does not respond, so Dean comes a bit closer. "Sam?" Still nothing. He tries to grab his shoulder but is still unable to touch him in his current condition. "SHIT."

Dean looks around, trying to spot something he can use to help Sam, and his gaze falls on the bungalow lights above each of the motel's doorways. He braces himself, still highly uncomfortable at doing what he's about to do, but one more look at his unconscious and bleeding brother pushes him into action. Dean's eyes light up and every bulb but the one for their room shatters in its fixtures as they each give up their energy to him. Then he locates the vehicle closest to where Sam lies: an expensive SUV. "That'll work." He concentrates on it, sends the stolen energy in, and the SUV wakes up, car alarm screeching in time with the flashing lights. The improvised call for help takes a lot out of Dean—he looks down and sees his body disappearing from sort of visible to almost completely invisible within seconds—but it's worth it: the SUV's forty-something owner runs out into the rain seconds later, robe flailing behind him. Fumbling with the keys, he eventually opens the door and switches the alarm off. Then he leans back out of the vehicle and sees a young man lying nearby and bleeding.

"Holy buckets…!"

Dean smiles at the old phrase. "Ha, he said 'holy buckets'! You're in good hands Sammy." But his smile falters as his concern for Sam returns full force; his brother still hasn't moved, and those blood stains are getting darker. The man takes no notice of Dean (and Dean is fairly sure he can't see him at all, mostly gone as he is) and is already dialing 911 on his cell phone as he runs over to Sam and leans over him. Only able to stand there in silence and watch, Dean can't help but feel guilty, knowing full well that HE should be the one tending to his brother, not some stranger with cornball (though enjoyable) phrases. Yeah, but how would you help him?his inner voice asks. You can't even touch him while you're like this—how would you get him to the hospital?

Dean shrugs at the question, the guilt growing stronger as he watches the rain smear the seeped blood. I've done it before…

Yeah, and that was by pure luck. This is different, and you know it. Dean concedes the point and backs away. Then, as the man starts rattling off directions to the emergency operator, Sam's eyelids flutter and blink as he gradually stirs.

"…Dean?" He attempts to sit up, but the man makes him lie back down.

"Just stay still, you're going to be fine." The man looks away and shouts at the open door to his room. "Carol? Bring some towels, someone is hurt out here!" Then the man turns back to Sam and asks, "What happened to you?"

Sam ignores him, looking around for his brother. "Dean…where'd he go…have to FIND him…"

The man looks around but sees no one else. "I'm sorry son, but you're the only one here besides me. Who's Dean?"

"He's my—hssssh…" Sam cringes and buckles as another suture comes undone.

"Dammit Sam, will you be more careful?" Dean says it quietly, not wanting Sam to hear him, and it takes a lot of willpower to stay where he is; his own brother is bleeding out, and Dean knows he still has to walk away. But not until I know he's going to be all right. He sees Sam writhe in pain again on the ground, and he looks at the kind stranger, wishing he'd hurry up. "Get him to a hospital, or at least get him back inside. He shouldn't stay out here."

At this point 'Carol' makes her entrance, carrying an umbrella and holding it over Sam and her husband as she hands the latter the requested towels. She sees the blood and her face goes white. "My God Dennis, what happened here?"

"Not sure yet." The man stuffs one towel under Sam's head, jostling his skull from side to side in the process. Dean sees it and is not at all happy about the rough treatment.

"Hey! You're supposed to take care of my brother, not make him feel worse!" Dennis doesn't hear the warning, just rolls out the other towel to cover up the bleeding chest, but Sam catches it. His eyes become alert again and he looks in the direction of the voice.

"Dean?" Again he tries to sit up, searching the area with the next flash of lightning, but Dennis helps him back down again. Dean responds by moving further into the shadows of the parking lot, not wanting Sam to strain himself by trying to locate what's left of his older brother.

Go on Sammy, he urges, hoping that Sam will get this simple request through that psychic whatever it is he has. Go with them and get help. It's miserable out here. You need your rest. Sam is still squirming, attempting to get back up and look for him, and Dean doesn't know whether to hug him or punch him—not that he could do either in his current state, even if he wanted to. That's when Sam finally spots him, and he drives those puppy-dog-in-pain eyes right into Dean's being. Damn that kid's Spidey Sense. There's nothing you can do for me, Dean thinks at him gently. You can't help someone that can't be helped. You have to let me go. Sam squints his eyes shut, defeated, like he really has heard every word, but Dean knows better than to hope. It hasn't helped him in the past—why should now be any different?

"What happened to you dear?" asks Carol now, blocking out Sam's view of his brother.

"My…brother…"

"Your brother did this to you?!"

"NO, he's hurt too, he's going to die!" Sam lifts his head to look around her, but the two good Samaritans gently stop him from moving. Dean steps up behind and next to Carol, so transparent now that he can barely see himself through the driving rain; he has no idea how Sam is able to.

This is it, Dean tells himself. He gives Sam a smile, like he always has done, trying to show him through it that everything's going to be fine. He has no idea that the smile is pained, revealing everything he wants to say and should say but can't. Sam shakes his head in little, disbelieving 'no's.

"Don't leave me," Sam begs, and Dean tells himself that its rainwater in and around those hazel eyes, even though he knows better. "Please. We have TIME again. I can help you, but you have to stay!"

"I'm not going anywhere dear," says Carol, thinking the young man is talking to her, but Sam's gaze remains on the translucent form behind her. Dean says something but the rain makes it impossible to hear. He starts to turn away…

"Don't!"

Dean pauses, and Sam shakes his head again, wide-eyed and pleading. Dean's only reply is a final look, and then he relinquishes his remaining control and allows himself to disappear completely. "DEAN?" Again Sam tries to sit up, but the helpful couple forces him back down and hold him there, warning him against tearing more of his stitches. Now standing a few feet away, unseen Dean nods. It's done. Now if only he could be happy about it.

An ambulance siren echoes in from the distance, and Dean thanks his luck for being in a small town; short distances equal quicker response times. "You're gonna be fine, Sammy," he thinks out loud, remembering the many times he's said those exact words to him. Sam's first day of school, his first date, his first hunt…only this time I'm really reassuring myself. Sam calls his name again from behind him, but Dean doesn't look back. He knows even a glance will break him, and he has to leave. Must. End of discussion.

Turning around to face the long and lonely road ahead, he puts his back to what he knows and who he cares about and starts walking. The rain seems to travel along at his pace. It was a dark and stormy night, he thinks, grinning internally, as Dean Winchester took his first step into his own personal oblivion. He stops and grimaces. God no…what a shitty start to a story that would be. Just walk. Leave the stories to the writers and get on with what's left of your life.

He turns left at the crossing and heads west on a whim. Behind him, the ambulance rolls into the parking lot, and Sam is helped inside, protesting all the while. Above, the lightning seems to burn itself as weaker flashes flicker in and out, in…and out completely, leaving the night to its own miseries.

Chapter One

Three days ago: Eagle River, Wisconsin

It's early. Ungodly early, especially after a late night, and Dean shows his disdain for the morning with a wide-as-his-mouth-will-go yawn, treating the people in the booth behind him to his morning breath. They're not amused. That of course amuses Dean to no end, and he'd enjoy it if only he could get his eyelids to lift all the way up. The middle-aged waitress with the tree trunk arms comes over with the coffee, and Dean holds his mug out for a warm-up. The sound of savage crunching hits him and he turns to Sam across the table, who is eating (no, inhaling is really the word for it) his cereal with a spoon in one hand while pecking away on his laptop with the other. Dean had finished his omelet a few minutes ago, and now he's working on what's left of the hash browns. He takes a forkful, dabs it in ketchup, takes a bite, and mumbles something to Sam. Sam ceases his crunching for a moment and looks at him.

"Dude, you know I can't understand your Food-ese."

Dean swallows and licks the ketchup smear off his lips. "I said you still like your Lucky Charms."

Sam glances down at his breakfast and shrugs. "Yeah, so?"

"Well nothing…'s just kinda cute is all."

"Cute."

"Yeah. Favorite when you were a kid, favorite now."

"It's not my favorite," he argues, turning back to his laptop, "it's just the only kind they had available here today besides that Special K stuff."

Dean smirks. "Yeah, no marshmallows in there. Just healthy stuff. Can't have that." He waits for Sam to say something else, but his brother's eyes have just widened, focusing on the screen. "What, you found something?"

"Maybe…" The spoon drops back in the bowl, splishing a little milk onto the counter, but Sam is all typey tippey taps now, drilling his questions into the machine. Dean can feel the enthusiasm and hope emanating from his brother—familiar territory of late—and he gives the same reaction he always does: subdued division. Poker face on, he sips his coffee and looks away as part of him gets excited that Sam might have finally found an answer to his dilemma, while the other part reminds the first part just what consequences any answer might bring. The latter point-of-view always wins out, and Dean finds himself chanting Please don't find it, please don't find it in his mind, over and over, ensuring he remains on karma's bad side. Keeping himself doomed is the only way to keep Sam alive.

So, as the key bashing slows, Dean looks back at Sam, knowing what's about to happen—again, it's familiar territory. The enthusiasm is the first to go, taking its glow from Sam's face as it departs. The hope remains, dogged and without bounds, but as the typing ultimately stops, hope retreats, heading back to its safe hidey hole in Sam's heart. He sighs, frustrated, and looks up at Dean, who keeps his eyes on the swirls of steam from his coffee cup.

"Don't give me that."

Dean presents his most innocent look (which of course is anything but). "Give you what?"

"You know what."

"No, actually, I don't. I'm just sitting here, drinking my coffee, enjoying the general…atmosphere of this diner." He gestures to the area around him and gives a little smile. Their waitress walks by and Dean signals her. "Could we get some pie over here please?"

Sam frowns. "That's just what I'm talking about." And Sam knows very well that Dean knows what he means, but Dean won't address it. That's just the problem. So Sam, as always, addresses it for him. "We're almost out of time, Dean…"

"What? No we're not, it's only…" he checks his watch, "…7:24. How can we be out of time when it's so damn early?" Sam looks on without a hint of humor, and Dean knows it's time to shut up and let Sam say what he feels he has to say.

"Three days. Three days and you're acting like there's nothing wrong in the world."

"Oh there's plenty of wrong in the world, only we—"

"Would you stop? Please?" Sam says that a little louder than he intended, attracting the attention of the people seated next to them. He waits a moment, then leans forward a bit and resumes his speech in a lowered voice. "This is serious. She'll be sending her dogs after you in three days. It's time to stop pretending you're okay with it and start doing something about it."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, like helping me look for a damn answer!"

Dean's good mood drops, his features sharpening into a glare. "We've been looking for answers for almost a year now, and the only thing we've found is the fact that hey, there ARE no answers. What's done is done."

Sam looks back at his computer. "I won't accept that."

"Well you should."

"Well I'm NOT, all right?" Both pairs of eyes lock on each other now, each brother refusing to budge from his personal (and therefore correct) opinion. They've had so many arguments over this that neither of them needs to use words anymore; their glowering does all the yelling for them. The big-armed waitress approaches again but neither of them looks away, both ready to start bitching at the other should either one foolishly decide to open his mouth. Only her action of setting two plates down in front of them breaks the stare, though the tension remains. Not that she seems to sense it at all.

"There we go hon, two freshly baked slices of apple pie, a la mode and drenched with cinnamon. Anything else today?"

Dean gives Sam a cocky look, daring him to be rude just once, but Sam glances up at her and gives a brief smile. "No, thank you. Just the check when we're done." The waitress nods and takes her leave, and when Sam looks back, Dean only has eyes for the pie. He rubs his hands together and leans over his dessert, breathing the heavenly aroma in and practically drooling.

"Oho baby." Dean stabs his new fork into the pie and takes a deep chunk out, rolls it around in the ice cream till there's a melted, creamy covering, and then scoops it all into his mouth, moaning in pleasure at the taste. When he opens his eyes, he sees that Sam is all scowls again. "What? It's pie! Damn good too. Try it."

Sam ignores his own slice of pie and pinches the area between his eyes. "You always do this, man."

Dean's already taken another bite, so he asks, "Whuh?" with a full mouth of pie and ice cream.

"We start talking about it, and you shut down and either change the subject or ignore me."

Dean swallows his bite and points at Sam with his fork. "And it ain't easy either. Now eat your pie before I eat it for you."

"I don't CARE about the damn pie, Dean!" he snaps, pounding his fist on the table. Everyone around them looks over again, but this time Sam is too worked up to care. The people sitting in the booth behind him get up to leave, and Dean snickers.

"You done scarin' the locals Sam or you want to get out your favorite piece and wave it around too?"

"My piece?" He sees Dean wiggle his eyebrows, loving the double entendre, and Sam shakes his head. "Arrgh, you're doing it again!" Another eyebrow wiggle, and Dean takes yet another bite of his pie. Sam snaps his laptop shut and starts gathering his stuff.

"Where are you going?"

"Away. From you." He slings the strap of his laptop carrier over his head and shoulder and scoots toward the edge of the booth.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Stop being such a drama queen." But Sam is already headed towards the door. "Sam!" The younger brother doesn't respond, and all 6'4" of him shoves the door open and lets it slam shut behind him, the bells hanging from the doorknob clanging against the glass. He's followed by a flood of other customers, wholly annoyed and a little uneasy with the two loud strangers in their midst. Once the bells fall silent again, Dean looks around and sees he's the only one left on the booth side of the diner. The people that remain across the room are all watching him. He gives them a nervous smirk.

"Sorry about my brother…he, uh…he's very picky about his pie." No one buys that, so Dean looks around and spots the waitress. "Check please?"

Sam is already sitting inside the Impala when he hears the familiar creak of the driver's door as it opens. Dean drops into his seat and tosses something onto Sam's lap, making Sam break his determination to not look at anything but the car's dash for the next 50 miles. It's a small Styrofoam container, and when Sam opens it, he sees his slice of pie, only now topped with whipped cream instead of ice cream.

"Don't say I never did anything for ya," Dean tells him. Sam doesn't say anything, just shuts the container and places it on the floor between his feet, so Dean starts the car. Led Zeppelin's "The Song Remains the Same" continues right where it had left off when they'd arrived, and Dean guides the car out of the parking lot and back onto US 45. From the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean open his mouth and sigh.

"I hope you're happy. The owner asked us to never come back."

"What difference does it make?" Sam mutters, still not looking at his brother. "We got rid of the railroad ghost. Job's done. We won't be coming back anyway."

Dean gives an exaggerated nod. "Okay…"

"What? It's the truth."

"I know."

"So what's the problem?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

Sam looks at Dean now, but it's Dean's turn to stare at the road, which makes it Sam's turn to sigh. "Look, can we just not talk for a little while? Is that too much to ask?"

"I don't know, is it?" Dean meets his eye, clearly in the mood to argue. Sam laughs out of pure frustration.

"You're something else, know that?" Dean opens his mouth again to agree, but Sam cuts him off. "Why can't you ever take anything seriously?" Another open mouth, another cut off. "Save it, man. I'm sick of it." There's a pause, and Dean senses a chance to put his two cents in, when Sam whirls on him again. "I nearly lost you the other night! That train was barreling down at you and yeah, you escaped, but it doesn't matter cos you're still gonna die in three days, and all you want to do is relax and eat pie and wait around for the hellhounds! Doesn't that bother you?" No answer, just a gaping mouth. "How can that not bother you?" Ditto. "What's WRONG with you Dean?!" This time Dean gets a sound out before Sam breaks in. "Shut up, all right? Just SHUT…the hell…up."

Sam looks out his window, and Dean looks back at the road. "You shut up," he mumbles at length.

Sam screams internally and resists plunging his head through the windshield. He also holds in the urge to wring his brother's neck. Watching the scenery turn from small town to dense forest, Sam stops fighting and allows himself to sink and sulk back into the murky waters of his depression.

He is so very, very tired. Tired of searching, tired of worrying, tired of despairing, tired of trying and trying and TRYing to find a way to save Dean, only to come up empty every time. It's cruel that he's been able to save so many strangers, but not the one person that means the most to him. Just two nights ago they had defeated a very violent ghost that had been haunting the local railroad tracks in this northern Wisconsin town. It had stalled vehicles at different crossings down the rail line and kept people trapped in their cars in the path of oncoming trains. They had managed to save the latest would-be victims, the Petersons, a family of four on a camping trip, by manually pushing their car off the track. But the rescue nearly cost Dean his life.

While Sam went to check on the family, the ghost caused a switch on the track just past the crossing to close on Dean's ankle, trapping him in the tracks as the light of a diesel engine appeared around a bend far up ahead. Sam had turned to run and help him when the ghost itself appeared: an old railroad worker with half of his face missing and a deep gash across most of his midsection. Sam lifted his rifle to shoot rock salt at the thing but it grabbed the gun and smacked Sam in the head with the gun's butt, sending him wheeling into the car's back bumper.

Sam closes his eyes as he remembers what happened next.

"Sam, behind you!"

Sam rolls out of the way just before the ghost slams him with a long, metal spike. Sam then grabs the spike away and slices through the entity. It vanishes. He looks up and sees Dean struggling to free himself, but the switch won't give. Yet despite the wails of the approaching train's horn, Sam realizes that Dean's eyes are still locked on his. Sam gets up to try and help him again when the ghost returns, lifting Sam up by his neck and tossing him aside. He hits the ground head first, and his vision fuzzes out. Sam hears Dean calling for him, but he's too woozy and is forced to remain where he is. The train horn sounds again, much closer now. Sam feels his leg being lifted off the ground; the ghost is dragging him back toward the tracks. Sam tries to stop himself, reaching out along the ground to grab onto something, but his fingers find only slick blades of grass. A gunshot: Tom Peterson had found Sam's rifle and shot a round into the ghost. It dissipates, and Sam is free, but he still can't see straight. The train horn sounds a third time and doesn't let up, and the railroad crossing signals activate, clanging into the night. Sam knows he only has seconds to get to Dean, so he forces himself to stand up, only to fall back to his knees as his world goes lopsided.

'Get UP,' he orders himself. 'Get to Dean.' His vision starts to clear just as a fast moving streak of white and red emerges from the trees. A terrified Dean looks between Sam and the train.

"Sam…"

Sam tries to move but his disoriented body won't cooperate. 'Move! He's going to DIE!'

The engine appears in full. Dean goes white. "Sam!"

Sam staggers to his feet, reaching for Dean but getting nowhere. "Dean…"

"SAMMY!"

And it's all over. The train rushes over the place where Dean is trapped. Sam is falling and crying before he ever hears the sickening SMACK, and as his dizziness finally lifts, he sees the train and its few cars clear the crossing and zoom on down the track. He hears the kids and the mother wailing from behind, but all Sam is able to do is stare at that now empty space. It had all happened so fast, but Sam feels as if he's been left behind by time. It's all so still now, all so final and quiet. He wants to scream, but he can't. Wants to find that train and get himself run over to keep from feeling this wretched, but he can't. Then a hand appears in front of him, and a familiar voice asks him if he's all right. Sam looks up and sees his brother, covered in sweat and pale as can be, but ALIVE. Sam accepts his help, stands up, and hugs the life out of him.

"Oh God I'm so sorry, Dean! I couldn't move…I tried, but you were…I-I'm sorry…"

Dean pushes him gently away, and Sam braces for a comment about how girlie he's being, but it doesn't come. Instead Dean pats him on the shoulder and gives him a strange look, one that Sam can't read, then turns his attention to the family, telling them they should all get out of there before 'tall, dark, and fugly' comes back for a rematch. The family readily drives off, and when Dean meets Sam back at the Impala, he gives Sam that same strange look as a reply to the stare that Sam is giving him.

"What's with you?"

"Nothing, nothing, I just…I don't understand." Sam looks down before asking, "I mean, how, uh…how are you here? How the hell did you get loose?"

Dean's trademark smirk opens up. "What can I say, Sammy? I'm just that good."

And that had been the end of it: Dean wouldn't say anything more. They'd gone back to their hotel for some shut-eye, then, after an evening of retracing their steps and research, finally tracked down the unmarked grave of the railroad worker and gave his remains the usual salt and burn treatment. Back to the hotel for a few more hours of shut-eye, and then Sam forced Dean to wake up at six so they could get an early start on today. And here we are, he thinks now, blinking back into the present, well-fed and not talking to each other. Great way to spend one of your last days together. Juuust great.

An apology forms in Sam's mind, but he holds it in. No. It's his turn to apologize. They take turns whenever they have little spats like these. Only problem is that Dean can be supremely stubborn when he wants to, and that apology may not come for days, if at all. Sam only knows when the argument is over after receiving a sign from Dean, which can be anything from a look as he tosses Sam a cold beer to a half-compliment out of nowhere. He just has to wait for Dean's devil-may-care attitude to overcome his stubbornness, and all will be back to normal.

Yeah, and what happens if these three remaining days pass and he hasn't come around? The prepared apology vanishes as Sam's bitterness takes over again. He thinks of everything that has happened in the last year, most of it a blur of different roads, hunts, and locales. But no matter where they have gone or what they've had to go after, Sam has always put Finding Dean's Answer first. He's become a professional insomniac, staying up most non-hunting nights into the wee-est hours, reading and typing away. He has exhausted every resource, poured through every ancient text and ritual he can find—hell, he's even checked out some familiar law books, hoping something will inspire him to conjure up a spiritual sort of loophole—but has failed to uncover anything that could help his brother. Sam is officially out of ideas. His brain hurts. His heart aches. He suffers from constant gut-rot and even if he could get some real sleep, he wouldn't, wary of facing another nightmare about just what he'll see when Dean is taken away.

Then there's Dean himself, a different problem altogether. While Sam has worked so hard to save him, Dean has done next to nothing to help himself. Occasionally he's come along when Sam thought he'd found something—like that time he'd discovered a possible, powerful yantra in a small museum in Florida, only to find the item was a benign replica; the real one had been lost for centuries. Dean hadn't said anything after learning the truth, just got back in the car, then back on the road. But that was five months ago, and Dean still isn't saying or doing anything to try and get out of his deal. Now any time Sam brings up a tidbit of this-may-help-you information, Dean shoots him down and shuts him out, not wanting to hear a word of it. It only makes Sam that much determined to prove Dean wrong through helping him, whether Dean wants him to or not.

This isn't just about you, Dean. The thought is so familiar that if you peeled Sam's head open, he's sure you'd see the words engraved across the grey matter. He breaks into a smile as he pictures himself stapling a post-it note with the same words to his brother's forehead, and he lets out a small laugh despite himself.

"What?" asks Dean, but Sam waves it off, still grinning a little at the picture in his mind. Oh if only it were that easy. But if concern and love and your basic common sense couldn't break through the barriers built up in Dean's mind, a staple and a sticky note didn't have a chance. A loud grunt from Sam's left seems to agree with that point, and Sam looks over. He frowns, not liking that Dean is suddenly looking more than a bit pale. His anger with his brother subsides as worry takes over.

"You all right?"

Dean nods without looking back. "Yeah…no…upset stomach." He leans forward into the wheel, pushing his stomach up against the bottom of it and groaning. Sam is about to tease him about the pie being too good to be true when Dean starts shaking. Sam reaches over to grab his arm off the wheel before the shakes turn them off course, but Dean smacks his hand away.

"Dude, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, okay?" Dean winces, hugging the wheel as his shaking increases.

"Yeah, well, it doesn't look like nothing!"

"It'll pass, just give me a minute!" A gas station appears up the road, and Dean hits the accelerator and tears off the two-lane highway and into the driveway. He pulls the Impala up to the closest pump, switches off the engine, and opens the door. "You fill," he instructs Sam, still holding his abdomen with an arm and shaking all over, "while I go in and, uh…empty."

"Gross."

Dean doesn't reply, just makes a beeline for the station's convenience store and the bathroom inside. Sam gets out slowly and moves around the back of the car, still worried about Dean, but relieved they made it before the puke hit the upholstery. "Guess that means we're talking again," he says to no one, and he pulls the license plate down and takes the gas nozzle out.

Locking the door of the men's room behind him, Dean lurches toward the mirror, ignoring the toilet entirely. His hands are shaking so violently that when he grabs the edges of the sink, the entire basin starts to vibrate along with him. "Ungh…not again…!" He hangs his head over the sink but lifts his eyes to looks at himself in the mirror. The normally bright, hazel orbs look positively luminous against his pallid complexion. Panic hits him as he pictures Sam coming through the door and seeing him like this.

Not here…not now!

The shakes give way to stabs of cold pain, plunging into his stomach and back at the same time, and he shuts his eyes for a moment, swallows his panic, and holds on. The cold stabs combine into a block of ice, and his body becomes heavy. Dean hugs the sink, denying his body the chance to fall to the floor, curl up, and give in. The absolute cold sweeps over him, burrowing through every part of his abdomen, and then…nothing. The chill lifts as swiftly as it had settled in. The shakes release his body from their control, and Dean falls over the sink, breathing hard.

There, he thinks, trying to macho up, easy part's over with. The right side of his face is pressed up against the mirror, and little cones of vapor appear where his nostrils meet the glass. He manages a half-grin of triumph. He's still here. He'd made it through another one. There's hope for you yet Dean…

It's only then that he looks down and notices that the sink is sticking through his stomach.

He doesn't throw himself across the room, eyes wide and "What the FUCK?" fears rising, nor does he shut down to wallow in self-pity. Instead he calmly backs away, tugging his black t-shirt off the faucet, until the sink is free from his abdomen. Then he lifts his t-shirt up again to assess the damage. His stomach is still there, only see-through, jeans, shoes, and brownish-red floor tiles easily visible through his skin. Dammit. Backing up further, he aligns himself with the mirror above the sink to get a better view. The reflection shows the truth: a completely transparent lower torso, and worse, the back of his shirt starting to disappear as well. He puts his hand in front of his belly button, takes a deep breath, and pushes his hand through. It passes without any sensation—no feeling of 'intrusion' from his belly, and no sense of brushing by something from his hand. Dean takes his hand back out and looks at himself in the mirror.

"Could be worse," he tells himself with a shrug, "could've been lower…" That notion makes him shiver, and that's all it takes to get the rest of him shivering again, his body still weak from this latest attack. He goes back to the sink and runs hot water over his hands and arms, trying to warm up, but it doesn't help. Come on, come ON! He pulls the hot tap as far over as it will go, still not feeling anything over lukewarm despite the small amount of escaping steam accompanying the water. A knock comes at the door.

"Dean? You there?"

Dean looks down at his shirt, knowing what's still missing underneath. He tilts his head to the side. "…More or less," he calls back to Sam. "Gimme a sec, all right?" Large footfalls fade off in response, so Dean relaxes a little, then turns his eyes back to his mirror image. "You can't let him know," he tells himself, his mantra for months now. The shivering is worse, so he grabs the sides of the sink again and holds tight. "You CAN'T," he squeezes his grip till it hurts. "He'll only want to help you more, and you know what will happen if he succeeds. Now pull yourself together." The shivers start to calm themselves but the disappearing act is now affecting a small area of the front of his shirt. His eyes narrow as he gives himself a final order: "Get back to the car before he sees. You'll be better in a few minutes."

Putting his arm over the see-through part of his shirt, he walks back out the door. Sam has just finished paying the cashier, and Dean gestures for Sam to lead the way, not wanting him to see his older brother from the back (and see through him in the process). "You all right?" Sam asks as they approach the Impala. He turns to face him, and Dean rushes around the front of the car and over to the driver's door. Sam throws him a look, wondering what's gotten into him, but Dean just looks back across the roof.

"Yeah. Fine. Let's go." He opens the door to get in, but Sam is still standing there, looking doubtful. Dean pauses and stands all the way back up. "What?"

"You're not fine." Sam endures a long eye roll from Dean for that. "What, you're not! Look at you, you're still shaking, and your skin…you're white as…as…"

"What, a ghost?" Dean points a thumb over his shoulder. "Rock salt's in the trunk, Sammy. You can take care of me right now."

Sam frowns. "You know what I mean. Maybe we should drive back to the hotel, let you get some rest."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before waking me up at six this morning." Dean gets in the car and closes the door, glad that he not only made it into the car without Sam seeing his back, but that the Impala lacks seatbelts—the lap belt would be sticking through him right about now. Meanwhile, Sam remains where he is for a moment, shaking his head at Dean's stubbornness, before he gets in the car as well. Dean is sifting through his tapes, trying to decide what to play next, and Sam notices something on the back of Dean's hands.

"What the…" He grabs Dean's right wrist and holds the hand up to the light. Parts of the skin are cherry red, with blisters forming at the knuckles. "What happened?"

"Huh?" Dean grabs his hand back and gives the scalded skin patches a glance, pretending not to care about the pain he knows he should be feeling but isn't. Inside his mind, he scolds himself (Dammit—that water must have been hotter than I thought. Stupid, unnaturally cold body), but outside, he plays dumb. "So? What's wrong with it?"

"What's wrong with it?! You burned yourself!"

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did!" Sam's look of concern switches to one of disapproval. "What exactly were you doing in that bathroom Dean?"

"Well Sam, there just happened to be a vat of acid next to the sink, so I stuck my hands in and soaked in some chemical goodness. Happy now?"

"No, I'm not." He looks out the window at the convenience store. Something happened in there… he thinks, knowing it for fact despite not knowing exactly what it is. But he also knows that he won't get an answer out of Dean, so he writes himself a mental note to ask him about it later, after he's had a few beers. Leaning around to his left, he reaches behind the seat and grabs the first aid box to look for something that might reduce the swelling.

"Don't bother. You're not supposed to cover a burn."

"Ah, so you do admit you burned yourself." Dean doesn't reply to Sam's point, just keeps sifting through the tapes as his body shivers on, so Sam opens the box and looks inside. It's stuffed with emergency vials of holy water, a few silver bullets, a pouch of rock salt, and a small fold-up knife. Normally they have bandages, surgical tape, and sterilized thread and sewing needles inside as well, but it's all missing; they'd used the remainder up on one of their last hunts and neglected to replenish the stock. Now the only remaining thing that's even remotely medically helpful is a single band-aid. Sam lifts it out and notices the pattern underneath the paper: the KISS logo.

"Dude…" He holds it up for Dean to see. "KISS? How long has this thing been in here?"

Dean snags it away from him. "Oh sweet! I haven't seen one of these in…" He trails off after catching the look he's getting from Sam. "Doesn't matter, okay? I told you—burns shouldn't be covered up."

"What about the blisters?" Sam grabs for the bandage but Dean holds it out of reach and then pockets it.

"Will you stop mothering me? I don't need bandages and I don't need you spraying Bactine on my widdle boo-boos. I'm FINE, Sam." He says the last part as he shivers again, so the fine comes out as "fiiine."

"Sure you are." Sam shuts the box and places it back where he'd found it. So much for trying to help. He resolves to keep an even closer eye on Dean than he already does, then changes the subject. "So are we going or what?"

Dean nods. "That's more like it." Still shivering a little, he drops his tapes and tucks the box back under his seat (doing his best to hide the unnerving discomfort of the still solid part of his upper torso bending through the missing part and coming in contact with the top of his jeans). "Take my chances with local classic rock stations," he mutters, and he turns the key. Without warning, a zap of energy enters through his fingers, lighting up his insides for a moment, and Dean feels his midsection reforming under his shirt. The shivering lets up at once, and a weak sting like that of a sunburn starts to form on the back of his hands. Dean just looks at the wheel, bewildered; the Impala sits as stunned as its owner. "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

Dean ignores him and tries the key again, but the engine won't turn over. "Shit…" The car door swings open and Dean gets out, his bow-legged stomp leading him to the front of the car. Sam gets out as Dean lifts up the hood, and as he joins his brother's side, Dean hits him with the eye daggers.

"What did you do?" Sam looks confused, even points to himself in a 'Me?' gesture, and Dean indicates the Impala's insides. "To the CAR, genius."

"Nothing, I just filled it up with gas."

"Oh really."

"YES really. Why would I do anything else?"

"I don't know—you're the criminal mastermind here." Dean leans forward and starts examining the engine, telling the Impala it'll be all right, and Sam shoves his hands in his pockets and waits, knowing this isn't over. By now they have attracted the attention of the gas station owner, and he comes out with a smile and an eagerness to help.

"Something wrong with your car?" he asks Sam.

"It's MY car," Dean snaps, keeping his eyes on his baby, "and yes, there's something wrong. Battery's dead."

"Well that's easy to fix!"

"Yeah, but the distributor's smoking and the wiring is shot to hell…" He glares at Sam again, freckles and hackles up. "Is there a reason you wanted to melt my car, Sam?"

"I didn't DO anything!"

"Well neither did I, and the car was running just fine when I pulled her in here. The last one that was near her was you—"

"Yeah but—!"

"—and when I tried to start her up, I got shocked. Explain that."

Sam scratches his hair. "Static build-up?" Dean crosses his arms, wholly unamused, and Sam laughs in disbelief. "Oh come on Dean. I just filled it up, I swear! Check the security cameras if you don't believe me."

The two resume their stare n' glare contest, so the gas station's manager, still standing there, clears his throat. "There's a shop just inside town. I'll call the tow truck."

"No tow." Dean closes the hood and points to his brother. "He'll push her in."

Sam laughs again. "You're kidding right?"

Dean's deep glare remains. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

Sam's smile falls. The owner steps between the brothers and addresses Dean. "Son, that shop is miles away. You can't expect this young man to push a big car all that way. Let me call a tow."

Dean grunts and finally relents. "Fine. But he's paying." He walks back around to the driver's side and gets in, soothing his hands over the steering wheel as he tells his car he'll wait with her. Sam and the owner turn and walk back towards the store.

"He's very touchy about that car, isn't he?" the owner comments.

Sam nods soberly. "You have NO idea…"

About an hour later, Sam is standing in the waiting room at the repair shop, watching Dean argue with the mechanic over the latter's off-the-cuff remark that Dean hasn't been taking very good care of his car. That was a mistake. Now, as Dean yells a warning about socket wrenches and the mechanic's 'exhaust pipe,' Sam turns away from the window and starts to thumb through the limited selection of magazines. An attractive, thirty-ish Native American woman in jeans and a rust-red blouse is sitting in a chair nearby, and she smiles as Dean drops a top-of-his-lungs f-bomb on the garage.

"Not a happy customer, is he?"

Sam smiles, a little embarrassed. "My brother has a way with words. Not a very good way sometimes, but his own way." He chooses the local newspaper and sits down across from the woman.

"Well it's hard to be polite when one has so much on his mind." Sam glances up at that and she adds, "With car trouble, I mean. Always seems to happen at the worst times."

Sam nods and pretends to read. There's an understatement... In the background, the mechanic threatens to raise the cost of the new battery in response to Dean's insults. That gets a loud "WHAT?!" in reply, and the arguing intensifies. Sam gives up on the newspaper, and he looks at the woman again, feeling like he should apologize for Dean. She seems to read his mind and waves him off.

"It's all right," she tells him, looking down at her magazine and turning the page. "I'd be upset too if I had to deal with something small and annoying and pointless during my last days on Earth."

Now she has Sam's full attention. "What did you say?" She gives him a blank look. Behind Sam, Dean picks up the air gun and revs it a few times, threatening to unscrew "a lot more than lug nuts." The other mechanics run over, but Sam keeps his eyes on the woman, shutting out the noisy background as he waits for her to speak. She seems to be in no hurry to reply, so Sam speaks up for her. "What did you mean by that 'last days on Earth' comment?"

She looks up from her magazine and gives Sam a look of kindness. "You shouldn't waste our short time together with frivolous questions, Sam." The hazel eyes widen and stare into the deep brown ones, and again she seems to read his mind. "No, I'm not a demon. I'm a friend, sent by a friend of yours."

He looks at her intently. "Who? Christo?"

She smiles and doesn't flinch. "I just told you, I'm not a demon. And does it really matter who sent me?" She pauses to give Sam a chance to reply, but Sam doesn't know what to say. She crosses her legs, revealing her high-heeled black boots. "Now ask me what you really want to ask me."

Sam hears his name called from the other room, Dean requesting some back-up as six, freshly-insulted mechanics surround him, but Sam remains where he is. "How do you know me? H-how do you know about Dean, the deal…?"

The woman reaches forward and pats his knee, and her low ponytail of black hair falls over her shoulder. "I have my ways. And you still haven't asked me your real question."

Sam licks his lips, and the words leave his mouth before he even thinks of speaking. "How do I save my brother?"

She nods, smiling again. "You don't," she says simply. "He has to save himself."

Sam leaps from his chair and stands over her. "What kind of answer is that?!"

"An honest one," she replies. "When Dean made his deal with the devil woman, he sealed his own fate. If anyone is to change that fate, it has to be him and no other."

"So what, I'm just supposed to sit here and let him get taken away? Cos I will NOT let that happen, I assure you—"

She shushes him and motions for him to calm down. "You need to listen to me, Sam, not yell at me. I can't give you answers if you don't want to receive them. Now please, sit back down."

Sam wants to be angry with her, but his instincts are telling him to trust the woman. She has a comforting air about her, almost motherly, and though he has a million questions for her, he decides to hear her out, at least for the time being. He sits down and notices that the woman's face has become stern.

"The deal your brother made is the least of his problems right now." Sam opens his mouth to yell, but she silences him with a look. "An unexpected and dangerous change is overtaking him, and if he doesn't receive the right help soon, he will suffer a far worse fate than being dragged down to hell."

Sam's eyebrows scrunch down as he tries to think up anything that can be worse than hell itself. "I don't understand," he confesses. Another smile is his reply.

"I don't expect you to. Not yet. But with time, you will know what has to be done. Just watch over your brother for now. Keep him warm. Keep him connected."

"Connected? To what?"

"Why, to himself of course! And I'd hurry…listen…" She looks around the waiting room, honing in on something Sam can't hear.

"What? I don't hear anything."

She nods. "Exactly."

The fact hits Sam so hard that he jumps, and he's on his feet at once, racing out to the main room. He clears the space between the Impala and the small blue car next to it and comes upon the six mechanics. They are all looking down at Dean, who is on the floor, shaking as badly as he had been earlier and drenched in cold sweat. His skin is so white it's almost transparent. Sam does a double-take as he looks at Dean's hands, swearing for a second that he actually can see through them. The hands open up and close back into shaking fists, and the sound of Dean's chattering teeth fill the otherwise silent garage.

Sam is frozen for a moment, unable to do more than gape at the scene. Then the anger hits and wakes him up. "What did you DO?" he bellows at the mechanics, moving in to tower over them. They all back off, admitting nothing. "He needs help—don't just stand there!" The mechanics all look at different points in the garage, so an incensed Sam runs back to the waiting room. "Help me, Dean's in trouble and I—" The words fall on an empty room: The Native American woman is outside, shaking hands with a different mechanic that just finished up on her car. She waves at Sam through the waiting room's front window and motions for him to look down. He does and sees a business card on her abandoned seat. Sam picks it up and sees that it's for a souvenir shop in a town called Minocqua. He turns it over and finds a handwritten message:

Come visit when you can't find him

Sam doesn't understand, but he pockets the card and looks back outside. The woman is driving away. Then Sam remembers Dean (and kicks himself for forgetting, even for two seconds) and slips back into the garage. The mechanics have given the stricken man a wide berth, and Sam kneels down next to Dean, putting a hand on his arm. His brother's skin is flesh-colored ice. Sam adopts a brave face before he speaks, not wanting Dean to react negatively to any concern while he's so weak.

"Dean, what happened? What's wrong?"

Dean opens his eyes and looks up at his younger brother's face. "S-sammy," he stammers, managing a weak smile despite the apparent pain, "think I'll t-ake you up onnnn that r-rest now…"