Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is  Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: Season one; Season two up to "Hunted" and probably some themes from "Playthings".

Summary: The brothers take what seems like an easy case for all the wrong reasons. When things go horribly awry, Sam and Dean realize that their mistakes could cost more than they are willing to pay.

AN: I dreamed up this story long before I ever caught wind of the episode "playthings". The only thing this story has in common with that ep is that the brothers investigate a hotel and it takes place after "Hunted."

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The Addison Hotel

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

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Chapter Eight

"You knew the blood sigils wouldn't work," Sam said, his voice soft as realization sunk in. But when he looked up into his brother's face, his eyes blazed fury.

"I didn't know for sure that they wouldn't work," Dean replied without regret. "But, yeah, I suspected that they wouldn't."

"How long have you known that she'd bound herself to you?" Sam demanded. His voice was forced calm which only betrayed the storm that was about to come.

"Only a few hours," Dean said with a shrug.

Sam shook his head, turning his face away from Dean and stood abruptly. He was seething, Dean could tell, simmering at his edges, just about ready to explode.

"Don't you think that a spirit binding herself to you is something you should tell your brother?" Sam asked.

"Um, no?" Dean replied, bracing himself.

"Damn it, Dean!" Sam shouted. He took two steps away, stopped abruptly then wheeled around towards Dean, mouth opened, and then shut. He took two steps back, then stopped again unable to decide which barb to throw.

"There's nothing you could have done about it," Dean said. "There was no point in telling you—."

"No point? Rebecca could be permanently sealed inside you because of those sigils!" Sam shouted.

"That's unlikely, Sam," Dean said quietly.

"Why do you think that?" Sam asked angrily. "How could you keep something like this from me?" And beneath the wrath, Dean heard a level of hurt in his voice.

"It's not like that," Dean said, gesturing in frustration. "What do you want from me, Sam? I told you before that I've been having trouble keeping her separate, knowing her edges from mine— it didn't seem so out of place that she was there."

Sam stared at him, anger giving way to something else. He pushed his hands over his face, bracing both sides of his forehead. "God, Dean. I don't know what to do," he said, throat swallowing back panic. "I don't know what to do."

"Hey, easy there, Sammy," Dean said, rising from the bed. He grabbed Sam by the arm and ushered him to sit in his place.

"Thought I had it figured out," Sam said, letting out a shaky chuckle. "Wouldn't be the hardest thing we've ever done, binding a spirit to a different object. But we can't now— not when she's bound to a living person— to you— we can't— we can't—."

"It'll be okay, Sam," Dean said with a frown, worrying for his little brother's sanity.

"How?" Sam ground out. "How will it be okay? In two seconds you could be gone again and she could be back— maybe permanently." With his elbows propped up on his lap, Sam dropped his head in his hands, the picture of despair.

It was true; Dean couldn't control when Rebecca would manifest. Maybe with time he could learn to build up defenses and block her from taking control, but Dean didn't think he could stand a prolonged period of time with a head-mate.

And he knew Sam couldn't. His whole life, Dean had always played a very specific role: protector. It really pained Sam to see Dean broken in this way.

Probably still thinks it's his fault, Dean realized.

Sam didn't need to be taken care of anymore— he didn't even want to be— but there was an innate sense of comfort that Dean gave him. If Sam ever needed anything, anything at all, Dean would provide it, and this unspoken truth gave him strength.

A part of Dean would always need to be needed and it was this part that put a small smile on his face, and brought his hands to rest on Sam's shoulders.

"Rebecca knows how to end it," Dean said. "She's always known the one way she could be at rest."

Sam looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

"She has to confess her secret," Dean said. "Nothing else is gonna work, Sam. That's the only way."

"But she's been trying to do that since before we got here," Sam said. "So far she's been doing a real bang up job."

"That's only 'cause of Robert," Dean replied, letting his hands fall to his sides. "We know about him now. We know all kinds things now that we didn't know before— there are two spirits, Rebecca's not the murdering one and there's a baby involved."

"So what are you getting at, Dean?" Sam asked.

"We had the right idea by trying to summon her," Dean said. "We need to try again."

"Are you nuts?" Sam asked. "You nearly died when we tried that."

"Don't you get it, Sam?" Dean asked. "You're the one Rebecca needs to tell whatever it is that she needs to confess. You have to remember what she says, not me. You're the witness."

"Wait, a minute—."

"Besides, you're better at the sympathy thing than I am anyway," Dean said.

"Dean, if you're suggesting—."

"She needs a person to inhabit," Dean said simply.

Sam knew the instant that Dean said it that he meant to do it himself.

"No. Absolutely, not," Sam said, shaking his head, gearing up to categorically refuse to let Dean follow through with this idiotic notion. "She could kill you this time, Dean— or Robert could."

"Look, I'm not too keen on taking another pratfall down those stairs, but she chose me, Sam." Dean's voice dropped to just above a whisper. "I'm the best option for this and you know it."

And Sam did know it. Dean was probably the only person in the whole hotel that Rebecca would fly to without provocation.

"We've been protecting the wrong person," Dean continued. "We shouldn't be trying to protect me from Rebecca— we should be protecting you from Robert."

"So your plan is, what? To go back to the stairs and try to summon her and hope that she'll tell me what's on her mind?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Dean said with a shrug.

"Do you know what a long shot that is?" Sam asked him.

"She'll go for it, Sam," Dean said. "I know she will."

o0o00O00o0o

Making no attempt to hide his concern for Dean, Sam unabashedly tracked his brother around the hotel room, watching him gather supplies for the summoning ritual and load the shotgun with salt rounds.

Dean stilled suddenly, pressing his eyes together then blinked a few times. He needed undisturbed, natural sleep, but had sidestepped all of Sam's attempts to get him to relax.

The Addison hunt had to be put to rest this night. Sam didn't want to think about what another day of living with Rebecca would do to his brother.

"You need to rest," Sam said finally, when he couldn't stand to watch Dean's foolish stubbornness anymore. "Restore your energy."

"No," Dean replied. "If I rest, I think she'll take over again. My exhaustion is keeping her at bay— not enough juice to power us both."

"You look like you're about to drop," Sam remarked.

"I'll be okay," Dean said. "Order me up some coffee and I'll be good to go."

"I can make you some here," Sam said, moving towards the sink where the coffee maker sat. He plugged it in and filled the reservoir in the back of the maker with water then dumped the pre-measured packet of coffee into the filter cup. The machine hissed to life as it heated the water.

Sam was glad to do something so mundane and ordinary as making coffee for his brother. As he watched the dark liquid percolate down into the small glass pot, Sam was struck by the notion that this was the most normal thing he'd done for Dean in a long time.

Earlier it was blood sigils and right now it's coffee and later it will be summoning rituals, he thought. All par for the course for the Winchester brothers.

Pouring two cups, Sam set the coffee down on the table and Dean actually joined him there, sitting across from Sam like it was Sunday morning breakfast at the Cleaver's. The normality of it nearly made Sam burst into a fit of laughter— or tears.

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean said, taking a sip from the cup placed before him.

Dean liked his coffee strong and black, but Sam liked his just the opposite, sweet and light. Sometimes Sam wondered about this. Was it simply preference or was it a habit born out of giving his little brother his share of milk and sugar? Dean would say, Black coffee's a man's drink— sweet and light is for girls, Samantha.

Sam glanced at his brother across the table. As if he could read Sam's thoughts, Dean rolled his eyes and smirked into his cup.

"What?"

"I'm sure I don't want to know whatever deep, brooding thoughts you got knocking around in there," Dean said. "Just quit it, okay?"

Suddenly, Sam realized just how tired he was, getting maudlin over coffee. And if he was tired, Dean must be beyond exhausted. He breathed out a chuckle, and then took in a slow breath, trying to force himself to loosen up.

Sam was eager to get going, but for once Dean was content to wait. They had everything they needed to summon Rebecca and they would go as soon as Dean was ready. He knew this, but so far he hadn't said he was ready yet.

"It's my turn," Dean announced, putting his cup on the tabletop and reaching over for the weapons bag.

"Your turn to what?" Sam asked, eying him wearily.

"My turn to draw on you," Dean said, retrieving a small blade from the duffle with a grin. "Payback's a bitch." He didn't look entirely sane holding up a knife with a face splitting smile, but Sam realized that he probably wasn't entirely sane with Rebecca roaming around upstairs.

"Do you really think that's such a good idea?" Sam asked. "It didn't work for you."

"Well, I was already Looney Tunes before you tried it," Dean said with a shrug. "You had the right idea, Sam. This should protect you from Robert."

Sam sighed, but knew better than to protest. Dean had precious little energy left and Sam wasn't going to waste it squabbling with him over details.

Sam plopped down on his bed, pulling his t-shirt overhead. "The book's on the table," Sam said, nodding in its direction. Dean took a moment to examine the sigils before shoving the book into Sam's hands saying, "Here, make yourself useful."

Drawing the blade over his forearm, Dean forced a trail of blood along his flesh and then bent over Sam's shoulder to double check the first sigil before sketching the protective seal onto his back.

Dean wasn't as familiar with this set of sigils as Sam was and he made slow, careful work of copying the symbols onto his brother. Sam sat patiently under Dean's deliberate but devoted hands.

"Why do you think Rebecca keeps mistaking me for Warren and not Robert?" Sam asked thoughtfully. "I mean, Robert did possess me before."

"Because she loves Warren and—," Dean began without thinking and then abruptly stopped, hands stilled mid-arc. "She just does," Dean said and went back to drawing the sigils.

A small smile crept onto Sam's face as he finished the thought. Because she loves Warren and you love me.

Rebecca had recognized many parallels between herself and Dean, which was exactly why she choice Dean in the first place. His brother kept his true emotions mostly to himself, though if anyone could find a way through the facade, it was Sam.

But Sam didn't always know what was going on in Dean's head and lately, before this Addison business, at times Sam felt like there was a stranger in the car next to him. The secret their dad had dumped on Dean was a backbreaking weight, not unlike the albatross Rebecca had hung around her own neck.

The heartbreak and utter hopelessness that Rebecca had ripped from Dean made Sam churn uneasily. Just like the shapeshifter hadn't been Dean, Sam knew those words and emotions weren't necessarily his brother's, but it was difficult not to ache for him when it was his voice quivering in misery and his face filled with despair and when there were so many parallels between Rebecca and Dean.

Dean had always shielded them both, even when Sam knew his brother was hurting, Dean played it off like nothing could hurt him, not even Sam. Though Dean would never admit to it, when Sam had left for Stanford and broke ties with his family it had wounded him down to the bone. Left unheeded, the wound had bled for a long time, turning bitter and poisonous to his spirit.

They'd come a long way in the many months since then, slowly rebuilding their fractured relationship on the road, but the damage could not be entirely undone, emotional scar tissue marking a weak spot in Dean's heart.

It was the grief-stricken pleading that Sam couldn't take, made his heart wrench and bleed in his chest. The inconsolable supplication asking him not to leave, though words Dean had never said aloud to him before he went to Stanford, was a previously unspoken desire that Dean had been praying for all along. Sam had always known it, could tell in all the ways his brother spoke to him without words, but he had left anyway. He thought Dean understood now why Sam had needed to go, but the fear of being discarded that Sam's leaving had created would probably never go away.

Sam could not help but feel a bit protective of Dean, wanting to erase the unguarded pain in his eyes.

"All done," Dean said, his voice startling Sam from his thoughts. Stepping back from Sam, he retrieved a towel from the bathroom and pressed it to the cut on his arm.

Sam reached for his shirt, but Dean said, "Hey, no messing up the artwork. Give it a minute to dry."

"I really want to get started," Sam said. "There's no reason to wait."

Dean winced suddenly, drawing in a sharp breath.

"Dean?" Sam asked, concern creasing his features.

Dean shook his head as if to ward him off, then winced again, doubling over. Sam closed the short distance between them in seconds, gripping Dean by the shoulders.

"Sam," he said sharply, pushing his palms against his forehead. "I think she's—."

"Fight her, Dean," Sam said. "Don't let her." It was too soon. They weren't ready for her to appear here. It had to be on the stairwell, where Rebecca had tried to confess many times before, where she'd been killed, where her murder still lingered.

"Not so easy," Dean replied.

"Come on, man," Sam said. "Stay with me."

"Sammy?" Dean whispered, his face wrought with confusion. If Dean was lost to her now, he may not have the strength to channel her later for the ritual. Sam couldn't let that happen.

Sam tightened his grip and said, "You're Dean Winchester. You're my brother and I'm not going anywhere and neither are you."

Dean looked away, eyes darting with fear and uncertainty.

"Eyes on me," Sam commanded, sliding his hands up to rest at the base of Dean's neck. "Don't let her take you. You know who you are. You know I'm your brother."

Sam could see him actively struggling, trying to fight the confusion. "You're my brother," Dean said slowly. "You're Sam—."

"And you're Dean," Sam said.

"I'm— I'm Dean," he repeated. "I'm Dean." He blew out a slow breath. "Jesus. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

"Me either," Sam confessed. "You okay?"

"For now," Dean replied. He stepped back from Sam, edging himself into a chair. "We have to try again."

"Maybe I should handle this myself," Sam said. "She might be strong enough now to manifest corporeally."

"You really think that's going to work?" Dean asked, pinning him with a skeptical stare. "After all I've been through there's no way in hell I'm not seeing it through to the end."

"You ready then?" Sam asked him.

"As I'll ever be," Dean said, a grin sliding onto his face.

o0o00O00o0o

It seemed like a lifetime ago when they had first tried to summon Rebecca in the ninth floor stairwell. A week hadn't even passed since then, Sam marveled as he followed Dean through the hotel corridors, carrying their gear to the accident site.

The ninth floor was just as it had been then: eerily quiet. With four people having had fatal or near fatal accidents, everyone seemed to have gotten the message to stay away from the ninth floor.

Not us, though, Sam thought as they walked silently down the deserted hallway. Winchesters never say die.

Dean pushed open the door leading to the stairwell and peered cautiously into the enclosed space. The lights were on, electricity working just fine, and warm light illuminated the empty area. Nothing was waiting for them on the short span of wooden hallway before the start of the stairs.

Sam would freely admit that he dreaded going in there, after all he was the one with the memories of finding his brother sprawled lifelessly at the bottom of the staircase.

If Dean had any reservations, he didn't let them be known. "You ready?" Dean asked him quietly, mirroring his question from last time.

Sam nodded his reply and pushed past Dean into the stairwell corridor.

They set to work, falling into familiar roles; Sam drew a chalk circle on the floorboards while Dean found the north most point of the circle and set a candle there. But then Dean took the canister of salt and traced a thick line along the chalk circle.

"Robert's not getting to you this time," Dean said as he worked.

Sam finished their preparations by drawing a triangle to the east of the circle and then picked up the spell book to read. They didn't need the diary to channel Rebecca, but Sam had brought it anyway just in case and took that out of the bag as well.

Strong and clear, Sam recited the Latin incantation. Dean waited patiently by his side, eyes scanning for any signs of wayward spirits. Just like before, nothing seemed to be happening.

"She needs me," Dean said softly. He glanced up at Sam, saying, "Whatever happens, stay inside the circle," and he moved to step over the salt line.

Sam grabbed his arm, but it was the look in his eyes that held Dean in place. Don't be hurt. Don't do this. I'm worried for you. Be careful. "I don't like this," was all he said.

"I know you got my back, Sammy," Dean replied and crossed the salt circle.

It was instantaneous. As soon as he was clear of the protection circle, Dean staggered a little, then turned back to face Sam.

Traces of Rebecca were transparent over Dean, like a double exposed negative. For an instant Sam could see her face more clearly than he could see Dean's, but she receded back a little, flickering in her semi-corporeal state.

Dean raised a shaking hand to his head, fingers massaging his forehead as he glanced around the stairwell as if truly seeing it for the first time.

There wasn't any more time to waste. This was Sam's one chance to right everything.

"Rebecca," Sam said, addressing his trembling brother. "Do you know who I am?"

"You're Sam," he said and Rebecca made Dean's voice soften when he spoke his name. "You're his Sam."

"Yes, that's right," Sam said. "I want to help you, Rebecca, but you've got to work with me."

"You can't help me. Warren left me here again and I don't think he's coming back," Dean said, looking around as if maybe Warren was there and would prove her wrong.

"You're dead, Rebecca," Sam said bluntly. "You died eighty years ago."

Dean's eyes went back to his and he said quietly, "Robert pushed me."

All of a sudden, Sam felt something trying to drive through the barrier of salt to get at him. Dean took a frightened step back, too close to the staircase for Sam's liking.

"He's here," he said. "He wants to stop me."

"He can't hurt you anymore," Sam said. "Not if you don't let him."

"No, he will— he will." Rebecca was becoming panic-stricken and it unnerved Sam to hear the hysteria manifest in his brother's voice.

"I know what happened to you," Sam said, keeping his voice calm and commanding. "I know that it was no accident. I know that you were pregnant when you died."

Dean's eyes widened and he whispered, "You know?"

"Dean figured it out. He realized it when you took possession of him and he told me," Sam said. "We know that you were pregnant and that Robert pushed you down the stairs to kill your baby." That last part was a guess, but it was a guess that fit. "But Rebecca, you can be at rest now."

Dean shook his head disbelievingly and Sam realized that there was something else that needed to be known.

"What is it?" Sam asked. "What else?"

But Dean was frozen, his face literally white, bloodless, Rebecca's fear of Robert a nearly tangible thing.

The lights flickered menacingly and the temperature in the stairwell dropped to freezing cold. Robert's spirit continued to force its way through the protection circle. Sam wasn't secure in the knowledge that even if Robert did manage to get through, that the blood sigils would protect him from the murderous spirit— they hadn't helped Dean any.

Robert couldn't get past the salt line, but that did not stop him from trying to get to Sam. The floorboards beneath him started to vibrate, shaking from the wrath of this volatile spirit.

Dean swayed suddenly, catching himself on the banister and looked as though he might pass out.

"Dean, hold on!" Sam said, helplessly. If Sam crossed that salt line, Robert would get him. He knew Robert was trying to make him leave the protection circle of his own will, trying to rattle Rebecca enough to get Sam to help his brother.

Robert is tied to Rebecca just as Rebecca is tied to the stairwell, Sam thought, and now Dean is tied to Rebecca. If she could just be put to rest, Robert would be too, and then Dean will be free.

"Rebecca," Sam shouted, his breath coming out in a white puff. "Don't be afraid—."

Blood trickled from Dean's nose; he was sweating despite the cold but shivered visibly from where Sam stood. He was going to collapse any minute now, his body finally giving way to exhaustion.

Sam had no doubt in his mind that Robert would possess him the second he left the salt circle. He would be forced to push Dean down the stairs again. Dean would definitely not survive another fall and Rebecca would never be at rest—

She still hadn't been able to tell him what she needed.

"Rebecca, this is your one chance," Sam called to her, instilling authority in his voice that would have made John Winchester proud. "Tell me now!"

Dean's head snapped up, eyes clear, and for a second, Sam thought maybe his brother was back in control of himself, but then Rebecca's ghost was visible again. With her own eyes, she stared at Sam for a long moment before recessing back to Dean.

"I made a terrible mistake," he said quietly, "and I thought I could make it right. I'm so sorry." Dean let out a slow breath and it billowed visibly around him. "He doesn't want you to know— he doesn't want anyone to know. He's so angry," he said.

The wooden planks beneath Sam's feet shook violently and the salt around the circle began to vibrate and scatter. The line wasn't broken, but it would be soon.

"I know he is," Sam began, "but don't be afraid—."

"Robert is so angry," Dean said again, "because the baby's not his."

Suddenly everything stopped moving. The lights still flickered but at a less frantic pace. Sam's eyes were fixed on Dean as he waited with bated-breath for the rest of Rebecca's confession.

"I was only just starting to show," he said, hands moving down just below his navel, cradling the non-existent baby. Dean smiled then, ruefully. "Warren and I, we reconciled just before he went away again, but I was still afraid he would leave me for good."

Things are better today. He and I have reconciled, Sam remembered. Dean had found that entry in Rebecca's diary hours before they tried to summon her the first time.

"When I realized that I was pregnant, I knew I had to end things with Robert. This was a chance at a family and I wasn't about to blow it."

The wasted time… Sam thought, fitting the pieces into place.

"Robert was furious that I wanted to end it, just as I knew he would be," he said, his smile wavering. "But it was the baby that drove him into a murderous rage."

Sam remembered how much Dean had loathed Robert just from reading a few scant entries from the diary. He'd been able to peg exactly the kind of man Robert had been.

"Didn't like that his property had been unfaithful, even if it was to my own husband," Dean continued. "Couldn't stand the idea that it was another man's baby, although he had no intention of leaving his wife for me. It was that I had dared defy him, that and his own jealousy. He wanted to control everything, even who lived or died."

Even in death, Robert had played God, silencing Rebecca's cries by killing others, still lording over her after nearly eighty years.

"I don't know that he meant to kill me," Dean said. "He wanted to hurt me— probably wanted to make me miscarry." He smiled sadly. "I guess he got what he wanted."

Blinking furiously, Dean's eyes filled with tears. "He killed my baby," he whispered, face twisting with grief.

Rebecca's staggering anguish made Sam's own eyes water, but until she was finished he could make no move towards his brother.

"God, what Warren must have thought of me— we never got our second chance," Dean said. He swayed again, stumbling back a few steps away from Sam.

"Warren loved you," Sam said.

"Did he?" Dean's face drew up in pain.

"Yes. He wanted to have a family. He built a house for you in Nevada. He even had flowers placed on your grave every week until the day he died."

"I didn't know," Dean whispered, trying to ward off tears. "I was stuck here, in this awful place."

"You can be at rest now, Rebecca," Sam said. "You can have peace."

Dean's face was white, the blood dripping from his nose stark against his pallid skin. Sam knew that it was only Dean's sheer stubbornness that kept him from collapsing.

"Nobody knew about my baby, not even Warren," he said. "I never told him. I didn't want him to feel trapped. I wanted him to want me— to want us."

Warren had been away for the entire pregnancy, not only trying to finish the preparations for the Nevada hotel, but also building that house for Rebecca, a surprise that he never got to give her.

Abruptly, Rebecca was visible again, her round face imploring as she asked, "Will you tell him? Will you make sure he knows about his baby?"

"Yes," Sam said instantly. "Everyone will know that your baby existed. I'll make sure of it."

Rebecca looked at him through Dean's eyes, tears glistening in them and said, "I believe you will."

Suddenly Dean's eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched backwards towards the stairs as Rebecca left him.

Sam lunged after him, breaking the protection circle of salt, grabbed fistfuls of his sweat soaked shirt and pulled Dean tightly to him, whispering to his unconscious brother, "I got you, Dean. I got you."

o0o00O00o0o

The Impala turned right off the main road, following a smaller, tree-lined street until making another right into a well-shaded parking lot.

"What are we dong here?" Dean asked as the Impala rolled into Welwood Murray Cemetery where the Addisons were interred. It was a rare instance when Dean was in the passenger seat of the Impala, but Sam had out-muscled him for the keys, forbidding him to drive until he was back up to par.

"I have a promise to keep," Sam said simply.

The brothers got out of the car and walked in silence to the site where Rebecca's ashes and Warren's remains were buried.

Dean lingered back a ways, allowing Sam to have his moment at the Addison plot. He watched his brother stop before the headstones and crouch down low, head bowed in silent prayer.

Dean wasn't too clear about the details of what had transpired in that stairwell and hadn't pressed Sam for many details. Robert was gone and so was Rebecca, both spirits haunting the Addison put to rest.

Dean had woken nearly sixteen hours later in their hotel room to find Sam lying next to him on his bed, eyes red with hours of worry and unrest. Dean had only shadows of Sam's conversation with Rebecca and absolutely no recollection at all of Sam carrying him back to their room or the hours of vigilant waiting.

Opening his eyes slowly, Dean had taken one look at Sam and said, "Rough night, sweetheart?"

"You're an ass," Sam had replied, but rolled in towards Dean, nestling his forehead against his shoulder. Even in Dean's fatigued state he had still felt the utter relief radiating from his little brother.

"Hey," Dean had said. "We okay?"

Sam had lifted his head a little, craning to catch his brother's eye. "We are now," he said, setting back down next to Dean, fingers curling around his arm. He'd known Sam was too tired to see it, so Dean had smiled at Sam's unabashed affection before falling back into sleep.

They slept for another ten hours, Sam jostling them awake saying that if they got up now they could make check out and get the hell out of this damn hotel.

Dean watched Sam kneeling in front of the graves. He couldn't hear what he was saying, but Sam's sincere tone carried back to him in the wind. It was just like Sam to take everything to heart, but this time Dean understood it, probably more intimately than Sam did.

Rebecca was a thought his mind kept returning to. Dean was still all twisted up with her, but he knew she would soon fade; the niche she'd carved out would smooth over and it would be as if she never was. Still, Dean couldn't help but wonder about her eighty years of strife.

It was no accident that she had chosen him as her vessel. Dean could not deny the parallels between them. It was almost as if by showing him her mistakes, she was showing him where he would wreck if he continued traveling down this path. Don't do what I did, Dean. Don't let secrets destroy you and don't be afraid to confess them.

Maybe that's why John had placed such a burden on Dean. Secrets kept from family and loved ones fester over time, rotting the heart from the inside out, and haunting the decaying remains for long afterward.

It scared him, losing control, giving it up, especially when it was Sam that was on the line. The past few days Rebecca had taken any semblance of control out of his hands, giving Dean a real taste of helplessness, but Sam had picked up the slack and together they had come through it.

"We did all right, Rebecca," Dean whispered.

There was still a long way to go, the road that stretched out before them extensive and uncertain. Dean didn't know what would happen with Sam and the other special children. Nothing was certain, save for one thing. Whatever happened, Dean would be standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother— together, on the front line.

Hands shoved into his jacket pockets, Dean crossed the short distance, joining Sam beside the graves. Sam glanced up at him as he approached, but remained silent.

"Got to make sure that baby gets recognition," Dean said quietly.

It was the most important thing to Rebecca, more important than having her killer be known— she'd forged a bond with the baby over her short five-month pregnancy and mourned that Warren had never known about his child.

"We'll go to Millie next," Sam replied, coming to a stand beside his brother. "Tell her what happened. I'm sure she'll want to put a marker up or at least add mention of the baby to the headstone."

With a final glance at the Addison plot, the brothers started the quick walk back to the car. Sam took a sidelong look at his brother. "When Rebecca had you," Sam began, "could you— did you—."

"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "Strange to feel something like that inside you."

"That's how you knew she was pregnant," Sam said. "You felt it."

"She wasn't really mine," Dean explained, shooting a quick look over at Sam. "She belonged to me for only a few scattered moments, but I held her, you know?"

"She?" Sam asked, eyebrows shoot up.

"Rebecca felt the baby was a girl," Dean said. "So did I."

Sam smiled gently, but then he ducked his head and his smile widened into a broad grin.

Dean eyed him suspiciously. "What's so funny?"

"Man, you were pregnant with a ghost's baby."

"Oh no," Dean said, shaking his head. "No way, dude. Doesn't count."

"It so counts!"

"Don't be jealous, Samantha," Dean said, his eyes full of mischief. "It's too bad this sorry incident is the closest that you'll ever come to motherhood, bitch."

"Jerk!" Sam shouted, punching Dean in the arm, but he was laughing as he got into the Impala.

Opening the passenger side door, Dean paused before getting in, surveying the cemetery grounds over the roof of the car with a final look towards Rebecca's grave as he half-listened to Sam's teasing from the inside the car— something about driver and music and shotgun and cakehole.

Things weren't perfect, but at this moment, they were close.

Fin

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Author's notes:

So, that's it guys, my first SPN fic. I can't believe that it's all done! Big THANKS everybody for reading and commenting :) I really appreciate all the readers and reviews more than I can say. I'm really enjoying the Supernatural fandom, and a big part of it is because of all the wonderful people that I have met through fanfic and fanart!

I just wanted to note that the original inspiration for this fic came from reading a book about ghost hauntings waaaaay back in November 2006. I read a one liner about the namesake of the Dorrington Inn Hotel, Rebecca Dorrington, taking a fatal fall down the staircase of her hotel. I saw the potential for a SPN fic there and began fleshing out the story. I made up everything about Rebecca and her family, only keeping her first name in her honor. I did not want to write fictitiously about a real person.

Also, I have a crack!fic in the works. It's an unabashed hurt!Dean and worried!Sam crack!fic. I don't want to spill the details of the crack just yet, though. The tone is a lot different from this story, has more of a horror feel to it and will probably be rated M. Keep a look out for it in the next few weeks.

Thanks so much everybody! I love hearing from you guys, so drop me a line every now and then.

Other things: You can also read this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer. My LJ is a mix of fic, art, my personal life— I post pretty much everything over there. If you want, feel free to friend me. No need to ask.

Email is linked in the bio page. Don't be a stranger!

Thanks for reading.

- Li