Two days later

Over the next two days Dean went from relief to concern to deep-rooted fear while Sam continued to be unconscious. Near the end of the second day, he was frustrated beyond belief, wearing grooves in the floor of the kitchen while he paced around. He hadn't eaten, had barely slept and was running high on coffee and beer. Bobby had refused to let him get into the heavier stuff.

"What to I have to do? Frigging kiss him to wake him up?" he snarled, his present anger not masking his fear very well.

Bobby had the distinct impression that Dean was hiding something, that he was so frustrated because someone had promised him something that hadn't come true. He just couldn't really define what it might be until a thought occurred to him. "Did you make a deal with that bastard?" he suddenly asked.

Dean stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Bobby with bloodshot eyes. "What?" he asked, stunned.

"Did you make a deal with the demon to release Sam?" Bobby elaborated, already feeling the anger rise in him.

"Are you nuts? No, of course not," Dean countered. "I haven't ... not with that son of a bitch. I would never make a deal with him. That's ridiculous, man."

"But you made a deal with someone to get Sam out of this one alive, didn't you?" Bobby asked sternly. Dean didn't answer, merely stared at him. "God dammit, Dean. How many deals can you make in a lifetime?" he snapped.

"I didn't ..." Dean started, but trailed off. "It's not that kind of deal," he added. "It's ... I can't talk about it. But it's okay. Well ... it should be okay. It's ..." He scrubbed a hand over his face.

Bobby wanted to press the issue, wanted to damned well beat the truth out of Dean, but he just stood there and stared at the younger man while feeling the same type of frustration over Dean's single-minded determination to save his brother as he had always felt at John's single-minded determination to find and kill the demon that had killed his wife and destroyed their lives. "What's the price? What did you have to give up this time to get him back?" he asked instead.

"Nothing," Dean said and made a face. "All I have to do is keep my trap shut. I can't talk about it, Bobby. Please, stop asking," he begged.

"I made your daddy a promise once, Dean. I promised him I would look out for the two of you if anything should happen to him. But you're making that exceedingly difficult for me," Bobby countered and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, alright? But I can't talk about it. And it's nothing bad. It's not something that'll cost me. Unless I talk about. So I'm not going to. So quit asking," Dean said.

Bobby sighed. "Okay, fine. Just promise me you haven't sold your firstborn or some crap like that."

"I haven't. I don't have any firstborn to sell," Dean countered and sank down on the edge of a chair.

"What's all the yelling about?"

Dean nearly fell off the chair in his effort to get up and Bobby stared at Sam, who had just turned up in the doorway. He looked battered, like he hadn't slept in ages. He frowned, focused on Dean, then looked back at Bobby. "When did we get here?"

"Sam," Dean nearly breathed. "Are you okay?"

Sam considered that for a moment. "Uh ... I don't know. I feel kinda weird. Like I've been asleep for a month," he countered. "And I'm parched."

Bobby eyed him closely. "You want a beer?" he asked.

Sam grimaced. "No, water will be fine," he said and sank down on the chair Dean had just abandoned.

Bobby handed him a glass of water, all of it holy water, and watched him down it in one go without the slightest flinch.

Then Sam looked up at Dean again. "What happened to you?" he asked.

Dean pulled out another chair and sank down on it. "What's the last thing you remember?" he asked.

"Uh ..." Sam said and made a face, searching his memory. Then his expression tightened. "Bela shot me," he stated and glanced down himself. "And ... I don't know. Did we go to a hospital or something?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. You don't remember that?"

"Kinda. Not really. After that, it's all a blank," he said, then gave Dean a look that could bring tears to the eyes of the toughest guy around. "What happened, Dean? I don't remember anything."

Dean exhaled, deflated visibly, and slumped back on the chair. "Nothing, Sammy. Don't worry about it, okay? Everything's fine," he said.

"But ... what about the gig in Whitefish?" Sam asked.

"It's over and done with, Sam. Just let it go," Dean countered. He sounded dead tired all of a sudden. All the steam had gone out of him now that Sam was awake and seemingly okay.

Sam blinked, focused down on the empty glass, then got up to get himself another one. Bobby was pretty convinced that he wasn't possessed anymore and Dean seemed to believe it too. "Okay, the two of you. Go back to bed. You both look like something the cat dragged in. You're not going on any gigs until you're ready to kick ass again. You got that?" he said.

Dean smirked and nodded. "Got it," he agreed.

Sam wavered for a moment, then shrugged lightly and followed his brother out of the kitchen.

And all Bobby could think was that he had missed something major while he had been unconscious two days ago. The thing seemed to be that he couldn't go digging into that because of the consequences to Dean if he found the truth. For a long moment, Bobby just stood there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest. Then he shrugged lightly to himself. If Sam was back to his good old self and the deal didn't cost Dean anything other than him keeping his trap shut for once, well then Bobby could live with that.


It wasn't so much the fact that he couldn't remember anything as the fact that he could feel he had done something wrong. And since it had happened before and he kind of felt the same way as he had back then, he generally felt inclined to believe that it had happened again. The possessing. He tried to force himself to remember, tried to unscrew the top of those hidden memories, but there was nothing there. It was like he hadn't existed for a bit, like he had been in a big black nothingness. And, truth be told, the past many months came back a bit blurry around the edges, as if something had obscured his vision a bit, and the closer he got to the events in Whitefish, the more blurry the edges became. He remembered Bela shooting him clearly. He remembered, all too clearly, how Dean had called him and how difficult it had been to pick up the damned phone and say something. But after that, all he remembered were fragments until everything disappeared in a big, silent darkness. He vaguely remembered Dean turning up with Lucy in tow. And he remembered some of the drive to the hospital, the nurses that had picked him up, but that was it.

Dean dropped onto his bed with an audible groan and stretched out, while Sam closed the door behind him and walked over to his own bed and sank down on it. His limbs felt heavy, like he had been asleep for a while. His mind felt muddled. He flexed his right hand and hissed when that stung. Somewhat confused, he glanced down at his knuckles and realized they were bruised. He balled a fist and stared at the scraped and cut skin, then focused on Dean. That bruise on his cheekbone. It looked like a fist-sized bruise. Like his fist-size. "Did I do that?" he asked.

For a moment his brother didn't move. Then he raised his head and eyed him tiredly. "What?" he asked.

Dean's tone alone disclosed more than his words ever could and Sam bowed his head in shame. There was no need to say the words. He knew his fist had been responsible for those bruises, knew without the shadow of a doubt that something had gone horribly wrong and he had once again attacked and hurt his brother.

The other bed creaked a little when Dean sat up. "Let it go, Sammy," he said quietly.

Sam looked up to meet his eyes and saw the plea there, but he couldn't let go. "How can I?" he countered just as quietly.

"Do you remember any of it?" Dean asked, to which Sam shook his head lightly. "Then let it go. It wasn't you."

Again he shook his head, a slow, measured movement that still didn't subdue the dizziness that plagued him right now. "I can't," he muttered, not sure his voice would hold steady. He felt like crying his damned eyes out right now. The need to be more like Dean was gone. The urge to toughen up had disappeared. All he wanted was his brother to be there like he always had been and Sam realized right there and then that the mere idea of being alone, of truly being alone, terrified him.

"Sam, come on, man," Dean said, his tone pained, and it was only then that Sam became aware that what he really wanted to do had become reality. The other bed creaked some more and a second later Dean settled down next to him. "Sammy, come on," he tried again.

Sam fought the tears, but couldn't stop them. He was terrified, of the future, of being alone, of losing Dean and knowing where he would end up.

To his immediate surprise, Dean slipped an arm around his shoulders. "Look, it's been hell for the last few days and I get that you're tired, but don't let it get to you like this," he tried.

With an effort that was almost beyond him, he got the tears under control and scrubbed both hands over his face in an effort to eradicate the tell-tale signs, but he couldn't hide what he felt, couldn't bury the fear, the frustration, the anger, the terror. "What the hell is wrong with me?" he whispered and glanced at Dean. He was a bit surprised to see a smile on his brother's lips.

"Absolutely nothing, Sammy. That's what's wrong with you. You're gonna be fine. More than fine. You'll be great," Dean countered and ruffled his hair. "Get some sleep, you whiny-assed brat. I don't wanna listen to this all night," he added good-naturedly and gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze.

"I'm scared, Dean," Sam admitted, barely able to force a shadow of a smile onto his lips.

"Of what?" Dean asked.

"Of you going to Hell. Of ... of being all alone," he said and again glanced at his brother. "It's not fair."

"No, it's not," Dean agreed. "But what can you do? I mean ... you've tried everything already."

"Have I? I don't know," Sam muttered, uncertain of himself, of the world and of what would become of him. Something was wrong with him, something serious. He was sure of it. He'd left the urge to bawl his eyes out behind, had gotten tougher, stronger. And now he was back to square one? It seemed there was such a thing as being sent back to start in life. Why else would he feel so damned miserable right now?

"Sam, it's late, we're both tired, we've both been through hell over the last four days. What do you say we leave the Q&A until tomorrow. Things might look a bit brighter in the daylight," Dean said.

He sounded as if this was just another day. Sam glanced at him, searching his eyes, looking for that twitch that would disclose how Dean really felt inside, but he couldn't find it. It seemed like Dean was genuinely relaxed right now, which made absolutely no sense to Sam. But how could he argue with the facts? He was tired and Dean looked around ready to drop. So instead of putting up a fight, instead of starting an argument that would probably end in a shouting match, he nodded solemnly. "Okay," he consented.

Dean got up, then paused and looked down at him. "You know I don't blame you for any of this, right?" he asked.

Sam tried a smile which he was fairly sure failed miserably and nodded. Sure, he knew that, because Dean kept telling him. At the same time he couldn't shake the guilt, the sense that he should have been stronger, should have been able to resist, to fight the possession. And he had no recollection of what had happened this time around. None whatsoever.

"Get some sleep, Sam," Dean said and returned to his own bed.

Sam slipped under the covers and pulled them up over his shoulder after he had turned his back on his brother. He didn't want Dean to feel bad that he was feeling lousy. Hell, right now he felt like a whiny-assed brat. And he felt wrong. Something was different. He felt like he had lost something, like something essential was gone for good.

Closing his eyes, he rolled his face into the pillow, which smelled of old dust and feathers, and tried to shut down his mind. But it kept rolling along, kept throwing up scenarios that made no sense. The smell of the pillow under his head sent a flash through his mind that rattled him. The feeling of anger, of hatred even, all geared toward Dean; the sense that he needed to catch up to his brother and kill him because if he didn't, his brother would turn around and kill him. There was the sense that all Winchesters had to die, that none could be left alive, and that once that was done, all other hunters had to go the same way. The anger and resentment was so strong, it made him suck in a breath.

Unable to find any rest, he rolled over on his back and stared up at the ceiling of the now darkened room, sweat covering his brow, his breath coming in ragged little gasps. Dreaming. He had been dreaming. He had fallen asleep and had been dreaming, of hatred, resentment, of anger so harsh it made his stomach burn. He swallowed hard against the roiling emotions. It took a moment for him to realize that these emotions weren't his, because he didn't feel that way now. It was a memory and he wondered if he subconsciously remembered the feelings of the demon that had possessed him.

With a shudder he sat up and mopped the back of one hand over his brow, which came away slick with sweat. A quick glance at Dean told him his brother was out cold, sleeping the sleep of the righteous. Most of all he wanted to wake him up, wanted to demand an explanation. Dean had to know what had happened. Maybe he even knew what demon had possessed Sam.

He felt the ripple of familiarity when he thought of it, like some residue of the demon remained inside him, taunting, teasing, just at the edge of his mind. It hadn't been like that with Meg or whatever her name was. He had known afterwards like he knew now, but he hadn't felt the leftover energy, the leftover hatred and anger. With a shudder, he pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, suddenly cold to the very core of his being.

The need for air overwhelmed him. He felt closed in, unable to breathe, so he got up and left the room, patted downstairs on bare feet and let himself out of the house. The night air was chilly, but the cold calmed his raging mind, gave him something else to focus on apart from the fear that the anger he had dreamt of would return. The sense of breaking things, of strangling someone rushed through him when he caught sight of a dark-blue Sedan sitting just inside the gate to Bobby's junkyard. Shivering already, he held up his hands and eyed them, then glanced over at the car again. He had killed the owner to get it, his hands had strangled the life out of a woman not much older than himself. He had seen the light go out in her eyes and he had enjoyed it.

It made him feel physically ill to relive that moment. He remembered Wendell's death too, how Meg had cut the man's throat, the spill of hot blood over his hands. He remembered because she had forced him to watch. But this was different. This was ... him. He could feel it in his bones. The will behind the killing, the blatant murder of an innocent woman, that had been him. The possession by Meg had been different than this.

His mind snapped back to the graveyard, to the yellow-eyed demon, how it had threatened to kill Dean. And he felt what the demon had felt, he could associate with the demon's feelings, and it scared the crap out of him. The realization struck him hard, made him shudder with fear as much as the cold. He didn't remember and yet he did. It was like the memories were once removed, like he was experiencing life through someone else's eyes. The demon wasn't dead. It wasn't gone. It was living inside of him, growing stronger, gearing up to take him over, to squash all that he was out of him so it could have a body to use.

"Oh god," he whispered and glanced around in search for something that might stop his mind. But then he stopped moving as his mind stilled. The memories faded, the sense that he was in danger of becoming what dad had warned Dean about abated. Something had changed, something was different. The demon was gone, the essence threatening to take him over was no longer a part of him. It didn't undo what he had done, but it settled him down enough for the frantic idea that he needed to stop this himself to fade into the distance. He glanced around the porch, found a heavy old blanket, that he wrapped around his shoulders before he sank down on one of the many chairs and just sat there while the sun began to climb over the horizon.


The first thing that hit him when he woke up was the silence. It was too damned silent in the room. The sense that he had dreamed the last three days made him roll over on his back and prop himself up on his elbows to stare over at the other bed ... which was empty.

Instantly rattled, he sat up straight, blinking the remainder of sleep out of his eyes while he scanned the room for any sign of his brother. The door was closed, the bed, although used, looked cold. "Sam?" he asked, pulled his legs over the edge of the bed and set his feet down on the floor. "Shit, it's cold," he grumbled and got up. Hugging himself against the early morning chill, he pulled the door open and stepped into the equally silent hallway.

It was obviously safe to say that Bobby wasn't up yet. Dean glanced at his watch briefly and made a face. "Sam?" he called quietly. The door to the bathroom further down the hall stood ajar and the room beyond was dark, telling him that his brother was definitely not in there.

He turned and made his way downstairs, muttering under his breath about the cold floor and the fact that Bobby obviously turned off the heat at night and how that really ticked him off. Anything was better to focus on right now than the fact that his brother wasn't where he was supposed to be.

A quick check through the rooms downstairs upped the nervous energy cruising through his veins and as a last resort, he yanked the front door open and scanned the front yard. A soft sound from his left made him glance along the porch. "Sammy?" he asked and stepped outside. His brother sat huddled in one of the chairs, feet pulled up under him, a heavy blanket around his shoulders. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

Sam didn't respond at first, just sat there and stared ahead of himself. Dean muttered incomprehensibly to himself, reached inside the door and snatched a coat hanging there, which he slipped on. Then he patted over and sat down next to Sam.

"Sammy?" he tried again while pulling the coat tighter around himself. "Man, it's freezing out here. Why aren't you in bed?"

Sam blinked, glanced at him briefly and then returned his unwavering attention to the big empty nothingness he was staring at. "Couldn't sleep," he said quietly.

Dean sent a quick look out over the junkyard in search of whatever Sam might be looking at, but couldn't immediately see anything specific. "So you sit out here and freeze your ass off?" he asked. "Yeah, that'll help," he added sarcastically.

"It's not that cold," Sam countered. He sounded a little sluggish.

"Not that cold? Are frigging kidding me? I'm surprised there isn't any snow on the ground, dude," Dean said. "What's up with you?"

Sam just sat there for a moment, then he shuddered and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. "I remember," he said quietly. "Parts of it."

Worst case scenario then, Dean thought and briefly closed his eyes. "What do you remember?"

"Beating the crap out of you," Sam said. "With the intent to kill."

Dean frowned. "Sam, I already told you," he started, but Sam cut him off.

"Yeah, that wasn't me," he said and sighed lightly. "Then why did it feel like me?"

The frown deepened. "Are you telling me that you want to beat the crap out of me and kill me?" he asked and sent Sam a dark glance.

"No. It just felt like I did at that point," Sam countered and managed a bitter little smile.

"You were possessed, man. The demon made you watch. That's all there is to it," Dean said, hoping and praying that Sam didn't recall which demon had possessed him.

Sam snorted lightly. "No, it was part of me. Like it belonged inside me. It was him, Dean. The yellow-eyed demon. The one that killed mom and dad. It was him."

Was there anything beyond worst case scenarios, Dean wondered? Because it sure felt like they were crossing the threshold right now. "So what? He's gone, right? Dead? History?" In part it sounded like Sam was mourning the loss of the entity and that made Dean feel colder than the weather could.

"Now, yeah. But ... I killed someone. A woman. The owner of that car," Sam said and nodded toward the blue Sedan. "I strangled her to death. And I enjoyed it."

"No, you didn't," Dean countered forcefully. "The demon did. It wasn't you."

"What do you know about it, Dean? You've never been possessed. You have no idea what it feels like," Sam countered, his tone even and mellow.

For a moment Dean was at a loss for words. Sam was right, after all. He had no idea what it felt like to be possessed. He glanced sideways at his brother, trying to think of something to say. "He's gone, though. Right?" he asked.

Sam narrowed his eyes a little, then glanced down himself. "Yeah, I think so," he muttered.

"So, what's the problem here? You're free of his influence, Sam. For good. He's gone," Dean said and got up again. "Can we do this inside? I can't feel my feet anymore," he added.

Sam glanced up at him and Dean realized how damned cold the kid had to be. His lips were nearly blue.

"Dammit, Sam. You're gonna catch your death out here," he said, grabbed Sam's arm through the blanket and forced him to his feet. "Inside. Now!" he commanded and shoved his brother in through the door.

Inside, Sam sank down on the couch and moments later, he started to shiver. Dean sighed, shrugged out of Bobby's coat and put it back on its hook inside the door before he stepped through to the kitchen to find a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, which he brought back into the livingroom. He pushed a stack of books out of the way, poured some whiskey into both glasses and handed Sam one. "Down the hatch," he said and emptied his own glass, relishing the feeling of liquid fire sliding down his throat.

Sam took the glass and eyed the liquid for a moment, then focused on Dean. "Uhm ... isn't it a bit early for booze?" he asked.

"Not when you're this chilled," Dean countered and eyed him. "What, I thought you drank whiskey all the time," he added.

Sam made a face. "I don't like whiskey," he admitted.

That comment made Dean feel like cheering. That was so much more like the old Sam to say something like that. "Really? You could have fooled me, the way you've been pouring that stuff down your throat lately," he countered.

With a grimace of disgust, Sam eyed the glass again, then set it down.

"Not gonna happen," Dean said, picked up the glass and held it out to him. "Just down it in one go. It'll heat you up again," he said.

Sam scrunched up his face, then sighed, took the glass and downed the contents in one swallow. A shudder ran through him. "Son of a bitch," he gasped and dropped the glass on the coffee table. "I really don't like whiskey," he reiterated breathlessly and pressed the back of one hand against his lips.

Dean couldn't help a grin. "So I see." He gave Sam a moment to get over the after effects of the liquor, then draped an arm over the back of the couch and pulled both feet off the icy floor. "Remind me to yell at Bobby for turning down the heat at night," he grumbled, then focused on Sam again. "So ... you're okay now?"

Sam picked at the edge of the blanket he had wrapped around himself and just sat there for a moment. Then he glanced up at Dean. "I don't know," he admitted. "I can't stop thinking about ..."

Intimacy wasn't his thing when it came to other guys, but Dean really felt like Sam needed the closeness right now, so he reached out and laid a hand on Sam's arm. "Try," he suggested. "I know it's tough, but it'll get easier and you will learn to live with it. Especially since it wasn't your doing. You would never kill anyone. Not in cold blood."

The expression on Sam's face left a lot to be desired, but Dean chalked that up to him being distressed more than anything else.

"Come on, man. Are you telling me that you have it in you to kill someone?" he asked.

"No," Sam muttered while staring down at his hands.

"Then would you please snap out of it?" Dean wasn't above begging right now. He wanted Sam back to his good old self and the sooner that happened, the better.

"I'll try," Sam muttered.

Dean sighed lightly. It was obvious that this was going to take some time. "Okay, that's better than nothing, I guess," he said and pulled his hand back.

They sat in silence for a moment, then Sam raised his head and eyed Dean. "What happened?"

"When?" Dean asked. His mind had started wandering and he wasn't focused on current events right then.

Sam frowned lightly. "What do you mean, when?" he countered. "After Bela shot me. What happened?"

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, I checked my messages, saw that you'd called twice, so I called you back. Needless to say, you sounded a bit out of it, so I returned to the motel. Lucy came with me and she suggested the hospital." Dean hesitated. How much could he actually tell Sam without having to disclose too much? "We got you patched up and took you back to the motel," he added. Some things he couldn't hide, like the fact that the bullet wounds had healed up over four days and left only pale scars. "It was kinda weird, actually. You went in with bullet wounds and you came out with knife wounds."

"Knife wounds?" Sam asked and the frown furrowing his brow deepened. "I'm fairly certain Bela shot me," he added.

"She did. Don't ask me to explain it. I have no clue how it happened," Dean said. Oh, he had a clue, but he wasn't going to tell Sam about that. "The following day you were feeling all spiffy and ready to go. I went out to get some breakfast and ... apparently you decided to take matters into your own hands. Here I'm guessing that the demon made its move, because you healed like overnight. And the fact that you don't remember this ..." Dean trailed off briefly. "Anyway, needless to say I was close to going out of my head with worry. After all, you'd taken my car." Sam flinched at that and Dean smirked inwardly. "And then you turned up again and were all ... weird. Total demon take-over there. Turns out you went to see Lucy," he continued. Again Sam flinched, the look in his eyes distant. "And something went totally wrong there. She says she wasn't home, which I kinda believe, so what happened is anybody's guess. Unless you remember?" Here Sam shook his head, blinked and focused on Dean again. Something told Dean that Sam remembered something, but was either unwilling or not ready to share. "Well, she kinda suggested I should put some distance between us, which I did, but to no avail, because like always you kept following me wherever I went. I ended up here and you turned up too and ... well, the whole thing went a bit nutty there. I guess I've subconsciously memorized the exorcism rites or something, because the next thing I know the demon's out, you're unconscious and I'm feeling like shit. But hey. It all worked out for the best in the end."

Sam had been staring at him for the last part of his narrative. "That's not what happened," he said quietly.

A little taken aback, Dean stared back. "Are you telling me you remember what happened now?" he asked.

Sam nodded. "Most of it," he said. "It's ... flashes. Images, really. But Lucy was here. And she ..." He closed his eyes briefly, tilting his head to the right for a moment. "It was scared of her. Very scared," he muttered, then opened his lids again and stared at Dean some more. "Who is she?"

Dean drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment. "I can't tell you," he said. "I kinda made a deal with her. She saved you and I keep my trap shut about it."

Sam seemed lost in thought, seemed not to have heard him, and in part Dean hoped that was the case. But then Sam focused on him again and there was something akin to realization in his eyes. "She's ..." he nearly whispered. "She can't be."

"I'm not saying squat," Dean countered. "And we can't talk about it, no matter what."

"Couldn't she have gotten you out of the deal?" Sam asked. "Can't you ... ask her?"

Dean couldn't help a chuckle. "Sammy ..." He trailed off again, unsure of how to handle this. If he told Sam that she had offered him a way out of the deal, he would have to tell him the specifics, and if Sam was back to his good old self, that bit of information would twist him up inside. Besides, if Dean opened his mouth about that, it would be like telling Sam who she was and that would break the deal he had made with her. "No, I can't," he said. "I don't think she knows how and ... even if she did ... do I really want to replace one hopeless deal with another?"

For a moment Sam just sat there and stared ahead of himself, then he made a face and sighed. "I guess," he muttered. "So, she's not ..."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "As I said, I'm not saying squat. No way am I risking anything here. There's too much on the line."

Whatever small updraft there had been in Sam's mood, it crashed and burned out instantly. The light dimmed in his brother's eyes and he slumped a little, sinking into himself. "So ... six months and counting?" he asked.

"Pretty much, yeah," Dean agreed and that at least was no lie. He had yet to take Lucy up on her offer and was still debating with himself whether the price was too steep or not. Then again, it was Bela and he really hated her.

"Crap," Sam whispered.

"Pretty much, yeah," Dean repeated and got up. "I gotta get dressed. I'm freezing my ass off," he added and swatted Sam's shoulder in passing. "You better put something warm on as well. Don't want you catching a cold or anything."

"Whatever," Sam muttered, but he did get up and followed Dean back upstairs.