Well, here it is. The last chapter. If I'd known when I started this darn thing that it
would wind up taking me nearly a year and a half to finish, I never would've believed it. Or, you know, never even started in the first place.

And this chapter was supposed to be the end of the last chapter – a few paragraphs of exposition and wrap-up. It turned out to be twenty-odd pages. (Insert hysterical laughter here.)

Still not sure how I feel about this story. Love/hate. Something. I don't really enjoy reading torture fics, so imagine my surprise when I found myself writing one. That damn shed had driven me crazy by chapter seven – Dean wasn't the only one who was extremely happy to get out of there.

Anyway, I've rambled enough. Just a few people to thank. To stealthyone and Swanseajill and Kati, variously, for beta/feedback/advice/answers to questions and pep talks over the course of a freakin' year and a half. You guys are the best.

I've re-written a bit since the beta, so any new mistakes are mine, all mine.

So here y'all go. Thanks to everybody for reading, and reviewing, and for hanging in there after all this time.

xxxxx

Chapter 10

Sam's reality was shallow breathing and a slowing heartbeat. And blood, everywhere. On his hands, desperate hands that failed to hold on to the life slipping away beneath them. More blood on his shirt. On Dean's shirt, soaking it.

On Dean. All over.

The rich coppery tang was strong in his nostrils, in the back of his throat, and Sam swallowed with difficulty against the rising nausea.

Dean lay in his arms, shivering with the onset of shock. No color in his features, in his slightly parted lips.

Sam's vision had come true after all.

"Cold," Dean said, his voice barely a breath; his eyes a mere sliver of dull green.

"Don't leave me," Sam begged in a whisper. "Don't you dare."

"Can't see you." Dean's hand flailed weakly to land on Sam's chest. "Sorry. 'M sorry, Sammy . . . ." His eyes drifted shut completely and his hand fell away again, limp and heavy.

Sam let out the sob he'd been fighting, and he curled his fingers around Dean's jaw.

"Noooo," he whispered, tears burning. "No, no, no. Not like this. Dean . . . ." His palm still pressed tightly against the wound, useless, and he thought fleetingly of the first-aid kit in the shed, too late, too far away. Dean would bleed out before he could even get there and back.

He could do nothing but sit here with his brother bleeding, dying, in his arms.

Something broke in Sam's chest, hard and sharp, and he bent over Dean to pull him closer. Rocking back and forth, weeping silently into Dean's hair, he listened for each halting breath and counted every heartbeat.

Oh, God, Dean. You're so cold.

His hold tightened just a little more. Blood slipped steadily through his fingers.

There was a light touch on his arm, a soft, hesitant voice in his ear.

"Sam."

He could only shake his head.

Go away, he thought numbly. Leave us alone. It's all over. Everything's over.

He'd just gotten Dean back, and now he was losing him again.

The touch vanished, and there was a rustle of movement behind him.

"Rosa," Paige said, her voice even quieter. "Rosa, now. Before it's too late. Irene said there was still time."

Sam turned his head just enough to look up. Resting his cheek against the top of Dean's head, he blinked away tears and saw Rosa reach out to curve her fingers around Dean's lax hand.

"No," he said, voice low and rough. Nothing but instinct made him pull Dean away from her touch. For a moment, all he could remember, with awful clarity, was how the old man had gloated over the little girl's ability to cause pain. How he'd used her to hurt Dean.

But she was just a little girl . . . . And the old man had forced her to do those things.

"Sam, please," Paige said desperately. Eyes red, her face streaked with tears, she nevertheless met his gaze with a startlingly fierce intensity. "She can help him. She did before. Remember the cut on Dean's head? She healed it."

He gnawed on his lower lip and shifted Dean slightly in his arms as he recalled his puzzlement over the lack of a wound on Dean's forehead. Blood, yes, but the ugly gash had disappeared. Dean had told him it was fine, not to worry about it.

His glance traveled from Paige to Rosa and back again. Roy LeGrange and fragile hope in a musty tent hadn't been all that long ago. Then to find out that the miracle was no miracle at all, but black magic and a bound reaper –

"No," he said hoarsely, shaking his head again. "It's not real. There's a price. Always."

As though willing him to believe, Paige gripped his arm tight with both hands and squeezed. "No, Sam. I promise. Just let her touch him." She took a gulping breath. "Please."

Sam choked back another sob.

Hope. Such a fragile, terrible thing.

He looked down at Rosa, who had edged back closer to Dean. She sat with her thin arms wrapped around her upraised knees, and stared fixedly back at Sam with big brown eyes. Instead of terrified and traumatized by the night's events, she was eerily . . . calm. Or something. He couldn't quite pin it down. She simply sat there and waited for him to trust, to believe.

Silence had somehow fallen without Sam even noticing. The old man's tortured cries had stopped at last, the screams and gurgling breaths dying away in the dark.

Well, he thought with weary, grim satisfaction. Glad that's finished.

Rosa tilted her head at him, and in that sudden silence, she spoke a single word, the first word he'd heard her say.

"Dean," she said clearly, unlocking one fist and stretching out her fingers to gently take Dean's hand again. Then she looked past Sam's shoulder and gave a solemn nod.

The sudden icy touch at Sam's back sent an involuntary shiver down his spine, despite knowing what – whom – it was.

"Please, Sam," Paige begged again. "Before it's too late."

His hand, wet and slick with Dean's blood, could barely feel the pulse that beat sluggishly beneath it. There was a slight hitch in Dean's breathing now, and he lay heavy and unmoving in Sam's arms, his head against Sam's shoulder.

Sam eased away only as far as he needed to and looked down at his brother's ashen face. Bruises and freckles alike stood out in stark relief even in the meager light thrown from the shed's doorway.

"All right," Sam said huskily, meeting the little girl's gaze again, those serious brown eyes suddenly old beyond her years. "Please. Save him." His voice dried up in his aching throat.

Please.

His miracle, in the form of a seven-year-old girl in grubby denim overalls and pink sneakers, cupped Dean's upturned hand in her small palms. With a slight frown, she closed her eyes and leaned forward a little.

Sam barely breathed, not daring to move or make a sound. His hand remained clamped over the wound in Dean's neck, muscles cramping from the pressure. He could do nothing but watch, and wait, and plead silently, praying for this to work.

He half expected to see a golden, glowing light – something, anything – as visible evidence of the girl's gift manifesting. But there was nothing. Just a little girl, holding his brother's hand and beginning to hum quietly to herself.

Paige crouched at Rosa's side, sniffles occasionally escaping, repeatedly using the sleeve of her sweatshirt to swipe at her eyes even as she kept her attention on Dean.

The cold presence that had been lingering at Sam's back abruptly vanished, and when he blinked, the murdered girl's pale spirit reappeared behind Paige and Rosa. A renewed pang of anger and sorrow hit him at the sight of her, at the blood that continued to run unceasingly down her slashed arms.

She'd gotten her revenge. The old man was dead. But if Dean died . . . . Revenge didn't matter much at this point. It wouldn't change anything, or bring Dean back.

Her gaze crossed his for a moment, and he saw his own fear and grief reflected there before he had to look away.

Come on, Dean, he begged, closing his eyes. Come back, okay? Don't let him win, you hear me? The old bastard's dead, and we're gonna get out of here. Come on, come on. Don't you give up . . . .

He buried his face in Dean's hair again, waiting and hoping.

And after a moment, an eternity or two, felt . . . something.

Faint warmth, a tingling almost, lapped gently at his fingertips where they touched Dean, then grew stronger, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

He held his breath, the warmth gradually ebbed, and he eased his fingers oh so carefully from their death grip against Dean's throat and raised his head to look.

Fresh blood no longer flowed from the wound, over his hand, down Dean's neck. Sam's now-shaking fingers slid over the site of the gaping cut, feeling nothing but smooth flesh and a steady, strongly beating pulse beneath.

"Dean?"

Sam's sticky hand moved to Dean's cheek, and he could've sworn it already felt warmer under his palm. Then Dean stirred in his arms, little more than a twitch, and let out a long, slow sigh. And kept on breathing. Deep, even breaths, one after the other, no longer hitched and shallow.

Sam gulped, eyes blurring.

A tiny hand patted his knee, and he looked down at Rosa's serious face.

"Better now," she said.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely, dazed, not quite allowing himself to believe it yet. His hand moved back to Dean's throat, needing the reassurance of that healed skin, of the continuing heartbeat beneath his fingers. Dean even looked slightly less pale. "Yeah, I . . . I think he is."

Sam got another first – the smallest of shy smiles broke out on Rosa's face.

"Thank you," he added in a fervent whisper. The words were wholly inadequate, but he could only shake his head in wonder and say them again. "Thank you for this."

"I like Dean," she whispered back, as though confiding a secret.

Sam had to laugh, even though it sounded closer to a sob.

Can't help it, can you, Dean? Got all the girls falling for you.

Paige was crying, too, as she hugged the little girl. "I knew you could do it," she said.

Sam gave Dean a light tap on the cheek, desperately needing to see awareness in the green eyes again. "Dean, hey," he cajoled. "Wake up. C'mon . . . ."

"He's sleepy," Rosa said, still whispering. She frowned. "Don't poke at him."

Sam's eyebrows went up, but he refrained from giving Dean another tap, conceding she was probably right. Sleep was doubtless the best remedy at the moment. Dean was no longer at death's door, but still – he'd lost too much blood. Shock couldn't be far behind.

"Paige," he said urgently, getting ready to shift, to get to his feet. "Paige, where's our car? You told Dean the old man had it towed here, right? We gotta get out of here, now. I know Rosa . . . healed him . . . but I need to get Dean to a hospital."

She wiped at her eyes, pushed her slipping glasses back up on her face and let go of Rosa. "Yeah. I think Fa – Gomer was gonna dump the van and take your car when we left."

"Man, that wouldareally pissed Dean off."

Paige gave him a sudden if shaky grin, and clambered to her feet, with Rosa taking her hand. "C'mon. It's this way."

Carefully easing his way from beneath Dean's weight, Sam got stiffly to his feet, then stooped down to grasp Dean under the arms and pull him upright. He knew a fireman's carry would be far more sensible at this point, but the thought of Dean's head hanging limply down his back made his stomach turn. One arm already beneath Dean's shoulders, he bent and got the other under Dean's knees. With a grunt and a slight stagger, he lifted Dean against his chest, his brother's drooping head carefully tucked under his chin.

Paige scooped up the fallen flashlight where it lay on the grass, and the bobbing beam flickered over the crumpled, bloodied figure of the old man before she quickly swung it away again with a sharp breath.

"Don't look, Rosa," she said at once, pulling the girl against her. "Sam, what . . . what do we do . . . about . . .? I mean, do we tell . . . ."

"Don't worry. We'll figure something out." He grimaced at the sight of the old man's face, contorted into a frozen rictus of fear and pain, and thought briefly, longingly, of gasoline-soaked wood and bright, cleansing fire to finish the job, to eradicate the man's existence forever. But . . . . No time. He had to get Dean out of here.

"I don't care if it means I'm a horrible person," Paige said in a fierce whisper as she led the way, steering a wide path around the body. "But I'm glad he's dead."

"Then I'm just as horrible as you are," Sam replied grimly, all too aware of the wounds and bruises still on his brother's body, of Dean's blood that saturated their clothes.

Then with a curse he stopped, swiftly scanning the darkness. "Paige, where's Brian?"

"Oh, crap!" she said, frantic. The flashlight jerked up in a wild arc as she spun around, then steadied as she more carefully swept it back and forth across the yard. "Wasn't he . . . right there?" The beam stopped on an empty patch of flattened grass.

"Yeah, definitely crap," Sam muttered, half expecting to feel the kid's whammy smack him in the back and not liking the idea of Brian still out there somewhere. Senses straining, he heard nothing beyond what he expected to hear at night in the countryside. "Let's keep moving," he said, as a sudden shiver ran through Dean's frame. He wasn't willing to take the time to do anything about Brian right now. "Getting cold out here. C'mon." He started walking again, hefting Dean a little higher in his arms.

Paige obligingly picked up the pace. "I never even noticed him after . . . ." She swallowed. "After . . . Dean, you know . . . ." She threw him a glance over her shoulder. "Do you think he . . . just ran away?"

"Irene scared him," Rosa piped up matter-of-factly. "He ran an' hid in the house."

Sam flicked a look in the cabin's general direction. If Brian had seen what Irene had done to the old man, if maybe he thought she'd come after him . . . .

"I'd be hiding, too," he said quietly

"Yeah," Paige said. "He can stay hidden, the little creep." With another look at Sam, she added, "Not much farther. Just up ahead under those trees."

Within a couple dozen yards, just as Sam's arms and back were ready to give out, they reached the Impala, parked under a line of evergreens. He'd never been so grateful to see the big, black car in his life.

Home, Dean. We made it.

Amazingly, the car wasn't locked, and Paige had already tugged open the backseat door. Sam gently maneuvered his brother inside, laying him down to stretch out as much as he could. A discarded sweatshirt, wadded up, served as a pillow. And miracle of miracles – another one – the keys were in the ignition. Dean would certainly appreciate the fact that Sam wouldn't have to hotwire his precious baby to get them out of here.

Sam quickly opened the trunk and rummaged until he found an old blanket, confiscated from some long-ago motel, and draped it over his brother, tucking it in close.

"All right," Sam said. He straightened up, one hand lingering on Dean's shoulder a moment before shutting the door. "Let's get out of here."

"Irene wants to say goodbye," Rosa said, resisting Paige's efforts to get her into the car. She squirmed away and pointed. "There she is."

The girl's spirit had followed them under the trees. Sam found himself unconsciously inching toward the trunk again, having sudden and uneasy thoughts concerning rock salt and banishment spells. She hadn't tried to hurt them – far from it – but why was she still here? She had gotten her revenge on the man who'd murdered her . . . .

So he stepped away from the car, and met her shadowed eyes. "Thank you," he said softly. "For helping to save my brother. For . . . ." He swallowed. "For dealing with the man who hurt him."

She nodded, and her gaze strayed to the Impala.

"I felt his pain," she said, her voice a faint whisper on the wind. "He made me strong with it, and now I'm free of Father. We saved each other, Sam."

"Don't go yet," Rosa suddenly cried out. "Please, Irene!" She reached for the other girl, her hands somehow meshing with the spirit's ethereal form. And when she touched Irene, this time a soft shimmer blossomed. When it slowly dimmed, then finally faded, and Rosa took her hands away, blood no longer cascaded from the dead girl's wounds – like Dean's, the vicious cuts had turned to smooth, unscarred flesh.

"Wow."

Paige's quiet, awestruck exhalation pretty much summed up Sam's feelings.

"Yeah," he murmured back.

Irene turned her arms over, and looked down at the little girl in surprise. "You didn't have to do that, Rosa, it's too late for me. But thank you, sweetie."Her voice grew fainter still, and her gaze lifted to Paige. "It's time for me to go now."

"Goodbye," Paige whispered, tears in her voice.

"Goodbye."

She slowly melted away into the night, smiling all the while.

"I didn't want her to go," Rosa said with a sniffle.

"I know," Sam said quietly, crouching down to meet her eyes. "But she's not meant to be here. She had to leave." He tossed a glance at the Impala. "And we need to leave, too."

"Okay," she said, nodding. "I don't like it here."

"Me, either," Sam said as he straightened.

With that, she immediately got into the car and wormed her way to the back seat, curling up against Dean before Sam could stop her.

"Rosa, come sit up front with me," Paige coaxed. "Dean needs to rest."

The little girl just shook her head, closed her eyes, and promptly fell asleep.

"It's okay," Sam said, sliding into the driver's seat. He looked in the rearview mirror, and the years fell away. That could've been him nestled into Dean like that. They used to curl up with each other when they were kids, when Sam liked being held in Dean's arms in the dark . . . . He blinked away the sudden memory. "She can stay there."

Paige shrugged and got in, stashing the flashlight under her feet.

He turned on the ignition, smiling at the familiar rumble of the Chevy's engine, his hands only slightly unsteady on the wheel. "Now. Where are we, and how do we get out of here?"

"Down the driveway, and turn right," Paige said. "That's the road we took to town yesterday." Her voice started to shake. "We did it, Sam." She reached out to grasp his arm. "We're really gonna get away from him."

"Yeah," he said, exhausted and euphoric all at once. He shot another look back at Dean. "We did it, all right."

Sam backed up, spun the wheel, and stepped on the gas. They drove off into the night, leaving the dead monster in the woods far behind them.

xxxxx

Dean woke. Slowly. With a vague feeling that he had missed out on something rather important. But he was warm, and it felt good to just let himself drift in blissful lassitude without really questioning why he didn't hurt nearly as much as some distant part of him thought he should.

Floating for a while longer, enjoying his pain-free existence, he gradually became aware of a background hum of familiar noises, the odors of antiseptic and bleach, and damn – he frowned as he wondered how he had wound up in a hospital. Again.

The last thing he remembered was . . . what? A dream? One about driving in the Impala, in the dark, with Sammy . . . . Right? A hint of panic surfaced for the first time, and he suddenly realized he was being watched. Not in a threatening way, just . . . attentive. Focused.

Not Sam, either. He could feel Sam-vibes from blocks away.

If not Sam, then . . . . That truly made him panic. He forced his fuzzy brain to concentrate, opened his sticky eyelids after a couple of tries, and confirmed that, yeah, crap, he really was in a hospital bed with all of the accompanying wires and tubes in uncomfortable places.

With a grimace of effort, he rolled his head sideways on the pillow. His somewhat blurry vision nevertheless confirmed the existence of a sprawled and sleeping Sam, propped uncomfortably in a chair next to his bed, long limbs everywhere. Dean breathed a sigh of relief at the sight and the dread in his gut relaxed several notches.

He blinked away the last of the cobwebs and abruptly noticed the small figure carefully peering out from behind Sam's chair, dark eyes wide and locked on his.

And to his dazed astonishment, Rosa gave him a bashful half-smile, and said in a whisper, "Dean. You're all better."

Memory hit so brutally hard and fast that he jackknifed nearly straight up off the bed with a hoarse cry that strangled the breath in his throat. The sudden movement awoke pain in a host of bruises and abused muscles and torn skin. His heart pounded too loud and too hard in his chest, and he had to shut his eyes against the wave of dizziness that sent the room tipping over.

Dying. He'd been dying. No two ways about it. Bleeding out his life in Sam's arms because of that crazy old man and his damn knife. Pain and fear and regret, and then nothing but the dark . . . .

"Sam, wake up," came Rosa's quietly imploring voice over the roaring in his ears, followed a little louder by, "Paige! Wake up!"

A surprised yelp, then there was a metallic scraping and a thud, instantly followed by a muffled "Oomph."

"Sam?" he croaked, reaching out blindly with one hand. Which was instantly caught up in a hard grip.

"I gotcha, Dean," Sam murmured, sounding as shaky as Dean felt.

A strong arm went around his shoulders and eased him down from his hunched-over position. The hand engulfing his carefully threaded beneath the IV and around bandages, holding on tight, an action that would normally have him cringing away in severe embarrassment. But hell, if Sam really needed to hang on just this once, it couldn't hurt that much, right? Then Sam's weight settled on the bed next to his hip, and his racing heart began to slow down.

"I'm here," Sam said, a little steadier. "Everything's all right, you hear me?"

"Sammy . . . ." Dean swallowed and took a deep breath before cautiously squinting his eyes open again. "'M okay, Sammy," he whispered.

Sam gave him a tired, slightly loopy grin. Rosa climbed up and over Sam's lap to settle on the bed on Dean's other side, squirming to get comfortable, while Paige pulled the chair in closer and plunked down with her knees drawn up. They all shared exhausted and somewhat shell-shocked expressions despite the obvious smiles.

Dean cracked a faint grin himself. "Hey, you guys," he rasped out. "Gang's all here, huh?"

"Hey, Dean," Sam said. The smile couldn't hide the weary relief and lingering traces of fear in his eyes. "'Bout time you woke up, dude." The grip on Dean's hand got a little tighter.

"Hey, Dean," Paige said, grinning widely at him, her eyes bright.

He gave her a wink, then lifted his free hand just enough to tap Rosa on the nose. "Nice smile there you got there, sweetheart."

She blushed and looked down.

Dean ran quick eyes over them all and relaxed a bit more. Aside from the telltale signs of having slept in uncomfortable chairs in a hospital room (which warmed him more than he'd ever admit to), they all looked pretty good. Sam's hair was its usual mess of flopping bangs and stray bits sticking out at forty-five-degree angles, but Dean saw no blood or bruises, and he was wearing his own clean clothes. The girls also looked freshly scrubbed, and were dressed in what appeared to be hospital-issue pajamas and robes.

"Everybody okay?" he asked anyway, then coughed and winced. His throat sounded – and felt – like it had sandpaper in it. Speaking of which . . . . He eased his hand from Sam's grasp and gingerly touched his neck, noticing the way the others followed the movement. No bandage, no pull of stitches. Just skin. Smooth. Unbroken.

Huh. It really had happened, then . . . .

He slanted a glance at Rosa. She just smiled again and patted his leg.

"We're fine," Sam answered firmly, gently taking Dean's hand again to lay it flat on the bed. "And you're . . . mostly fine."

"Uh, okay," Dean said warily. "How 'bout you guys fill me in on what I missed? I'm thinkin' there's . . . kind of a lot."

There was a quick exchange of glances among the three of them, and Paige's grin faded.

"Yeah," was all she said, ducking her head.

He shifted to sit up, and Sam stood to help him, raising the head of the bed a bit and fussing with the pillow and blankets. He got Dean a glass of water before sitting down again.

A couple of swallows were all Dean could manage, and as he set the glass on the bedside table, he sank back, drained from the simple act of sitting upright. He tried to ignore the way Sam's face tightened in sudden worry.

"So," Sam began, cautious. "What do you remember?"

"I uh," Dean said quietly, choosing to stare at the ceiling, "wasn't doin' so great. Irene was taking Gomer apart, and that's all I got before things turned . . . interesting." His hand went to his throat again. "The old bastard's dead, right?"

"Yeah," Sam said just as quietly. "Irene definitely saw to that."

"Good for her." Dean met Sam's eyes. "It didn't sound . . . pretty."

Sam's mouth twisted. "It wasn't."

"I wanted to help," Paige blurted, fists clutching her robe. "I wanted to hurt him, and Rosa did too – we knew we could. We could do to him what he'd done to us, the same way he'd used us to hurt you. When I got in his head, and saw what he'd done over the years, to all those kids like us . . . ." She shuddered. "He would've killed us eventually. Used us up. I wanted to hurt him so bad," she finished in a whisper.

"But you didn't," Dean stated softly. "Irene wouldn't let you, would she?"

Paige shook her head. "She did it all by herself."

Good girl, he thought. That's another one I owe you.

"Then what?" he asked. "Fagin's dead. Where's the Artful Dodger? Where arewe for that matter, and what day is it?"

Sam cocked an incredulous eyebrow at him. "Did you just make a reference toOliver Twist?"

"Yeah, Sam, I did. Get over it already."

Sam's eyebrow lowered, his mouth twitched, and he appeared to be struggling not to comment.

"I hate Dickens," Dean muttered darkly. He yawned and jabbed Sam in the leg. "What happened next?"

Sam continued to fuss, tucking the blanket in a little more firmly around Dean even as he started filling in the events of the last few hours. Unfortunately, with two little girls in the room, Dean could hardly tell him to keep his fucking hands to himself and to stop acting like a goddamn princess – though from Sam's smirk, he heard the words loud and clear.

Sam went over it all – Brian's disappearance; the frantic drive – in the Impala, thank God – up and down dark, winding country roads, with Paige pointing the way back into town; Sam convincing the cops Gomer was just some crazy old man snatching kids off the street, and they'd had an unlucky run-in with him, then escaped after he'd suffered a seizure or a heart attack or something.

Naturally, no mention to the cops of a dead girl's ghost, and her revenge on the man who had killed her.

"Got you into the ER." Sam paused, met Dean's eyes, and in that moment of silence Dean heard everything that couldn't be said out loud. "Then the doc checked us out," Sam went on, "and the staff let us get cleaned up here." A smile crossed his face. "We've been sort of adopted, actually – got all the nurses fawning over Paige and Rosa like crazy. They fed us and let us spend the night in your room."

"Because Rosa wouldn't stop crying until they said okay," Paige put in.

Rosa nodded seriously. "I screamed really loud."

Dean laughed. "Yeah, I bet you did."

"And now it's . . . ." Sam glanced at his watch. "Seven-fifteen a.m.," he finished.

"And I'm not dead after getting my throat cut," Dean said, yawning again, unable to keep the drowsiness at bay. "That's a good ending." His eyes slipped shut.

"Dean? You okay?" Sam's hand, big and warm, lightly brushed across his forehead.

"Yeah, Sammy. Just . . . tired." He managed one last look. "Thanks, Rosa," he murmured. "You did good. You all did." A small hand curled around his, and another one joined it. Dean smiled and slid off into the dark.

xxxxx

All too soon, he woke groggily to a doctor, nurses in tow, clearing the room of Sam and the girls. Poking and prodding followed, not to mention numerous questions. Unwilling to talk about the injuries, especially in light of their sympathetic and curious expressions, he answered tersely and asked when he could leave. Some hemming and hawing, and a cautious wait-and-see attitude, had him nearly snarling in frustration. But then, after his first meal in days – and even the universally wretched hospital breakfast tasted good – he found himself yawning and falling asleep yet again.

Next time he woke, as he surfaced to awareness from dark, uneasy dreams, the room was empty except for Sam. He slept slouched in the chair by Dean's bed, an open book on his lap.

Dean allowed himself just to watch for a moment or two, then said, "Sammy."

Sam's head jerked up, and his body flinched, the book nearly falling off his lap. "Hey," he said in surprise, a smile forming. "You're awake. How do you feel?"

Dean stretched cautiously, a few muscles at a time, and took inventory. No more tubes or wires, at least, just the few new stitches and bandages. "Not bad," he said, slowly sitting up with Sam's help. "Considering." That wrapped-in-wool floaty feeling was gone, thanks to the drugs having worn off somewhat, and the knife wound from the revenant was unfortunately making itself known again. Not to mention all of Gomer's handiwork. Ribs. Wrists. He winced. Definitely a few bruises still present and accounted for.

No slashed throat, though. That was a significant plus.

"You all right?" he asked in turn, quirking an eyebrow. "You look a step up from roadkill. Which is actually an improvement."

"Gee, thanks," Sam said, deadpan. "That means so much, coming from you."

"Aw, Sammy, don't be jealous. Just because I look good no matter what . . . ."

"Stay away from mirrors for a couple of days, okay? Wouldn't want that fragile ego of yours shattered."

"Oh, you wound me, Sam." And instantly regretted the joke at Sam's near-imperceptible cringe at the reminder of Gomer's "lesson." He reached out and gave Sam a one-handed smack on the closest body part he could reach. "Hey," he said sharply. "I thought we already decided that wasn't your fault."

"I know. But . . . ."

"What? Spit it out."

Miserable eyes came up to meet his. "It was so close, Dean," Sam said hoarsely. "At the end there, I almost . . . . I didn't want her to touch you." He swallowed. "You were bleeding out, I couldn't do anything, and I still didn't . . . . Seemed too good to be true, you know? Saw what happened with that before."

"She's the real deal," Dean said quietly, shifting the pillow behind his back and straightening up. "No smoke and mirrors. No black magic. No reaper. Just a little kid."

"Yeah, she's . . . ." Sam sighed. "Amazing, all right." He fiddled with the book on his lap before setting it aside, twining his fingers together. "She's not like me or Max, is she? Paige, either. They don't fit the pattern."

"Nope, I don't see it. Too young." Dean studied the top of Sam's shaggy head. "And Gomer wasn't a demon. Just a sick, twisted, human son of a bitch. He was into some weird shit, back when he was a shrink." Dean grimaced. "Drug stuff. Trying to expand the powers of his mind and all that. Then he started finding these kids somehow, usin' 'em up, like some sort of – I dunno, energy-sucking psychic vampire. All those names Paige got out of his head . . . . I think he'd been doin' that for a long, long time, Sam."

Sam looked up. "How do you know all this?"

Dean restlessly moved his legs under the blanket. "Ol' Gomer, dude. Classic villain. Liked to talk and boast. Dropped a few things, and I sorta made some guesses."

"Like about Irene?"

"Yeah," Dean said, nodding. "Paige had mentioned her. Said she used to be with them, but not anymore. She didn't say anything about her being dead, but man, from the way she started crying . . . and then . . . ." He took a deep, slow breath. "I saw her, in the shed. When – you know."

"When I was getting ready to put a knife in your shoulder," Sam said bitterly.

"Sam, I am not gonna say it again."

"Okay, okay." He raised his hands in surrender. "Big brother's always right. I got it."

"About damn time. Anyway, Irene." Dean chewed on his lower lip. "You really didn't see her? Or feel her?"

Sam shook his head. "Not then."

"So . . . what happened to her?" Dean asked, suddenly uneasy. The thought of searching for the girl's body, having to salt and burn it . . . . Maybe they could leave this one alone. Just this once.

With relief, he listened as Sam quickly filled him in on Irene's last moments and Rosa's farewell.

"She's okay, then," Dean murmured. He shifted in the bed again, wincing slightly, and asked, "So, where are my girls? Their families know they're safe?"

Sam smirked. "Yourgirls, huh?"

When Dean swatted him, he just laughed.

"Yeah, all right," Sam relented. "When I last saw them, your girls were finally falling asleep in their own room. Courtesy of kind donations, they've got some new clothes, and Rosa wound up with this huge Teddy bear . . . ."

"They're okay, though?" Dean asked.

Sam tilted his head. "They're still . . . in shock, a little, I think. Can't quite believe it's over. But the cops reached their families earlier, told 'em the good news. Paige was on the phone with her parents and sisters for about an hour, and they're all flying in from Oregon. Rosa – it's just her mom and a younger brother, and it took a little longer to track them down. Some small town in southern California. But they're on their way, too."

"That's good," he said, smiling. "But we could've driven 'em home in the Impala. Give 'em a road trip to remember."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, memorable is right. But don't worry. I'm sure the girls'll be back soon. They only left because they got bored watching you drool in your sleep."

Dean felt the blush start and looked away. He cleared his throat. "They're sweet kids. Smart, too. They did a good job, holding up the way they did."

Sam snickered. "You do realize, of course, that we were only saved by the combined efforts of three little girls."

Dean shot him an indignant glare. "Brilliantly executed teamwork by all of us, Sam," he corrected archly. "Besides," he added, thoughtfully, "does a dead girl count? Half, maybe?"

"Not when she did the hard part," Sam answered, sober again.

Recalling the old man's screams and pain-filled pleas for mercy, Dean said, "I'm glad she did. I didn't want . . . ." He had to clear his throat again. "I wouldn't have wanted you to have to do that so we could get away," he went on, quieter. "But I'm glad the old bastard's toast. He deserved it."

"Yeah," Sam said, looking vaguely ill for a moment. "Irene got justice. For herself, and all those other kids, too."

The unspoken addition hovered there between them.

And you.

Dean looked down at his hands. "Yeah, Gomer sure messed with the wrong girl there, didn't he. Now," he said, carefully easing his legs out from beneath the blankets and to the floor with a wince. "I'm not dying anymore, so find a doctor and get me the hell outta here."

xxxxx

Forms and paperwork dealt with, ignored prescriptions stuffed deep into a pocket, Dean comfortably wriggled his toes inside his boots as he shrugged his leather jacket into place. He felt like he was slipping back into his skin again for the first time in days. Now if he only had a gun tucked in his belt . . . .

"Ready?" Sam asked, poking his head around the door.

Dean flipped up the collar on his jacket. "Absolutely. Let's go."

Then he groaned as Sam opened the door wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair.

"No, Sam. No." He backed up. "You are not gonna get me in that –"

"I don't make the rules," Sam said calmly. "You want to leave, you do it this way." He gave Dean a considering stare. "I could just pick you up and plunk you down in it. You're not exactly one hundred per cent."

"You wouldn't dare," Dean said through his teeth.

Sam smiled beatifically. And made car noises as he wheeled closer.

"Get in, and I'll take you to see your girlfriends before we go." Sam leveled a severe stare at him. "You weren't thinking of leaving without saying goodbye, were you?"

Well, he admitted guiltily to himself, maybe he was. Emo-Sammy scenes were bad enough. What was it gonna be like with two little girls? There was sure to be crying.

"Don't be such a wuss," Sam said, accurately gauging his expression.

Wuss, yeah, okay. But he wasn't a cold-hearted bastard, was he? They'd saved his life.

"All right," he grumbled, getting a smirk in return. He grudgingly sat down, trying to make it look like it didn't hurt.

"See?" Sam said cheerfully. "Knew you could do it, Gramps."

"Shut the hell up," Dean growled.

Sam picked up his duffel and put it in Dean's lap. "Here. Make yourself useful."

Dean snarled wordlessly and hung on to the bag.

They took the elevator to the third floor, and as they went past the nurses' station, Dean felt the stares on his back and the murmur of whispers.

Not that he was unaccustomed to turning women's heads, but still . . . .

"Dude," he said out of the side of his mouth. "The hell?"

"Our reputation precedes us," Sam muttered dryly back.

"Huh," Dean said, an eyebrow climbing in surprise. "What kind of reputation? The kind that gets us kicked outta town, or the kind that gets me a hot nurse's phone number?"

"Paige and Rosa may have mentioned something about a rather heroic rescue. Several times."

"Huh," Dean said again. He turned his head back toward the whispering nurses and grinned. And waved.

Sam just rolled his eyes and stopped in front of room 327, knocking lightly.

Nothing but the muffled noise of a TV emanated from behind the closed door.

Suddenly Dean wanted to bolt. He hated this stuff. He wasn't any good at it.

As if sensing his change in mood, Sam grabbed him by the shoulder and held him firmly in place as he knocked on the door.

"Dude, I am notgoing in there like this." He pushed Sam's hand aside, dropped the bag on the floor and stood up, legs only slightly wobbly, and shoved the chair away.

The door swung open a crack to reveal Paige, the scowl on her face quickly shifting to a relieved smile. "Oh, good. It's you guys. Rosa's watching cartoons, and the nurses keep telling her to turn it down. Or," she lowered her voice and rolled her eyes, "another doctor. Coming to, you know, talk about things." She snorted and pushed up her glasses as she stepped back to let them in. "They'd think I was crazy for sure if I told 'em what really happened."

"That's gonna have to be our secret," Sam said, gently maneuvering Dean in ahead of him. "But maybe you can still talk about the rest, okay? If you want."

She shrugged, suddenly looking older than a thirteen-year-old ever should. "Maybe," she said, flat and weary. Catching hold of Dean's hand, she brought him further into the room.

"Dean!" Cartoons forgotten and already bouncing off the bed, Rosa squealed and threw herself at him. Her arms barely reached his waist as she wrapped him up in a hug.

He staggered slightly under the eager assault, stifling a wince. Her grip caught him low on the side, right on the knife wound, but he ignored the flare of pain in favor of bending over to carefully hug her in return. "Hey, sweetheart," he said, swallowing against a sudden ache in his throat.

"Dean, my mom's coming!" She beamed up at him. "And my little brother!"

"That's great, Rosa," he said, one hand coming up to stroke her hair. "Bet she's missed you a lot. She'll be really happy to see you."

"You should come home with me," she said, those big brown eyes staring at him.

God, she was even worse than Sam with the imploring puppy look. Who would've thought thatwas possible?

"Uh . . . ." He straightened slowly, one hand still curled around one of her shoulders, and shot Sam a helpless glance.

Dean caught the fond, dopey grin on Sam's face before he could hide it, and he just knew he was never going to hear the end of this.

"They came to say goodbye, Rosa," Paige said quietly, coming to stand behind the little girl. She met Dean's gaze, and gave him a sad, knowing smile. "They can't go home with you."

"Ah, there's that super mind-reading mojo I've come to rely on," Dean said, just as quiet. He reached out to gather her up with his other arm. Pressed against his side, she buried her face in his chest, her hands twisting in his jacket.

"Don't want you to go," Rosa said, starting to cry. "Irene left, and I don't want you to go, too."

"Hey, hey, now," Dean said, cupping her face. "It's okay. Your mom's coming, and your little brother, and you'll be so glad to see them, you'll forget all about me and Sam."

"I won't," she insisted. "Won't, won't, won't."

Paige lifted her head. "Never," she whispered, looking up at him. Her eyes were wide, the fear she'd endured for so many days clear on her face. "Wouldn't have gotten out of there without you guys."

Dean swallowed again, forcibly shoving away his own nightmare memories of pain and blood and the old man's madness. "Goes both ways, sweetheart. We make a good team, remember?"

"Yeah," Paige said, trying to smile. "We sure do. Using flowerpots and whatever."

"Flowerpots, huh?" Sam teased gently, coming to stand next to Dean. "I don't think I heard that part."

With a shaky laugh, Paige said, "Dean can tell you all about it." She let go and stepped away. "Say goodbye, Rosa," she said softly, looking down at the little girl, one hand resting briefly on her hair.

"Don't want to," Rosa sniffed, now staring at the floor.

Dean awkwardly crouched down in front of her and took her hands. "I don't want to, either, Rosa. But Sam and I – well, we've got a dad out there somewhere, and we have to find him. And we've got . . . work to do."

"Killing monsters?" she asked. "Paige said you kill monsters."

You're too young to know about monsters, he thought sadly. But you've already seen one, up close and personal. I'm so sorry, Rosa.

"Yeah," he answered gravely after a reluctant moment. "She's right. That's what we do."

She looked up, studying him, equally serious. "Okay," she said, and nodded.

Then he felt a brief flare of familiar warmth where her hands lay in his. The same warmth that had driven the pain and the cold from the very marrow of his soul, as he had lain dying in Sam's arms . . . .Within mere seconds the dull throb in his arm from the new batch of stitches eased. The wound in his side became nothing more than a slight itch. He gently removed his hands from hers and drew her in for another hug.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he whispered into her ear. "But I'm all right. Don't wear yourself out too much on a few cuts and bruises, okay?"

Pulling back, she touched his head where he'd been injured in the crash. "Didn't like hurting you," she said.

"I know," he said, nodding. "It wasn't your fault, Rosa. And then you saved my life. So I don't think I'm ever gonna forget you, either."

"Okay," she said again, giving him a slow, sweet smile.

Dean straightened from his crouch, more easily this time. "Sam's feeling left out, Rosa. You'd better give him a hug, too."

"Oh, Sam!" Stricken, she turned and grabbed his knees, unable to reach any higher.

Laughing, Sam picked her up and swung her over his head, making her shriek. "Goodbye, Rosa," he said, as he put her down again with a smile. "Thanks for looking after Dean for me."

Still giggling, she nodded. "You're welcome."

Dean traded a glance with Sam. "Time to go," he said, his voice gruff. "C'mon, Sam."

As Sam gave Paige a hug as well, Dean had already pivoted and in two quick strides was at the door and out in the hall. Then he wavered and abruptly turned around again, almost knocking into Sam as he slipped back into the room. "Here," he said, scrabbling in his pocket to pull out a pen and a scrap of paper. He scrawled his cell number down and thrust the piece of paper at Paige. "Call me. If you ever need to talk. Or anything. Either of you. Okay?"

Clutching the paper in her hand, she swallowed. "Thanks, Dean. For . . . everything."

"Anytime," he said. Then he really did have to leave. He brushed past Sam again, picked up his duffel, left the wheelchair where it was and walked swiftly down the hallway.

Sam caught up, and though he threw Dean an eloquent sideways look, thank God he was at least smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

Silence reigned all the way to the parking lot, but the sight of his car in one piece nearly had Dean falling to his knees and weeping with joy. Instead he satisfied himself with a caress across her hood as he walked past to throw his bag in the trunk.

Sliding into the driver's seat had never felt so good. All was pretty much right in the world, or his world, at least, as Sam climbed in the other side, arranging his long legs into position and closing the door.

Hands on the steering wheel, Dean stared out through the windshield at the hospital for a long moment. "Think they're gonna be okay?" he asked at last.

"Kids are tough," Sam said quietly, giving Dean's own words back to him.

"Yeah," Dean murmured, thinking of Lucas. "They are. And they shouldn't have to be." He turned on the ignition and punched the tape deck. Zeppelin. Good and loud. Perfect. "Hey," he said. "We're practically in Minnesota. What say we drop in on Pastor Jim?"

Sam slouched and stretched his arm out across the back of the seat. "Sounds like a plan," he said with a tired, relaxed smile.

"Hell, yeah." He swung out of the parking lot. "Church lady pies, here we come."

Sam let out a long laugh.

Dean found his sunglasses, and pointed the Impala west.

The End.

xxxxx

(Can you believe it? Time to celebrate – everybody's invited over for margaritas and nachos. Or caramel malts and pecan pie. Mmmm. Piiiiie . . . .)