A/N: All of you people with televisions are probably settling in to watch Show right now -- blow the boys a kiss for me, will you? I hope the internet-people upload this episode ASAP so I can download it illegally this very evening.

Also, as most of you know, I am unable to respond to most reviews on this site, but I read and appreciate all of them. Thank you all so very much -- you make my day over and over again.

:::

Grace is still at the front counter when Bobby and Dean come back into the shop, and she looks up, fear already standing stark and pale on her face.

"You're back," she says, "you—"

But she cuts off with a strangled gasp as Bobby steps behind the counter and leverages a gun at her head.

"Christo," he says again, and Dean flinches at the white-hot fire of it, but Grace just lets out a terrified moan, eyes still dishwater blue and clear.

Dean untwists the cap from the flask of holy water in his hand, careful not to let the liquid touch him, and he splashes it on Grace, who splutters like any human with a face full of water and takes one stumbling step backwards, hits a display of tiny porcelain gnome figurines that teeter off their shelf and hit the floor with a tinkling crash.

"Please," she stutters, heel crunching on the broken gnomes, "please don't hurt me, oh god, there's money in the drawer, take the key, I don't care, just please don't hurt me, don't kill me—"

"We're not gonna hurt you long as you answer a few questions for us," Bobby says, nudges the gun into her temple, and Dean watches, heart in his throat, as her face grows white with the contact of metal against skin, tears sliding down her face.

"Please," she whispers, "please, please, I don't know what you think but please—"

"Bobby," Dean chokes, "Bobby, jesus, put the gun down."

Bobby turns an incredulous face towards Dean, keeps the gun snug against her head.

"It's not –" Dean scrubs a hand across his face, trying to find the words, tries to explain how he knows. "It's just a person – she's – she's clean, there's nothing, I can feel when… when there's … fuck, just, please…"

"Please," Grace echoes, eyes wide and mouth twisted with panic, and Dean can't stand to hear her voice, pleading with them not to hurt her, please not to hurt her, please, please don't hurt me, please don't hurt me again, stop please stop hope your brother was worth this, Deano please don't hurt him don't hurt him don't hurt don't bet you'll sound even prettier without a tongue please don't please please –

Dean retches, staggers blindly backwards and doubles over, gagging fruitlessly, empty stomach heaving and clenching.

"Ah, hell," Bobby says.

"No shit," Dean manages after a moment, flashback receding as quickly as it came, a string of bile connecting his lip to the ground. He swipes at it with his jacket sleeve and sucks in a deep breath, hands on his knees, willing himself back to the present, to the here and now, boots planted firmly on the carpet, fruity potpourri smell in his nostrils, real skin and real air and his mind in a real body.

He straightens, finds Grace staring at him open-mouthed, Bobby still holding the gun loosely to her head.

"Dean," Bobby asks, not unkindly. "You ready to suck it up?"

"Yes sir," Dean answers automatically.

"Now listen, Grace," Bobby says. "If you are who you say you are – then just calm down, all right? We don't want to hurt you, I promise. We just want some answers. Why don't you take a seat?"

Grace sinks down into the chair behind the register, and Bobby takes a step back but doesn't lower the gun.

Until Grace blurts out, "You're Hunters, aren't you?"

"What?" Bobby barks, surprised, and his hand wavers a little. "How—"

"I just realized – I just realized you said – you said christo to me," Grace says, and Dean fights back a flinch. "Though I didn't notice the first time." She pulls in a breath. "Your name's not really Christo, is it?"

Bobby shakes his head minutely.

"And you," Grace says, turning to Dean. "You're not really Sam."

Dean can't speak, vision going white around the edges, so he just stands stock-still, listens to the rattle of his heart.

"All right," Grace says after a moment, when it's clear Dean's not going to answer. She smoothes her hands nervously down her skirt, closes her eyes. "I've been – I've been in this business a long time, and – and, you know, it'd be much easier to speak without a gun on me."

"Tough shit," Bobby says. "If you're a Hunter, you'll know we can't take any chances."

"I am not a Hunter," Grace says, as if the idea offends her. "But I have known my fair share. And I've been –" she takes a gulp of air. "I've been possessed. When I was a girl."

"You've what?"

"I've been possessed, for three days until it was exorcized, and – whatever happened just now – it wasn't a demon in me."

"Okay," Bobby says, "slow the hell down, all right? You're sayin' – you're sayin' something happened? That there was something in you?"

"That's why you came back, isn't it?"

"Well –"

"It wasn't a demon," Grace repeats, casts a glance at Bobby's gun, fear fading slowly to exasperation. "For heaven's sake, I'll tell you everything if you lower that thing. Or at least take a step back."

Bobby glances at Dean, who nods emphatically, and he reluctantly lowers the gun.

"Talk," Bobby says.

"I lost time," Grace says without preamble. "I – it felt like I was choking, when I coughed – but not choking on something in my throat." She raises a hand to her neck. "It was more – inside. And water didn't help, and – and then I – I wasn't all me anymore."

"Who were you?" Bobby asks, voice quiet.

Grace turns, her gaze settling on Dean. "I was Sam."

Dean lets out a shaky breath, finds he's got a fist pressed up to his mouth, teeth digging into his knuckles so hard the skin is at the point of breaking, and he drops it, frees his mouth so he can say, to no one in particular: "Sam."

"That's how I know you aren't – whoever Sam is," Grace says. "When I looked at you, I didn't see – I didn't see – oh, I can't explain it, but I knew that I was Sam and you were – not-you. Not-Sam. Not-me. It doesn't make sense, I know, but—"

"It makes sense," Dean says. "It makes sense."

"Well then explain it me," Grace says, sounding miffed. The color is returning to her face, and her shoulders have relaxed a little.

"First our questions," Dean tells her, and he's proud that the command comes out strong and confident. "What did Sam think?"

"What did—?"

"What was he thinking," Dean corrects himself. "What was he thinking, when you were – when he was—when—"

"I don't know," Grace says, shakes her head helplessly. "I've told you all I know. It was just feelings I got, not words."

"What feelings?" Dean demands.

"Joy," Grace says slowly. "And… fear. And sadness."

"Joy, and fear, and sadness," Bobby repeats. "Great. You know some of those kinda contradict the others?"

"Listen," Grace snaps. "You're asking, and I'm answering. If you'd like me to lie so it makes more sense, by all means, tell me."

"No," Dean says hastily. "You're good. It's good. Is that – is there more? Anything? Anything."

"That's all I can say," Grace says. "Now – please – will you tell me what's going on?"

"I wish we could," Bobby says heavily. "We're tryin'a figure it out, ourselves."

"Who is Sam?" Grace asks. "When you –" she turns to Dean. "When you came in the other day, the first time – that's Sam, isn't it. That's who I was. I could – I recognized him."

"Yeah," Dean says, heart swelling painfully. "That was Sam."

"So who are you?" she asks, eyes narrowing. "When I looked at you – I saw just black. Black light."

"Blacklight?"

"Christo," Grace says suddenly, and Dean is too surprised to hold back his wince of pain, and her mouth flies open.

"No, no," Dean says hastily, "my eyes, Grace, look at my eyes, and –" Words come to him, familiar words, and he offers them, pleads them, "Our father, who art in heaven, Pater noster, qui es in caelis: sanctificetur Nomen Tuum; adveniat Regnum Tuum; fiat voluntas Tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra – the prayer, the prayer, I can do the prayer, I'm not a demon."

"What is going on here?" Grace shrieks. "I've had my troubles, I don't need yours – please, just – get out. Take your gun and get out."

"All right," Bobby says, holds up his hands. "We're gettin', we're gettin'. Thanks for your cooperation."

"Cooperation? Who wouldn't cooperate with a weapon pointed at them?"

"I'm sorry," Dean says, "for the – stress."

"Just leave," Grace snaps, looks for a moment like she's fighting with herself, then blurts out, "And call me when you figure out what the hell happened just now. A woman wants to know who's been inside her."

Dean finds himself smirking at that, and Bobby gives him a gentle cuff on his arm.

"C'mon," he says. "Let's leave this poor woman in peace."

"Peace, he says," Grace huffs as they back towards the door. "Peace, after what he's just put me through. I swear…"

She's still muttering as Dean and Bobby step out into the freezing air, the door closing behind them with a soft jingle of bells.

They don't speak until they reach the car, and for this Dean is glad. It's easier for him to think, to speak, in the Impala, in the closed, familiar space – it makes the world seem less enormous, less endlessly complex. And he wants to be able to form his words right, because he has a fuckload of questions he hasn't yet been able to verbally frame.

"So," Bobby says as he turns the key, the engine growling in frigid protest.

"My brother," Dean says, tries to lay it out as best he understands it, "is hop… hop."

Bobby waits a moment, then repeats, "Your brother is hop-hop," and Dean can't understand how he's grinning at a time like this.

"Shut up," Dean says, closes his eyes so he can think, the words on the tip of his tongue. "He's hop-body. Fuck, no, he's body-hop. Body-hopping. Sam is body-hopping. Those people – the waitress, and the restaurant man. He was them."

"Looks that way," Bobby says. "Yeah."

"Okay," Dean says. "So I – when you say that word, and do the water thing – it hurts. But I don't have the black eyes. And I don't feel – I'm not a demon."

"No."

"But I'm a thing from Hell," Dean says, clenches his fists and opens his eyes again.

Bobby slows at a railroad crossing, and they watch a freight train trundle by with a sighing groan, its flaking red paint sharp and bright against the snow-filled sky.

"I don't know what to tell you," Bobby says finally. "Do I think you're evil? No, Dean, I don't – so quit worrying yourself about that, if you were thinkin' about starting. But you… listen, I'm not a theological man, Dean, and I don't know shit about souls and essences and all that religious new-age bullcrap – but whatever makes you you has been taken outta Hell and plopped down in your brother's body. So, yeah – you are. You're from Hell, I guess."

"I sold my soul," Dean says slowly. Bobby nods, bunches his eyebrows together.

"You just remember that part of it?"

"No, listen… what if… my soul still belongs in Hell? Belongs to Hell? What if I'm – property?"

Bobby bumps them over the vacated railroad tracks, pulls his cap down and squints towards the pavement of the main road, snow-melt black. "I don't know, Dean. We're goin' on speculation, at this point. It's possible. It's all possible."

"But Sam – Sam is out there."

"Sure seems to be."

"He can choose who he's in," Dean says. "Because, he's chosen to be in people we're near. People who are with me. He's – checking, I think. Checking on me. But where is he when he's – not in someone? Is he – floating?"

"Damned if I know."

"And why doesn't he talk? Talk to me? Why doesn't he explain what the fuck he did? Why is he hiding?"

"Dean—"

"I know," Dean says, frustrated, "I know – you don't know. We don't know. But it's – I want a list. Of things we need to know. So that we can… know."

"No, it's good, you askin' questions," Bobby says. "Good to lay this shit out. I just wish I had more answers."

"He used a spell to find me," Dean says carefully. "Why can't we… make… magic? Also use a spell?"

"Well," Bobby says. "The crap your brother was messin' around with – we know Grace gave him the locating spell. But my guess is, he put his own spin on it. Probably mixed-and-matched. And Dean… the stuff under the bed. Your clothes. Your blood. It's blood-magic – deep magic. Dark. I'm not gettin' involved in that, I'm sorry. I won't."

"The clothes," Dean says, following his own train of thought. "You said I've been… dead… three years."

Bobby's quiet.

"So if… those are the clothes I died in. Three years old. So did Sam – did he know? Why would he save them? Were they still on me when – you said he didn't – didn't tell you what he – how he – where he did with my body. Fuck, I talk like shit."

"I understand you just fine. And you're right. I don't know what he did with your body. Last time I saw – you – you were still in those clothes. In the back of the Impala." Bobby's voice is steady, but Dean sees a slight tremor in his jaw, and he fights not to picture it: Sam in the front seat, wild-eyed and grief-stricken, Dean's corpse splayed out in the back seat, blood soaking into the floor, Bobby watching them drive off. Sam, alone. Everyone, alone. Dean – burning.

"So he knew – even then – did he know he would need blood?"

Bobby blinks. "I never thought of that."

"He was – a plan. Or –" Dean pauses. "Or he – kept me."

Bobby shudders a little, and Dean finds himself trembling, also.

"I don't know," Bobby says. "I just don't know."

Dean leans his forehead against the cold window, exhausted from the effort of speaking so much. He rolls Sam's bad shoulder, imagines he can feel where the bone rubs unevenly, fucked-up muscles straining.

"Why do you do that?" Bobby asks suddenly. "Why are you tryin' to hurt yourself?"

Dean startles a little at the direct question, starts to say he doesn't know, then re-thinks it.

"In Hell," he says slowly, "I got… hurt a lot."

Bobby's breath hitches, but he gives a little nod, like it's all right to keep going.

"But I didn't – it wasn't me. I mean, it was me, but I didn't have—" a word comes to him in Sam's voice, and he says quickly, "I wasn't corporeal."

Bobby nods again, hands tight on the wheel.

"But now –" Dean says, flexes his shoulder, unclenches and re-clenches his shaking hands. "When it hurts – it's right here. The pain is right here. I have a body. It isn't – it isn't me that hurts. It's just – the body."

"Okay," Bobby says, clearly trying to process this.

"And, all right," Dean says, spreads his hands out in front of him, glances to Bobby. "See the – see the shake?"

"Yeah."

"That's me," Dean says. "I'm shaking, not Sam. But the shoulder – is Sam. Sam's body hurts. But my hands shake. Does that – are you understanding?"

"A little."

"The shoulder – it's good to – it helps to remind me – that I have a body, now. And it's good to think about Sam. Those two things. Are why I like to – make it hurt." Dean shakes his head, grins a little. "It's fucked-up, but it's not like… not like the thing with the leather. Those girls with the leather."

Bobby blinks for a moment, confused, and then snorts an astonished laugh. "You can't remember how to make full sentences, but you remember bondage porn."

"I can make full sentences," Dean says, a little affronted. "Just, they're shitty ones."

"I know you can," Bobby says, sobering almost immediately. "Tell you the truth, I can't believe you're talking at all. After what – after—"

"That was Hell," Dean says, doesn't know how to explain it. "It's – I didn't have a body. I didn't have a head. The memories don't fit in a brain. Until they do sometimes."

Bobby sighs. "Jesus, Dean."

"I'm hungry," Dean says, suddenly realizes that the gaping void in his stomach isn't entirely emotional. "Can we eat food? And can you – tell me about the world?"

"The world."

"Just talk to me about… things that aren't this. It's – I need – it's all fast. It's really fast. And I'm really slow right now, really slow. I feel like – bees. Feel like bees in my head."

"Yeah," Bobby says, smiles a little. "Let's get something to eat. I'll tell you about how Jo got knocked-up by a rockstar and lives in Hollywood with him and their new baby.

"What?" Dean squawks.

"Just kidding," Bobby says, and when Dean relaxes, "He's actually an art professor in Chicago."

"What?!"

:::

They go to a quiet pizza place just off route 2, and Dean eats six slices as Bobby looks on, amused.

"Pizza," Dean says in wonder, wiping sauce off his chin. "Motherfucker."

"Yeah, it's pretty good, all right," Bobby agrees. "Go careful, there, don't make yourself sick."

Dean looks down at himself. "I'm Sam," he says. "I'm like, huge."

"Good point. Though I gotta tell you, doesn't look like Sam's been eating all that much."

Dean runs a hand over his side, feels the bony protrusion of ribs. "Fuckin' idiot. My brother." He reaches for another slice. "Gotta feed him."

Bobby huffs a laugh.

"Can't believe Jo has a kid," Dean says through a mouthful of cheese.

"He's a cute little thing," Bobby says. "Named him after her father. Bill."

"Does she—" Dean's not sure he's allowed to ask, but he keeps going. "Does she like it?"

"Her kid?"

"Yeah. And just… to be a mom."

Bobby smiles. "Well… she's not the type to keep a kid she doesn't want."

"Right," Dean says, wincing.

"She's also not the stay-at-home housewife type."

"Yeah, no."

"But her husband's got some kind of art-grant, so he's home all day cleanin' and cookin' and all that, and she's been working at a bar and doing some hunting on the side. I think she's pretty happy, tell you the truth. He's a good guy, her husband. Can't understand a damn thing about his art, all this weird-colored paint and candle wax b.s., but he's a real good guy."

"Great," Dean says, feels strangely put-out, and Bobby chuckles.

"Jealous?"

"Huh? No!"

"You and Jo," Bobby asks. "You ever, uh?"

"No."

"Scared of Ellen?"

"Scared," Dean echoes. Yeah. He remembers being scared, when Jo looked at him like – like how she looked at him – but he doesn't know if it was Ellen who frightened him. Or even Jo. It was something else.

"Listen," Bobby says, changing the subject. "I've been thinking… what you said about spells."

"We use one?"

"No – well – first of all, we need to find out what spell Sam used. And you and I don't know much about spellwork – it'll take us months to get together enough research and knowledge to figure out which spells he used and how he tweaked them, if we ever figure it out at all."

"Okay," Dean says, heart sinking at the truth of it.

"But I know someone," Bobby continues. "Someone who's studied more about spells and spellwork than anyone I've ever met."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Bobby hesitates. "She's also the most powerful psychic in the United States."

"Yeah? What's her name? Wonderwoman?"

"Pamela. Pamela Barnes."

Their waitress comes over to check on them, then, and they both tense up.

"You boys doin' all right over here?"

"Yes'm," Bobby says, and Dean watches, waits, but doesn't feel anything from her other than perfunctory pleasantness.

"Well, let me know if you need something."

"Will do."

She leaves, and Dean relaxes a little.

"When it's Sam," Dean says, hesitantly. "When it's Sam, I can – he feels different. At first I thought – maybe demons – but now I think – I know if I see him."

"Yeah?" Bobby says.

"I wish he'd come back," Dean says, half to himself. "Wish he'd come."

"Yeah," Bobby says.

:::

Dean was expecting Pamela to be old, a frumpy, professor-type, but when Bobby calls her on their way back to the motel, her voice is loud and young over the phoneline. Dean can't make out her words, but he hears the clear, strong timbre of them and starts to doubt his first assumptions.

"You're kiddin' me," Bobby says when he asks her where she is. "I didn't think you had parents. Figured you sprung out fully-formed from the head of Zeus."

There's laughter and a rapid-fire retort that has Bobby chuckling. "Well, you think you can take a few days off from family-time and make it down here?"

There's a pause, and Bobby says, "Well, as soon as possible, to be honest."

Another pause, and then he says, "Four hours? You serious?"

Then, "Thanks, Pamela. I owe you one."

There's a loud protest, and Bobby says, "Fine, then, we're fair and square. Be good to see you, kid."

He grins a little at her response, then snaps his cellphone shut. Dean doesn't jump at the sound, no he does not.

"Well," Bobby says. "Dunno if it's divine coincidence or some demonic accident, but Pamela's visiting her mother over in New Hampshire. She's bookin' it down here soon as she can. Think she's relieved to have an excuse to get away."

"She's coming tonight?"

"Looks that way. She says four hours, I give her six."

Dean starts to answer, but finds himself interrupted with a yawn, bubbling up from his core. It's almost five o'clock, the light already leeching from the air, and Sam's body may be aching but Dean's mind is just absolutely spent. He's exhausted, wants to close his eyes for a year and then open them to find everything solved, Sam beside him, road in front. Wants it to be summer, wants to not be so fucking cold, so fucking slow and dumb. Wants to be able to write his name without the pen skittering all over the place, stupid fingers that won't stop shaking, stupid mouth that won't stop saying the wrong things.

"Why're you here?" Dean asks Bobby as they pull into the motel parking lot, tiredness slurring his words and making them blunter than he'd like.

"Why am I – is that a metaphysical question?"

"No," Dean says. "I mean – you drove here. Far. And it's a mess – Sam's gone and there's Hell and I'm – I'm like this – it's fucked-up and you aren't have to – you don't have to be in this fucked-up – in this – " he breaks off, furious at himself. He knows what he wants to say but he can't figure out how to speak it.

"Dean," Bobby says, switches the engine off and turns to face him in the passenger seat. "I'm gonna explain this just once, so you need to understand it the first time, you got me?"

"Okay," Dean says. With the heat off the car is already cooling, and he feels the chill seep through the doors and sidle around the edges of his bones.

"Your dad went to Hell for you," Bobby says bluntly, and Dean feels a flutter of panic, because he can't think about his father, can't think about John, isn't ready, will confront that after he's got Sam back and after he's a real person again and after everything's okay and after –

"—and you went to Hell for Sam," Bobby continues.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, because he can think about that without feeling like his heart's going to explode.

"You Winchesters…" Bobby sighs. "I've known you since you were six years old, but the shit that you would do for one another… after twenty-some-odd years, it still astounds me." He shakes his head, turns away from Dean and leans back in the seat, and Dean shivers as the air gets colder, watches his breath begin to huff from his mouth in misty clouds.

"I wouldn't go to Hell for you, Dean," Bobby says after a moment. "I don't think I could do that. I'm not your father. I'm not you. I don't have that crazy-ass selfish selflessness that you Winchesters got in spades."

"You're—" Dean starts to protest.

"Hush, boy. What I'm saying is – I wouldn't go to Hell for you. But I would do just about any other damn thing in the world."

Dean finds that all of a sudden he can't look at Bobby, so he stares out at the drab motel door instead and blinks a few times.

"Look at me," Bobby demands, and Dean turns unwillingly. "If I called you, and I said I'm in a big fucking mess and it's ugly and it's dangerous and it's complicated as hell, get here as quick as you can, what would you do?"

"I'd come," Dean says instantly, and just like that he gets it. "Okay, Bobby. Yeah."

"We understand one another?"

"Yeah."

"Don't ever ask me again why I'm here," Bobby says, a strange vehemence to his voice. "I may not be John, and I may not be your brother – but I'm – something. You're something to me, Dean, you and your whole messed-up family. When you died –" Bobby breaks off, turns to grab the duffle from the backseat with a quickness that has Dean cringing.

"We're done with this conversation, right?" Bobby says, opening the door and swinging one leg out.

"Right," Dean says. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Bobby says.

Dean won't.

:::

Dean, shamefully, falls asleep a few hours after Bobby pulls out a shiny new Mac ("Don't say it," Bobby warns, and Dean's not sure what it is that he would say, but he knows it'd be freakin' hilarious) so they can do some research. They don't find much, and Dean can't quite remember how to work a computer, so he's lying on the bed listening to Bobby read to him, and his eyes slip shut before he can think how to stop them.

Dean dreams, this time, for the first time since he's been back – and it isn't a nightmare, like he might have expected. It's light, and – and sad, and Sam's there, and the day is warm. There's rough prairie grass, and some kind of water – a river or a brooke, or something sweet and mild that moves slow – and Dean thinks maybe he's had this dream before. Nothing much happens. He and Sam are sitting on the ground, facing one another, drinking something out of brown bottles, and they don't say anything or do anything until Sam gets up and throws a rock into the water and Dean watches it sink, watches the water swallow it down, the waves smoothing over any ripples it may have made. And Sam stands by the water and Dean stays on the grass.

He wakes up in tears, with Bobby standing by him, one hand hovering over his shoulder.

"You – you were – crying," Bobby says. "Was it a dream?"

"Yeah."

"Were you dreaming –"

"Not about Hell," Dean says, pushes himself up, Sam's shoulder twingeing, and he wipes curiously at his cheeks. "I don't know why I'm crying."

"Okay," Bobby says carefully. "Well, if you want to talk."

"I want to pee," Dean says, and Bobby grins a little.

"That must be kinda strange," he says. "Goin' to the bathroom in your brother's body."

"I'm trying not to think about it, thanks," Dean says darkly, and stalks off as Bobby cackles behind him.

In the bathroom Dean does his business, which is admittedly a bit awkward, given the givens, then washes his hands and spends a moment looking at himself in the mirror. Looking at Sam.

It's funny, but when he looks at his brother – he can tell it isn't Sam. Thinks that he would recognize something off if he met this person on a crowded street.

It's not Sam – but it is. It's the only Sam he's got.

He rubs a hand up his stubbled cheek, blinks and watches the scar across Sam's face tug at his eyelid. He pushes his shirt off the bad shoulder and looks at the twisted, lumpy purple scar from the bullet wound, pushes his pants down a little to examine a strange, crosshatched burn on Sam's hip.

"We're gonna talk about this," Dean mutters to himself, to Sam. "Don't know how to take care of yourself. Christ."

Suddenly there's a sharp knock at the motel door, and Dean stiffens. He hears the bed creak as Bobby gets up to answer, then there's a pause, a click of the knob, and the muffled sound of a door swinging open.

"Bobby Singer," says a delighted female voice, and Bobby says "Oof!" and there's a brief scuffling sound that has Dean putting a hand on the bathroom doorknob in worry until he hears Bobby say,

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

"Back atcha, Singer. It's been too damn long." There's the thump of boots, then, "Where's your little friend?"

"Bathroom," Bobby says, and lowers his voice, almost too quiet for Dean to hear, but he manages to make out the words. "Listen, Pamela – he's – he's skittish."

Dean bristles a little, but he can't begrudge Bobby the truth.

"Skittish?"

"You'll figure it out. But for now – let's just say I'd appreciate if you were – gentle with him."

"I'm always gentle," Pamela purrs, and Dean realizes suddenly that she's gonna be really hot. He's not sure how he feels about that.

"I mean it," Bobby warns. "No loud noises, no sudden movements, keep your voice down, and be real slow if you're gonna touch him. No, scratch that – just don't touch him."

"That bad, huh?" Pamela asks, and her tone is serious, a quick switch from just a moment ago.

"That bad," Bobby confirms, and Dean hates that it's true. Hates that he's grateful to Bobby for telling her.

"Dean," Bobby says, raising his voice a little. "C'mon, kid, we both know you're eavesdropping."

Dean snorts, then eases the door open. Feels, for the first time, how tall Sam really is, and he hunches over a little, feels incredibly awkward in this enormous, unfamiliar body.

"Hey," he says to Pamela. Who is every bit as hot as he thought she'd be. Well, fuck.

"Hey yourself," she says, looking him up and down. "You're skittish?"

"I'm Dean," he corrects her, and edges into the motel room to get a better look. She's tall and dark-haired and exudes a cocky strength, wears almost too much eye makeup and has a hip thrown forward like she's ready – ready to fuck, or fight, or kick – ready for anything. She's scary. But Dean finds that he's not afraid of her.

She laughs quietly at his attempt at a joke, says, "Clearly I'm Pamela. So, do you shake hands, or is that a big scary no-no?"

Dean casts an annoyed look at Bobby and offers his hand.

She's slow as she takes it, and when she's gripping his palm she closes her eyes a little, squeezes gently and shudders a breath.

"Jesus," she says. "Sorry about that."

"I," he says, confused. "Sorry?"

"All that Hell bullshit you just went through," she says, opens her eyes and gives him a cat-like smile that manages to be sympathetic and ironic at the same time. "Musta been… Hell."

"Or something," he says, and she laughs again.

"Well," she says. "Why don't you boys siddown and spill so we can get me on the up-and-up? I've been sitting around eating meatloaf and playing fucking board games for the past week – I'm just itching to get my hands in something nasty."

"This is plenty nasty," Bobby promises, and she grins, takes a graceful seat on the desk.

"Tell me," she says. "And tell me you've got whiskey or some of that nasty old-man beer you drink. God, I hate driving."

"That's 'cause you drive like an elephant," Bobby says, but he gets up to rummage in the mini-fridge.

"What the fuck does that mean? How the hell does an elephant drive?" Pamela asks, looking to Dean for support, then winces. "Oh, shit. Can I say Hell around you?"

Dean snorts. "I'm not—it's—a word—if you—Hell—I—" he cuts himself off, starts over. "You can say – whatever. Anything." And then, because Bobby's already outed him as a big fucking baby and he may as well be honest, "Just don't throw shit. Or – yell."

"Okay," she says. "Deal."

Dean smiles back at her, but he's distracted, stuck on that word. It scares him worse than hearing her say hell, for some reason.

Deal.

"Dean," Bobby says, holds out a beading metal can. "You want a beer?"

Dean licks his lips. The right answer here is yes, he's pretty sure.

"Yes?"

It's not as delicious as coffee – in fact, it isn't delicious at all. Pamela snickers with glee at his face when he takes the first sip, but the second goes down smoother, and even though it doesn't exactly taste good, it tastes familiar, and he remembers very vividly how he used to fucking love this stuff. And then the line between memory and experience wavers, blurs and disappears. And just like that, he likes beer again.

"So," Pamela says. "I've got a feeling it's not gonna be Dean telling this story. No offense, cutie pie."

Dean debates on how to respond to that and settles for taking a drink of his beer.

"Probably not," Bobby agrees.

"So, Singer," Pamela says, leaning forward with a smirk. "Do that name of yours proud, and sing."

"You want the opera version or the musical theater?" Bobby asks.

"How 'bout a folk song? Short and sweet."

"I can do short," Bobby says. "Don't know about sweet."

"Oh, you're plenty sweet," Pamela says, throws a wink at Dean. "Isn't he?"

"Grape soda," Dean agrees, which is the sweetest thing he can think of on the spot.

Pamela cracks up.

"Were you this funny before the Pit?"

"Way funnier," Dean says wistfully.

"Were you this adorable?"

"Sweetheart, you have no idea," Dean says, the words tripping from his tongue before he stops to think, and Bobby looks surprised and then lets out a bark of laughter.

"You could say he was like a whole different person," Bobby says, and Pamela looks confused when Dean chuckles.

"All right," she says, looking from one to the other. "I don't have to be psychic to know I'm missing something, here."

"Well," Bobby says. "Guess that's as good a place to start the story as any."

And he does.