Supernatural really is the greatest show in the world! But it's not mine...I fact I chose to ignore occasionally. Hehe.

So, third and final fic of my Chase seris. I hope this one keeps up to par! And, as usual, no reviews no more chapters. I hate being mean like that, but as many have found, it's the only way to get feedback. And, good or bad, I want feedback!

Enjoy!

It was raining. He wish he could have been surprised, like the day it only rained for a few hours, but he wasn't.

There wasn't life anymore without rain. He had been driving for God knows how long, and he only stopped for death. For destruction. For the hope that no one would feel like he did.

Lost.

Alone.

Scared.

Two months had passed since…since….he gripped the steering wheel tighter. Two months had passed.

"Dean?"

"What?" He was brought out of his stupor by his younger brother's blatant observation.

"You just missed the turn for the motel."

Dean glanced over at Sam. He was tired, dirty, but he probably felt pretty cocky considering he more or less took out the most recent hell hound by himself. He cursed under his breath, if only he hadn't let himself get distracted he would have seen the damn wooden beam before it hit him over the head. A big, bloody footprint is one hell of a distraction, though, he thought as he pulled into a tiny parking lot.

"You're joking, right?" Sam gazed up at the florescent sign.

"No. Why?" Dean got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. The bar looked pretty decent, and the two girls who just walked in barely passed for clothed. Just what he needed.

"You got knocked out by a freaking half-ton wood support. It's entirely possibly you have a serious concussion. The only place you should be visiting is a hospital!"

"It was just another hunt, Sammy, I'm fine." Ignoring his brother, Dean confidently scaled the three cement steps leading into the bar.

"Dean, I want to sleep. Shower, too." Sam was still by the car.

"So go," tossing over the keys to the impala, Dean disappeared through the door.

He knew he was being a jerk, but couldn't Sammy understand that he wanted some time to relax and let all the alcohol he consumed burry whatever nightmares he would have had? Besides, there was his brother's nightly call to Madison, and Dean didn't want to overhear that.

"What'll you have?" the man behind the bar asked as Dean sat down on a cracked bar stool.

"Beer. And one for," he glanced around the room, his eyes settling on a pewter haired girl in the corner, "her."

The man glanced over, "Your funeral," and handed Dean a chilled bottle.

"Excuse me?" Dean eyed the bartender curiously.

"I didn't stutter. She comes in here every once in awhile. Always alone, but she never leaves that way."

"So?" Sipping his beer, Dean looked at the girl once more. She caught his eye and gave him a demure grin. He grinned right back.

"I don't see the men she leaves with again."

Dean turned back to him. "I think I'll take my chances."

"Like I said, your funeral." He handed the drink to a waitress.

Dean watched as the waitress made her way to the woman and explained who it was from. The woman caught Dean's eye again and raised the bottle in thanks before taking a long drink. Turning to grab his beer, Dean smiled sarcastically at the bartender. "I'll let you know how it goes?"

The bartender laughed. "I don't think so." He pointed at the exit.

Just in time to see a few strands of black hair and a denim covered leg step out the door, Dean turned again on his stool.

"She said to give you this." The timid voice of a waitress piped from his side. She handed Dean a torn strip of paper with a simple, but confusing message written on it in elegant script:

Not Yet

Well, what the fuck was that supposed to mean?

Still chuckling, the bartender interrupted his fuming. "You're better off, son."

Dean nodded in agreement. "Probably." Guzzling what was left of his beer, he asked, "Got anything stronger?"

"On the house," the bartender said handing him a glass filled with a dark liquid.

With a smile, Dean accepted the drink. And the next. And the next.

X

"Alright, boys," Dean rubbed his hands together, "Who's next?" He eyed the group that had congregated around the frayed pool table. "Anyone at all?"

"How much you gonna put up?" A tall, clearly country bred, man asked stepping up.

Dean smirked. "The thousand I've got so far."

"Idiot," the man said grabbing a pool stick, "I haven't lost a game in years."

"Hope I can brink back some old memories, then." Dean took a swig of his drink and lined up his first shot. The balls seemed to roll from one side to the other, but Dean quickly shook his head and heard the satisfying click of five balls rolling into five different pockets. Even drunk he still had it. Three shots later, he finally backed away from the table. "Looking pretty lost, isn't it?" he asked mockingly.

The man frowned and took his turn. The shining, white ball slid past its colored counter parts and into a corner pocket. "It's fixed," the man accused belligerently, "You messed with it."

"Dude," Dean scoffed, "Don't blame your inability to perform on me."

"What'd you say, boy?" The man dropped the slender wooden stick onto the felt table.

"You heard me." Dean glared at him. The man wasn't much older than Dean, certainly not old enough to call him boy.

"You'd better repeat yourself." The man lightly pushed Dean back with a hand to his shoulder.

With a signature grin, Dean replied, "My pleasure," and he promptly punched the man square in the jaw.

The man fell back into the crowd. "Son of a bitch!" he exclaimed rubbing the side of his face. With his upper lip curled, the man ran for Dean.

Laughing at the man's drunken path, Dean quickly dodged the lunge and when the man turned, surprised, he hit him again. This time the man went down hard, flat out on the pool table. Smirking, Dean finished the last sip of his beer. "I'm going," he said to the approaching security. With a final salute to the crowd, Dean grabbed his jacket and sauntered out the door. Damn, Des Moines was cold. He tightened the leather around his frame. Now where was his cell phone?

He slowly walked out of the parking lot rummaging in his pockets for the evasive piece of titanium. "Gotcha," he muttered feeling the cold bar in his grasp. As he slid the phone out he looked up and glanced around. He was in the middle of the road. Chuckling to himself, he briefly gave thanks that no cars were coming. Stepping to the side, his gaze floated to a patch of bright, yellow flowers. He looked from the flowers to the road, something not quiet connecting in his brain. His fingers involuntarily began tapping on his thigh. Something was off. Something…he looked over his shoulder. Another road. Wait. To his side was a road. Behind him was a road. Yellow flowers where the roads crossed. Crossed. An idea slowly flared to life in his head.

He was standing in the middle of a crossroads.

XxXxX

"Uncle Sam!" A tiny girl wound her arms around his legs. "Uncle Sammy's here!" She yelled behind her.

Sam looked up into the decorated foyer of the house. Oddly enough, the extra space and lofty ceilings made the place feel cozier than it should. He grinned.

"Hey," he said good-naturedly, "What's with the Sammy?"

The girl giggled and grabbed his hand. "Adele made a big mess," she said with bright eyes. "A big one, and mommy had to clean it up!" There was a skip in her step. "I helped!"

Suddenly, a growl echoed form behind them and the little girl squeaked as her mirror image pounced, pushing her into the wall. An ornate mirror shook before crashing to the floor.

"Girls!" a soft voice carried from the next room. A slender woman with long, brunette curls stepped into the hall. "What have I told you!"

"Not in the house," the girls chorused together.

She nodded. "Now go play outside while Uncle Sam and I clean this up." The two girls smiled widely and ran out of the room.

"Sam!" the woman enveloped him in a warm hug. "Dean's downstairs trying to fix the latest catastrophe." She frowned at the mirror. "Well, second latest."

"Chase. Who's up there?" Dean's spiked head poked out from a side door. "Uncle Sammy!" He grinned maliciously. "It's about time, dude!"

"So that's where she got it," Sam replied.

"Dinner's ready, you two." Chase said quickly cleaning up the broken glass. "I never liked that old thing, anyway." She headed for the kitchen.

"Beer?" Dean asked following her.

"Sure." Sam trailed after his brother. When he reached the polished kitchen, he saw Dean, Chase, and the children already settled around the dinning table in the adjoining room. He leaned against the door frame for a second, savoring Dean's happiness.

"They make a pretty picture, don't they, Sammy?" A cold hand gripped his shoulder, and Sam spun around coming face to face with his yellow-eyed nightmare.

Sam shot out of bed breathing hard and clutching his head. He hated these dreams more than anything in the world, but a small part of his was at least consoled that the dream wasn't about anything true. There was no way Chase and Dean would be living in an oversized mansion with two runts. No way. Still, his nightmare left him disturbed, and knowing he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, he pulled on his shirt and reached to the bedside table for the TV guide and remote. His hand hesitated, remembering his brother in the next bed. Sam glanced over, but frowned when he saw the bed empty. "Dammit, Dean," he cursed pulling on his shoes. Everything he had in his California bank account was betting that Dean was passed out on the bar steps. It wouldn't be the first time he was utterly trashed this month.

Sam sighed. Something had to be done. Anything to get his brother out of his current funk. Grabbing a jacket that was thrown over the single chair in the room and the keys to the impala, Sam headed back in the direction of the run down tavern. Hopefully Dean would be waiting in the parking lot for him instead of wondering the streets.