A/N: This is the third installment of my 'Abaddon Series.' It's a little different than the first two, being written in Sam's point of view and all. I hope you all enjoy it.

I should also say that I really appreciate all of the feedback I've received for this fic. Things have been a little shaky here in real life, so I haven't been able to respond to the Chapter 2 feedback. I'm hoping to rectify that ASAP. Sorry!

:)

Emrys

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the television program Supernatural. That all belongs to the CW and Eric Kripke, and whole bunch of other people who are lucky enough to be involved with this show. I'm not receiving any sort of revenue for this fic.

What Ruby Doesn't Know—Part I: Keeping Secrets

Carefully sipping coffee that is perfectly strong but still too hot, Sam walks through the shabby neighborhood. He left Dean at the apartment only minutes ago—ten, fifteen at most. Only minutes, but Sam still walks briskly.

It's been months—going on a year, actually—since Sam tore Dean out of Hell, and Dean is not yet recovered. He still hallucinates, still jumps at the oddest noises and is still painfully truthful. And Sam, he doesn't like to leave his brother for too long. He manages to keep his nervous energy down when he's in class, but even the distraction of school can't completely keep him from worrying.

Actually, it's the distraction of school—a midterm—that has brought him out here this time of night. It's late, and he's exhausted, because Dean had a bad day.

Sam's always exhausted after Dean has a bad day. He's also always depressed, but he can't afford to feel that way right now. There's just too much work to do. Instead he chooses to ignore the sick reaction in his chest and the clogged up feeling in his head. It's hard, this ignoring business, but mostly he succeeds.

Mostly.

Sam knows he needs to sleep, but before he can do that he needs to catch up on a few case studies that will surely be on his exam in the morning. Coffee was in order, so he left, just for a handful of minutes, to get a cup full of good, strong joe to help him through the night.

He didn't leave Dean alone—Bobby is more than capable of handling the older Winchester for a little while. And, really, it's been just a few minutes. Not even a quarter of an hour.

His sharp awareness of the time he's away from Dean is an obsession Sam can't break. Neither can he erase the guilt that rumbles around in his head as robustly as the depression does. He can't erase it, because all of this, all of Dean's pain and instability has been for Sam.

Dean went to Hell to save Sam. And now, now that Dean's back and safe, now that Sam is strong and full of white power, well, now Sam can't save Dean. Can't save Dean from hallucinations and snooping demons and nightmares. Can't save Dean from fear and anxiety and a fractured mind.

Sam can't save Dean from Dean.

Dean tries to overcome himself. In fact he can be an outright pain in the ass at times, just like he could be before his sight-seeing tour through the underworld. Sometimes Dean seems strong, and angry, and just plain pissed off. At those times, those very rare times, Sam can almost pretend everything will all be okay. Finally.

But Dean's mood is a knife's edge, a spinning dime. It doesn't take much for Sam's hope to evaporate when Dean's good days turn bad. And those good days, yeah, they do turn bad. And when Dean has a bad day, a day like today, that's when Sam knows better. That's when Sam knows that everything won't all be okay.

It just won't.

Sam sighs, takes a quick sip of coffee. Yeah, he's exhausted, but he picks up his pace anyway. He needs to get home.

It's Sam's guilt, his unwavering attention to the doubts inside his head that keeps him from seeing the danger when it comes.

"Little Sammy Winchester, my how absolutely funny it is to meet you here of all places. Right in the middle of the street! And oh, look, it's the witching hour, isn't it? Hysterical. What a laugh!"

Three men, tall, dark, and dressed in elegant three-piece suits, step out of the shadows into Sam's path. Sam notices that they could all be brothers, that all three look remarkably alike. The broad smirk of the one who talked, another's slovenly look, and the third's pair of steamy eyeglasses are the only differences between the threesome. Sam notes these differences and is curious by the peculiarity of the men. He isn't afraid of them, because he's a Winchester and a powerful one at that. He can take care of himself.

And when three pairs of eyes cloud and darken and show their demon selves, well, Sam, he still isn't afraid.

He's positively furious.

"Christo!" He yells the word just to annoy the demons. It gives him time to step back and assess the situation.

All three flinch simultaneously.

"That wasn't funny," the one who cajoled Sam says now.

"Not at all," another declares. This is the sloppy looking one. The creature rubs his head as if it aches and doesn't attempt to smooth down his messy hair once he stops.

Sam's anger builds, and he's raring to go. He's ready, and the world starts to turn white at its edges. It's been a bad day and, yeah, oh boy, he's ready to kick some demon ass.

"I told you he's out of play. When are you stupid fucks going to get the point?" Sam growls. He feels the whiteness burn and savors the anticipation of death and destruction.

"Now, now, now, Mr., um, Winchester. Not so, um, hasty. We, uh, we aren't here to, um, ah threaten your brother." The words are hurried and nervous.

Sam can't see straight, but he knows it's the demon with the glasses who just spoke. He pauses, because although hesitation could be a mistake here, there's something different, maybe important, in the demon's tone.

"Ahem, ah, I, ah, believe you know, that you realize, that your brother, despite all your, uh, actions to prove otherwise, is, uh, is very much, actually, in play."

The light, the whiteness pulls back. Sam forces it down, so he can listen. But if one of these assholes says the wrong thing, well, the geyser of his power isn't so far away that he won't be able to use it in time.

"Let us introduce ourselves. Um, I'm Uphir. My friend here with the annoying laugh is Kobal."

Kobal bows and giggles, then Uphir continues with the introductions.

"My other, ah, friend is Cresil."

"Yeah, whatever. Can we get this over with?" Cresil says and belches loudly.

Uphir wrinkles his nose in disgust.

"What do you want?" Sam demands.

The three demons look at each other as if unsure how to start. It's peculiar behavior for demons, and suddenly Sam's a little interested.

"A business proposition," Uphir says.

"Forget it," Sam replies, with a disgusted wave of his hand. "I've had enough dealings with your kind to last a lifetime. Take it up with some other poor fuck."

Sam shoves past the threesome and isn't entirely surprised when they all scramble to keep from touching him. He knows his power is painful to them. It's why he hasn't been afraid of a demon, any demon, in almost a year.

He crosses the street, and as an afterthought considers splatting these three demons all over the sidewalk. It's only an instant of thought though, because sometimes—almost all the time—when he turns his power on something, the human housing it is harmed, sometimes killed. Sam can't stomach that tonight. Not after the day Dean had.

"If I hear of you hurting anyone, I'll turn you all to dust," he calls from across the street. It's an insurance policy. Insurance against further guilt and despair.

He turns his back and hears an unhappy scuffle behind him.

"Winchester! Wait!"

Sam doesn't know which of the three calls out to him, and he doesn't really care. His thoughts turn to Dean, and again he quickens his pace toward home.

"Winchester! Listen to us!" There's a hint of desperation in the voice. Sam still doesn't care.

"Your brother is in a great deal of trouble!"

Sam doesn't remember stalking his way back across the street. And yet, suddenly he's in the midst of the three demons again, and he's got his hands locked around the throat of the smirking one.

"You leave my brother alone," he commands. The demon in his hold continues to smirk, but it's clear that Sam's touch is uncomfortable to it.

"We have, um, well, no intention of harming Dean," Uphir says. "It's just that, well, um, we're not, well, exactly pleased with the, uh, the uh, way things are going with your, um, well, your brother."

"Too much work," the unkempt demon says.

"Not funny at all," the one in Sam's hold chokes out.

"Shut the fuck up and let me do this!" Uphir yells. All trace of nervousness suddenly dissipates from him.

For an instant, the demons look ready to fight each other, even the one Sam's got his fingers around.

Sam pushes the demon in his grasp away and wipes his hand on his pants. Calm follows his move.

"Get it over with," the messy one, Cresil, hisses.

"Give me some fucking silence, and maybe I will," Uphir growls back.

Sam interrupts their arguing.

"What are you talking about? What's the matter with Dean?"

Kobal, the smirking creature, laughs hysterically. He rubs his neck which is clearly damaged from Sam's hold.

"You're not going to like it. Not at all," the giggling demon says.

Uphir takes a deep breath and speaks.

"You didn't listen very well to Nybbas. A shame really, since you took all that time to barbeque him." Cunning and nastiness now replace the seemingly characteristic nervousness of the creature and send a chill down Sam's spine.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asks, wary. Suspicious.

"Won't believe us, won't believe us, won't believe us," Cresil mutters in an understated voice that sounds like static. The other two demons glare daggered warnings at him.

"Read that story again, Sammy," Uphir says, once he's sure Cresil is quiet. He pats Sam's chest, and licks at his burnt fingers afterwards. "You know it. It's the one at the end of that cursed book. Read it and think of stupid, fat Nybbas. Maybe you'll catch on."

"I read it already. There's nothing there except for the Morning Star, the name of Luci—"

All three demons cringe and howl.

"Don't say it."

"Not that name."

"Oh please, be quiet. Be very quiet."

Sammy looks on, confused and still leery.

"I know it's a story that's been perverted by a demon," he continues, hesitantly. He doesn't know what will set the threesome off again, and it isn't so very late that their commotion won't draw unwanted attention. "But I don't have a clue what it has to do with Dean."

"What, did you think we'd make it easy for you?" Uphir sneers.

"Yeah, we're demons, not Santa Claus," Kobal says and giggles again.

"Oh, all right. Chapter four. Verse one. When you figure it out, we'll find you. See if you still want to chat," Cresil drawls, sounding put out and lazy at the same time.

As one, the three demons turn and take a step away from Sam. Sam stands in the middle of the sidewalk, confused and wondering. Why did they even bother with him if they weren't going to give him straight answers?

He shakes his head and is about to walk home when Uphir halts. The demon, slowly, inexorably turns around. His voice buzzes when he speaks.

"Check his blood. It's quite important that you do so," the demon says. The buzzing is disorienting and uncomfortable. It gives Sam a headache. "And remember, we'll find you. Don't seek us out. You've got many eyes watching you, Winchester. Can't make it look like we're in cahoots. Oh, and to that end—"

Kobal, whose back is turned away, suddenly cackles, turns and swings an arm out. Sam almost kisses demon power before his white heat surfaces and retaliates. The demons growl, make a fuss, and do all the things demons normally do before making an unhappy exit.

They howl once more before scampering away from Sam's bright power.

Sam is left confused and breathing hard.

And his coffee is stone cold.

oOo

Dean's not sleeping when Sam gets home a few minutes later.

"Where have you been?!" Bobby coarsely whispers the frantic question.

"I got caught up with someone. When did he wake up?" Sam carefully eyes Dean as he talks.

Dean does not look well. In the month since Ruby, Nybbas, and that other, nameless demon came sniffing around, Dean hasn't left the apartment. Before the demonic intrusions, Dean had recovered enough to tolerate leaving the apartment for short periods of time, sitting at the beach, gaining some color and health back. Now, hunched in a rocker and staring out the window, he looks almost as unhealthy as he did immediately after returning from Hell. He's too thin, too pale, and his hair is getting too long again.

It's all just too much.

Dean sits and rocks, rocks, rocks. The squeakiness of the chair is going to drive Sam insane if he has to listen to that all night.

"Are you listening to me, Sam?"

"What?" Sam is pulled from his bleak thoughts by Bobby, who apparently was talking to him.

Bobby's expression turns cloudy and frustrated.

"Are you sure you're okay, Sam?"

"Fine, I'm fine. What were you saying?" Sam asks, making sure his attention doesn't wane again.

"I said he came out of his room about twenty minutes ago. He was muttering something about demons again. Wouldn't let me touch him. Won't go to bed."

Sam curses quietly. He's tried everything to convince Dean that the apartment is protected, that there is no way demons can gain access to their home.

Dean refuses to believe him and insists that there's one—Ruby, actually—who continues to lurk around the place.

Bobby and Sam have found no sign of Ruby, but Dean can't get over his delusion. And this delusion scares Sam, because Dean usually is much more willing to trust Sam's judgment and to rationalize his hallucinations as side effects from his ordeal.

But his belief that Ruby still haunts and prowls the dark places in the apartment is unshakable. Sam worries that Dean is deteriorating into something splintered and wrong and aberrant. This delusion of Ruby, coupled with Dean lately having more bad days than good ones makes Sam worry he is completely losing his brother just when he should be getting him back.

Dean pulls his legs up onto the chair and clutches his knees together with his arms. He looks small and child-like in a hoodie that Sam recognizes by its poor fit as one of his own. Dean's eyes are glassy as he stares out the window and continues to rock.

Suddenly, Sam could care less about the midterm tomorrow. None of it, nothing at all, matters if he ends up losing Dean.

"I'll look after him," Sam roughly says to Bobby. "You should go to bed." There's a heavy ball of grief clogging his throat, and he can barely get the words out.

"Sam, you have your test tomorrow. I can stay up and watch him. You need to study," Bobby says. Bobby's eyes are tired and wet. The man looks as close to tears as Sam feels.

Sam forces a smile for this man who has looked after them and worried over them as much or more than their real father ever did.

"It's not important," Sam says. "I'll sit with him."

"You sure?" Bobby asks, unwilling to surrender his vigil.

"Yeah, go on. You look tired."

Bobby is gentleman enough not to argue any further. He claps Sam on the back and retreats to the relative peace of his own room.

Sam watches Dean for a while longer before carefully making his way to his brother's side. Dean doesn't stop rocking and doesn't acknowledge Sam until Sam places a gentle hand against the rocker to make it stop.

"Dean?"

Dean jumps as if freezing water was thrown on him. His breathing is hard and fast. His eyes are panicked and twitching. Then he recognizes Sam and calms down. Just a little.

"Sammy, you nearly gave me a heart attack." There's a speck of recrimination in Dean's voice that makes the corner of Sam's mouth perk up into an almost-smile.

"Sorry," Sam says. "Dean, why are you up? It's late. You should be in bed."

Dean scowls, and it's almost as if Sam's cocky, son-of-a-bitch brother is back.

"What am I, ten? Leave me alone. I'm thinking," Dean says. Then his eyes narrow in concentration. "And aren't you supposed to be studying for some big test or something? Why aren't you hitting the books?"

Sam's not happy that Dean's thinking, because whatever he's mulling over obviously isn't good. But he is happy that Dean remembered the test. He's happy because Dean remembering such things is an indication that his big brother's concentration is returning. It's an indication that maybe tomorrow won't be such a terribly bad day. Maybe, just maybe, it will be a good day.

"I'm done studying for the night," Sam says.

Dean cocks an eyebrow in disbelief.

"You know it all?"

"Yeah, Dean, I know it all," Sam says, lying easily.

Dean's eyes narrow again in concentration, but he's not so recovered that he detects the untruth.

"Alright, then go to bed. Leave me alone. I'm thinking," Dean mumbles. He turns away from Sam, tightens his grasp on his knees, and starts rocking again.

Sam again, insistently, stops the chair from moving.

"Sam! What the HELL is your—"

And just like that, what little semblance there was to Sam's self-confident brother is gone. Vanished. Lickety-split. One little word is all it takes to erase Dean and leave nothing but a shell in the wake of its utterance.

"Dean, it's okay. Calm down, okay? Just calm down and stay with me."

It is rare, incredibly rare, for Dean to make such a mistake, to say such a dreaded word. That he has done so now means bad things ahead for both brothers.

Sam crouches down in front of Dean. He clutches his brother's ice cold hands and tries very hard to make contact with Dean's horrified eyes.

"Dean, hold my hands. You need to stay with me and not panic, okay? Stay with me." Sam continues the stream of soothing, encouraging words until Dean somehow finds the strength within himself to keep from dissociating, to keep from disintegrating into a full blown panic attack.

Dean grabs Sam's hands as if they are the only thing keeping him from flying apart. That's when Sam finally manages to make eye contact with his brother.

"Okay, Dean. It's all right. You just need to slow down your breathing. You're going to hyperventilate if you keep breathing like that."

Eye contact is suddenly, regretfully lost as Dean wildly examines the room.

"Are you—are you—you sure? No dem—demons?" Dean's questions are almost incomprehensible, because he's gulping in air too fast.

Involuntarily thinking of the three demons he met on his way home makes Sam wince inwardly. But he doesn't let the memory or his reaction to it show on his face.

"None, Dean. Not one. Now I need you to slow your breathing down, okay? Come on, breathe with me."

Putting Dean's hand on his chest, Sam starts taking in slow, deep breaths. The contact helps Dean, and soon he's able to mimic his brother's breathing. He meets Sam's eyes again, but continues struggling to ease his greedy gasps for air. By the way Dean's eyes slide away from his every so often, Sam knows Dean is working too hard to stay focused and associated.

But Sam is insistent and determined, so ten minutes later Dean manages to raise his head all the way and nod at his stubborn brother. Then he lifts his knees, withdraws his hands, and buries his face in his lap. Sam places a strong hand on the Dean's bony back, and strokes circles of gentle relief there.

When Dean lifts his head again, he's calm and his eyes are drooping.

"I'm tired," Dean says, quietly.

Sam expects the sudden drowsiness. These attacks always leave his brother drained and lethargic.

"It's okay, Dean. I'll sit with you until you're asleep," Sam assures.

Gently Sam helps Dean stand and carries most of his weight as they make their way to their shared bedroom. Dean mutters something, but Sam can't hear what it is. Sam carefully drops his brother onto his bed, covers him with sheet and blanket, and then turns on the nightstand light.

Sam makes sure Dean is alright before taking his Bible off the top of a stack of books at the base of his own bed. He toes his shoes off and then sits on the bed, leans against the headboard.

He finds the correct chapter and verse but is interrupted before he can read the words.

"I thought you said you were done studying," Dean mumbles.

A little startled that his brother is still awake, Sam looks up quickly and a muscle in his neck twitches alarmingly. He smoothes the cramp with a conscientious hand and smiles at his brother.

"I am. Just catching up on a little reading. Go to sleep. You're exhausted."

"Gone, right? Demon's are gone? You're here?" Dean whispers, and his breathing hitches then speeds up.

Sam frowns and climbs half-way out of bed. He doesn't want to disturb his fatigued brother, but he also doesn't want another attack to surface. On very bad days, Dean can have several consecutive bouts with panic. Sam doesn't want to discover that today is one of Dean's very bad days.

This being a plain old bad day has been difficult enough to handle.

"Take it easy, Dean. The demons are gone, and I'll be here when you wake up. Stop fighting it now. Go to sleep."

Dean's eyes close, and he offers no further comment. After a long while, too long for Sam's liking, his breathing slows and eases into something approaching normal.

Still worried, Sam watches Dean for a few minutes more before settling back against the headboard of his bed. Then he waits a while longer before turning his attention to the book in his lap.

And then he reads Revelations 4:1.

oOo

"'After these things I looked, and behold, a door standing open in heaven, and the first voice which I had heard, like the sound of a trumpet speaking with me, said, "Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after these things."'

"Well what the tarnation is that supposed to mean?" Bobby asks after Sam reads him the passage.

Bobby is not happy. In fact he's been decidedly unhappy since Sam sat at the kitchen table with him this morning and told him about the three demons from the previous night.

"When Nybbas saw Dean, he started screaming 'ostium' and 'lanua'," Sam says with a tired shrug.

Bobby grimaces.

"Latin for 'door'," he replies, miserably.

Sam has had all night to think about this situation, and he's so depressed that he can barely talk to Bobby about it now. But ignoring trouble that may or may not be coming down the pike won't help Dean.

"Bobby, what if Dean is related to this door to heaven somehow, and that's why all these demons are skulking around?"

"Why? How, Sam? It doesn't really make all that much sense," Bobby says.

Sam leans forward and tiredly rubs his forehead with his right hand.

"What I don't understand," Bobby says, "is why, after all the poking around and tormenting those demons have done to your brother, why is it exactly that you would even consider listening to another bunch of them?"

"If I thought there was any other way to get answers, do you think I would even consider talking to these guys? Listen, something's going on. Something big, and it involves Dean somehow."

"They lie, Sam. You know that."

"Yeah, I know that. But it doesn't mean they don't tell the truth sometimes, and even you can't deny there's been a lot of demonic activity around Dean since he, well, since he came back."

Sam's right. Bobby can't deny it, but nevertheless, he doesn't look convinced.

"Nybbas also said that John of Patmos, the guy who wrote Revelations was lied to. And, well, a son of the morning star? Damn it, Bobby, for all we know John could have gotten the entire story from a demon."

Bobby laughs roughly.

"From John's mouth to God's ear," he says wryly, and then wipes his mouth nervously. "I don't like any of this. Revelations? That's end of the world stuff, and I don't like to think of you boys getting mixed up in it."

Sam thinks of the moment when Dean died, of when he was dead and slowly dripping in Sam's arms. That moment was the end of the world for them both. Both Dean and Sam.

There's no question about them getting mixed up in all this 'end of the world stuff.' No question, because Sam, he's already mixed up in it, and so is Dean.

He says nothing of his thoughts to Bobby. Instead he shrugs.

Just shrugs.

Bobby gets the point, even though it's a tough one to swallow.

"I still don't like the idea of you messing with demons," the older man says gruffly.

"Listen, I can handle them. The first sign of twitchiness, and I'll zap them. But let's play along for a while. I'll get Dean's blood checked out. We'll see if there's anything to their story."

"Yeah, and who are you going to send the blood to, Sam? It's not as if any old general practitioner is going to have a clue what to look for," Bobby says.

"Remember when I told you about Oregon? Rivergrove and the whole Croatoan ordeal?"

Bobby sighs heavily and takes a deep draw from the beer he started drinking when Sam began telling this whacked out story. It's only nine in the morning, but Bobby thinks he deserves this one. Just this once. He takes another slug, then nods his head.

"Yeah, I remember."

"Well, Doc Lee moved to Northern California after all that mess. She'll know what to look for, and she's not very far away. I was planning on sending the sample to her."

Bobby studies Sam with hard eyes. He tugs his cap off his head and quickly replaces it.

"You've got this all figured out, haven't you?" he asks.

"Yeah," Sam admits. "I sorta do."

"You need to tell him, Sam. You can't hide something like this from him. Not the way he is right now."

"I'll tell him. I just don't want to say anything until we know for sure there's something going on. Let's get the blood results, and then if anything's there, I'll tell him."

"That's not fair to him, Sam. Not fair, one bit."

"You didn't see him last night, Bobby. And Dean going to Hell wasn't fair either. I just want to protect him for a little while longer."

Bobby still looks unhappy, but Sam knows he's not going to argue any further. At least not right now, which is no guarantee the subject won't come up again later.

"When do you want to draw the blood?" Bobby asks Sam, resignedly.

Sam's shoulders slump in obvious relief. He reaches out, grabs Bobby's beer, and takes a swig.

"Tonight. I'll give him a pill before he goes to bed. He'll take it for sure, especially after last night. Once he's out, we'll get the blood from him. I'll mail it up to Doc tomorrow morning."

"Naw, don't do that," Bobby says. He steals his beer back from Sam and rubs his beard unhappily. "I'll drive it up there. It'll be quicker, and I'll wait for the results. You better call Lee and let her know."

Sam's eyes sting at their corners.

"Thanks, Bobby. Thanks a lot."

"Yeah, well, you best be going now. You've got that test to take."

Sam's about to protest the importance of his exam when Bobby's affectionate expression turns steely.

"The world didn't stop turning because you boys had a bad night. Take your test. There ain't nothing you can do until tonight anyway."

"I told Dean I'd be here when he wakes up."

"He'll understand, Sam. 'Sides, the way he's sawing wood in there, he'll probably still be sleeping by the time you get home. Now go on. Break a leg."

"You're only supposed to say that to wish good luck to actors right before a performance," Sam points out.

"Yeah, well, the way this day's shaping up, we all better be hobbling around before too long. Now stop your yammering, and go to school, you ingrate."

oOo

That evening Sam's predictions about Dean's behavior come to pass when Dean willingly takes the offered sleeping pill. While they wait for the older Winchester to fall asleep, Bobby and Sam talk quietly in the living room.

"How'd that test go?" Bobby asks the question as if the world is normal, and he isn't about to steal blood from someone he considers a friend.

"I did fine," Sam says, truthfully.

"Good. That's good," Bobby says.

Sam laughs. It's a cynical huff of sound. He checks his watch and nods.

"C'mon, he should be asleep," he says. He grabs his bag of supplies, and the two men quietly enter the bedroom.

Dean sleep is comparatively peaceful. His limbs jerk on occasion, and his eyes roll around behind his closed eyelids, but he's not vocalizing horror or being subjected to whole body convulsions as is sometimes the case. The sleeping pill knocked him out enough that he doesn't even open his eyes when Sam and Bobby arrange furniture and blood-drawing supplies around him. Sam's glad, not only because Dean badly needs a good night's sleep, but also because Sam needs him to stay asleep.

Dean doesn't even flinch when the needle slides into a vein; Sam's surprised, but he's too thankful to do more than just check to be certain Dean's okay. Dean unconsciously convinces Sam of his well-being by taking a deep breath and sighing. Satisfied, Sam whispers prayers as he draws the blood, thick and red, and looking the same as it always did. And yet, Sam suspects it isn't the same. Not the same, or else why is he stealing blood from his drugged-up brother in the middle of the night?

He pushes aside his fears but is still grim as he finishes the task. He shakes the tube and skillfully withdraws the needle, then hands the blood sample to Bobby.

To Bobby, who looks just as bleak and pained as Sam feels.

"This ain't right," Bobby whispers. Harsh. Angry. Devastated.

"We've already been through this. I'm not telling him anything until we know for sure there's something wrong. He's been through enough." Sam says, keeping pressure on Dean's arm to stem the flow of blood there.

"He has a right to know."

"Know what?" Sam says, angry now. They already discussed this, and he's annoyed that Bobby's bringing it up again now, when they're in the middle of things. "We don't even know what's going on! What are we going to tell him? That demons are hanging around? Oh, I'm sure he'll be so pleased to hear—"

Sam's sarcastic whisper is interrupted by Dean who begins muttering in his sleep.

"Please, no. Nonononononono."

It's a quiet noise, a simple word repeated with absolutely no feeling behind it. And yet, the unemotional quality of the plea is somehow more appalling than it would be if Dean was screaming out in supplication. Sam's blood goes cold at the horror of the sound. He's frozen for too long before he reaches out and carefully, softly strokes Dean's head in the way he learned is the only one which might calm his brother down.

"Hey, Dean. Hey. Quiet now. You're safe," Sam says, gently pushing Dean's too long hair away from his sweat-soaked brow. "You're safe."

His ministrations, thankfully, work, and Dean escapes whatever dark memories pursue him. Sam relaxes a little and checks the site of the blood draw. He blows out a shaky breath when he sees the bleeding stopped.

He makes sure Dean is still relatively calm then stands and meets Bobby's sad, sick gaze.

"I won't tell him. Not yet. Not until we know more," Sam says. Dark. Broken. Determined.

Bobby studies him with flinty eyes, but eventually acquiesces to Sam's judgment with a swift nod of his head. He leaves the room to pack the blood in ice and begin his nighttime journey north.

Sam pulls a chair over to the side of Dean's bed and doesn't sleep the entire night.

oOo

Sam stalks the neighborhood which is painted less dingy than usual by pale moonlight. He moves like a dangerous creature, edgy and canny and something to stay away from. And whether consciously or unconsciously, that's just what the others on the streets do. They steer clear from the danger and give him wide berth.

As he hunts, Sam obsesses over what he's found out in the last three days.

The initial call from Doctor Lee was good. Not perfect, but good. Hopeful. She had known what to look for and hadn't found it when she looked. No sign of sulfur. That had been good news, and Sam, on the other end of a long phone line, had breathed deeply when she told him her findings.

"But the patient's lymphocyte levels are on the elevated side of normal," Doc had said next. "It could be the beginning of a straightforward infection, but I'd like to culture the blood just to make sure it's nothing more. It'll only take a few days."

Knowing full well of Dean's physically weakened condition, Sam wouldn't have been surprised if his brother harbored a simple bacteria or virus. But that knowledge didn't keep his heart from skipping a beat when the doctor made her suggestion.

"If any other person in the world had asked me to do this, I wouldn't even consider performing a culture. The sample is clean, and the lymphocyte levels aren't really all that high. Like I said, they're within normal range," Doc had said. She'd spoken hushed and hurried, and Sam had realized she was nervous. "But it's you doing the asking, Sam. Obviously you believe something could be wrong, and after what happened in Rivergrove I just think—"

Sam had had to shove aside the growing lump of unease crawling in his throat before he'd been able to say, "No, you're right. It's right to be thorough."

There had been quiet on the other end of the line. Sam had heard the doctor's fast breathing, but hadn't known what to say next to end the growing tension.

He'd just about decided to give up and simply say good-bye, when Doctor Lee whispered, "Sam, is this your brother's blood?"

And that question, that had been the one Sam hadn't been willing to answer.

"Just call me when you get the results of the blood culture," Sam had said in response, forcing calm into his tone.

Then he'd hung up and waited.

Bobby had returned that evening, still looking grim and unhappy with Sam's decisions. He'd opened his mouth to complain, taken one look at Sam's face, and then given up. Sam hasn't heard one word of dissent from him since.

Then, just an hour or so ago, the Doc called again.

This time the news wasn't good. Not good at all.

Sam doesn't clearly remember the second conversation he had with Doctor Lee. He's only able to recall bits of it like, 'strange bacterium,' and, 'definitely sulfur,' and, 'slow to culture but potentially virulent.' He remembers her saying 'it's not the same as Rivergrove,' and, 'I can't begin to speculate,' and, 'I'm so sorry, Sam.'

What he distinctly doesn't remember her saying is, 'everything's going to be fine.'

But then again, Sam thinks to himself, he never really ever believed that in the first place.

He stalks, prowls, hunts for them now, those three demons who brought this agony to his attention. He's not quite sure what he'll do when he finds them. His initial inclination is to torture them for answers and then send them back where they came from. Yet the guilt that such actions would bring can't be overstated.

He wants to be tormenter and judgment, but it's just not in his nature. Not really. Even his previous actions with Nybbas had had a backlash of deep remorse directed toward the human taken over by the demon. And all that shame emerged after action against an uncooperative demon.

These three, if he ever finds them, claim to be obliging, if only on their terms.

So he knows, despite all thought to the contrary, that he'll try to play it cool despite the white-hot heat building at his edges. Hopefully he'll succeed.

After the decision is made, he hears high-pitched, sinister laughter that draws his attention.

"Sammy! Sammy-boy! So, what did you find out?! Anything interesting? Anything…fun?!"

He's in a playground, empty except for three figures that are lined up side by side and swinging out of synch with each other on swings. As before, the three demons are impeccably dressed and look completely out of place.

"Don't call me that," Sam growls, and the smirking demon, Korbal, responds with a poorly smothered string of manic giggles.

"Silly Sammy, stupid Sammy, sulky Sammy," murmurs Cresil. "Told you not to look for us."

Sam's heated attention shifts to the disheveled demon.

Cresil looks bored. He stops swinging to languish against the chain of the swing. He's unkempt and kicks at sand with shoes that are no longer perfectly polished. Sam can't help noticing that the demon's host is plumper than when they last met.

"Then why show yourselves to me?" Sam asks, irate.

Cresil shrugs.

"Now's as good a time as any," the drooping demon says nonchalantly.

"Yes, well, um, you must see Sam that Korbal uh, um, he has a point," Uphir says, swinging high. "Did you find, ah, out anything, um, interesting?"

Sam tries very hard to force back his gut-reaction fury to Uphir's stammered inquiry. He's still struggling with himself when he sees that, oddly, the bespectacled demon has a scroll of aged-looking parchment in his hand. The paper is held irreverently, crushed against the chain of the swing. Even more strangely, Uphir wears a heavy glove on the hand gripping the parchment.

The peculiarity of the sight, as well as silent speculation of what the creature just might be clutching in its hand, does what Sam hasn't succeeded in doing since Doctor Lee's phone call. The painfully burning fire in him abruptly extinguishes, and he's calm as silent water.

Placid.

Cool.

In control.

Uphir and Kobal stop swinging so fast and abrupt it's as if a switch was cut off.

Sam doesn't blink at the physics-defying motion. He's not affected by the weirdness, because he's all resolve and ice-cold control now. All three demons watch him with wide eyes and open expressions. The emotions passing over their identical faces are obvious.

Disgust.

Reverence.

Fear.

Sam takes one step forward, then another. He thinks of Dean.

"I want to talk," he says and calmly takes one more step.