Disclaimer/Spoilers: See Chapter 1.

a/n: Thanks so much for reading and commenting! Okay, so back to my earlier comment on having to watch my page count for the zine submission… the tweaking I did to this part added a few scenes to the version printed in the zine. It didn't change the story, though. I suppose I would call this a "director's cut" version. Probably totally unnecessary, but it's what I'd originally envisioned and wanted to share.

I sincerely hope you enjoy it. I planned on posting this yesterday, but The Kansas Cold kinda took me down for the count and so I crawled out of my hole long enough to post this today…

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To the outside world we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other's hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time.

Clara Ortega

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They had what they'd come after.

Sam knew where Silas' grave was. Where Jenny had dragged her husband's body after sending her children away in tears. Where she'd made her own deal to protect them, protect the town, at the sacrifice of her own soul.

Sam knew how to defeat the revenant, save the town, defeat this evil. The problem was that he'd stopped caring the minute he felt Dean's arm give way, the minute he heard his brother's scream of pain. From that moment, it ceased to be about doing what was right and became about doing what was necessary.

Sam clumsily gained his footing, supporting Dean's weight against him. When he got his balance, he shifted Dean forward so he could slide him up and over his shoulder. Standing slowly and adjusting Dean's weight equally over his shoulders, Sam realized he couldn't hold Dean and pick up the shotgun.

"Screw it," he muttered, turning toward the stairs.

If Silas came, he came. Sam was getting his brother out. The stairs were an awkward, painfully cautious descent, but Sam hooked his cast through Dean's legs and gripped his brother's arm, holding him close and steady. Third floor, second floor, first floor… the door was directly in front of him. He only had to cross the empty room, across the millions of shards of shattered crystal chandelier.

A lounge chair flew across the room toward Sam, and it was only instinct that had him jumping back and avoiding the hit. The jump, however, threw him off balance, and he dropped Dean in a tangled heap behind him, twisting so the fall wasn't far.

"Dammit," Sam growled, looking over his shoulder at the empty expanse of the destroyed entryway. "You aren't gonna win!" he yelled.

"All I have to do is give you to them and I live forever." The voice was practically on top of him.

Sam whipped his head up and saw Silas standing just on the other side of Dean. Too close to him. Before Sam could move, Silas reached down for Dean, pulling his slack body away by his injured.

"No!" Sam was striding toward the revenant, following him as he dragged his brother across the shattered crystals, Dean's jacket the only thing keeping him from getting cut to ribbons. "You're not taking him."

"I don't want him." Silas's smile was slick. "I want you."

Sam's eyes caught on something Silas had missed—just to his left in the pile of crystal shards. His shotgun.

"So what did you do, Silas?" Sam asked suddenly, trying to ignore the fact Silas held Dean's dislocated arm in his claw-like fingers. "Did you bargain the town for your soul? Did you bargain Jenny?"

Silas lifted his lip in a sneer. "She didn't play fair," he said.

"She made her own deal," Sam countered. "She protected her children from you; she protected the town, too, for a while."

It's all your fault, the sad voice echoed through the house.

Silas's head jerked up, looking for the source. Sam took advantage of his distraction and dropped to the ground, picking up the shotgun. At the same instant, the doors behind him were kicked open with enough force that one came off its hinges and fell to the ground inside the room.

Sam instinctively ducked and held his breath, waiting for the explosion. Instead, there were three quick bangs. He looked up to see Silas jerk violently, holding Dean's arm for the first hit, dropping it for the second two.

When Silas didn't scream in angry pain, Sam realized he'd been hit by regular bullets. Sam leaned back, lifted up his shotgun, and fired twice. This time, the scream echoed through the house and the revenant vanished.

Sam swallowed, then looked over his shoulder to see Kelly standing in the doorway framed by the red-gold of the setting sun, his 9mm smoking, a dangerous look in his eyes. He tipped his head down to look at Sam sitting in the middle of the shattered chandelier with the shotgun across his lap, Dean lying near him.

"Better late than never, right?"

Sam nodded, relief flowing over him like a wave. He turned back to Dean, rolling him gently to his back. Dean's breathing was rapid, his pulse strong, but he looked too pale, too still.

"Can you help me?" Sam asked, unsure if his own battered body could pick up Dean's muscle again.

Kelly took a breath and stepped into the house he hadn't been inside for over forty years. Sam watched a journey of emotions traverse the big man's face, leaving tracks in their wake. He remembered seeing that expression before. On Dean's face as they sat outside the house in Lawrence. The house of his youth. The house of his greatest pain.

Sam heard a sound, a rush of air that could only be a sigh. Kelly heard it, too, and looked up and around.

It's all your fault.

The voice was so filled with sorrow that Sam's gut clenched as he looked at Kelly, his hands resting on Dean's chest, trying in vain to still his brother's shaking.

"It's her," Kelly whispered. "God, that's her, isn't it? My mother."

Sam swallowed and nodded. "Do you know who she's talking to?"

"Nobody," Kelly said, still looking around the room. "I said that."

"You?"

"I said that to her… the night he died… the night she sent us away…"

Sam pressed his lips together, feeling the pain roll off the giant man. Dean trembled under his hands. "Um, Kelly, I really need to get my brother out of here," he said.

Kelly blinked, then looked down at the brothers. Without another word, he stepped forward, crunching the crystal shards beneath his heavy boots. He leaned down and, with surprising gentleness, picked Dean up into his arms. Dean's head rolled back and hung from the crook of Kelly's elbow.

"He needs a doctor," Sam started, pushing himself slowly to his feet. His entire body ached. His heart ached. He hurt to his soul.

"I got someplace we can take him," Kelly said softly, looking down at the battered hunter in his arms with something close to affection. "C'mon," he jerked his head. "Let's get the hell outta Dodge."

Sam followed him from the house, unable to hide his tired grin at those familiar words.

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"Uh, Kelly? This is a vet's office."

"That it is."

Sam had followed Kelly down the darkened street, eerie with the lack of streetlights, illuminated by the half-light of the moon and the pinpricks of stars in the blanketed sky. Dean hadn't made a sound, hadn't moved once during the trek down the hill and through part of the town. Not even when they paused at Maxine's Sleep-Inn for Kelly to kick the base of the door in lieu of knocking and ask Maxine to come with them.

They stood in front of a small building, Maxine leaning close in the darkness while she unlocked the door, Dean slack and silent in Kelly's large arms, Sam swaying from pain and exhaustion. The bag of lighter fluid, matches, and ammo was slung over his shoulder.

Sam shook his head. "You don't have a… a clinic? A doctor's office?"

Maxine finally got the door unlocked, pulled it open, and stepped back so Kelly could move sideways through the door with his burden.

"Did once," she said. "Doctor died."

Sam's eyebrows pulled together in puzzlement as he followed Kelly in. "What do you do when you get sick? Or hurt?"

Maxine shrugged, following them in, turning on the lights. "We take care of it ourselves, or we don't."

Sam looked at her, incredulous.

She met his stare with bleak eyes. "If you have no hope for a future and nothing really to live for, you're not gonna fight real hard to survive," she said.

Sam tipped his chin up, absorbing that, and followed the siblings through the barren clinic. There were empty glass cabinents and crates lining clean, white walls. Supplies of all sorts adorned the walls: shovels, spades, farming implements, shelves of ammo, and two different rows of shotguns and rifles. Sam shook his head, the abnormality of this town never being more obvious to him than in that moment.

"Why aren't there any animals here?"

Maxine looked briefly over her shoulder at him. "Nobody keeps pets anymore, kid."

Sam nodded and let them lead him back to an exam room. The tall metal table that was usually used for the examination of dogs and cats had been pushed to the back of the room and was being used to store various bottles of medicines and antiseptics. A narrow bed, raised up for easy access to a patient, was in the center of the room.

"You…what, consolidated?" Sam asked, thinking of the random assortment of supplies and materials in the front room.

"Pretty much," Maxine said, pulling a pillow from an overhead cabinet and placing it on the bed as Kelly lay Dean down.

Sam set the bag on the floor and walked over to the other side of the bed, looking down at his brother. He and Kelly eased Dean out of his jacket. Dean's face fisted in pain at the movement, and he uttered a low groan of protest, but didn't wake.

Sam watched the pain capture his brother's face, thinking he'd seen this far too often in his lifetime. The scattering of freckles across Dean's nose stood out. The exhausted bruising of the skin under his eyes was shadowed by his lashes. His mouth was closed, lips pressed together so that even unconscious, he looked as though he were holding on to something… something he couldn't share… not even with Sam.

"He's not dead, is he?" Kelly asked.

Sam's head jerked up, surprised. It took him several seconds to realize Kelly was talking about Silas and not Dean.

"No," Sam said. "We just weakened him." He looked back down. "Dean wouldn't give in… fought him…"

"Pissed him off," Maxine muttered as she pulled the metal table over. "He's gonna come looking for us."

Sam nodded, gripping the side of the bed as his vision wavered. "Hey," he said suddenly as Maxine approached Dean with a pair of scissors. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I called Nate before we got here, but we should start without him," Maxine said, pausing with the scissors poised over Dean's chest.

"Who the hell is Nate?"

"The vet."

"You called a vet to take care of my brother?" Sam was incredulous.

Maxine lifted a brow, staring coolly at Sam. "It's him or us. You pick."

Sam blinked. He was having a hard time keeping his balance, and he gripped the edge of the bed tighter. His head was pounding, and there were more than a few bruises making themselves known along his back and arms from his fall down the stairs.

"Hey, Sam," Kelly said suddenly. "You okay?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I just—" He stopped when the room tilted. "Whoa."

Maxine kicked a chair over to him in one fluid motion. "Sit down before you fall down, kid."

Sam immediately sank into the chair, putting his head level with Dean's. Maxine stepped up to his side of the bed, laid a cool hand on the back of his neck and gently pushed him forward until his head was between his knees. Sam closed his eyes as the rolling nausea that threatened to swamp him.

"Just breathe, Sam," Maxine's voice was strangely soft, almost motherly. Her touch was feather-light on the back of his neck, trailing to the side of his face, her palm resting on his cheek and he found himself leaning into it. "You're okay."

"I know," Sam whispered. "I just need a minute."

Sam pulled in another breath, steadying himself and when Maxine pulled her hand away, he cautiously raised his head and looked at Dean, half-expecting to see his brother's eyes resting on him. His gut clenched at the still form and pain-laced features.

Maxine regarded Sam another moment, then turned to the bed and unbuttoned Dean's outer shirt, then began cutting both it and his T-shirt off from the waist to his neck, then across both shoulders. Sam winced, his stomach twisting painfully at the sight of Dean's shoulder. There was a large knot of the joint jutting out to the right of his collarbone.

"Can you set it?" Sam asked, watching Maxine's face tighten.

"Not without help," she said, then looked up at Kelly.

"I'm here," Kelly said softly, stepping up next to his sister. "What do I need to do?"

Maxine chewed her bottom lip, her eyes sweeping over Dean's pale face, marked from the blast, his chest flecked with tiny cuts, the bruise on his arm from the bar fight, and his hands.

Sam just noticed his hands.

"God, Dean," he whispered, gently picking up his brother's bruised left hand.

It looked like he'd beaten it against a brick wall. Sam turned it over and rested the bruised and bloody knuckles in his own hand, gently unfolding the curled fingers to look at the red, torn skin of his palm where Dean had held them, saved them.

"Maxine!" A voice called from the front of the clinic.

"Back here!" she hollered.

Sam looked up as a stranger walked into the room. He was of average height but looked tiny as he stopped next to Kelly. His white hair was cut short and his eyes were a crystal blue. He blinked, surprised, at Dean on the bed, then over at Sam sitting next to it.

"What the hell happened here?"

"They, uh, fought him," Kelly rumbled.

"Him? Him who?" Nate the vet looked from Kelly to Maxine, then back to Sam.

Dean stirred on the bed, his head rolling toward Sam, but he didn't open his eyes.

"Silas," Sam supplied.

"What?!"

Kelly put a hand on the vet's shoulder. "It's their job," he offered. "They, uh… hunt… evil stuff."

Nate stepped up to the bed, looking down at Dean, his bloody shirts lying in strips beneath him, his shoulder swollen, bruised. He looked at Sam, and Sam saw him dart quick eyes over the gash on his forehead.

"You new at this job, kid?" Nate asked.

Sam narrowed his eyes, ready to protest, when he was surprised by a sudden smile and flash of humor on Nate's face. "You must not be from around here," Sam said, a slight grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Everyone else seems like they're in… y'know… a bad mood."

"Everybody here is from around here, kid. Lived here my whole life," Nate said. "I'm just a little crazy, is all."

Sam blinked. "If crazy can help, I'll take crazy."

"Let's see." Nate's eyes moved back to Dean, and his head darted quickly, reminding Sam of a bird. "We gotta fix that shoulder. Where'd he get these cuts?"

"We were, uh, caught in an explosion," Sam said, narrowing one eye, trying to ward off the ache in his head.

"Okay, so add 'blown up' to the list of injuries," Nate said. He pulled a small flashlight out of his coat pocket, leaned over, and checked Dean's eyes and pupil reaction. "How long has he been out?"

Sam swallowed. "Um, about 30 minutes now."

"Concussion," Nate murmured. "These cuts aren't deep. Where'd this bruise on his arm come from?"

"Bar fight. Yesterday. He's got another bruise across his back."

Nate gently eased Dean away from him to look at his back. He whistled, then carefully set him back on the bed. "What did they hit him with, a bat?"

"Pool cue," Sam sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"Hands look pretty bad, too," Nate murmured.

He suddenly clapped his hands together, rubbing them vigorously. Sam couldn't help but remember The Karate Kid and thought for one insane moment Nate was going to fix Dean's shoulder with the heat from his hands.

"Let's get started." Nate shucked his jacket and motioned with his head to Kelly. "Gonna need your help here, big guy." He looked at Sam. "You okay to stand, there, kid?"

Sam nodded silently.

Nate narrowed his eyes. "Maxine, give the kid some aspirin for that five-alarm headache he's pretending isn't there."

Sam blinked, surprised. He gratefully took the aspirin and water from Maxine, swallowed the pills, then stood up, shifting out of his jacket and setting it at the foot of Dean's bed.

"I want you to hold onto your, uh, frien—"

"He's my brother," Sam whispered, looking down at Dean.

"Okay, hold on to your brother," Nate said, his slightly manic eyes steady as he spoke. "This is gonna hurt like a bitch, and I can guarantee he's not gonna wake up happy."

Sam nodded. John had dislocated his shoulder once and talked him through setting it. Sam had almost thrown up at the sound of his father's scream of pain. He took a breath and steeled himself.

Nate positioned his hands on Dean's shoulder, motioning for Kelly to grab his lower arm and wrist. Sam listened to Nate's instructions to Kelly, his eyes on Dean. He put a steadying hand on Dean's other shoulder and one on his left wrist, ready to hold him however he had to.

"Ready, kid?"

Sam nodded. Nate took a breath. Kelly pulled.

Dean's cry of pain was immediate and jarring. His neck arched up, his back bowed, the muscles along the flat planes of his stomach tightening. His left hand curled into a tight fist. He clamped his teeth shut on the end of the scream, the gutteral growl causing the tendons on the sides of his neck to stand out.

"Jesus!" Dean cried out. "Oh, fucking hell…" He panted, blinking, his eyes frantically searching the hovering faces of strangers.

"Dean! Hey, it's okay."

"Sam," Dean breathed harshly, looking for Sam.

Sam eased into his line of sight. "I'm here, it's okay," Sam said, tightening his grip on Dean's other shoulder. "They just put your shoulder back."

"Hurts like a bitch," Dean groaned, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain, his body shaking in reaction.

"Told you," Nate said.

Sam flicked his eyes up to the vet. "Dean, this is Nate," he said. "He, uh, he's gonna get you fixed up."

Sweat ran down Dean's face in reaction to the pain. He blinked it from his eyes, looking at Sam. "What about you?"

"Me, too."

"Can we give him something?" Maxine asked, looking with a pained expression at Dean. She'd noticed his shaking.

Nate nodded. He looked at the bottles on the table, checking the labels. He picked one up and instructed Maxine to fill a syringe with a specific amount, then turned back to Dean.

"This will help numb your arm, Dean," Nate said. "It's like… novacane, okay? You allergic to novacane?"

"Hell if I know," Dean panted.

Sam shot his eyes to Nate, watching the vet frown, consider, then gently grasp Dean's bruised arm and slide the needle beneath his skin, apparently deciding that was the lesser of two evils. Sam shot his eyes to Dean's face, noticing that the lines of pain that framed his brother's eyes didn't diminish, but the almost violent tremble of his right arm eased.

"Gotta wrap this shoulder, buddy," Nate said.

"What about my brother?" Dean asked, looking at the dried blood on Sam's head.

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Nate interrupted him. "Triage, dude. Unconscious broken people come before no-longer-bleeding head wounds. He'll get his turn."

Dean's eyebrows went up, and Sam saw his lips twist in a surprised grin. He shifted tired eyes to Sam as if to say I think I like this guy. Sam sat back down but didn't move his hand from Dean's shoulder. Dean didn't shrug away, and Sam suddenly found he needed the contact. He could feel the fine tremor of muscles beneath his fingers reacting to the torture his brother's body had been subjected to over the last twenty-four hours.

Nate gently eased Dean's arm up and with practiced swiftness born of dealing with patients not keen on holding still, had his shoulder bound and imobilized in minutes. Dean was still sweating and pale from the motion, but he stayed silent. Nate moved quickly and efficiently around the bed, whistling, his eyes darting swiftly between Dean's face and his task. Dean closed his eyes, and Sam saw his jaw clench as Nate cleaned and wrapped his left hand.

"You know, once you two waste that bastard," Nate said in a casual tone. "You really should go get checked out by a real doctor."

Dean opened his eyes. "You're not a real doctor?" His voice was rough, his words slightly slurred from exhaustion.

Nate finished with his hand and flicked his quick eyes up to Dean. "I am, if you've got four legs and a tail."

Dean's lips turned down in an ironic smile. "Yeah," he sighed, looking over at Sam. "That sounds about right for us."

"Here." Nate picked up another syringe, filled it with a pale liquid from a brown bottle and approached Dean. "This is a painkiller, Dean. It's gonna burn a lit—"

"Wait," Dean said, lifting his banaged hand before Nate could put the needle in his arm. "Just, uh…" He swallowed. "Just give me some aspirin or something."

"Dean," Sam said, wanting his brother to have some peace, if only for a few hours. "It's okay. I'll stay here."

Dean pressed his lips together and shook his head. "That's not it, Sam," he said in a low voice. He looked down until his lashes brushed his cheeks, then lifted his eyes to his brother's. "I just… I have to be able to wake up."

Sam's lips pressed into a thin line and he nodded. "Okay." He looked over at Nate. "Give him some ibuprofen."

Nate looked from Sam to Dean. "You're sure? That shoulder—"

"Will be fine. You did good, Doc," Dean said, his eyes already drooping heavily. "Take care of Sam."

Maxine handed Dean the pills and helped him tip his head up for the water. Nate cleaned out the gash on Sam's head, shaking his head as he did so. "What did you hit, kid?"

"Stairs," Sam said, wincing as the antiseptic did its work. "And my cast."

"So coordinated," Nate commented.

Dean huffed out a quick laugh, his eyes closed.

"Jerk," Sam said in a low, amused voice to Dean.

"Bitch," Dean replied, his voice betraying his exhaustion.

"Ah, the dulcet tones of brotherly love," Nate said, turning to the table and grabbing the suture materials. "Gonna need some stitches here," he said, peering at Sam.

Sam stared back. "What are you waiting for?"

"You want anything for the—"

"Just get it over with, man," Sam said tiredly. He watched as Maxine whispered something to Kelly and he left the room. Nate started stitching, and Sam clenched his jaw against the pinch of the needle.

When Nate was done, Sam felt the same fevered flush he remembered from every time he got stitches, as though his skin were reacting to the intrusion of the needle. He looked down at Dean. His face was pulled into a slight grimace of pain, and his breathing was more rapid that usual, but his trembling had almost stopped.

"I could give him something now," Nate offered, watching Sam's line of sight.

Sam shook his head. "No way. He'd have my ass for that."

Kelly pulled in a cot with some bedding and set it up next to the bed Dean currently lay on.

"I think you two should stay here tonight," Maxine said. "Get some rest."

Sam shook his head again, but his eyes were on the cot. "We have to keep watch–"

"I'll watch," Kelly interrupted. "You rest, kid."

Sam tensed, ready to protest again when he heard Dean's low voice.

"Listen to them, Sammy," he mumbled.

Sam looked down at him. "You sure?"

"Just…" Dean rolled his head toward Sam, his eyes still closed. "Just want to stop moving… just stop for a while…"

Sam sighed, unable to hide his relief. He looked up at the others, nodded his thanks, and moved around to the cot. Nate pulled a blanket up over Dean's bare chest, looked at Sam for a moment, then he, Kelly, and Maxine left the room. Sam heard a chair move and a few muttered words, then it was silent outside the door.

He lay back on the cot, looking up at the bed and his brother's recumbant form. Listening to Dean's even breath. Measuring his breaths by that rhythm. In minutes, Sam was asleep.

The rustle was less pronounced. The low, pain-filled moans softer, weaker. But the suffering of his brother was as evident as ever and pulled Sam from a sound sleep hours later. He blinked, confused. This time he heard words; Dean had never spoken before, not once. Sam sat up, wincing as his stiff back and sore muscles protested.

"…say anything… everything I ever had…"

Sam blinked. The words were mumbled, disjointed. He stood and approached the bed. Dean's face was pinched with pain; sweat rolled from his forehead and down his cheeks like tears. Or… wait… Sam leaned closer.

"…this really you talking… why're you sayin' this stuff?"

Sam swallowed, watching as Dean grimaced and his mouth opened in a silent scream, then clamped shut, his teeth grinding from the effort of keeping it in, keeping silent. Sam had to stop this, had to ease Dean's suffering.

He reached out. As he did, Dean suddenly sat forward, his left hand coming up, reaching out and wrapping bruised fingers around Sam's wrist in a death grip.

"Don't!"

"Dean, easy," Sam said, holding still as Dean's sleep-clouded eyes began to clear. "Easy, it's me. It's Sam."

"Sam?" His voice was ragged. He blinked, and sweat, or tears—Sam couldn't be sure—flicked from his lashes.

"Yeah, it's okay. You're okay."

He carefully twisted his hand in Dean's grasp, and Dean looked at Sam's hand with horror. As though he expected something to be held there, something awful. Sam relaxed his fingers so Dean could see his hand was empty. Slowly, ever so slowly, Dean released Sam's wrist. He slumped slightly, wincing. His left arm snaked around and lightly cupped his right elbow, and he tried to get his breathing under control.

"I can't…" Dean swallowed, stopping himself.

"Can't what?"

"Nothing," he muttered, rubbing his face with his bandaged hand.

Sam pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down, slouching back, looking at Dean. "Hey," he said. Dean didn't react. "Dean, look at me."

Dean turned his head to face Sam.

"Talk to me," Sam pleaded.

Dean shook his head. "What good would it do, Sam?"

"Maybe nothing," Sam shrugged, "maybe everything. But at least I wouldn't be alone anymore."

Dean blinked at that. "What?"

"You shut me out, Dean." Sam waved a frustrated hand in the air. "All this shit with Dad, the deal he made… there's something weighing you down, man, I can see it. I see it killing you."

Dean pressed his lips together, just looking at Sam.

"What do you want me to do, Dean?"

"Nothing," Dean said, surprised.

"Well, I can't do nothing. I can't not know that you're hurting. I can't not watch you, every day. You…" Sam sighed, looking away from Dean for a moment, then looked back. "You get this look in your eyes, man. This… dead look. I see that, and it's like you're not even there anymore."

Dean dropped his eyes. He didn't say anything.

"Dean," Sam said, blinking, looking at the bed, at Dean's knee, at the floor, at his now blood-stained cast. Anywhere but Dean's face. "I miss Dad. I meant it when I said that. I think about him… a lot. At the weirdest times, too." He saw Dean nod in his periphery. "But… I think he knew. I think he knew that I need you." He brought his eyes up to meet Dean's surprised face.

"What?"

"I'm sorry Dad's gone," Sam said. He looked directly at Dean. "But I'm not sorry you're here."

Dean just held Sam's eyes. For a second, Sam saw his chin quiver, but the movement was supressed. Dean looked down once more, and Sam felt himself still, his eyes on Dean's face. When Dean spoke, it was in a low, haunted voice as he stared at his bandaged hand.

"It never makes any sense," Dean started. "It's every night, but I can't… I only remember parts of it. I, uh… I see all these faces. You, Dad, the demon at the crossroads... some others I don't even recognize... I've never even seen them before."

Sam almost stopped breathing. He waited, not wanting to even blink, not wanting to stop Dean's words.

"It's like… memories, kinda. But not really. Or if that's right, then it's memories of dreams because I know some of these things I see didn't really happen…"

"Like what?"

Dean shook his head. "Like… in the hospital… a glass breaking… a dark-haired girl… weird blurry stuff like that."

Sam clenched his jaw. He remembered the glass. He remembered it flying off his Dad's tray, shattering on the floor, stopping their argument just as Dean had all his life. Just before Dean flatlined…

Dean continued, his eyes staring blankly at the empty space on the bed between his legs, his voice soft and hesitant as Sam watched him try to pull the disjointed images from his dreams into words.

"I see Dad in the cabin… I feel a… a tube in my throat… it, like, comes in waves, and I remember the, uh, demon… and I remember… I remember Dad… just after you left the room…"

Sam heard a strange catch in Dean's voice and he watched closer.

Dean shook his head slightly, not lifting his eyes. He pulled his brows together. "There's this… this pain in my chest… and, I can feel someone reaching in and I try to stop them… but I can't move…" His breathing picked up, his fingers flinching unconsciously as he relived the nightmare. "It's like when we were in the cabin… against the wall, and I can feel it tearing inside of me and I know… I know what's going to happen…"

Sam swallowed. He barely breathed. His eyes burned as he watched Dean remember, watched the anguish play across the features that were more familiar to him than his own.

"And then… I can finally move and… I grab him… but it's too late… he's holding it."

"Who, Dean?"

"Dad." It was a whisper.

"Dean… what's he holding?"

Dean clenched his jaw, his lips twitching. He lifted his eyes to Sam, and the pain there, the complete heartbreak, took Sam's breath away and left him trembling with the need to look away.

"My heart."

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It had taken Sam a while to fall asleep, but Dean exhaled in relief when he finally heard his brother's breathing even out. Sam was sprawled on the cot, one long leg hanging over the edge, his booted foot canted at an angle to the bed. His long hair clouded the pillow, and Dean could still see dried blood there from the cut on his forehead. His left hand lay across his chest and the cast rested against his leg.

Dean watched Sam sleep for a moment, thinking about how many times he'd done that very thing. Standing on a chair looking over the edge of the crib. In the bed next to him when Sam was still in footed pajamas. After a hunt, just to make sure he was still there, still breathing, still alive…

Watching Sam sleep had become his only peace.

Dean eased himself slowly off the bed and waited until he was sure he could stand without falling over. He had lost his last clean shirts to a pair of scissors, but he was happy they'd been cut from him. His shoulder was throbbing with a steady beat of pain. He moved over to Sam's jacket, reached into the inside pocket, and pulled out the diary. Dean sat on the chair between the bed and the cot, flipping open to the final entry, and pulled the book close to read in the dim light of the room.

I hear him all the time now. Every day. The children have probably forgotten about me… I hope they've forgotten about him. But they will see him, I know. They will see him and recognize their eyes… They will have to live with the knowledge that they come from evil…

I shudder to think what I've done, who I've bargained with. But I had no choice. No one in the town now, no one who has lived under his rule, has suffered by his living hand, will die by his evil hand. No one. As long as… as long as I live up to my part. As long as I offer them my soul.

Which I will do. Where I buried him. He will have to live with me for eternity. Because it is the one thing he did not want. It is the one torture I can effectively bring. I will go to the orchard in the back near the tree the marks his body, the tree I've stared at every day… knowing that it stares back…

He's coming. He must not find this… I must protect this accounting of days, so that my children know that they also come from good, that they can make a difference, that he can't… he won't live forever.

He is here.

"Orchard in the back," Dean whispered. He set the diary up on the bed and looked down at Sam again. "I hope you understand this, Sammy," he said softly so as not to disturb his sleeping brother.

I have to save you. I promised.

Dean searched the countertop for something to write with. He found a stub of a pencil next to a small pad of paper. Clutching the pencil awkwardly with his left hand, he scrawled a note across the last blank page in the diary.

He didn't want Sam to wake up and wonder. His brother would be pissed, but Dean couldn't bring himself to let this be the evil that took his brother away… the evil that could mean Dean would have to do the unthinkable. Would have to kill his reason for living.

Casting his eyes around the room, Dean looked for something he could wear that would cover the cuts on his chest, the bandaged shoulder. He grabbed Sam's jacket from the foot of the bed, sliding his left arm in and adjusting the empty sleeve over his right. Using a combination of his teeth and his left hand, Dean managed to zip up the front over his bare chest. He shook his head ruefully at how large it felt on him. His big little brother. Dean grabbed the bag of ammo, lighter fluid, and matches, then, on stealthy feet, crept from the room.

Kelly sat propped on a chair just outside the room, head back, mouth agape, snoring. Dean stepped past him and moved toward what he assumed was the entrance to the clinic, not having been in a position to notice his surroundings when he came in. As he approached the door, he saw the shelves of supplies and shook his head.

"This town just gets weirder and weirder," he muttered.

Dean set the bag down and stepped over to the guns, taking down a shotgun. He clumsily broke it over one knee, freezing as the click of the barrel seemed to echo through the clinic. When he didn't hear any movement, Dean balanced the open shotgun on his knee and reached into the bag, pulling out several rounds of consecrated iron and loading it. Carefully shutting the gun barrel, he shifted the pack back to his shoulder, tucked the gun under his arm, and stood.

He looked over at the supplies again, and his eyes caught a spade with a two-foot handle. One that looked light enough that he could actually carry it with his bandaged hand. Couldn't burn any bones if he couldn't get to them… Dean set the loaded gun against the wall and took down the spade, seeing a red sticker on the flat of the blade that claimed it was the best pooper-scooper on the market.

"Well, if you're good at scoopin' shit, I could sure use you," he whispered.

He held it against his chest with his chin, picked up the shotgun and tucked it under his arm, then grasped the handle of the spade. Hoping the door didn't have a cowbell tied somewhere he couldn't see, he stepped out into the night.

There were no lights along the streets. The only thing illuminating his way was the Cheshire-cat moon high overhead and the stars winking coyly at him.

Dean was always amazed at what nature showed him when the false light of the city was removed. The whole town spread out before him, darkened windows shadowing over forty years of secrets. He looked up at the hill and saw the hulk of the sprawling house. Dean clenched his jaw.

We won't let them win, Sammy.

Making a conscious effort to ignore the tired beat of pain thrumming through his body, Dean began to make his way up to the house, the night air reviving him, his purpose giving him strength.

Almost unconsciously, he found himself singing Metallica's No Leaf Clover in a low, steady beat, using the rhythm to dull himself against the shaking pain in his shoulder. Numbing his heart against the possibility of failure.

"Then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel was just a freight train comin' your way…"

He was ready. He knew his job. He knew evil. And he was damned if he'd let it get his brother.

"Don't it feel right like this, all the pieces fall to his wish. Sucker for that quick reward... boy, sucker for that quick reward, they said…"

And then he was there. Staring again at the house. Lip curling at the sensation that the house stared back.

Orchard in the back…

Dean turned right and made his way around the house in the shadows. He saw the orchard almost immediately, overgrown with weeds, rotted fruit littering the ground. There was a sickeningly sweet smell permeating the air, one Dean often associated with death. He approached slowly, noting how large the trees seemed, reminded of the last orchard he'd been in, tied to a tree, offered as a sacrifice to a pagan god, until Sam appeared.

He swallowed. He couldn't let Sam save him this time. He had to do this. Sam couldn't be any part of it. It was his own mistake that had gotten them in this mess… with Sam's life as a bargaining tool between a demon and a ghost. His cockiness, the use of his name. His name could spell the end of his brother, and Dean would not let that happen.

He almost tripped over the slanted wooden plank. Stepping back, Dean saw it was a makeshift grave marker. The initials J.W. were carved deep into the wood. He dropped the spade and shifted the shotgun to his grip in an easy bounce of his arm.

Jenny. Who had buried her?

She'd said offered herself where she buried him, but Kelly and Maxine hadn't known where their father's body was buried. He looked around, wondering what he could see that might be invisible to children. If he were Jenny, where would he… Dean's eyes caught the large fruit-bearing tree looming to the left of the rotting wooden marker. As he stared, he realized an S and a W were carved into the trunk.

"It's a marker," he realized. She'd buried him with the tree as a marker.

He took in both graves and felt a chill. S.W. and J.W.; the similarities were not lost on him. The universe has a fucked-up sense of humor, he thought. Setting the shotgun against the tree within easy reach, he picked up the spade and started with Silas's grave.

The approach of the revenant was silent.

The attack was not.

www

It was the silence that woke him. He'd become so used to listening for Dean, breathing with him, that he woke as soon as he was aware he was alone in the clinic exam room. Sam blinked groggy eyes, looking around from the vantage point of the cot.

"Dean?"

Nothing. Sam sat up, noting two things immediately. Jennifer Wells's diary lay on the empty bed formerly occupied by his very wounded brother, and Sam's jacket was missing. Sam stood up from the cot and looked down at the diary, open to a blank page, Dean's clumsy, left-handed scrawl across the paper: Hell's coming with me.

"Son of a bitch!" Sam shouted. He immediately moved around to the other side of the bed, his eyes scanning the floor.

Kelly stumbled into the room, his dark hair flying haphazardly around his face, his eyes pinched with sleep, and a fleck of drool hanging precariously from his bottom lip ready to disappear into the depths of his wiry beard. "Wassamatter?"

"He took the bag!" Sam slammed a fist on the bed.

"Bag? Who? Took what?" Kelly blinked owlishly at Sam.

"Stupid bastard… gonna get himself killed…" Sam stormed past Kelly and toward the front of the clinic.

When he reached the shelves of mismatched supplies, he saw the empty bracket in the row of guns and swore again.

"How the hell did he get all of that out of here without me hearing?" Sam growled through gritted teeth. He reached up and snatched another shotgun off the rack. Searching through the boxes of ammo, he kept up a steady stream of muttered curses. "…think I would just stay here when I found out he was gone… stubborn bastard… thinks he has to be a superhero… thinks he has to protect me…"

"Um, Sam?" Kelly cleared his throat behind him.

"What!" Sam snapped, whipping his head over his shoulder.

Kelly lifted an eyebrow and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Can I help you find something?"

Sam clenched his jaw. "I don't know," he sassed. "Got any consecrated iron rounds?"

Kelly shook his head once. "Don't know about that first thing you said, but I got iron rounds."

"Oh." Sam was taken aback. "Well, point them out to me."

Kelly pulled down an unmarked box of ammunition and handing it to Sam. "You think Dean went after… after Silas?"

"Yes."

"By himself?"

"Yes."

"Hurt like that?"

"Yes," Sam snapped. "Yes, he went by himself to kill that… thing… because it's evil and that's what he does and he thinks he has to protect me but he's an idiot because the only way he's going to be able to do this is if we do it together and I can't fucking believe he left like that!"

"Okay." Kelly blinked. "Just asking."

Sam slammed the ammo into the shotgun and shut the barrel. He lifted angry eyes to Kelly. "You coming?"

Kelly swallowed, appearing undecided.

"I'm not waiting for you." Sam stepped forward, looking up at Kelly's face, into his fearful eyes. He paused a beat, then turned and shoved the door open, stepping out into the night.

How long had Dean been gone? He'd obviously read the diary, so he knew about the orchard. How the hell did he think he was going to dig up the bones and keep the revenant away with one arm?

"Sam!"

Sam didn't slow his stride, but he looked over his shoulder. Kelly was hurrying up behind him, a shovel in his hand. Sam lifted an eyebrow. He hadn't thought about a shovel.

"Thanks," he muttered, facing forward again.

"I've lived here all my life," Kelly said, his eyes up, on the house. "I want to see Chicago."

Surprised, Sam looked over at Kelly. "Well," he said, "I guess everyone needs a reason to do what they do."

Kelly nodded.

Together, they climbed the hill that led to Kelly's childhood home.

www

Apparently, Silas was done talking.

That, or his intense rage prevented him from throwing out any more snide remarks and taunting words. Because when the revenant slammed into Dean from behind, knocking him to the ground and sending the spade flying from his hand, it was with a scream of rage so shattering that Dean actually shook. He landed hard, his shoulder shooting white-hot fire through his body.

Dean rolled to his back, bringing his left arm up, looking desperately over his head at the shotgun propped against the tree just out of reach.

Shit, he thought. Shit shit shit.

Just as before in the house, the blows rained down on him with icy fire at a speed he couldn't protect himself from, let alone defend against. Taking a desperate breath, he rolled to his right, over his wounded arm, grinding out a guttural cry of pain, and used his momentum to gain his knees.

He immediately reached for the gun, but as if pulled by an invisible string, it flew away from his fingertips to the base of the marker for Jenny's grave. Silas rushed at him, causing Dean to pull back in surprise and disgust.

The revenant looked insane. His eyes were silver pools of manic light, his lips white and thin, and his skin a strange purple from his anger. He wrapped a long-fingered, ice-cold hand around Dean's throat, pulling him to his feet by his neck and shoving him back against the tree in one mighty heave.

"E-even if you… kill me," Dean wheezed, "you won't get Sam."

"You can't stop me if you're dead," Silas literally growled, his voice a deep echo of his normal tone.

Dean tried to swallow, tried to pull in a breath, but the grasp was too strong. "Y-you," he wheezed, his breath coming in strained, shallow gasps. "Aren't… the only one… who can… make… deals."

"You've made no deal," Silas snapped, his eyes flashing.

"Not y-yet," Dean gasped. But I will if you think you can take Sam…

He could hear his breath straining through shrinking airways as Silas tightened his grip. The edges of his vision darkened, and Dean could feel the cold, the bone-deep cold, begin to build in his chest and start to wrap around his heart as his lungs frantically beat against his ribs, begging for air.

"You should never have come to this town, Dean Winchester," Silas growled.

Dean could only blink; his lips had started to tingle, his fingertips numb. He felt his head spin as Silas tightened his grip even more.

"Now," Silas's thin white lips curled up into a sneer, "you'll never leave."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that."

The most wonderful sound in the world, Dean thought as his mind grew hazy and darkness completed its sojourn across his vision, was his brother's voice.

He blinked, trying to see Sam, trying to see anything. He heard two powerful blasts and felt Silas jerk, pulling at Dean's neck as his grip shifted but didn't release. Dean didn't hear the scream he expected and tried to keep his footing as his knees threatened to give out. He started shaking with the effort of staying conscious.

He heard another blast, felt another jerk. The he heard Silas laugh. The sound was chilling… and just before he succumbed to the darkness that had already taken his vision, Dean suddenly heard Sam's voice even closer to him.

"Hell is here."

Another blast accompanied the last sound Dean heard before he collapsed against the hard ground of the orchard floor: Silas's scream of enraged pain. Dean couldn't see anything, could feel only a numbing ache all over, a sharp pain in his shoulder, and the desperate fire in his lungs as he managed to shake himself into pulling in air. He tasted dirt in his mouth as he simply lay still and breathed.

"Dean?"

Gimme a minute, Sam…

"Dean, you with me, man?"

Sam pulled Dean to a semi-sitting position, holding him carefully around the waist against his chest. Dean couldn't answer. He couldn't do anything but pull in breaths of air.

"Dude, he did a number on your neck," Sam whispered.

Dean swallowed and winced at the pain that brought. But he could breathe. That was all he cared about at the moment.

"Is he gone?" Kelly's voice sounded small, and Dean forced himself to blink his eyes open and try to focus on the big man.

"No," he rasped, still lying against Sam. "Dig."

"Dig?"

"Tree," Dean gasped, lifting his eyes to the massive trunk above them.

Sam looked up and saw the initials. His initials. He exchanged a brief look with Dean, then turned to Kelly.

"Silas's grave," Sam said, "Gotta burn his bones."

Dean had yet to move away from Sam. He knew Sam should get up and help Kelly dig, knew he should let his brother up, but he wasn't ready to do more than hold his bruised neck and pull air into his tortured lungs. He felt Sam's grip tighten, felt in the motion how much Sam didn't want to let him go. But they had a job to do.

"Help him," Dean whispered.

Sam eased out from behind Dean, leaning him against the tree. He placed the loaded shotgun across Dean's lap, patted the barrel, and met his cloudy eyes. "Keep an eye out for any spooks," he said with an encouraging half grin.

Dean nodded gingerly. He pulled his hand from his neck and rested it on the trigger of the shotgun. Sam grabbed the spade that had landed next to Dean and joined Kelly in digging up Silas's grave. With the first shovel full of dirt, Sam saw the sticker on the blade. He lifted amused eyes to Dean, who answered his look with a crooked grin.

"Pooper-scooper?" Sam asked.

"Best on the market," Dean rasped.

Sam continued to dig, supporting the shovel with the back of his right hand while he scooped with his left. "Well, guess with the shit we shovel…"

"That's what I thought." Dean's voice was barely audible, but his grin was solid.

Ignoring the tremble of his muscles, Dean pushed himself slowly to his feet, using the tree for support as Kelly and Sam cleared away the dirt from the top of a rough wooden box barely three feet down. Dean figured it would have been hard for Jenny to have dug even that much. He stumbled slightly as he made his way over to stand next to his brother. Sam used the spade and pounded through the rotted wooden box. The moment the bones were revealed, Silas stepped out of the shadows.

"No," he said, his voice the same demonic growl of before. "NO!"

Dean stiffened and pulled the shotgun up into firing position. "Do it, Sam," he whispered.

Moving quickly, Sam bent, grabbed the salt and lighter fluid, and poured both over the bones. As he reached for the matches, Silas moved forward. Sam flinched; Dean fired. Silas screamed in rage and began to advance again, but something stopped him. They suddenly seemed to be looking through a strange, cloudy figure at the revenant.

It's all your fault.

Dean flinched at those words and looked up to see his pale face and wide eyes pinned to the revenant through the cloudy figure.

"Shut up, woman," Silas growled. "You will burn, too, if they succeed! You are bound to me!"

It's all your fault.

"Sam. Do it," Dean pleaded. Sam lit the match, stood, and dropped it into the open grave.

The revenant's scream was terrible. Kelly clasped his hands over his ears, closing his eyes and turning away; Sam and Dean curled in on themselves, keeping their eyes on the spirit, watching through the growing flames as the revenant twisted, burned, smoldered and, finally, with one last angry glare, vanished. The bones continued burning. The cloud began to coalesce.

Dean blinked and swayed as Jenny materialized before their eyes. Sam reached out a hand and steadied Dean as he, too, stared in silence. Jenny was small. She had wild curly black hair, dark skin, and large brown eyes. With the exception of her hair, Jenny looked nothing like her children. Sam nudged Kelly and watched out of the corner of his eye as the big man slowly pulled his hands down from his ears and turned to face his mother.

It's all your fault. Her voice was soft, sad, her eyes pleading. She reached out a trembling hand toward Kelly.

"Oh, God," Kelly moaned sorrowfully. "I was so young… you have to understand… I was so young…"

She didn't move, staring at him with eyes that held forty years of regret and pain.

"I'm sorry," Kelly whispered, pressing his large hand over his heart, his silver eyes tearing up. He blinked, and one fat tear traced a line down his cheek and buried itself in his wiry beard. "It wasn't your fault... It's not your fault."

Dean stumbled suddenly, bouncing gently into Sam. He tried to step away, needing to put space between himself and this scene, wanting to cover his ears. He saw Sam turn to look at him, and Dean swayed, his world beginning to tilt as Kelly's words hit him.

"It's not your fault," Kelly whispered again, sniffing as another tear rolled down his face. "You did the best you could. You did the only thing you knew how."

Sam reached out for Dean, grabbed his left arm, and balanced him. Dean felt himself begin to shake, felt Sam's worried gaze on him. He kept his eyes on Jenny, kept his expression empty, but he knew Sam could see the pain on his face.

He wasn't strong enough to hide it all. Not now.

Sam looked back when he heard Jenny sigh. It was as though all the hurt stored in her eyes dissipated with that sound and, with a tiny smile curving her mouth, she disappeared. Kelly sobbed once, his shoulders slumping.

"We have to burn… uh, the bones," Sam said softly.

"Even hers?"

"It's the only way to be sure she's at peace," Sam said.

"Fine," Kelly whispered, his eyes going to the marker. "I'll do it."

"You sure?"

Kelly nodded. "Maxine and I… we buried her here when we found her. I know where she is. I'll take care of her." He looked up at Sam, then his eyes shifted to Dean, his brows pulling together. "Get him on out of here."

Dean was staring at the dying fire in Silas's grave. Sam tugged his left arm forward to gain his attention. Dean turned his empty eyes to Sam.

"C'mon," Sam said, his voice sad and helpless-sounding.

"It was never about us, Sam," Dean whispered.

"What?"

"The words… the writing… it was never about us. It had nothing to do with the crossroad demon."

Sam shook his head. "No. It was never about us."

"They were the same words, though." Dean blinked. "The same words."

"I know."

Dean exhaled and Sam absorbed his brother's sorrow, confusion, and pain.

"It's over, Dean," Sam whispered. "Let's go get some rest."

Dean shook his head. "I'm starting to think that we'll never rest, Sammy," he said, his voice still raspy. He turned away from his brother and started down the hill.

Sam followed closely behind.

www

"Dude, I, uh, think I need your help, here," Dean said in his low, rough voice, working the bandages off his left hand.

They had walked back to the inn in silence, Dean allowing Sam to keep his hand on his arm, guiding his steps when he stumbled. Sam sat, exhausted, on his bed, staring vacantly at Dean as he worked himself out of Sam's jacket and tossed it on the back of the chair. He realized as he watched the action that the last time they'd eaten was that morning, before the explosion, before the house…

"Help with what?"

"This bandage thing," Dean said, tugging at the wraps holding his right arm against his body.

"What for?"

Dean sighed tiredly. "So I can take a shower."

Sam was about to protest, to tell him to let it wait the night, but he saw Dean's eyes and knew immediately he would do anything to get rid of that look. Even if it was replaced by pain, it would be something. Something Dean.

Sam stood up and went over to his brother, examined the wrap, then went to the bag, pulled out Dean's knife, and came back. As Dean stood still, he carefully cut the binding, easing Dean's arm down to his side.

"Try not to move it too much," Sam said.

"Gee, thanks for the tip, Sam," Dean remarked.

Sam shook his head at him. "I'll try to rewrap it when you're done."

As Dean went into the bathroom, Sam sat back down on the bed and stared at the door. He listened for Dean's normal movements, knowing his brother better than anyone…or at least as well as anyone could know Dean. He heard the shower turn on, heard a barely muffled groan of pain, then what he'd been waiting for. The staccato rhythm of a song as Dean counted his way through the beats to distract himself from the pain.

He listened hard, trying to discern the melody. Zeppelin, he realized. Friends.

"Bright light almost blinding, black night still there shining, I can't stop, keep on climbing, looking for what I knew…"

Sam sighed. He toed off his boots, removed his shirts and waited. He wanted to just crawl into the bed, turn off the light, shut out the night. Shut down and let sleep heal him. But he had to wait for Dean.

He didn't know if his brother realized how badly he'd beaten his body today. Sam could tell just by listening that Dean was barely hanging on. The water shut off and, minutes later, Dean came out, looking pale and visibly shaking. He held his right arm tight to his side and clasped the towel around his waist.

"Here," Sam said, reaching over and handing him his boxers and sweat pants. "You need any help?"

Dean shook his head; Sam knew Dean was done in when he didn't shoot back a sarcastic comment. He managed to pull on his clothes and sat heavily on the bed. Sam refashioned the bandages he'd cut so that Dean could slide his arm into a makeshift sling, taking the weight off his shoulder.

"Want some aspirin?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head again. "Haven't eaten enough today," he said.

Sam looked at his throat. "That hurt?" The bruises had already started to form in the shape of long, thin fingers.

Dean nodded, blinking tiredly. He eased himself back, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders, his left arm snaking out of the covers. He exhaled, and Sam watched him literally fall to sleep as the breath left his body. It was slightly eerie. He stared hard until he saw Dean's chest rise and fall again, then he turned off the light, piled his jeans on top of his shirts, and climbed between the covers, willing sleep to claim him quickly.

www

That's your M.O… mask all that nasty pain… mask the truth…

I won't hunt this demon… not until we know Dean's okay…

They don't need you… not like you need them…

You did that… and you didn't complain, not once…

I am so proud of you…

It was all Dad. Every image, every voice. Dad with yellow eyes, pinning him to the cabin wall, tearing him from the inside out… Dad's tears… Dad's words.

Killing this demon comes first, before me, before everything…

You shouldn't have had to say that to me, I should have said that to you…

You took care of Sammy, you took care of me…

Don't be scared, Dean…

He couldn't… not this time… not again. He couldn't take the pain again. He couldn't hear his father's screams again.

You have to save him, Dean. Nothing else matters…

He didn't want to fight anymore, he didn't want to... but it hurt… it hurt so badly… and Dad was screaming as he reached for him, as his fingers dug in, as he began to pull…

Then…

It stopped. The pain, the screaming.

He looked down and saw a hand covering Dad's. A hand pressing Dad's hand to his chest in a warm clasp of family. A hand pressing against his heart, keeping it safe, protecting it…

He wavered for a moment in the realm between waking and sleeping, where reality dawns while the dream still holds fast. He opened his eyes and saw Sam. Leaning over him, his hand on his chest, warm, heavy, solid.

"I can't take the weight from you," Sam whispered in the darkness. "But maybe I can help you carry it."

Dean swallowed, the bruising on his throat causing him to wince. He was grateful for the darkness that hid his eyes. He couldn't remove the feeling from them as he had done so many times before. He looked at Sam, and the heart his brother protected with just the touch of his hand rested in Dean's eyes like a beacon.

He saw Sam blink, watched his jaw clench, saw his throat work.

"Thanks, Sammy," he said.

Sam pulled a corner of his mouth into a shaky half-smile. "Guess I can be more than just a pain in your ass, huh?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he said softly. "A hell of a lot more."

"Want me to stay?"

Dean couldn't answer him.

"I'll stay," Sam said, shifting a hip onto Dean's bed, not removing his hand. He sat there, in the darkness, his hand over his brother's heart, until Dean fell asleep.

www

"Kelly," Dean said, his voice low but much less raspy the next morning. "Tell me you have good news."

"That I do," Kelly said, stepping from behind the counter.

Maxine had treated them to a full breakfast at Becket's since they no longer had to worry about being attacked by pool-cue-wielding gangsters. Dean had downed three cups of coffee and two bowls of oatmeal, his throat too sore for anything else. The bruising was more prominent in the morning, and when Maxine commented that he looked like hammered shit, Dean had to agree, even if the comment did make Sam spew orange juice at him with a grin.

They'd given Jenny's diary to Maxine, looking away politely as she brushed the tears from her eyes, then walked to Kelly's after breakfast. Maxine insisted on going with them to carry some bags. Dean was left with a set of sack lunches, while Sam hauled the weapons and his bag and Maxine carried Dean's. Neither would let him do more, and Dean found himself hard-pressed to argue against a stubborn brother and a woman who towered over him by a good foot.

"We had three families leave town this morning, including Nate," Kelly continued, "and Maxine and I have already found family in Chicago that we're going to see for the first time in our lives."

Dean exchanged a cautious glance with Sam. "That's great. Really great," Dean said, "But, uh, I was kinda hoping that the part for the Impala–"

"In and fixed."

Dean's eyebrows shot up, and his face relaxed into a sunny, sincere smile. "You're kidding."

"I would not kid about a car as fine as that."

Dean whirled and practically sprinted to the car. It was only when he reached the driver's side door that he realized he'd given Sam the keys that morning. He turned and saw Sam tossing them to him as though reading his mind. He plucked them out of the air, unlocked the door, and opened it.

"Wait, in and fixed?"

Kelly nodded, a small smile on his face.

"If I had the keys, then how did you…"

Kelly shrugged. "Tricks of the trade, kid. Don't question a master."

Dean slid in behind the wheel, leaning far over to stick the keys in the ignition with his left hand. The Impala roared to life, and Dean laughed out loud. He looked at the radio in surprise when Hero of the Day from Metallica's S&M practically blared from the speakers. He looked out through the open door at Kelly in surprise.

Kelly shrugged. "I looked through your tapes. You didn't have it."

Dean grinned. "Yeah, I, uh, I lost a few of them a while back. Thanks."

"Come on back inside a second. I got something else for you."

Dean shut off the car with reluctance, stepped out and followed Sam and Kelly back inside. When the boys reached the door, they both drew back in surprise when Kelly turned around, two shotguns in his hands, the stocks pressed against his hips, the barrels pointing up. Kelly grinned at the look of worry on their faces.

"Figured you lost two decent guns getting rid of… well, doing what you did," Kelly said. "Wanted to replace them. New ones."

Sam grinned in response. "Thanks, Kelly."

Dean pressed his lips together and nodded, taking one of the guns from Kelly gratefully. Sam took the other, and they looked between Maxine and Kelly, not sure what to say. They didn't usually stay around for a debrief. They did what they did and shut up about it. Rule number one came in handy when it was time to leave.

"We owe you boys," Maxine said in a softened version of her normal cigarette-and-whiskey voice. "If it hadn't been for you… well, this town… my brother… we could have all gone on living in the middle of two deals with a demon until we died. I think it was divine intervention that brought you to us."

Dean shook his head. "Just a broken car."

"More than that, kid," Kelly said gruffly, tugging absently at the multicolored rubber bands peppered throughout his beard. "Much more than that."

"Timing is everything, I guess." Dean shrugged, a tiny grin tugging the corner of his mouth reluctantly.

Sam looked down, sad his brother couldn't believe they were meant to come to this town, meant to do what they did. That they were continuing their father's work, his legacy, by saving people, hunting things.

He lifted his eyes to see Dean watching him, questions plain in his eyes. But Sam was tired of pushing. For the moment, he just wanted to be Dean's brother. If Dean needed to keep his silence to carry his burden, Sam wasn't going to get in the way this time.

"Hey, Kelly," Sam said suddenly, still looking at Dean.

"Yeah?"

"Who played the sheriff in High Noon?"

Sam watched Dean's eyes narrow, glaring at him, but didn't look away.

"Gary Cooper."

"You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. Got the movie here somewhere. Want me to get it?"

Sam quirked an eyebrow at Dean.

"Nah," Dean said. "He believes you," he said, shaking his head at Sam. He nodded at Kelly, gave Maxine a smile that made her blush, then turned and walked out of the gas station, the cowbell clanging behind him.

Sam turned and followed, joining him at the trunk. He helped Dean lift the false floor, chuckling to himself that they were both essentially left-handed for the moment. He set the new shotguns in the vacant place of the ones they'd lost in the house, then joined Dean in setting the weapons from the bag into their slots. They shut the false floor, tossed their duffels in, and Sam closed the trunk.

"We need to do laundry, man," he said to Dean.

"Hell with that," Dean said. "We need to buy some clothes. I keep getting them cut off of me."

Sam grinned. "We did good here, you know," he said as he moved around to the passenger side, looking at Dean over the top of the car. "Lucky accident or not, we saved this town."

Dean rested his left arm on the hood of the car. "Maybe. Maybe we just released it." He looked back at Sam, his eyes carefully blank, his voice soft. "Sometimes I wonder if we can save anything, or if we're just meant to kill…"

He stepped away and slid into the car, pulling his door shut with a familiar creak. Sam stood for a moment, not sure where to put that, knowing he would have to continue to keep watch, keep his brother in his sights until whatever was eating through Dean's heart like acid was neutralized.

Dean reached over again with his left hand and started the car. Hero of the Day continued as he shifted into drive and pulled out of the lot with a nod at Kelly and Maxine. It was awkward at best with his right arm still pressed tightly against his chest to keep his aching shoulder immobile, but he wasn't about to move it yet. Even thinking of moving it made his teeth ache.

Sam reached over and ejected the tape.

"What the hell are you doin'?" Dean said, looking down at the radio as he pulled onto the interstate.

"New rules this week." Sam grinned. "Shotgun picks the music. Driver shuts his cake hole."

Dean glared. Sam hit a couple of buttons, searching. He paused when they heard Time in a Bottle,lifting an eyebrow in Dean's direction. Dean shot him a glare. "You have got to be kidding me," he said.

Sam laughed. "Take it easy, man. I'm not sixty." He continued to search until he heard a station claiming to play five decades of rock. He paused, waiting. A low rhythm of a familiar guitar came over the speakers, and Sam sat back.

"I try to breathe, memories overtaking me. I try to face them but the thought is too much to conceive…"

"Wait," Dean said, pulling his eyebrows together. "I know this."

"Yeah." Sam nodded. "Staind. I left this CD when I went to school."

"Yeah, okay, well." Dean shrugged. "Guess I can handle this."

"Oh, you get a week of handling, John Wayne." Sam grinned, looking out at the passing scenery as they continued to head west.

"It's just as well," Dean said with a flick of his eyebrow. "Because there was no way I was letting you wax my baby."

END

Playlist:

No Leaf Clover by Metallica

Friends by Led Zeppelin

Hero of the Day by Metallica

Time In a Bottle by Jim Croce

Fade by Staind

a/n: Thanks again for reading, guys. It makes my day to see your comments. If you're interested, after Christmas, I'll be starting to post a multi-chapter fic called "In the Light" that will return Abe from "Ramble On." I've wanted to write this story since August, but different things came first. Other zine stories will be posted as the time limits allow--but if you are ever interested in an awesome collection of fantastic stories, you should check out these zines. The ones I've been fortunate to have experience with are Brotherhood, Rooftop Confessions, and soon Roadtrip with My Brother and A Hunting We Will Go.

Slainte.