Title: Fly Away

Author: buffyaddict

Rating: PG-13 for some naughty words

Summary: This is the sequel to Frayed. You should really read that one first or this one won't make much sense. (Then again, it might not make sense even if you do read Frayed first:-)

Still reeling from the loss of Dean, Sam is drawn into a haunting in the psychiatric ward. Also, Dean returns to help Sam face the demon.

Features Sam!angst and Brotherly!Bonding.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Supernatural or any Winchestery goodness.

It makes sense that it should hurt in this way.

That my heart should break and my hands shake

As if to say:

Sure it don't matter except in the most important way. -- Poe

Chapter 1

Sam is curled on his side, arms clasped around himself. Ever since his shoulder healed he holds himself like this. He is pretty sure if he lets go he will fly apart. He has been awash in a sea of drugs for quite some time. The drugs help, but not enough. He wants to stop floating. He wants to drown.

The doctor checks on him frequently. It feels like it's been a week, but it could be a month. Or a year. Time has stopped having much meaning without Dean.

Dean is dead.

Sam can't fathom it. In fact, he rarely does. He prefers to drift along on drugs and denial and pretend Dean is still with him. Or better, yet, they're in the Impala on their way to Asscrack, Iowa. Sometimes if Sam concentrates, he can pretend the hum of the wall heater is the sound of an engine. But sometimes he can't escape the memory of Dean's penny eyes.

He feels dead already.

His body just hasn't caught up yet.

He's so tired of being left behind.


He spends most of the therapy sessions staring at the wall just above Doctor Robinson's head. He rarely speaks. Robinson blathers on, trying to draw Sam into a conversation. Is he still hallucinating? Does he think demons exist? Why can't he accept Dean died from an aneurysm?

Sam thinks back to his visit with Ellicot Jr. and how he bitched about Dean. Selfish bastard. A tear slides down his face. He's all cried out, but sometimes his eyes forget.

"Sam?" Robinson tries to get Sam to focus. He just picks at the plastic bracelet on his wrist. It reads: Samuel Halford. He wonders what Dr. Robinson would say if Sam just up and told him there was no such person as Sam Halford. Although there really isn't a Sam Winchester anymore, either.


The word is a needle in Sam's heart. His breath hitches and his eyes fix on Robinson. For one moment there is blinding white rage. He wants to break Robinson's nose and feel the blood. He wants to put his hand through the window just to feel the glass bite down. His voice is a cracked whisper: "Don't."

Robinson's face transforms into a look of amazement and his eyebrows jump. "Sam? What is it? Don't what?" He leans forward, radiating encouragement.

Sam's eyes telegraph something that makes Robinson recoil.

"Don't call me Sammy. Ever. Only he gets to do that." It's the longest sentence Sam has said in weeks.

The session is cut short.

Sam doesn't care.


He's sitting in the day room against a wall of background noise: other patients, a television game show, a nurse, laughter, crying. It doesn't mean anything. He's focused inward. He's broken. He's been put back together, he still has bones and internal organs, but the most important piece is gone. The Dean piece.

He's sitting by the window and two nurses walk by. One says to the other: "I hate this weather. It's so cold outside."

Sam feels the empty whistle through him and thinks: It's cold inside.


Sam has stopped caring about the yellow eyed demon. He hasn't had any visions since Dean died. Part of him knows Dad--and even Dean--would be disappointed in him for giving up (or giving in) but he can't find the energy for anything beyond guilt. Without Dean to hunt with, to hunt for, he is adrift. He's lost the drive to hunt and he has more than enough guilt to keep him occupied. He recalls a song Jess liked. If he closes his eyes he can still see hear her humming along with Tori Amos. She loved the song, and lately, Sam can't get it out of his head. One of the lyrics goes: "I've got enought guilt to start my own religion." Guilt is his religion now. When he was little Dean was his religion. He used to worship everything about Dean. Maybe even when he wasn't so little.

He lays in bed after the lights are out and feels the memories roll back. He moves the memories in his mind like mental rosary beads. He has used rosaries in exorcisms, but that's all. He's not really Catholic. He belongs to the Church of Guilt.

Back when he felt alive and Jessica was alive he had seen her use a rosary. When her grandma was in the hospital. He wasn't sure if it was the prayers or the steady rhythm of the beads between her fingers that gave her comfort. When he found her curled on the bed clutching the rosary, he had put his hand over hers, moved his fingers in time with hers. He always liked the idea of the Hail Mary. Of course, the only Mary Sam ever prayed to was his mother.

Now mental fingers move briskly. Click, click. Mom is dead.

Click, click. Jessic is dead.

Click, click. Dad is dead. Because, face it, dad's death is his fault. Maybe the way he died wasn't, but it's all semantics. If he had pulled the trigger when his dad asked (begged) the demon would be dead. And if the demon was dead maybe Dean would have taken some time off and they wouldn't have gone on a hunt that left Dean dead.

That's the memory he can't escape. The Aswang and Dean.

It's strange. You can protect a house, a room with salt. Salt around the perimeter, the windows, symbols on the ceiling and floor. But you can't keep the monsters out of your own head. He imagines himself pouring salt into his ears, his mouth, his eyes. Sealing up all the holes so the memories can't get in. He will gladly suffocate in salt if it will stop the pain of this endless absence of Dean.

When Jessica died her loss left a void in him. A black hole that pulled in the darkness and pain from all directions until he could barely stand the weight of it.

Losing Dean is so much worse.


He dreams.

Not about Jessica. Now it's always Dean.

It's always the same.

The Aswang reaches for Dean and Dean is just one second too slow. Sam tries to get there in time, tries to do something, but fails. The Aswang holds Dean and smiles just before Sam kills it. It whispers: You're the one that killed him, Sam.

When Sam wakes up he wants to cry but the tears are all gone. He blinks up the ceiling and prays to Mary for mercy. Or for fire. It doesn't matter which. They're both the same now.


One night he dreams Dean pivots just in time and shoots the demon point blank in the face.

Dean turns to Sam and nods once. I'm coming.


Sam's sitting in the dayroom on a Saturday afternoon. A girl about his age sits on a couch nearby. An older women sits beside her and Sam guesses it's her mother. The mother has a smile nailed to her face and nods periodically while her daughter talks. Sam watches and can tell the mother isn't really listening.

But he is.

"--and they don't care. They don't even believe me," the young woman says bitterly. She has hair the color of tangerines and pulls a strand of it out while she talks. The woman keeps guiding the girl's hand back to her lap but the hand drifts away again like a balloon. "I wake up and it's standing this far from my face," she says, holding thumb and forefinger an inch apart. Her face twists in a grimace of dismay. "It scares the shit out of me, Mom! What am I supposed to do?"

"Paula." The girl's mother makes a pinched face of disapprovel. "Watch your words."

Paula rolls her eyes and pulls out a strand of hair. "It scares the shit out of me," she emphasizes and her eyes narrow. "I know you think I'm crazy, and I am, but not in that way." Her hand moves in her hair, searching, twisting. "I've never had hallucinations and you know it."

Paula's mother sighs a long suffering sigh. "There's no such thing as ghosts," she explains in a saccharine tone of voice, "and you know it."

Paula's face goes dark. "Thanks for listening, Mom," she spits and pushes herself off the couch. "I really appreciate your support." She shuffles away, slippers slapping against tile.

The woman sits quietly, as if unaware her daughter has left.


"How do you think Dean would feel if he could see you, Sam?" Robinson asks quietly. "Don't you think he'd be worried about you? That he'd want you to get on with your life?"

"Dean can't see me. He's dead," Sam responds matter-of-factly. I keep waiting for him to come. I keep waiting and he's not here.

"Sam." Robinson's voice holds a gentle reproach. "You told me once that you and Dean spent a lot of time helping people. Wouldn't he want you to help yourself?"

Sam wraps his arms around himself but there's little comfort. Helping people. The family business. Dean made hunting worthwhile. Without Dean it seems so. . . pointless. Would Dean really want him to keep hunting on his own?

And the thought REVENGE flashes briefly through his mind. Revenge for Dean. Kill the demons like the Aswang. Kill every demon.

It's a new thought. He hasn't thought of revenge before. It makes him feel vaguely alive.

It's an interesting thought.

But revenge takes time and energy.

And he has too much of one and not enough of the other.

What would Dean want him to do?

He thinks back to the girl in the dayroom. It scares the shit out of me. I know you think I'm crazy, and I am, but not in that way.

He's not sure what Dean would want him to do, but he knows what Dean would do.

Dean would help her.

Later, Sam sits at the table long after the others have left. A nurse eyeballs him for a moment, but a doctor approaches and her attention is diverted. Sam takes the opportunity to slip the salt shaker into the pocket of his robe.

Throughout the evening his hand repeatedly strays to his side, checking to make sure the shaker's still there.

Paula's room is in Hall E of the opposite wing. Her door is open and he knocks hesitantly on the wall beside the door frame.

She's reading a book and looks up.

He stands there feeling awkward, but manages a strained "Hi."

She goes back to her book. The cover reads: Onyx and Crake.

"I heard you with your Mom, before," Sam starts. "In the dayroom."

She sighs and puts the book down. She stares at him. "My mom?"

"You were, uh, talking about ghosts," he prompts.

Paula's hand drifts up to her hair. "Actually, it's just one ghost," she says. Her mouth quirks. "Do you believe in ghosts or do you just like to admit you listen in on private conversations?"

Sam fingers the salt shaker in his pocket. "I guess it would be the ghost thing," he admits. He tries to smile but his face won't cooperate.

Paula flips her book shut. "If I have to keep staring up at you my neck is going to break. What are you, ten feet tall? Either sit down and talk to me or leave me alone. You can pick."

Sam only hesitates a moment. Then he's sitting on the uncomfortable chair in the corner of her room.

"You've seen a ghost?" Sam prompts.

Paula nods. "Twice. A week ago Tuesday and then last night."

"Did it try to hurt you?"

"Nah." She shrugs. "It just . . . flickered beside the bed. He kept trying to tell me something but I couldn't understand him."


"Yeah. It was a guy. Youngish. He yakked for quite a while but I have no idea what he was trying to say." She squints, trying to recall the moment. "He spoke English, he just seemed ... too far away. Like he was talking from miles away instead of two feet."

Sam nods, familiar with the phenomenon. "I have something that can help you." Tentatively, he pulls the orange salt shaker out of his pocket. "Salt acts as a deterrent to spirits and certain other entities." He moves to the door and pours a thin line across the doorway. "Pouring lines of salt across doorways and windows keeps evil–or even ambiguous–spirits away." He catches her look of surprise and feels his face grow hot. "I know it sounds strange, but it does work. I've been doing this for a long time . . ." his voice trails off and he's no longer in Paula's room. He's in a cabin with his father–only not–and Dean. There's salt around the windows and–


Paula's voice pulls him back. He blinks. "What?"

"You've been doing what a long time? Dumping salt on people's floors without asking?"

He looks from her cool face to the floor. She has another strand of hair wound around a finger. She rolls her eyes. "I'm kidding. I don't give a shit about salt on the floor. It's not like I have to clean it up." She draws her knees up and hugs an arm around them. She's wearing Happy Bunny jersey pants and a matching shirt. She shrugs, "Frankly, I like my room to have a little seasoning now and again."

Sam remains by the door, silent. He's thinking about pouring salt into his head again. What's a deterrent to memory? He shakes his head, snapping back to the present. "Okay," he says, "Well. I hope that helps." He turns to leave.

"Wait a sec. What's your name, Salt Man?" Paula holds out her hand, expectant. Fresh twin scars run the length of her arm. " I'm Paula."

"Sam." He shakes her hand, once, twice.

"Nice to meet you." She smiles.

"You too," he mumbles and ducks out the door.

Her voice follows him down the hallway: "Thanks for the salt. Tomorrow can you bring the pepper?"

The dream changes again. Dean kills the Aswang and turns to Sam. "That thing's nasty ass, Sam." He claps Sam on the back. "Let's get out of here. Somewhere there's a beer calling my name." They move toward the Impala in tandem until Dean holds a hand up, stopping Sam. He tilts his head. "You hear that?"


"The sound of a Shirley Temple calling you." He elbows Sam. "In a girly voice."

Sam glares but there's no real malice in the look. "Jerk."


The smile is still on Sam's lips when he wakes.

The moment freezes, bends.



The next day Sam doesn't get out of bed. His regular nurse comes in, and then another. They ask about his shoulder and his appetite. Finally Dr. Robinson makes an appearance. He talks about the progress Sam is making. There's talk about goals and release dates. There's talk of outpatient therapy and group meetings and . . . Sam stops listening. He closes his eyes and pretends to sleep. He feels on arm on his shoulder. It's comforting and Sam pretends it's Dean.

"I'll be back later," Dr. Robinson promises and Sam is finally alone.

He stares at the wall, back to the door. It hurt when his dad died, but not like this. The word pain ludicrous. It's a fucking insult. It's like saying the Grand Canyon is big or the ocean is deep. He doesn't know what to do without Dean. Even at Stanford, he knew Dean was out there somewhere. If Sam needed him, he could have called. But now there was no forwarding number. There was nothing.

Dean had been more than his brother. He'd been Sam's mom and his dad--a better dad than John Winchester--and his best friend. And his annoying brother. Dean took on all those roles without complaint. Dean took care of him, watched over him, made fun of him. Sam brings his hands up to cover his face. He wants Dean. He thinks about the Crossroads Demon and clenches a fist. He'd sell his soul right now if it brought Dean back. He'd sell his soul if it meant he could have Dean for just one more day. Just a little more time to talk. To hang out. To say goodbye.


The voice startles him. He rubs his hands viciously over his face. He rolls over and glares at the door.

Paula is standing there. She's wearing a baseball cap. She clasps and unclasps her hands, nervous. "Am I. . .interrupting?"

Sam snorts. "Interrupting what? My breakdown?" He sits up, hands still in fists. "What?" His tone is harsher than he intends.

She taps the floor with the toe of a slipper. "I just wanted to say thanks. The salt worked."

Thoughts of Dean recede a bit. "It did? That's . . . that's great."

She smiles. "Well, it sort of worked, anyway."

"Sort of?"

"The ghost. . ." she trails off and makes a face. "Do you have any idea how stupid I feel saying that word all the time?" She continues without giving Sam a chance to reply. "The ghost couldn't cross the salt line, just like you said!" Pause. "So he stood in the hallway and yelled in at me."

Sam's eyebrows shoot upward. "He yelled? Could you hear him? Was he violent?"

She shakes her head. "No, nothing like that. He seemed, I don't know, annoyed. And I could actually understand some of what he said. He wanted me to give you a message."

Sam swallows a sudden lump in his throat. No. He can't let himself hope. The words sound far way. "What message?"

Paula squinches her face in concentration. "He said . . . tell Sammy I'm sorry. And that you should protect me." She laughs. 'Who knew ghosts were chivalrous?" The laughter dies when she sees Sam's face.

He looks struck. Like she just hit him in the face. With an iron pipe. He slides off the bed and moves toward her slowly, hands trembling. "Did he say Sam or Sammy?" he demands hoarsely. He needs to know. If it was really him he would say--

He would say--

"Defintely Sammy." Curious: "What does it mean?

Sam springs forward like he's pulled by a wire. He puts a hand on each arm, and gives her a shake. "What else did he say?" He needs to know. Her words are oxygen.

Paula opens her mouth but no words come out. She goes still. Her pupils dilate and Sam has the feeling she is . . . gone. Somewhere else. He's torn between a desperate need and concern for the woman. "Paula?"

Paula slumps against him, with a shudder. "Oh my God!" Her eyes are wide and wet with unshed tears. "Oh. My. God.."

Sam gently guides her to the bed and he sits beside her. "What's wrong?"

Paula blinks back tears and studies Sam's face with an intensity that makes him self-conscious. "You were in a fire?" It's more of a question than a statement.

Sam is nonplused. "What? Uh, yeah. Did the ghost (it's Dean, it's got be Dean, just say it–say it!) say something about a fire?"

She shakes her head. "No. When you touched me . . . " she trails off.

Sam presses, impatient. "What?"

"I saw you. In a bedroom. You were screaming and there was blood on your forehead. I saw . . . on the ceiling, uh," her voice trembles, "a woman. On fire. The whole room was on fire." They stare at each other. "And something else," she remembers. "There was a guy who came in to save you. He, uh, looked like the ghost in my room."

"How do you know about the fire?" Sam demands

She shrugs. "I don't know. When you touched me, I just . . . " She frowns and scoots a few inches away. "Lately, when I touch someone, or someone touches me I sort of, see something." She searches for the right word. "Like, a memory or something. It's only happened twice so far."

Sam watches her for a long moment. Finally: "When did it start? A few months ago?"

She nods.

"But your mom's alive?"

Paula flashes him a look. "And that's relevant because . . .?"

He talks quickly, urgently. "I know this is going to sound crazy but–"

Paula's mouth quirks. "Please note the fact we are in a psychiatric ward."

A ghost of a smile flits across Sam's face. "Noted. Okay, ah, here's the thing. My mom died when I was six months old. A demon killed her. He pinned her to the ceiling and started a fire. Twenty-two years later the demon killed Jessica–my girlfriend–the same way." Paula is still listening although her hand is in her hair now, pulling. "This demon has killed a lot of other moms. He always kills when the baby is six months old. And these kids, well they grow up and some of them, hell, maybe all of them, I don't know. . . they have powers." He makes a face like the word tastes bad. He tries another: "Abilities. I've met two other kids like me so far. Max had telekinesis and Andy could sort of control your thoughts. Make you do things," he elaborates.

"You said 'kids like me.' What's your ability?"

"Visions. I see the future."

She looks mildly impressed. "That's kind of cool."

"It's not. Most of my visions are of people dying." His voice grows ragged. "And I can't save them."

Paula regards him. "Is that why you're in here? The visions gave you a case of the crazies?" Her voice hushed.

Sam snorts. "Well that's debatable, but that's not why I'm in here. My brother died."

"Sweet Holy Jesus!" Paula breathes, connecting the dots. "The ghost I saw? The guy in my memory–I mean your memory–" she shakes her head at the weirdness of it all "was that your brother?"

Sam nods. "I think so. His name's Dean." He almost says was Dean but that feels like murder and he can't. He won't.

Paula pulls out a hair and wraps it around her finger. "So . . . basically, you're telling me ghosts are real. Demons are real."

Sam's face is pained. "I'm sorry. I know this is hard to accept."

"And I might be some kind of . . . empath. What's it called when you see the past?"

"I–I don't know. I don't know if that's a psychic or not. I see the future."

"Goody for you," Paula snarks. Then snaps her fingers. "Oh yeah. And my mom did die in fire." On Sam's look she adds: "Just like you said. I was six months old. I've lived with my Aunt ever since and I usually call her Mom." A pause. "Unless I'm pissed." She shrugs. "And, actually, I'm pissed off a lot."

Sam runs his hands through his hair, nervous. "Can we get out of here? Go to the dayroom? The hallway?" He hesitates. "I wasn't feeling the most, um, social earlier and Dr. Robinson is going to be back here soon."

"Let's go."

They sit in the windowseat, cross-legged, face to face.

"Tell me exactly what Dean said." His voice is low and eager.

Paula runs a finger over her eyebrow, thinking. "I'll do the best I can, okay? It's not like I was taking notes."

Sam nods. Good enough.

"I was sleeping. And then I heard this voice. Like, 'psst' and I woke up. I thought it was a nurse. Or that anorexic girl next door. But when I looked I saw this guy standing there. And I knew it was the ghost, even before he flickered.

He pointed to the salt line and said, What the hell is this? And I told him it was salt. He was like, Thanks nutjob, that's not why I meant. Why is there salt?

I told him it was from this guy named Sam and he--Dean--got all excited. He told me--just a second."

Paula exhales slowly and pulls out an eyelash. Sam flinches but doesn't say anything. He doesn't care if she pulls off her nose as long as she keeps talking about Dean. She smiles, calmer. Her eyes flick open. "Okay. Where was I? Oh yeah. He said I should tell you to protect me," she casts Sam a quizzical look, "and that you need to chill out."

Incredulous: "He told you I need to chill out?"

She nods. "He said your aura or energy or some shit is too strong when you're upset and he's having trouble getting through to you."

Sam can't believe this. His aura is too strong? What the fuck? He feels Paula's eyes on him. "What?"

"Are you okay? You look a little stressed."

Sam barks a laugh. "Stressed? Yeah, you could say that." He laughs again and then--he's crying. Looks like he's not done with the tears after all. He drops his head into his hands.

He's tired of crying.

He's tired, period.

But he feels the faintest breath of hope.

He might be able to keep going if he can just see Dean.

Paula reaches a hand out toward Sam, hesitates, and stops. Finally she pats his back awkwardly, the way you'd pat a seventeen year old arthritic dog. Who is dying.

Sam wipes at his face and makes a wet laughing sound. "What are you doing?" He shrugs her hand off.

"I'm comforting you," She explains, like he's a very slow child. She reaches into the pocket of her sweatpants and hands him a kleenex. "I was just worried I might see another memory from your past if I touched you. Or I might trigger a vision."

Sam takes the kleenex and wipes his eyes. "Don't worry about it," he tells her hoarsely, "my visions don't work like that."

"Good, because I was really hoping you can tell me why I need to be protected."

"Remember I told you how the demon killed my mom and your mom?"

Paula gives him a look that says I'm not likely to forget.

"I think--I mean, I know--the demon wants something from us. From kids like us. This one guy I met, Webber, he had dreams where a man with yellow eyes told him to kill people." Urgently: "The man with yellow eyes is the demon. Have you had any dreams like that?"

Paula's forehead crinkles in concentration. "No. . . I don't remember any."

"Well if you do . . ." Sam trails off, a sudden knife of pain spiking through his head. "Ahh." He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to hold back the pain. He struggles to finish, "Don't listen. Whatever you do, don't listen to the demon with yellow eyes," he pants. "To anyone with yellow eyes. Understand?"

Paula nods. "Yellow eyes equals bad. Got it."

Sam rubs his forehead, he can feel the iron band tighten around his skull. "Dammit, Paula. This isn't a joke. You've got to--ah--no--"

And the room is gone. He blinks through the pain, straining to see. oh god oh god oh god it hurts. His head is going to split. He's going to have an aneyrism. He's--

looking at a busy intersection. Motorists on their way home from work. Pedestrians brush past him. Sam turns in a circle, looking for danger, for a sign, for something out of the ordinary.

And there's Paula. Her hair is pulled back in some kind of braid to disguise the bald spot on her head. She's wearing a flowered dress and swinging an oversized purse. She lookes nice.

Sam wonders if she's on her way home from work.

An mp-3 player is clipped to her purse and she's listening to music, head moving with the rhythm.

He takes a step foward and calls her name.

The crosswalk light blinks walk and she moves out into the street.

And a car turns the corner, tires squealing.

Paula doesn't hear it, doesn't see.

The car aims for her, deliberate.

Paula looks up at the last minute, eyes wide with shock. Her mouth drops open but she doesn't have a chance to scream.

She bounces across the hood and into the windshield. The car speeds up and her body slides onto the pavement in a rain of glass. Her eyes are still wide with shock, but they don't see.

Sam gets one look at the driver. Right before the car skids around another corner their eyes meet. The driver has black eyes and Sam thinks: demon.

The pain is back and it's brought friends. Sam squints and sees images flash before his eyes. He pushes his palms against his eyes, trying to keep his head together. Someone is grunting in pain and it takes a moment for him to realize: that's me.

He hears voices before his vision clears.

Paula's voice: "--don't know what happened. One minute we were sitting there talking, the next minute he grabbed his head and was on the floor."

Dr. Robinson's voice: "We need to get him checked out. Sandy? Let's get him to the ER. I want an MRI and a CAT scan and--"

Sam opens his eyes. He's staring up at light fixtures. From the corner of his eye he can see Dr. Robinson talking to a nurse, his back to Sam.

Paula is beside him on the floor. "I tried to tell them you passed out because you thought I was so hot," she whispers with smile.

Sam laughs and it's a mistake. Fresh pain lances through his head.

"Was it a vision?" she whispers.

He nods. "Yeah, I saw--"

Dr. Robinson squats down beside Sam and shines a flashlight in his eyes. "Sam? Can you hear me?"

Sam tries to push him away. "I'm fine."

"I'm glad your feeling better, but you need to lie still," Robinson says, worried.

"I'm fine," Sam repeats, struggling to sit up.

"We're taking you down to the ER," Robinson says.

Sam shakes his head. "No, I can't." He turns to Paula. "I need to talk to you, I saw--"

"You can talk to Paula tomorrow," Robinson promises.

Paula looks sheepish. "Sam, I'm being released tomorrow. I won't be here."

Two orderlies help Sam onto a gurney. Paula follows as they move toward the elevator. "What's your last name?" Sam calls.

"Newman. N-e-w-m-a-n. Paula Newman. I'm in the phone book. Call me about the. . . you-know-what."

"I'm fine," Sam protests again, his jaw working. "I don't need to go to the ER. I need to talk to Paula. There was a car--I saw--" Robinson looks at him and Sam trails off. He can't talk about the vision now.

Paula squeezes his hand. "It'll be ok. I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

They move into the elevator and Sam watches her. He sees the car and her blank eyes. "Paula--"

"'Bye Sam," she calls and the doors slide shut.


He's been in the emergency room forever.

They think he had a seizure and Sam doesn't bother arguing.

A nurse pokes her head past the curtain. "Mr. Halford?"

Sam turns his head.

"Your brother's here to see you. You can have five minutes with him if you want."

Sam blinks. "My . . . brother?"

She checks the slip of paper in her hand. "Rob Halford."

Sam finds it hard to speak. But he tries. "Right. Yeah. Send him in." He's dreaming. Or it's a trick. Some kind of joke, maybe? A hospital mix-up? Hell, maybe the lead singer of Judas Priest really is waiting to see him.

A moment later the curtain pulls back and Sam stops breathing.

Dean. Is standing there. He smiles. "Hey Sam. You keep having visions like that and I'm gonna start calling you Cordelia."