NOTE: Okay, everyone; I know I said I was going to do a sequel to my last story, but this wouldn't leave me alone and I had to write it down just to get it out of my head (come on, you know you've all done it before). Try not to take this too seriously or you might not enjoy it.

I hope the flashes back and forth aren't too confusing (but I expect someone will tell me if they are). Without further ado, on to the story!
Oh, one more thing – I don't own any of this and I never will. I'm just having some fun at the Winchesters' expense.

And one more note: Thanks to eye4u for looking over the story and giving me pointers. I never proofread anything I write, so it's helpful when other people do.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Sam was late.

Sure, it was only 15 minutes late, but he was late. And when your little brother has recently died in your arms from being stabbed in the
back, fifteen minutes can make a world of difference. Dean sighed and started pacing again in their dingy motel room. They had separated that morning, promising to meet up again at 9 pm. Dean went to interview people while Sam did research. It was the same system they had always had and it was working, so why should they do anything different? Losing what little semblance of patience he had, the elder Winchester ripped his cell phone up off the bed where he had tossed it the last time and speed-dialed his brother's phone.
It rang and rang incessantly and then went to his voicemail. Who invented voicemail, anyway? It was just an irritant, talking to a machine when what he really needed was to hear his brother's voice and make sure Sam was still alive. In spite of his hatred of the technology,

Dean left his fourth message, hung up, and chucked his phone back at the bed. He really wanted to throw it against the wall, but knew that Sam wouldn't be able to contact him if he did that. So he controlled his temper insomuch as that was possible while Sam was missing.

He paced around the room again, punched the wall, and kicked the side of his brother's bed. Standing still, he started tapping his fingers on the wall in utter impatience. After only five minutes, he gave up that pursuit and went back to pacing. It was more gratifying because he was using physical energy, something that Dean Winchester needed to do. And then he gave up, snatching up his phone once more and dialing Sam's number.

Much to his surprise, he could hear not only the ringing in his ear, but the ringing of the other phone – from right behind the motel room door. And just then, Sam himself fell more than walked into the room. Dean dropped his phone; Sam was a mess.

He had dried blood matted to the side of his face, his nose was bleeding, his hair was messy (although that wasn't terribly unusual), he was cradling his ribs, he had a slight limp, and his hands were bruised and bloody. Not only that, he was dripping wet, and grease and oil was streaked down his shirt and pants.

"Are you okay?" Dean finally spat out, stepping forward to check on his little brother. Sam rolled his eyes and sat down heavily on the bed closest to the door. Dean wanted to switch beds now that he saw the condition of his brother, but knew the younger Winchester would refuse. He resisted the urge to run up to Sam and check him over and mother him. Instead, he forced himself to calmly walk to his bag, pull out the first aid kit, grab a towel, and calmly walk back to where Sam was sitting.

"What happened?" he heard himself ask angrily. Naturally, he wasn't angry at Sam, but at whoever or whatever had done this.
At this question, a mirthless grin creased the young hunter's face and he snorted, half in amusement and half in – what was it, disbelief?
And he shook his head.

Dean used the towel to wipe some of the dried blood away from Sam's face. Now that that was gone, his brother was looking a lot better. And that, in and of itself, made Dean feel better. His voice softened, as did his expression, when he asked again, "What happened?"

Sam grinned again, this time more amused than anything else. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"That's a strong thing to say to a man who's been hunting the supernatural all his life."

"Believe me, I know," the younger Winchester agreed.

Dean's gentle hands finally found the source of the blood on his brother's face – a large cut just under Sam's hairline. He brushed the hair out of the way and poured antiseptic on it. Sam hissed in a quick breath and then relaxed.

"What did this one, at least?" Dean pressed. Sam shrugged, grimacing, and then sniffed. "That one wasn't even the most interesting part of the day."

"So you went to do research at the library . . ." the elder hunter prompted, and was pleased when his little brother finally decided to open up.

"Yeah," Sam said, nodding. "I went to the library to do some research . . ."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

They had already discussed the day's plans, so it wasn't a surprise when Sam got out of the shower to find his brother gone, some stale donuts sitting in a paper bag on the table. Not even any coffee. It figured. Dean had gone to interview people about their latest hunt – a ghost that was causing a lot of fatal accidents in the town. The ghost part should have been really easy and taken less than two hours, but they couldn't figure out who the ghost was. In the end, they agreed to take a few days to get all the details, salt and burn, and then leave for the next town.

Sam poked one of the donuts a few times in disgust before deciding to start his day out at the local diner. He would head to the library right after a decent breakfast. He loaded his laptop into a bag, grabbed his cell phone, and let the door slam shut on his way out.
The diner was only a few blocks down the street, and, quite predictably, Dean had taken the Impala with him. That wasn't surprising. The elder Winchester would probably have withdrawals if he was away from the car for more than the eight hours it took him to sleep most nights. So Sam walked. It was a lovely day – almost perfect weather, and that should have been his first clue that something was wrong.

On his way up the steps to the diner, Sam nearly tripped over a cat that was curled up in a ball. It was only his peripheral vision and quick reactions that saved both himself and the cat. He hopped on one foot up to the next step, stumbled, caught his balance, and landed in an ungraceful heap on the top stair. Not bothering to stop and fully get his balance, he reached for the handle to pull the door open. But just then, a young woman who was in a bit of a hurry to leave after her own breakfast pushed the door without pausing to look at who might be outside already. The metal doorframe banged into Sam's nose hard. And as he fought to regain his footing on the small step, his nose started bleeding. The woman's eyes widened and she instantly went to his side, dwarfed by his height.

"Are you okay?" she asked, futilely trying to reach his face so she could have a better look at the damage she had caused.

"I'm fine," Sam said back politely, holding his nose with one hand while blood seeped around his fingers, and clutching the open door with the other hand to prevent himself from falling down the steps.

"But you're bleeding an awful lot," she responded, reaching into her purse for her phone. "I'll call an ambulance . . ."

"NO!" the hunter snapped out before he realised how forceful he was being. At her look of awe, he tried to smile around his hand and the blood. "I mean, I just don't like doctors much and this isn't as bad as it looks."

An old woman from inside the diner, who had seen most of what happened, came out to stand next to them in concern. "You okay, sonny?" she queried.

"Yeah," Sam answered automatically.

"Come inside," the older woman ordered. "Let's get that bleeding stopped."

He followed her in, and the young woman who had hit him went on her way without so much as a "goodbye." Sam shrugged and sat down on a stool where the woman pointed. The other patrons in the diner were conspicuously staring at him. He tried to ignore them.
A box of tissue, an ice pack, a cup of coffee, and an hour later, the youngest Winchester was finally ready to go the library.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"Didn't you even bother trying to clean yourself up before you went?" Dean interrupted, waving his hand in gesture at the blood matted all over his little brother's face and nose. "I mean, you look horrible. And you're probably going to pass out from blood loss, if your nose has been bleeding like that all day."

"Oh, I cleaned myself up," Sam groused back. "The rest of this happened later."

Dean opened his mouth to say something, paused, then closed it again in silence. Sam rolled his eyes and sighed as he continued his story.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The young hunter noticed that clouds were filling the sky rather quickly, and he didn't want to get caught in the rain with his computer, so he hurried on. He was across the street from his destination when he saw a little boy playing in the street . . . with a car recklessly speeding toward him. Moving by instinct more than desire to help, he rushed forward and shoved the boy out of the way. He was unable to get himself all the way out of the way in time and the car hit his leg, knocking him over. Sam instantly knew that nothing was broken – just bruised – and started to get up when he saw the driver of the car get out in alarm. He was almost unsurprised when he realised it was the same woman that had nearly broken his nose on the diner door.

"Oh, my," she said, running up to him. "Are you okay?"

"Not really," he muttered, not to make her feel guilty but because he was starting – yes, only starting – to get frustrated with the dumb girl that had already royally messed up his day. And then he felt a raindrop on his nose.

"I am so sorry," she insisted.

"I'm sure you are."

"I feel awful. Can I get you anything? Do you need to go to a hospital or something?"

He shook his head, another drop of water pelting him in the eye and causing him to blink sharply. "I'll be okay. It's just bruised."

"Well, I hate to run, but I'm already late for something . . ."

Sam rolled his eyes and huffed. "Just go," he grumbled. "You won't be able to do anything here, anyway."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Please," he insisted, a little more harsh than he normally would have. "Run along."

She nodded, stared at him sympathetically for a few seconds, and then got back in her car. Sam glowered at the retreating vehicle for almost a full minute after she drove away before he turned in the now sprinkling rain and headed for the library. He was almost excited to be in a warm building with books and quiet for a while, especially after the morning he'd had. The lights were bright and everything looked inviting.

Naturally, the doors were locked.

And then the cloud burst.

Without moving a muscle, Sam stood in the pouring rain, not even attempting to shield his computer from the weather any more. He just watched the librarian as her face turned to shock when she realised he was standing outside and she came running to the door to let him in.

"I am so sorry," she said quickly. "I had no idea the door was locked. I don't even know how that happened . . ."

"No big deal," he interrupted. "I've had one of those days. I should have planned for this."

She tried to unlock the door and shrugged as she murmured, "Hmm – the lock is stuck. That's odd."

Sam grunted an unintelligible response. She gave him a strange expression before responding, "Well, let me know if you need help finding anything."

"I will."

The young Winchester brushed a few drops of water off his jacket and laptop case and found a table in the far corner of the building. Within minutes, he had fallen into his usual routine and was searching for books, newspapers, and anything else that might explain the identity of the ghost in the town. This could keep him busy all day, and in fact, he was engrossed in his research for almost three hours when his bad luck came back to hit him in the face again . . . literally.

With no warning at all, a book sailed through the air and slammed into Sam's forehead. His head jerked back from the impact and hit the wall behind him. By the time he'd gathered his senses, blood was now dripping onto the newspaper he was reading and he managed to look in the general direction of where he thought the book had come from. The only person within sight of him was actually a small child, perhaps four years old, who was sitting on the ground, surrounded by a stack of books way too advanced for him, and giggling uncontrollably.

Sam stared at the toddler for a few minutes before shaking his head. Either he was going crazy or this kid had thrown the book at him. He pondered the irony of the horrific pun he'd just thought of and stood up to go find a bathroom in which to wash the blood off his face. On his way by, he felt something thump into the back of his leg and paused to look . . . at another book that was lying near him. His eyes traveled back to the child, who still couldn't control his laughter.

Normally, he might have had some sort of emotional reaction to this situation. However, knowing his luck hadn't been the best and that he'd probably get arrested for child molestation if he said anything, he decided to ignore the kid and head for the bathroom. On his way, he found the librarian on the top of a ladder, putting books away. Her cart was blocking the aisle, so he walked under the ladder to get to the side where he could easily see her. He cleared his throat loudly to get her attention and she jumped, not having heard him come up. The book she was holding slipped out of her hand and narrowly missed Sam's head, since he jumped out of the way of its path just in time.

But when he jumped, he accidently backed into the ladder, further startling the librarian, whose flailing hand hit the stack of books that was beside her on the ladder. They tumbled down, and even lightning-quick reflexes couldn't save Sam from all of them.

A roll of paper towels, a first aid kit, another cup of coffee (courtesy of a very apologetic librarian), and another hour later, Sam was almost ready to take an early dinner break, having forgone lunch. His head was still bleeding, but the gauze was sopping up most of it. He had finished putting the final touches on the tape holding the gauze on and was stepping out of the bathroom when a small figure rushed by him at such a fast and careless speed that he reached out to the doorframe for support in stopping himself from running into her. Her purse caught the door handle and it slammed shut on his fingers. Frustrated by being stopped, she jerked on her purse, opening the door and slamming it shut again. By this time, Sam had wisely extricated his bloody fingers from the doorframe. He took a cursory glance at them, realised they weren't broken, and looked up to pull the handle of the purse off the door.

This time, he wasn't at all surprised to see the same woman that had gotten him with the diner door and then later with her car. It actually sort of made sense in his head. Patiently, he used his good hand to pull the purse away from the handle, just as the woman gave one more mighty jerk on it. The young hunter tried to get his balance but came down on his already bruised leg. As pain ignited up all of his nerve endings, Sam collapsed to the ground in a heap.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Dean stopped Sam at this point in his narrative. "This chick nailed you three times? Dude, she was probably a vengeful spirit or something. Maybe she was even the ghost we're trying to find!"

"Trust me, Dean, I thought of that. Let me finish."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The woman instantly recognised the man she had just dumped on the floor, and she dropped the purse as though it had burned her.
"Christo," Sam murmured under his breath. He felt no relief when she didn't flinch. Quite the opposite, actually. This meant she was human.

"You," she whispered, somewhere between shock and horror.

"Yes, me," Sam growled in an annoyed tone as he pushed himself up with one hand. "I'd like to say it's a pleasure to see you again, but it wasn't a pleasure the first time, and it's not now."

"I am so sorry."

"Yeah, I know," he answered. "And you're probably in a hurry, so go ahead and leave."

"Actually, I'm not now," she said. "I finished my morning appointment. Say, are you okay? Your head is bleeding."

"Is it? I hadn't noticed."

She looked unsure of whether or not to take him seriously, but elected to assume he was being sarcastic. "It wasn't from me hitting you with my car, was it? I didn't think you were bleeding then."

"I wasn't, unless you count the blood from my nose where you hit me with the door this morning."

"I said I was sorry."

Sam took a deep, cleansing breath, and forced himself to calm down. "I know," he answered in a much more pleasant voice than before. "I've just had a rotten day and I have a feeling it's only going to get worse."

"Well, I need to make sure we get you cleaned up before I leave you. I still feel bad that I left earlier."

"See? I knew it was going to get worse," Sam mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm fine, really. Don't worry about me." This statement was ironic due to the fact that he still hadn't gotten to his feet. His head was spinning from all of the books and doors and walls hitting it and he found that the room stayed still when he sat and leaned against the wall. This also squelched his nausea, which had been rising ever since the little kid had thrown a book at his head. Who left their kids sitting in piles of books in a library, anyway?

"Hey," the woman said, as though she'd been calling him for a while. "You zoned out on me. You okay?"

Sam managed to laugh out loud at that. "I'm wonderful," he said. "This is like a dream come true."

She looked like she wanted to say something, but then changed her mind.

"I think I should call an ambulance," the librarian said, running up to the pair on the ground. "You're bleeding again."

"Still," Sam corrected. "Don't worry about an ambulance. I'm fine. I'm just . . . uh . . . reorienting myself before I get up."

"I think you may have a concussion," the younger woman said.

"And what, you're a doctor?"

"I'm just trying to help."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Don't worry about it."

"Let's get you up, sonny," the librarian said as she reached for his arm.

More out of involuntary reflex than anything else, he again mumbled, "Christo." She didn't even blink. So they were both human. How could two regular people cause a hunter so much grief in one day?

"Whose little boy was that in the back of the library?" Sam asked as the two women managed to get him to his feet and lean him back against the wall.

"What are you talking about?" the librarian asked.

"The kid, in the back – he threw a book at me while I was doing research."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, when the woman said, "There isn't anyone else in here. The door was locked, remember?"

Blood running down the side of his face, and head pounding, the facts didn't sink in for Sam like they normally would have. "Of course
there is," he insisted. "I saw the kid. He threw something at me." "There's no one here, sir," the older woman responded carefully.

"Maybe you should sit down again. I'm almost positive you have a concussion."
"I'm not crazy," he muttered aloud, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.

"I don't think you are," the younger woman said. "I mean, my morning appointment that I was late for was with this guy who is in town
doing an article on some of the strange accidents that have been happening here in the last few days. He said it was for a series on unusual events or something like that. Nice guy."

Sam gave her a pointed look and asked, "He wasn't about three inches shorter than me, with dirty blond hair, flirting with you like crazy, was he?" "Have you met him, too?" she queried.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"THAT'S the girl that got you three times?" Dean interjected. "Nice chick. She had a lot of useful things to say."

"I'm sure she did," Sam shot back. "Unfortunately, none of them had anything to do with what we're hunting."

"How would you know?"

"Because I was stuck in a library with her and the ghost."

"The kid was the ghost?"

"Let me finish telling the story. After all, I'm the one who got run over because someone was late for an appointment with you. You owe
me for that one, by the way."

"I couldn't have known that would happen. Seriously, what are the odds?" Dean said, throwing his hands back in a gesture meant to imply surrender. "So where did the hurt ribs and grease come from?"

"Just shut up and listen."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Just as the facts had finally filtered themselves into the youngest Winchester's brain, the power in the library went out. The woman who had thrice been the cause of Sam's pain bit back a gasp of surprise and the librarian cursed softly. "It's okay," the older woman said aloud. "I've already called the fire department to send someone over to fix the lock on the door. He'll get the power back on."

"I can flip the breaker switch as easily as he can," Sam said. "I'm pretty sure that's all he can do."

"Nonsense, son," she responded. "You'd probably hurt yourself."

The hunter huffed his annoyance and then realised seconds later that she was probably right. His day had been horrible and it was almost likely that he would kill himself doing something like that. "Well, it's light outside," he announced. "We could wait out there."

"In the rain?"

"We could at least wait next to the door," he insisted. "There's no point in standing around in the dark."

"We don't need to–"

Whatever the younger woman had been about to say was cut off as a book slammed into the wall next to her head. She yelped and jumped back, bumping forcefully into a shelf of books. The librarian and Sam swung their gazes to where the book had come from and found the kid Sam had seen earlier, covering his mouth as he laughed at them.

"That's a relief," Sam sighed. "I thought I was actually having a horrific day just because of bad luck."

"There's a little boy over there," the librarian whispered.

"I know."

"He couldn't have gotten in here."

"I know."

"I don't think he's real."

"Oh, trust me – he's real, just like that book he threw."

"How can you be so calm about this? What is he?"

"Probably an angered spirit," Sam answered back in his regular voice, even though the woman was still whispering.

"How would you know something like that?"

Sam turned his head in her direction. "It's a hobby," he said finally, knowing it sounded like a lie even to his ears. "I have an unhealthy obsession with the supernatural."

"Right," the younger woman said unconvincingly as she joined them again. "Well, what do we do about him?"

"We have to find out why he's here. Do either of you know the history of the library?"

"Of course I do," the librarian said indignantly. "Nothing happened in here."

"What about earlier? Before this building was put up?"

"I know they were going to build a museum here before they built this building," she said. "But then some accident forced them to halt construction."

"What kind of accident?"

"The foreman's son had somehow been climbing on some of the scaffolding and fell off. He landed in the drying concrete below and the structure collapsed on him. I don't think they ever got him out."

Sam nodded, understanding crossing his features. "I see," he answered. "I don't suppose you know where exactly that happened?"

"I told you, under this building."

"No, I mean do you know where in this building it happened?"

Before he could wait for an answer, another book flew through the air, catching Sam on the shoulder. He was already leaning against the wall or he might have gone down. It didn't hurt him so much as it shocked him. He had completely forgotten about the ghost itself. Perhaps he did have a concussion.

"Let's go outside," he said softly, this time meeting no resistance from his companions, and the three of them headed for the door. Just as they got there, they found a fire engine entering the parking lot. Sam tried to push the door open to get ready for the fireman to come in, but the door wouldn't budge. The two women helped push (a serious insult to pride that was already hurt), but it didn't make any difference. The door was stuck.

"Figures," Sam muttered as he turned around to make sure the boy wasn't still throwing things at them. Curiously, the toddler had disappeared. This worried him more than knowing the kid was there, since now the spirit could be anywhere in the building.

"Have all of these strange accidents in this town happened inside this building?" Sam asked suddenly.

"Or outside," the younger woman said as she paused to think about it. "I hadn't even noticed the connection before."

For probably the fiftieth time that day, the young Winchester rolled his eyes. He was happy to say his brain was working better by then, probably due to adrenalin. There had to be a way out of this . . .

The fireman was trying to jerk the door open by then, and the two women were explaining to him through the glass that it was stuck. Sam was wandering off, either to locate the kid or to figure out how to salt and burn the bones without burning down the entire library and everything under it. The fireman was getting more and more concerned when he saw how scared the women were. He told them to back off, and broke the glass so he could climb in. He said he'd fix the door later.

"Let's get the power back on," he said as he entered the building and glanced around. His gaze took in Sam's bloody figure, and he was about to ask a question when the hunter said, "Lights first."

The fireman shrugged, pulling out a flashlight, and went for the breaker box. Sam trailed along behind, and the girl who had run him over practically clung to his arm, followed closely by the librarian. The group arrived at the box without incident, and the fireman opened it to find the front panel missing, and visible wires that looked like they had been snapped or sawed through, but not cleanly cut. "This is odd," he muttered as he started to twist them together in a temporary fix.

At this point, Sam was holding the flashlight, the young woman was holding his good arm, and the librarian was clutching the back of his shirt. The second set of wires the man tried to put together sparked, and he jerked back, his elbow unintentionally hitting the hunter in the ribs. Sam coughed, bending to catch his breath as the man whirled around to see if he'd hurt anyone too much. And the unattended wires were still sparking.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"So that's how you hurt your ribs?" Dean asked. "What about the grease?"

"That wasn't how I hurt the ribs," Sam answered. "And I'll get to both in a minute."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"Do you have any supplies or anything?" the fireman asked the librarian. "I may need some tools or something."

"I have a box of stuff," she answered. "I'll go get it . . . if someone will come with me."

Sam nonchalantly looked around the group before he realised everyone was staring at him. "Oh, fine," he groused. "Let's go get it."

They headed to the supply closet, where the librarian used her key to open it up and drag out a large crate of random things, from cleaning products to tools and everything in between.

"I don't know exactly what he wants," she murmured.

"Let's just take the whole thing," Sam said. "It won't be too heavy if we carry it together."

They each took a side and were going back to where the fireman and younger woman were waiting when Sam's peripheral vision again caught something – a chair, flying toward the helpless librarian. He dropped his end of the box and shoved her out of the way, taking the full impact of the chair in his rib cage. He slammed into the ground again. After what he hoped was only a few seconds but could have been more, for all he knew, the hunter decided to get up, ignoring the pain coming from many parts of his body. He looked over, making sure the librarian was okay, and saw her staring at the ground behind him.

The box of supplies had spilled when they'd dropped it, and white crystals covered the ground. "What's that?" Sam rasped out, surprised that he had gotten hoarse at some point.

"The salt we use to clear the ice off the sidewalks in winter," she responded. "It's everywhere. I don't think it will be easy to clean up."

"We'll worry about that later," Sam insisted. "It's getting dark pretty fast and we need to get out of here." "You're right," she answered.

"Let's get this box to the fireman." Together, they picked the box up again and made it back to the other two. The fireman raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth again, but Sam interrupted once more with, "Lights first."

The fireman dug a pair of pliers out of the crate and started to twist some wires together. The sparks from the loose wires weren't stopping. And the ghost chose that moment to show up, tossing another book at the group of people. Everyone moved, but the book hit the breaker box and caused more sparking, which ignited the paper. The fire spread surprisingly quickly after that. Chaos fell on the four people in the library.

Sam shoved his three companions toward the broken door. He had decided that not only were the lights unimportant, he was finished doing research, anyway. Besides, now they had to put the fire out in the library . . . and the books were burning fast. At least they had a fire truck out front.

They made it outside with no added incidents, and the fireman immediately grabbed his hose, heading back toward the burning building. Flames were already leaping out of the roof and windows. Afer only a few feet, the water hose caught on something. The fireman jerked it a few times experimentally, grunting when it didn't give.

"I got it," Sam said, going back to the truck to find out what had happened. The hose was looped under the truck, and the hunter had to crawl painfully on his hands and knees and eventually lie down to get under the truck enough to release the hose from whatever it was stuck on. He couldn't see anything stopping it . . . but could hear faint giggling growing louder until the toddler from inside the library materialised, hose looped around his body.

His little hands covered his mouth in an almost cute and embarrassed gesture as something popped under the fire truck. Oil started pouring out from somewhere, and Sam rolled to one side to miss it. His body rubbed against the greasy undercarriage of the truck, and he vaguely heard people yelling at him but couldn't convince his brain to understand what they were saying. Suddenly, the boy looked upset, hands falling away as he disintegrated and went away. The hose came loose with a snap, hitting Sam in the head and dragging the carefully taped gauze away from his face. Blood started dribbling again, but he didn't care. The boy was gone.

Sam crawled out from under the truck, watching apathetically as the fireman rushed to put out the flames in what was left of the building. And then it occurred to the hunter what had happened – ironically, the spilled ice salt must have been enough to destroy the boy's angry spirit when combined with the fire. He'd managed to finish the salt and burn without even really trying. That wasn't so bad. He grinned.
The young woman came over to him, one hand shielding her eyes from the rain that was finally stopping. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"I guess," he replied.

"I think I'm going to take you to a hospital now. We saw the boy try to kill you again under the truck."

That explained why people were yelling at him. "I don't like hospitals," he said. "I'm just going to head to my motel room."

"Can I give you a ride?" she asked. "I don't think you should be walking."

After a moment's consideration, Sam agreed and let her help him up. In retrospect, he should have known that he shouldn't go anywhere or do anything with this woman. She had already caused him considerable pain three times that day. But he didn't think of that. He was tired and something was buzzing.

"Is that your phone?" the girl asked gently. "I think your phone is vibrating."

"Yeah," he muttered dumbly as he pulled it out, ignoring the rain, and switched it off of silent mode. For some reason, actually answering it didn't occur to him.

He dropped into the woman's car and leaned back against the seat, adrenalin escaping him and leaving him completely exhausted. He told her what motel he was staying at and started to doze off. In fact, he was completely asleep when he was jerked awake by the car jolting to a stop, the seatbelt an excruciating reminder of painful ribs. He shook his head and looked over at the woman in the driver's seat, whose eyes were wide and terrified. Then his gaze went to the front of the car – where another car was. Yes, she had hit another car. And by then, it wasn't even raining any more.

"I think I should call the police," the girl whispered.

"I'm going home," Sam said suddenly. "I'll just walk. I didn't witness the accident, anyway, so it's no big deal. Thanks for everything." He pulled the door release and stood up, steadying himself on the car when he heard her say, "Wait!"

He had just started to lean in when the door swung shut on his good hand. And he couldn't help it. He'd tried to be nice all day. But it was the last straw. He swore. Now, occasionally colorful words slipped out of his mouth, just like anyone else. This statement, however, was one even Dean would have blushed at.

Without turning around to look at the stunned woman, Sam jerked his hand out, slammed the door, and took off walking. His phone was ringing again but his hands hurt too much to pull it out. He knew it had to be Dean. The elder Winchester was probably freaking out by then. Sam shrugged.

He made it to the motel and staggered through the door just as his strength gave out.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"So let me get this straight," Dean said while wrapping up his little brother's hands. "You burned down an entire building, broke a fire truck, and left the scene of an accident before the police came?"

"I also finished the hunt," Sam said lamely, nodding slowly as his complete exhaustion took over. "The kid won't terrorise any more people in this town."

Dean smirked, then stopped when he noticed Sam was too out of it to notice. "Well, at least your day is pretty much over," he muttered, gently pushing his brother back on the bed until he was lying on his back. He stood up to back away as Sam's breathing evened out in sleep, and accidently tripped over the first aid kit, which he'd forgotten to pick up. In his haste to catch himself, he reached out for the first thing available. He thought he was grabbing the night stand, but his fingers instead closed around the lamp. It came off the table with a crash . . . right on top of the sleeping Winchester, who was so shocked he fell off the other side of the bed and hit the ground hard.
The elder hunter had gotten back to his feet and stepped around the bed to make sure his brother was okay. He heard a mumble which sounded suspiciously like, "Five more minutes, Dad," but he couldn't be sure. There was a little more blood – though whether it was from old wounds or new ones was almost impossible to tell from the angle Sam was curled up in – but Sam was softly snoring again already, even on the hard floor.

"Sorry, kid," Dean muttered, knowing as he did so that his intended audience wouldn't hear him. "If it makes you feel any better, I had a great day . . ."