A/N: Okay, here it is - the sequel to Thicker Than Water :) I've decided the only way to force myself to write more is to actually start posting, so this is all I have so far. Hopefully I'll be posting every week, on Saturdays, but we'll see how it goes. I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even a witty way to phrase this statement.

It took him exactly a month to claw his way out of Hell.

He could have done it faster, maybe. He could have even left back when Winchester tried out that summoning ritual, rather than sending Meg. But the Winchesters needed to know who was in charge here, needed to know that even their best efforts couldn't bring Azazel to them.

Of course, after a month of blood and bones and screaming souls, he was having second thoughts. Hell really gave him a headache. He spent more time in that place than he'd have liked – after all, he was practically ruling the place, what with the big guy locked up in his little box till the apocalypse hit them. And boy, was that gonna be big, though even Azazel didn't know how big. He didn't know anything more than the rest of the demons, despite being much higher up on the food chain.

Besides, he had bigger fish to fry. Little Sammy had been doing nicely until it all went pear-shaped, the kid lashing out with his powers and actually managing to send Azazel back to where he'd come from. He shouldn't have let his guard down – that certainly wouldn't be happening again.

This time, Azazel would do it right. Sam Winchester was dispensable, but he'd rather not get rid of him; the boy had so much potential. He could get it right, this time. It was all just a matter of leverage.

The first thing he did once he was top-side was send a little message to Sam.

The first thing that hit him was the smoke. Thick and black, the acrid scent invading his nostrils and choking up his lungs as he doubled over, coughing. His eyes streamed even as they searched desperately for his brother.

It was impossible to see anything through the flames, though, and he had no idea which way it was to safety, or his brother. Sweat-sticky clothes clung to his skin and over the roaring in his ears all he could hear was screaming.

A familiar scream.

His brother.

Then the screaming stopped and somehow he knew, with crippling certainty, that his brother was dead. From the smoke or the fire or something else, whatever, it didn't matter. Not now. Nothing mattered.

Smoke filled his vision and finally, belatedly, he fell to the floor where the cleaner air was. He opened his mouth to shout for his brother, his dad, anyone, but the words caught in his throat. He choked on them, coughing and hacking and sobbing, trying to make himself move.

The last thing he saw before his vision blackened completely was a familiar pair of bright yellow eyes.

"Is this really what you want, Sammy-boy?"

When he woke up, he was soaked with sweat and gasping like he'd just ran a marathon. He glanced to his side. Dean was snoring in the bed next to him, drool soaking the pillow. Wrinkling his nose, Sam turned to look the other way. John, having lost the coin toss earlier that day, was crashed out on the sofa.

Neither of them were awake. Everything was normal.

How could everything be normal after the dream he'd just had? It felt like he should have woken up to find the world completely different. Then again, this was the third time he'd had that dream, and nothing had changed before. He blinked, irritated by the headache throbbing just behind his eyes, and tried to go back to sleep.

It didn't work. Thoughts swirled around his mind, a panicked jumble of half consciousness, and he buried his head in his pillow to try and silence them. This was bad, he knew. Those yellow eyes weren't just any eyes.

He should tell Dean.

But what could his brother do? They were dreams. While he probably wanted to, Dean couldn't protect Sam from dreams. And it wasn't as if they could go and kill the demon instead – firstly, he was in Hell, where Sam had sent him, and secondly, they had no way to kill him.

Basically, they were screwed.

John thought he had a lead on the Colt, but he'd thought that the last two times and they had turned up nothing. The Colt was an elusive object, the kind of thing hunters talked about in hushed tones at the back of seedy bars. Everyone had a different theory on where it was, making the thing damn near impossible to find. Sometimes, Sam wondered if it was even real or whether they were just chasing shadows.

"S'my?"

He glanced across the room. Dean was propped up on his elbows, squinting through the dim light towards his brother. Rubbing one eye, he asked, "Y'okay?"

"Yeah." The words were out before Sam could stop them. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a dream."

Dean looked at him suspiciously for a few moments, the effect dulled by the weariness in his eyes. Then he nodded and slid back down under the covers, and was asleep within minutes. Sighing, Sam tried to follow suit.

Something was up with Sam.

The kid had hardly spoken all through breakfast (another greasy special at the latest crappy diner) and he looked pale, with dark smudges under his eyes like he hadn't slept well. Sam wasn't exactly known for having a good night's sleep though, especially just lately. After... well, after everything.

Dean clenched his teeth, feeling his protectiveness flare as he glanced across the table at his brother and wondered why any demon would want to take his scrawny, floppy haired kid away from them. It wasn't fair. He stabbed viciously at a piece of bacon and encouraged himself with the thought that they would have the Colt soon.

Only they hadn't made any progress on that either. They had no damn idea where the gun was and they needed it now more than ever. Rather than getting better after their fight against the demon, Sam was just getting worse, withdrawing into himself and hardly speaking.

Sam glanced up from his breakfast and for a split-second, their eyes met before Sam looked down again. Dean frowned at the top of his head, more concerned than he would ever admit. Finally, he asked, "Y'okay, Sammy?" Cool. Casual. Definitely not freaking out.

"Huh?" Sam looked up again from where he was pushing food around his plate. "Uh, yeah. M'fine. Just tired."

John stopped poring over his journal for a second to exchange a worried look with Dean. Then, eyebrows furrowed, he said, "You boys done here?"

"Yes, Sir," they responded together and John flipped his journal closed.

"Let's get going. I think I have another lead, couple of hours away. I wanna get there by noon." John rose and slipped out of the booth seat. He slapped a couple of bills on the table and Dean followed him, Sam trailing along behind, squinting down at his shoes and holding a hand to his head. Dean frowned, wondering if Sam had another headache, and wrapped an arm loosely around him, pulling Sam to his side. Briefly, he squeezed Sam's shoulder – I'm right here – and they headed out to the car.

The Impala sat gleaming in the early morning light, waiting for their return. At least some things never changed.

John's phone rang just as he was unlocking the car. He paused to answer, leaning his arms on the roof of the Impala as he spoke. "John Winchester."

Sam and Dean leant against the side of the Impala, staring across the parking lot. "So what's really wrong with you?" Dean asked casually, not looking at Sam.

"What are you talking about, Bobby?" John kept talking in the background, oblivious to his sons' conversation.

"Nothing," Sam insisted.

"Uh huh." Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. "That's bullshit, though, isn't it?"

Sam sighed but didn't speak, squinting into the bright sunlight.

"Hold on, let me get my journal," John was saying, shoulder pressing the phone to his ear as he fumbled for a pen and his journal. "Okay, go." He balanced his journal on the Impala's roof and started to write. Dean tried not to protest at the violation of his baby.

"It's just a headache."

It took Dean a moment to realise Sam had just spoken, the response was so quiet. Sam didn't move from his position, didn't turn to look at Dean.

Dean looked at him appraisingly. "You sure?" The last time it had been 'just a headache', Sam had been having nightmares about the demon and the whole thing had ended in him being kidnapped and forced to drink demon blood. They weren't going to repeat that.

"Mmhm."

"Alright, got it. Yeah, I will." Then there was silence, so Dean assumed John had hung up. He glanced over at his dad, a question on his tongue.

John answered before he could ask. "Bobby's been gettin' demonic signs somewhere near here, he says."

Both brothers were silent. Dean frowned. "You don't think... not the demon?"

"I'm not sure yet." John looked grim, swinging open the door to the Impala. "Let's get going, boys. We need to check this out."

Dean hesitated only briefly before he slid into shotgun, wondering what the hell they were going to do if it turned out to be the demon. They didn't have the Colt. They didn't have a plan. They didn't have anything to stop it taking Sam away from them, and John wanted to go looking for it?

He couldn't help the protest that rose inside him, then, because it wanted Sam and that was crossing the God-damn line. "Dad-"

Dean was cut off by a gasp from Sam, who hadn't even made it inside the car yet. Sam was clutching the roof of the Impala with one hand, knuckles white, and the other was pressed against his forehead. Eyes screwed shut, he didn't look up as Dean shot out of his seat and around the Impala to face his brother.

"Sam?"

Sam didn't reply. A tiny whimper escaped his lips.

Panicking – what the hell was going on? - Dean grabbed his brother's arms tightly and tried to get a look at his face. It was scrunched up in pain and it didn't take much for it to click because this wasn't a frigging headache, was it, it was a God-damn vision, dream, whatever. It was the demon.

"Ah, crap," he murmured.

"What the hell?" John was out of the car, now, standing beside his sons. Dean ignored him.

"C'mon, Sammy, breathe, just breathe, you're okay, c'mon dude." He was babbling, he knew, but he had to say something because that was all he could do right now, he couldn't help Sam when he was trapped inside his own damn head.

Suddenly, Sam went limp, hand falling away from the roof of the car. Dean wrapped his arms around his brother and Sam slumped against him. Lowering them both to the ground, Dean pressed a hand against his brother's neck and was relieved to find that yeah, his brother was still alive. He was just unconscious, that was all.

Except it wasn't all, was it? Sam was probably being visited by the demon again, probably having his mind invaded and his already shaken confidence destroyed. Hot protectiveness blazed inside him and he clenched his fists in Sam's shirt, resisting the urge to punch him.

"Dean." That was John. His voice was steady even if the rest of him wasn't and it had to be bad, didn't it, because John Winchester looked freaked out by it. "We've got to get him in the car. People will see."

Dean turned to glare at him. Sam was unconscious, had been fucking whimpering in pain, and John was concerned about people seeing? John just stared back and, jaw clenched mutinously, Dean hauled Sam into the back seat. John closed the door behind them and Dean lay Sam down so that his head was resting on his lap.

They just couldn't catch a break. The demon, the Colt, now this?

They would just have to add it to their list of things to do. Find the Colt, kill the demon and – at the top of Dean's list – figure out what the hell was wrong with Sam.