Chapter 2

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"Dean, Dean...Dean," Gordon shook his head as he spoke. He stood strong. Powerful. Smug.

Sam snapped his eyes shut. His brother pulled back from him and studied his face.

"What is it?"

"It's Gordon..." A frightened, small voice. Like a child. Dean grasped his shoulders.

"He's not here – keep your eyes shut!" A determined tone designed to convince. To keep him in the here and now.

"I gotta stop him, you know," Gordon began. "'Cos as much as I like your brother...he's a persistent pain my ass when it comes to killing you, Sammy."

Sam pressed his wrists against his ears. His knees hitched up – head down – eyes closed. With dread, Dean watched him shuffle away from him.

"Concentrate on my voice, Sam! Keep listening to my voice, my words, 'cos what I say is real, and it's here and it's happening..."

"...And you and I both know he's wasting his time, don't we," Gordon's voice seemed to boom above Dean's which had already degraded into a garbled 'blah' in the background.

"Nice touch, though."

Sam opened his eyes and glanced up. Gordon had his shotgun by the muzzle and was swinging it with effort – his focus on the back of Dean's head. Sam hurtled forward throwing himself into Gordon's legs – toppling him over and wrestling him down. Gordon was quick. He slammed one, two head butts into Sam's face – his hand's heavy around his neck – making Sam's veins swell with the pressure.

"Such filthy animals...like you...should never... be allowed to live!," he hissed through bloodied teeth. His entire weight on Sam's abdomen, he lifted up Sam's head and slammed it hard against the concrete...

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Sam opened his eyes. The panic room, again.

The ceiling fan turned lazily.

Still here then.

He sighed – and lifted up a bandaged hand and focussed on it. Spots of blood signalling further boxing matches and a gentle unravelling. Much like himself, he mused bitterly.

He slid his head around. And there was Dean.

"How long?" Sam rasped. Screaming. He must have been screaming again.

"Not long." The quiet reply. He leaned up against the huge iron door. An apathetic picking of some dried paint on the handle made Dean notice the dried blood still under his finger nails.

After Sam had smacked his head against the concrete floor – the blood just kept on coming. Heads were always well supplied with blood, but this was biblical proportions and it had scared him. Once the bleeding had stopped, he'd referred to the small notebook he'd kept to measure the frequency of Sam's attacks.

That had been four hours ago.

He approached the bed and sat on the edge. Sam licked his lips.

"And you think it's getting better?"

"A tad optimistic," Dean conceded. He glanced at his watch. "But, it has been four hours since the last one." He bent down and gently shook a bottle of water within Sam's line of sight. He unscrewed the top and handed it over. Sam emptied it in a few hungry gulps and rested the bottle on his chest. The shadows from the ceiling fan fell onto them both, caressing them gently in the shared silence.

"If I'd known..." Sam said softly. "I would never have...we could have - "

"- What?" Dean cut in. A flash of irritation. "We could have joined forces and killed Lillith together? No matter what happened we were in a lose, lose situation. Turned out you only did what everyone wanted."

"Everyone?"

"Yeah. Even the angels. " Dean admitted. He leaned forward, elbows on knees and dry scrubbed his face. His utter exhaustion seeped from him it seemed, transferring into Sam's bones. His eyes suddenly heavy, he struggled to stay awake.

"I don't want to go back," he said. The tone of vulnerability in the statement made Dean turn to look at him.

"Then stay."

"I can't stop it...they just appear and it never ends."

"Then we'll wait until it does. I know it doesn't feel like it, but they're coming less frequent...less violent."

"Run away." It wasn't an order, it was a request. And it made Dean frown and look away. He stood up and paced the confines of the panic room once more. Sam followed him with heavy eyes.

The continuing silence and the repetitive movement of the shadows pulled at Sam's eyelids and he felt himself sliding again. What now? And would he ever come back...?

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"Sam?"

Ah. Another hallucination. But he was ready.

She was here. Sitting on the edge of his bed. Looking down at him.

He quietly congratulated himself on his foresight. All the things he wanted to say carefully stacked up in his troubled mind.

"Jess" How long had it been since he'd uttered that name? He couldn't remember. Her beauty remained though. As fresh and as clear as the last day he'd seen her, kissing him goodbye and waving at the window.

"It's gone, you know." She said with a smile.

"What?"

"The demon blood. It's over. You're clean."

He'd flashed a smile at her words, and lifted a hand to her face. She leant into it and kissed his hand.

"I miss you," he whispered. The scent of her filled his memories once more.

"I know." Her hair fell against his arm. "But you need to leave here now. Dean's been waiting all this time for you to come back. And...you have to get away."

Her smile faded along with the hopes he had of being able to talk to her. She stood up from the bed. She moved away. She was leaving.

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"I'm sorry...," he called after her...her image finally fading into sprinkles of nothing.

"I know." Dean answered softly.

THE END