Disclaimer: No I don't own anything, not a single thing when it comes to Supernatural. Suprise.

Authors Note: Though this story starts out fairly mild it is bound to take a dark path and get graphic. Rated M because of language and subject matter (sexual assualt). If this isn't something you want to read- stop now. You have been warned.


"This is Dean. Leave a message."


"Dean when you get this message—" he stopped. "When you get this message call me. Cause I'm worried about you alright." Sam drew in a shaky breath, "Really worried. Please just call me."

Ending the connection Sam tossed the phone on the bed and leaned back in the ratted old chair repeating his last words into an empty room, "Please just call me."

The words stung at his ears, they sounded wrong. Then again Dean just walking out the door and never coming back was wrong.

Every day for the past week, Sam had awakened in the same shithole motel just off of route 71 in Joplin, Missouri and looked out the window to the parking lot praying the Impala would be parked in front of the window—Dean asleep in the driver's side. This morning when Sam's alarm clock went off, he looked out see only puddles of mud scattered across the gravel drive, left over from the early morning thunderstorm.

Clenching his jaw he slammed his hand into the wall next to his seat creating a hollow echo throughout the room. Damn it Dean. This wasn't funny—not even a bit amusing, it was downright petrifying.

Sam stood. Looked around the room. It was surprising how clean everything seemed to stay when it was just him. Surprising how much he wanted to see the usual mess scattered across the floor and around the room.

IT HAD BEEN A TUESDAY when Dean had shut the door to the motel room behind himself, gotten into his Impala, and drove away. His entire body ached, head spun, he felt like shit, but he had to get away.

Just for awhile.

Sam had been hovering for the past two days. Jumping up to help every time Dean moved. Starring at him as if he were going to erupt with the whole story—spew up the information he wanted nothing more than to block out. He couldn't stand the 'let me do this', 'you shouldn't do that', and 'the doctor said'… didn't want to see the way Sam tiptoed around him like a crystal vase teetering on the ledge of a second story window. It was all too surreal—too fucking awful to wrap his mind around.

He had to get out— just to escape that kind of daily torment, the bullshit of life after something seriously screwed up began to consume you from the inside out. But most of all he had to get out before he had a freaking breakdown in front of Sam. There was no way he was going to sit there and bawl his eyes out—share his feelings, like some Lifetime Movie of the Week.

No—if he was going to completely fall apart, he'd do it alone.


HE'S BEEN SITTING IN THE HOTEL ROOM for nearly two hours before he hears the low rumble of the Impala in the parking lot. Hears the engine cutting followed by the driver's side door opening and then closing. Then he listens to the sound of a key wresting in the lock, a low curse word, which makes him laugh as he scribbles down a few notes and waits for Dean's familiar figure to appear.

"How was the library Sammy?" Dean's voice calls out as he shoves his way through the narrow door and walks into the dingy hotel room holding two cups of coffee and a yellow bag of M&M's.

Looking up from his notes Sam nods wearily, "Library like." He replies.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Just tell me you know where the gravesite is."

"Looks like the old man is buried on the family farm about 15 miles from here." Sam reports as he shuts down the power on his laptop, "You think it's time for a salt and burn?"

Shrugging Dean tosses the M&M's to the bed and smiles as he offers a Styrofoam cup to his brother. "Yeah, you could say that." Taking a drink of his coffee he sighs, "I'm gonna be glad to get out of here."

Sam nods. Truth is he's ready to leave too. Just like everything else in life there are just some things that just suck. And this was the perfect example of one of them. This hunt, which started off as a so called easy job turned into a nightmare week long cluster fuck. One week all for a simple ghost problem.

Simple. The word makes Sam laugh to himself as it crosses his mind.

It wouldn't have been so bad if half the damn city wasn't so determined to keep them from getting anything done. It had taken four days to even get viable information from anyone. Four days. There were the non compliant witnesses, the stonewall detectives, a pissy librarian, a few crazy people and one little old lady who knew too much and talked too little.

"Well Sammy," Dean says shoving the last of the rock salt into the barrel of his shotgun, "let's get this shit done."

Sam nods, that sounds great.

THE SALT AND BURN GOES pretty much the way the rest of the week has gone. Like crap. By the time they finally have the situation under control and the job done neither one of them comes out of it in the same condition they went in. Sam has a massive knot growing on the back of his head, feels some slight pain in his right shoulder, and seriously begins to question his line of work for about the four-thousandth time.

Dean on the other hand looks a little worse.

"He's dead this time right?" Dean asks as Sam leans over him, "like really dead?" Sam's sewing up a fairly deep gash on his side as Dean sucks down what little was left in the bottle of Jack he's found in the trunk. He watches Sam nod and grits his teeth as the makeshift needle pierces his skin.


"No problem Sammy." Dean says flashing him a toothy smile. It's his best this doesn't hurt a bit smile—which is a bunch of shit, but he's gotta save face around Sam—even if it stopped being convincing years ago. Dean grunts as Sam ties off the last stitch. "Why don't we get some dinner? I'm freaking starving." Pulling his shirt down Dean grimaces, "I saw a bar near the motel. Kinda swanky."

Sam looks up at him and laughs, "Swanky?"

"Cool word huh?"

"Yeah. Cool." Sam looks at him quizzically and shakes his head, "Did ya just learn it?"

Dean lets out a snort from beside him. "Whatever bitch."

Sam smiles. "Jerk."

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