A/N: . For those who reviewed and favorite/followed and asked for more, I dedicate this to you. I hope I did not disappoint! Tried to keep this "T", but it wasn't easy. A shout out to TeamFreeWill1983 for giving this little chapter a read through and offering suggestions.

Disclaimer: I am not Kripke, I don't own SPN, this is purely for fun and not for profit.

Warning: This will deviate from canon somewhat and contains suggestions of torture but not too descriptive ('cause that would change the rating).

DEAN

Most of the time he loved his life.

What's not to love? His life was the stuff that inspired movies: action, adventure, a different hot chick every night and his gorgeous, sleek Impala - the sweetest, smoothest ride this side of…anywhere. (Seriously, his Baby was the bomb and everyone knew it.)

Now, things might have been a little less…awesome…since his return from the bowels of Hell via the Angel Express, but he was sure that he would get his bearings in no time, he was awesome that way.

So what if he threw himself into the hunt with just a little less care for the consequences and approached his pursuit of all things carnal with an intensity lately that bordered on desperation? He had been in Hell for Christos' sake….but he was Dean Winchester, BAMF and worst nightmare of all things supernatural.

He would bounce back.

Eventually.

Yeah, he could admit that he scared himself when he was interrogating (questioning, he of course meant questioning) witnesses and a stray thought would pass through his mind on the various small (painful, terrible, horrific) ways he had that would make them talk that much faster.

Yeah, he could admit that the nightmares sometimes blurred his reality and made it seem as if he was still in the Pit, that his life was still one illusion created by Alastair to give him a false sense of security only to realize that he had never left Hell. He would wake, eyes darting around whatever pay-by-the-hour hovel they had rented and squeeze his amulet until his heartbeat slowed and he could breathe.

The amulet grounded him, reminded him that he was out of the pit because when the hounds dragged his soul down under, his physical body and the amulet remained topside. In all of their tricks and visions, Dean never had his amulet and, when he eventually remembered this, it reassured him that they were all just elaborate lies, designed to break him. The knowledge helped him hold out for thirty years

Yet, now, when he watched in disbelief as his brother, as Sammy, just freaking FADED out of existence, Dean also admitted that he hated his life. At times like this, he got why Sam craved normal. In a normal life, brothers did not just fade away like they were the freaking hand of Marty McFly.

"Sam?" Dean squinted in some vain hope that it was a trick of the light or that he was losing his vision.

For the first time he hoped (prayed) he was still in the Pit and that the name of the game was "How Fast Can We Make Dean Beg?" – a favorite game of Alistair's . (Please, please, pleaseGodIambeggingyou) If he was in the Pit, then this would all be one awful illusion and no matter how much it hurt, the relief he felt when he realized that it was only a game always overshadowed the pain.

Please. Please. Please.

He lunged then stopped and his amulet bumped against his collar-bone at the movement. He blinked and his heart plummeted south when his brother did not reappear.

Instead, something cold, feral and dangerous within snapped into place.

"Sam." The sharp growl of his voice caused heads to turn in the restaurant and Dean stepped forward toward the fountain. In a few seconds, he had crossed the room and stood in the same space that his brother had occupied just a minute before.

Please. Please let this be a game. Sammy, what the hell?

Wildly, Dean spun around, willed his brother to jump out of thin air and yell "gotcha" like this was a children's game and Sam had just acquired the ability to disappear and reappear at will. (He would kill the little bitch, or at least kick his ass six ways to Sunday if he had.)

"Sam?" he was shouting now, the sound brought the manager pushing through the double swinging doors that led to the kitchen, alarm on his face.

He watched as the manager's mouth moved and the slight Asian man wrung his hands in worry. Iciness settled over Dean, suspicious of the man's involvement with Sam's disappearance.

Did this man have something to do with the wishes? Was this man the reason Sammy had disappeared?

Dean closed his eyes and felt the reassuring coolness of his dagger strapped around his left calf. After a deep inhale (Focus, dammit, focus!), he opened his eyes he leaned forward toward the manager, who flinched and whimpered in what could only be described as terror. Dean already had picked out his top ten interrogation (because it would be an interrogation, something happened to his god-damned BROTHER for Christos' sake) methods.

Dean wanted answers.

And he wanted them now.

"…nothing. I promise, I have done nothing." The restaurant was empty, all customers had left, the staff sent home and the manager pleaded, trembled so violently, Dean knew it was only a matter of time before the man wet himself.

He knew nothing.

Dean felt the rage within bubble due to his frustration as he slid his fingers over the cool steel of his blade and how easy it would be to slip the blade under the man's skin, such a relief to find an outlet. Ten years spent torturing the damned was a hard habit to break. And, if Sammy wasn't found soon…

"Enough." The soft, dangerous sound of his voice silenced the manager's appeal.

Think, dammit!

He tried to focus on the task at hand and push his brutal impulses aside – not an easy task without the reassuring presence of his brother to anchor him, keep him human but the thought of the disappointment he would see on his brother's face when he got him back (and Dean would get him back, failure was not an option here) stilled his hand. Something strange had happened in this town. First an invisible Peeping Tom, Big Foot on a liquor/porn rampage, a teddy Bear in the middle of an existential crisis and a disappearing Sammy.

If the manager didn't have anything to do with the sudden influx of wishes coming true, then he needed to go back to plan A.

Begin at the source…the first rule for any Hunter investigating something uncommon or supernatural. He extended his arm, brought the blade dangerously close to the manager's face before he pointed it over the man's shoulder as he directed the man's attention to the fountain.

"How do we empty it?"

The manager slumped in relief.

Light bounced off the various hues of copper and silver that sparkled in the empty plaster fountain as Dean crouched, feet planted in the same spot (or as close to his recollection of the spot) where Sam had stood.

"How often is the money cleaned out?" One forefinger dragged through the collection of coins when he asked his question.

"Every month or so." Nervously, the manager shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like a toddler trying not to wet their clothes. "It was last emptied over three weeks ago. We donate the change to the…" his voice trailed off when Dean waved his hand impatiently.

"Get me a bucket or something." Relieved at the chance to be useful, the manager scurried away, Dean continued to run his finger through the scattered coins.

In the kitchen, Lu Yuping paused, bucket in one hand and palm of the other hovering over the mobile telephone resting in the kitchen, his dilemma clear - he could help the deranged man out in the dining room or he could call the police. If he was a better man, like his father perhaps, then there would be no dilemma, his father had been a very brave man, a notable hero even. When Lu was twelve, his father had walked in to the neighborhood convenience store during a robbery in progress and, although the stories varied, everyone who escaped alive said it was because of his father's heroism. Unfortunately, his father was shot during a robbery and had spent eight long months in coma before dying.

Heroism had made Lu an orphan (his mother had died in childbirth) and, subsequently, a ward of the state. Hand shaking, Lu moved away from the telephone and returned to the dining room.

He wasn't a hero.

When Dean spotted Sammy's coin, his heart stopped. The manager helped him to pull coins from the fountain and Dean just happened to look at the moment the manager's fingers touched the coin. Without a word, he gripped the other man's wrist so tightly, the man let out a yelp of surprise before the coin could be moved. Had his brother been around, Dean would have felt compelled to make some kind of apology (after being the recipient of Sam's patented bitchface #3).

"Not yours." He growled, instead.

In a wordless promise to get his brother back, Dean curled his fingers around the flattened coin. Then, carefully, he put it into his pocket.

It took only another minute to scoop and pluck the remaining change, save one.

The last coin in the fountain was immoveable. Neither hand nor the finely sharpened point of his butterfly knife nor the crowbar he had gotten from the Impala could move the item. In the end, Dean settled for a traced replica of the coin on a piece of paper and left the restaurant.

It wasn't much of a lead, but it was something.

A few hours later Dean learned that the coin was Babylonian and came with a curse.

When the nausea hit, he spent the next hour praying the porcelian god and the implications of the curse hit home.

The wishes would be granted, but each wish had consequences. He had wished for an Italian sub and now he had something akin to food poisoning. Sam had made a wish and faded away. Dean was sure, if he followed the chain of wishers he could find the person who caused all of this chaos and Dean might be able to reverse the wishes, get Sammy back.

And if he didn't...well hell hath no fury like Dean Winchester.

A/N: If there is interest, I could probably add in one more chapter.