Chapter 15: Epilogue

A/N#1: Before we wrap up this final chapter, I feel obligated to mention a few things I feel are noteworthy. As you read this chapter, particularly toward the end, I'd like for y'all to keep a few things in mind:

I'm a romantic. There's no getting away from it or around it. I believe in love at first sight, I believe in love that comes hard and fast. I believe that almost everyone is capable of this kind of love when things are right and the people involved are right. I also believe that these moments change us and stay with us forever.

I believe that Dean is capable of loving like this. I believe anyone who could love his family as deeply as he does is capable of great love for others as well. I think the loss of his mother makes him more susceptible in some ways. And, I believe that Dean is capable of being whatever a woman needs him to be, including gentle and supportive.

Lastly, unless otherwise indicated, anytime I mention what things were like for Dean that first year after Sam left, I'm always, always thinking of Big Pink's "Fire in the Hole." To me, her version of these events is as good as canon until further notice. Well, except for the Bobby part (wink, wink). Even before episode 3.08, I've always held to the idea that Bobby knew the boys as kids. So, for those of you who have read her fic, you'll understand what I mean by Dean's hellish year after Sam left and maybe it'll make some events from the flashbacks more meaningful, knowing where he's coming from. For those who haven't—what're ya waitin' for? Go, shew, read Big Pink, you won't be sorry.

Chapter 15: Fire in the Sky (Epilogue)

The introduction to his heartache began as a child
So it's no wonder that he grew up to be so wild.

Sleeping like babies, both of them. Bobby hovered in the doorway, content to watch the boys peacefully sleeping. Well, okay…Sam really didn't look all that peaceful propped up in Bobby's beat up recliner—legs akimbo—body in constant motion. The boy's giraffe legs dangled well past the footrest and strands of wavy hair fell across his face, obscuring his eyes. Bobby had the urge to brush them away as he'd done when Sam was a small boy. He listened to Sam's murmured "no," and wondered if he was reliving the scene in the living room. Bobby hadn't missed the way Sam's hands had shaken uncontrollably for nearly an hour after they'd settled Dean into Bobby's only bed.

The opposite of Sam, Dean lay motionless in the exact same position they had placed him in—his stillness born of something deeper and more disturbing than simple sleep. It was hard to look at him without remembering. Bobby scoffed bitterly—it was hard to look at Dean period. His gaunt face was still a ghastly shade of pale, accentuating the hollows under his eyes and the two-day beard growth shadowing his jaw and chin. The damage he and Sam had inflicted trying to beat Dean's heart back into rhythm still made Bobby wince. Both wrists and one hand were completely swathed with gauze dressings. Dean had skinned himself breaking free from the cuffs.

It all had to hurt like hell, but for now, Dean was blissfully unaware.

Thirty-two hours and counting—Sam refusing to move from his brother's bedside and Dean silent and unmoving. The gentle rise and fall of Dean's bruised and battered chest was the only sign the boy was even alive. Bobby was beginning to worry about dehydration. Dean needed to wake…and soon.

After draping a ragged but clean quilt around Sam's restless form, Bobby hooked a hip on the edge of the bed. He grasped Dean's arm just above the bandages and firmly squeezed. The skin was cool and doughy—not a good sign. However, Dean's lips, though dry, held no hint of blue, his breathing and pulse were regular and steady. All good things. Moderate dehydration at worst, Bobby thought.

"How's he doing?" Sam's voice startled him.

"Same as before." Bobby paused to run a hand over graying whiskers. "Listen, Sam…if he doesn't come out of this soon, we'll have to start thinking about taking him to the hospital—Feds or no Feds."

Sam sighed. Moving higher in the chair, his eyes fell on his brother. Worry lines creased his brow as he spoke. "Yeah, I know. How much longer can we wait?"

"Maybe 'til mornin'."

Sam nodded as he pushed forward on the wooden handle jutting out from the recliner. The footrest slammed into place with a bang. He leaned forward on his knees, stretched his back muscles, and sat back again, running a hand through his hair. His right leg began bobbing up and down in a steady, rapid cadence as he hung his head with a single shake.

A moment later he jumped up with a breathy exhale and stood in front of the window, hands on hips. But there was nothing to see but pitch black, not even enough light to illuminate the stack of tires piled less than five feet from the house.

"Sam—"

"I know, Bobby, I know. It's just…this waiting. I—"

"Sam," Bobby interrupted.

Sam broke off when he heard what Bobby had been trying to point out. A low, soft moan. Whipping around, Sam's face transformed at the sight of his brother's hand tightening, gripping the heavy comforter. Dean's head turned more fully into his pillow as another soft sound floated from his lips.

Sam tripped over his discarded shoes hurrying to his brother's side. "Dean? C'mon, man, that's it," he coaxed. "Wake up." Dean's cracked lips parted and his eyes rolled beneath their lids. "Dean—you with me?"

Dean's lashes twitched in closed-lid blinks and then parted into a sliver of green. Bobby choked on relief, grinned at the mirrored joy spreading across Sam's face. Dean's gaze shifted to meet Sam's and the younger man laughed loud, throwing his head back in happy release.

"What's so funny?" Dean's rough voice grated.

Sam grinned madly. "Nothin'. Man, Dean, it's just so good to see you awake." He absently thumped Dean on the chest, forgetting.

"Ow! Sam," Dean gasped, hands shooting up to protect his chest.

Sam sucked air over his teeth, apologizing, "Sorry, man. I forgot. Are you okay?"

Dean drew his chin to his chest and studied the deep bruising coloring his skin in black purples and yellow-tinged browns.

"Damn. What the hell?" Confused eyes peered up from under drawn brows to question the two men sitting around him.

Sam's jaw muscle corded, lips making a rigid line as he swallowed.

Bobby threw a glance at Sam, then back again to Dean. Voice gruff, he answered, "That's what it took to save your life."

Staring out the window, Sam rubbed his palms on his thighs. A gesture of nervousness, of worry.

"Damn," Dean repeated. "You guys really beat the hell outta my chest. Someone's been eating his Wheaties."

"Don't," Sam snapped, springing from the bed, one finger poking the air in Dean's direction. "You died, Dean. Died. And we nearly didn't get you back…" Sam's eyes softened along with his voice, "so, just…don't make this into a joke."

Dean's half-grin fell away and he swallowed. Tension made the atmosphere thick, heavy before Dean finally broke the silence. "Well, I'm here now and…I'm not going anywhere, Sam."

The affirmation came quietly, silent apology evident.

Sam's shoulders slumped. "Yeah, I know. It's just…"

The boys' eyes locked and held. Sam's sentence hung unfinished, as mutual understanding seemed to pass between them.

Bobby shifted uncomfortably in the wake of their exchange, unsure of what to say, finally settling on his immediate concern. "I hate to interrupt this love-fest, but you need to get some fluids in you, Dean." Bobby stood. "The sooner the better."

The spell between the boys broke and Dean began struggling up, quipping, "I could go for a little room service."

"Well…just don't go getting used to it," Bobby groused as he and Sam levered Dean up, stuffing extra pillows behind his back.

As he left the room, Dean threw after him, "I don't know, Bobby. You might be kinda cute in one of those little maid outfits…might accentuate your finer attributes."

Bobby gave him a stony glare, but as he turned his back, he grinned to himself and stifled a chuckle. It was good to have the boy back.

oooOOOooo

So he protected his feelings in walls he imagined
But castles crumble exposing the frightened child.

"So," Dean cleared his throat. "It's gone?"

"Yeah, it's gone. Can't you tell?"

Dean's head fell back against the pillow. For a minute, he said nothing…just stared at a fixed point on the ceiling. Flickers of emotion chased each other across his face, throat constricting as he swallowed them back down.

"Well, yeah," he began, voice still hoarse, "but I thought…I thought maybe..." Dean shook his head, one finger gesturing his trepidation as he let the sentence fall unfinished.

Sam blinked, found himself unable to deal with Dean's doubt. His brother's uncertainty said so much about how effective the demon's mind games had been. Plucking at his shirttail, Sam tried to think of the right thing to say. But how do you make something like this okay? He tried to put himself in Dean's shoes. Tried to understand what it must be like to be unable to trust your own senses—your own mind. The forced violation Dean had suffered sickened him.

"It's over, Dean. We beat it—you beat it." Because he needed to say it. Because Dean needed to hear it.

Some of Dean's anxiety fell away from his features, revealing genuine weariness.

"Better as a team, right?" Dean attempted a smirk, but it was as weak and as pallid as his face.

"Always." Sam moved as if to leave, saying, "Maybe I should go, let you rest."

"Sam, wait…you don't have to…I mean, uh, Bobby'll have a hissy fit if I go back to sleep before he gets back." The nervous shake in Dean's voice betrayed him along with the way his whole body tensed, every muscle in his face going rigid. The white edges of panic was clear in his eyes.

Sam stifled his surprise at the veiled request. Schooling his response, he became the epitome of casual calm. "Yeah…okay. I definitely don't want Bobby on my case."

Settling back against the worn, comfortable, recliner cushions, Sam let his eyes meander across the bed. They started at Dean's feet, worked up to his brother's face— then flitted away. His heart tugged. When did I become scared to look at my own brother? he wondered. Sam felt selfish and ridiculous. After all this time, after all his efforts to get Dean to open up, let his feelings show, and now with the door left standing wide open, all he could think of was how he wanted to slam it shut again—have his brother back strong and cocky as ever.

But, in all fairness, he knew his feelings came from the standpoint that this felt more like eavesdropping. Dean had been broken, vulnerability forced rather than given. Sam felt like an interloper, witnessing his brother's exposed soul in this way, knowing it wasn't by Dean's choice. Sam had never wanted this and found himself wishing he could give it all back—all the images of what had been done to Dean, all the whispered secret fears during the delirium and the tender rawness left behind. If only he could just gather it all back up and stuff it back in and make Dean whole, or at least as whole as he'd ever been, then…

By the time Sam had worked up his courage, Dean had disengaged, the moment passing into uncomfortable silence.

Luckily, Bobby came to the rescue with a tray laden with a bowl of soup and a tall glass of iced water. Dean managed to empty the glass and polish off nearly half the soup. It didn't seem like much, but considering, Bobby and Sam were both pleased and viewed it as a small victory.

Dean fell asleep in the middle of Bobby's enthralling update on current events. He had struggled to stay awake and in the loop, but his full belly and the quiet drone of Bobby's voice had been too much for his stoic stubbornness.

"I can't believe he fell asleep sitting up. What did you put in that soup?" Sam teased.

To his surprise, Bobby winked. "I snuck a couple of those white pain relievers you all had into it. Figured he'd never ask for them even though he plainly needed 'em."

Sam shook his head at Bobby's slyness and chuckled. "Nice."

"I thought so. Now get off your lazy butt and help me pull out some of these pillows."

Bobby and Sam carefully maneuvered Dean down flat, stacking the extra pillows at the end of the bed. They left him one pillow for his head and pulled the blankets over his shoulders. Unperturbed by the jostling, Dean curled onto his side, slipping a hand beneath his pillow with a sigh.

"Now that the worst seems to be over, you ready to take a break from this room?"

Sam kicked the recliner back. "Nah, I'm fine."

"Sam. You've been cooped up in here for two days. Why don't you go stretch your legs, get something to eat."

Biting the corner of his lip, Sam gave a shake of his head—disturbed by what he'd witnessed in the depths of his brother's eyes.

"He doesn't want to be alone, Bobby. Earlier…he all but begged me to stay."

Eyebrows climbing high, Bobby was taken aback. Recovering quickly, he amended, "I guess that's understandable—considering. Well, you know where I'll be." Bobby gathered the tray and slipped quietly out of the room. Not ten minutes later, he was back with the soup remainders coupled with a thick bologna and cheese sandwich.

Placing a bracing hand on Sam's shoulder, he assured, "Give it time, Sam. He'll get through this. He'll be okay."

Sam flashed a grateful smile. "I hope you're right."

oooOOOooo

Fire in the sky
Can't you see that all my castles are burning
Fire in the sky
Won't you help me now my castles are burning

Three days later…

"Ouch!" Sam cried, hopping awkwardly past the offending piece of heavy furniture. Sucking in his breath, he leaned over and rubbed his throbbing toe. Why is it that such an inconsequential injury could hurt so damn bad? And why was Bobby's bathroom located at the opposite end of the house anyway? Careful to maneuver well away from the walls, he limped quietly past Bobby, snoring on the couch, and back down the hallway to the bedroom. Still cursing furiously in his head, he paused in the doorway, going stalk-still at the fevered sounds permeating the wee hours of morning.

"No, no… Please…"

Thrashing-sheets came to a full stop as Dean bolted upright with a strangled cry. Sam froze, hoping he'd go unnoticed. In the darkness, he could barely make out the shadowed outline of his brother sitting up in the bed. Dean's shoulders and chest were heaving with pants. A moment later, his head dropped into his hands.

"Just a dream," came Dean's muffled whisper. "Just a dream."

Sam's heart dropped, fully aware of what Dean's nightmares must consist of. The last three nights had been filled with much of the same, neither one of them getting much rest because of it. During the day, Dean had flat out refused to nap even though his body clearly craved, needed it to speed up the healing process. There were the usual "I'm fines" and "I've slept enoughs" despite the dark circles smudging his eyes and the permanent droop in his body.

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face, through his hair—grunted when his injuries pulled with the movement. Gingerly, he eased his legs over the side of the bed and slouched forward.

Realizing there was no way his presence could continue to go unnoticed, Sam padded across the wooden floor, the bottoms of his feet betraying his stealth with each stick-slap on the wood. Dean didn't even bother to look up, probably was already aware of him before he'd taken the first step.

"You okay?" Sam asked, sitting in his makeshift bed.

"Yes, Sam." Said with what Sam was sure held more impatience than was intended, but the implication was clear. Back off. He'd been extra careful not to push his brother, trying to give him time and space to make some kind of peace with himself. But peace was elusive.

Dean surprised Sam with his next words. "We're leaving tomorrow."

"What?! Dean, no. Not yet. Hunting can wait just a little longer. You need to give yourself—your body time to heal."

Shaking his head, Dean protested, "I'm good, Sam. If I don't get out of here—" he looked off to the side and leaned back, hands resting on his thighs. "Sam… I can't do this, I just…I need…I need to go."

"Okay, okay." Sam rubbed the grit out of his eyes, brain casting about for a plan that would both give Dean what he needed and keep him out of the hunt a little longer. But he'd already been working on a plan, knew where they needed to go. The idea had been circling his mind a lot, but he wasn't sure if it would help or backfire, making things worse. He knew it would be tough for the both of them. Dean wouldn't like it, for sure, but if it could help, it was worth it. Sam was willing to take the heat.

"But I'm driving," Sam issued his quiet demand.

"Whatever, dude. As long as it gets me out of here. I'm goin' friggin' nuts lying around all day with nothing to do. First thing in the morning?"

"Tomorrow after lunch."

Dean slumped again with a disgusted huff.

"C'mon, Dean. Two more home-cooked meals, that's all I'm asking. Plus, it'll give us time to swing Bobby around to the idea."

"All right! Okay. But as soon as lunch is over…no stalling for dinner and a nice little bedtime story."

Sam scoffed, "Hey man, I saw that twinkle in your eyes when Bobby told us about his first Wendigo."

"That wasn't a twinkle, dude. Those were tears of boredom."

"Yeah…you just keep telling yourself that, Dean—"

The words barely made it out of his mouth before he got a face full of pillow. With just as much speed, the pillow went sailing in the opposite direction, forcing Dean to duck.

"Hey!" he grunted. "Injured!" Dean pointed to himself with one hand while holding the other up for protection.

Sam rolled his eyes even though the gesture would undoubtedly go unseen in the dimness. "So, think you can go back to sleep now that that's settled?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Trust me, so not a problem."

Sounds of shifting bodies, sheets and springs filled the air as they settled back down. Dean ended up on his back while Sam curled as much of his body into the chair as he could—tossing and turning until he twisted his body into a semi-comfortable position. For several minutes, he lay listening for signs of Dean sleeping or not sleeping. For evidence of an inability to sleep or the herald of new nightmares.

But the now familiar creak-groans of Bobby's house were the all there was. Somewhere outside a night bird screeched and coyotes yipped. The windowpane rattled when a sudden gust of wind beat against the glass, then fell into quiet submission once again. Soon sleep was tugging and pulling him away—warm, fuzzy and welcome. Right on the cusp of bliss, Dean's voice jerked him back.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?" he grunted.

"Just, uh…thanks."

Surprised and sleep muddled, Sam asked, "For what?"

"For not pushing. For giving me time and…for not insisting we stay."

Sam blinked. Then, meaning every syllable, answered back, "You're welcome."

oooOOOooo

In solitude he couldn't deal with his own existence
The burning questions in the castles have still remained.

The next day the boys began packing their things right after breakfast so the rest of the day could be spent doing other things. Dean helped, still stiff and slow, hissing through his teeth when he moved too fast or bent too sharply. In the end, Sam did most of the packing and insisted on carrying everything out to the Impala himself.

Just before lunch, Dean hobbled out to do a systems check on his baby, prep work for hitting the road. Sam didn't protest, knowing it would give his brother something positive to do and him time to pull Bobby aside, run the idea by him and enlist his help.

Bobby peered intently into his mug of coffee, seeming to look for answers in the dark brew.

"I don't know, Sam. It might be wise to just let it alone."

"Yeah, I know. But, what else am I gonna do, Bobby? He's not sleeping at night and his appetite's still nonexistent. He has to deal with it, one way or another. It's past time he put it to rest."

Bobby shrugged. "You know your brother better than I do. If you think it might work, then maybe it will. Just…be careful, Son. Don't push him too hard. Some things never heal completely and you may have to accept that—for your sake and his."

Lower lip sucked in-between his teeth, Sam pressed a hip against the kitchen counter, arms folding. He was stared out the small kitchen window, concern etching the lines of his face. He'd been periodically tracking Dean's movements as he and Bobby talked. Sam watched as Dean straightened from under the Impala's hood, winced and brought up a hand to rub his shoulder.

Pushing away from the counter, he breathed in deeply through his nose, looked at Bobby and said, "I know…believe me, I know how wrong this could go…but, I think it's worth the risk."

"Okay." Bobby nodded. "Okay. In the meantime I think a long, after-lunch nap can be arranged…and I'll start collecting some easy, lightweight hunts for later."

"Good, because I don't think I can keep him cooped up much longer. Just, no ancient demons for a while, okay?"

Bobby smiled. "You got it."

oooOOOooo

God only knows how he searched in vain for the answers.

Hours later found them minutes from their destination—and Sam questioning his own sanity the closer they got. He wasn't sure he was up to this, ready to put Dean through it all. Nervousness snaked through his stomach, twisting it tight. He couldn't help flinching every time his brother shifted even the tiniest bit. Dean—who was slumped low in his seat, sunglasses in place, head tilted sharply to the side—was oblivious exactly as Sam had planned. He should feel bad, he really should, but he doubted he'd have gotten them this far any other way.

About a half hour ago, Sam had been sure he'd run out of luck when Dean began fidgeting through more latent memories. His brother had called out twice, making Sam feel like an even bigger heel for what he was about to do. But Dean had quieted with just a few soft spoken words and a strong grip on his shoulder.

Making a right turn off the main highway, Sam pulled into the drive and parked the car where it would be safely out of sight. Luckily, today was an off day and the place would be closed to visitors and staff. Sam took a breath. Time to put on the show of his life.

Reaching over, he shook Dean. "Dean. Come on, man. We're here."

Dean jerked awake at Sam's touch, head popping up. Wincing, he kneaded his neck muscles, twisted his head from side to side and mumbled, "Here, where?"

Sliding the sunglasses off, he blinked and pushed up in his seat, face slackening as he looked out the windshield. Hazel eyes widened at the red-shingled monstrosity looming over them, shot to Sam and back again, rapidly blinking as if that could erase what he was seeing.

"What the h—"

"Just take it easy." Sam tried to make his worlds calm and even. "It's not a dream…I brought you here."

Confusion, fear and the first vestiges of realization crept across Dean's face, finally settling into horror and indignation.

"Get me out of here," Dean growled. "Now." Voice low and dangerous.

"Wait a minute, Dean. Just lis—"

"Goddamn it, Sam!"

Dean lunged for the keys, but Sam snatched them away seconds before his fingers made contact and stuffed them in his pocket.

"Dean, just please listen—"

"Sam, I'm warning you—"

"—please, Dean. Hear me out—"

"How could you bring me here? Give me the keys, Sam, or I swear to God, I'll start walking—"

"Dean—" Sam grabbed his brother's sleeve, held on tight. "Damn it, Dean, just give me a chance. That's all, just a chance."

As soon as Sam's fingers pressed into his brother's flesh through the heavy coat, Dean froze. Shooting a glare at Sam, he yelled, "A chance for what, Sam! Don't you think I see this in Technicolor every single night?"

Dean's nostrils flared. His face was granite, but he had stopped trying to get out of the car.

Sam rushed on. "And don't you think I know that, Dean?! Man, I know. Trust me, I do. I hear it every night. Dude, I see it in your eyes every damn day. It's not getting better—you're not getting any better. You have to face this, Dean. Please, I'm begging you. What have you got to lose?"

Dean dropped his chin to his chest, eyes clamped shut, grip on door handle going whitewhitewhite, but he didn't move to get out. Sam could feel Dean shaking through the thick material of leather, could feel the tension coming off him in waves. His breathing came in harsh gusts, sweat blanketed his face, but he didn't pull away, just continued to sit, jaw muscles working in beats, each swallow slow and stiff. Clearly he wanted to make a break for it, but for whatever reason, didn't.

Beginning to get worried, thinking maybe he'd made a mistake, maybe he'd pushed too fast, Sam questioned, "Dean?"

Dean shook his head "no." Short and quick. Not ready.

Sam nodded, but didn't let go, instead, dug in and got a more secure hold on his brother's forearm, willing him to stay, wanting him to feel he was right there with him.

They sat like that until Sam's own muscles protested the tension, the lack of moving, the sustained struggle of stay.

The sinking afternoon sun glinted in Dean's hair and perspiration drip-dropped off the sides of his face, catching stray beams of light as it fell. Sam focused on the starkness of Dean's freckles illuminated by the paleness of his skin. He tried to remember how his brother had gotten that tiny scar embedded on his left cheek, fully remembered how he'd come by the long, jagged, still-raw groove stretching across his temple into his hairline, as well as the other recent abrasions and bruises running along his cheeks and jaw. Strangely, Sam found himself thinking that Dean was built like Dad, but his face held Mom's delicate features. Huh.

He studied Dean closely, gauging the undercurrent of emotions by watching his brother's face carefully. Everything he needed to know would be found there—which is probably why he'd been having trouble looking at Dean directly since this mess started. But if he was asking Dean to do this impossible thing, this cruel thing, then the least he could do was man up and face it with him. They'd do this together, get through this together—if Dean would allow it.

"I don't want to be here, Sam," he simply said.

Mouth going dry, Sam answered, "I know. But I think it will help."

Dean slid his eyes slowly over and up to Sam's. Raw pain and misery reflected from within, his biggest tell always his eyes. Sam forced himself to keep steady when he wanted to flinch away. He could still feel Dean's tremors tripping under his fingers.

"All right. Why are we…here?" Dean's voice stretched thin, broke at the end.

"You're going to have to trust me. Okay?" Sam paused and waited for a nod before continuing, "I want you to show me."

Sharp, bright flashes supernova'ed in a sea of green.

"Sam." Dean whisper-choked his brother's name. His bottom lip jumped and his chin trembled as he opened his mouth, sucked in a breath, forcing out, "I don't want this."

A chasm opened up beneath Sam, threatened to swallow him whole.

"Just trust me, Dean. Please."

Bastard. I'm such a bastard. Please forgive me, Dean. It's for your own good.

A short, grudging nod spurred Sam on.

"Show me. Show me where it happened."

oooOOOooo

Now castles crumble exposing his naked flames, yeah.

It felt like slow motion climbing out of the car, surreal slow. Dean could feel Sam's attention drill into him, almost suffocating in intensity. Warm California weather made their coats and over-shirts unbearable, so they both stripped down to their t-shirts, tossing the extra clothing back through the open windows. Sam ran around to the trunk and fished out their canvas duffle—pre-packed with flashlights, sawed off shotguns, an EMF detector and other ghost hunting necessities—before joining Dean by the front bumper.

"You think we'll need all that just to take a trip down memory lane?" Dean asked.

"Can't hurt to be prepared."

Dean shrugged, schooled his face into smooth resolve, turned toward the gaudy excess of a house and began walking. Tension in each step, back rigid-straight, Dean led Sam past the lush flowerbeds and rows of emerald hedges, walked past the visitors' entrance and strode purposefully to the side of the mansion. A low burn spread through his stomach, churning acid and flipping somersaults, the moment he began searching for the right one.

Face turned up to examine the rows of windows high above, he stopped beneath a large gabled dormer jutting out from the house. Sam's shoulder pressed into his, lending support by proximity. Dean's skin stretched tight across his face and he fisted his hands at his sides. A wave of nausea hit him, crawled up his throat and forced him to swallow hard to get it back down, heart hammering in his chest.

With a curt nod, Dean said, "That's it." Gaze ticking down to the ground, he gestured to the area in front of them. "Except, back then, this section was still part of the parking lot."

"Grab my hand!"

"No, I can't. I can't!"

The memory echoed loudly in Dean's ears. He reached up to drag his thumb across his lower lip, a distraction of little effect. Beside him, Sam stood staring up at the window, squinting even though they were well protected from the sun, perhaps trying to envision the scene in his own mind's eye. Perhaps struggling with his own feelings about being here.

Very much aware of Sam and this place, Dean shifted his weight and dug his fists into his pockets, looking away and around the property.

Sam produced the EMF and began sweeping the area, surprising Dean with his calm, clinical approach. Nothing happened. No red lights, no high-pitched squeals or squeaks. Nada. Sam tossed the black homemade gadget back into the bag, turned to Dean. "Ready to go in?"

Dean's knees weakened, a sickening curl of dread coiling in his stomach.

"In?" His eyebrows shot up and he leaned forward. "You mean you want to go in there? Why?!" His shoulders climbed, but hands stayed buried, "What's it going to prove? Huh, Sam? I already know it wasn't really her…that she's…that she's not here. I know, okay? So, can we just go already?"

"I want to go in, Dean. Humor me."

Dean walked a short distance away and gave Sam his back. He shook his head in frustration. Little brothers could be so…stubbornfrustratingimpossible. He pulled his hands from his pockets, propped them loosely on his hips, prepared to refuse the request.

"Maybe I need this, too, Dean." Sam's quiet statement was a request, a plea that couldn't be refused.

Unfair. That's not fair, Sammy. Don't make me do this.

"Please, Dean."

He turned back to find Sam giving him doe-eyes. His heart pulsed, throbbed. He knew he was defeated.

Hands waved in the air as he gave in. "Fine. Fine. I think there's a side door we might be able to use."

It took ten minutes to break in, find the right combination of rooms and staircases and climb to the top floor. His recent physical condition made it all the more difficult and ridiculous. Bullheaded and determined, he made it all the way to the top of the second wrong turn before admitting he needed a minute—it came down to that or risk losing face by passing out. By the time they made it to the top landing of the correct staircase, he was dizzy, weak—sweat streaming down his face, neck, and back, pools of it collecting under his arms.

His thigh muscles on fire, he stood slightly bent, arm pressed against his ribs, trying to stifle heavy huffing by breathing through his nose. Barely out of breath, Sam stood next to him, one hand resting on his shoulder.

"Y'alright?" Sam drawled.

He nodded. "Yeah…just a little outta shape, I guess."

Sam clapped him on the back and started down the long, dim hallway. Seeing his brother drawing nearer to the window, a surge of fear sliced through Dean, pushed him to catch up. He had long since destroyed the only supernatural presence in the mansion, but seeing Sam, his Sam, walking down that hallway to stand next to that window left him chilled to the bone. Unaware of the hopscotch going on inside Dean's chest, Sam leaned forward, running a hand along the curtains and looking down at the ground below.

Sam, move away from the window. Please, just back away.

"So, when you fired at the ghost," Sam began, seemingly oblivious, "Hannah was standing here—in the middle—when you shot her, right?"

Aw, Sam. Can we just not talk about it anymore? Are you still angry? Is that what this is? Punishment?

"Well, yeah. I guess."

"You guess? Think, Dean. How did it happen—exactly?"

Okay, you're still pissed at me. I get it, but do we have to do this?

"Can we just not do this?"

Sam's face didn't waver. He drew himself to his full height, squaring his shoulders.

"Dude, it was a long time ago."

No concessions. Sam was waiting for his answer.

"I don't remember, exactly." Dean glanced at the door he'd been pinned to all those years ago and had to squelch the urge to shiver.

"Hey! This what you want?" Hannah's voice echoed through his mind. "Let him go and come and get it you freaky bastard."

Dean shook off the flash of memory to see Sam pulling at his chin, analyzing and pulling facts from his never forgets a freakin' thing brain.

"So," Sam pressed, "this is the door you were pinned against…right?" Sam looked at him for confirmation.

"Yeah…but what difference does—"

Sam grabbed his shoulders and scooted him in front of the door, "you were here. And…uh," Sam quickly jogged back to the window. "Hannah was here."

Oh, God. Please, Sam. Don't. You don't want to know this.

"Right?"

Eyes begging Sam to stop, Dean stood mute, skinning crawling with a brief sense of déjà vu.

"Just humor me, Dean. Okay?"

Dean smirked, looking down and away. Images from that night flickered through his mind…too fast, at first, to hold onto, but getting clearer.

"And, the ghost was where?" Sam's persistent voice meshed, tangled, mingled with mental pictures of that night, Dean no longer able to hold them back.

An invisible hand cut off his words. No longer able to breathe, he clawed at his throat. Suddenly he found himself sliding up the door until he no longer touched the floor, all the way up until his head bumped against the top and bent his neck at an odd angle. Gasping, kicking and fighting against his attacker didn't seem to have effect. Spots began dancing before his eyes. Vaguely, he was aware of Hannah's voice somewhere below him.

"Hey! This what you want? Let him go and come and get it, you freaky bastard."

The pressure around his throat eased, allowing him to gulp in fresh air. Opening his eyes, he saw Hannah standing in front of a large window that ended the hallway in top to bottom glory. She was holding the bones in the air, an offering in exchange for him.

"No, Hannah—don't!"

"Dean!? Dean! Stay with me," Sam enunciated clearly, snap and crackle in his voice, brows dipped in worry.

Dean blinked, only seeing Sam standing before him. He realized his hand hovered at his temple, fingers twitching. He let the hand drop and focused on Sam. His brother's face relaxed and he let go of his arm, taking a step back.

"Think, Dean. Where was the ghost?"

Dean closed his eyes.

The spirit hovered closer to Hannah. To her credit, she stood firm, waving the goodies in front of her, tempting it closer to her…and further away from Dean.

"On the left, over there."

Sam shuffled quickly to where Dean was pointing. "Here?" he asked.

"Yeah, that seems right."

"But Dean, if the spirit was here and Hannah was there…how could you have possibly hit her with the rock salt?"

Dean didn't even hesitate. "Because it went for her and—"

"—and you're that lousy of a shot?" Sam interrupted incredulously. "You couldn't take it out before it reached her?"

"No," Dean spat. "It was charging her…and, just as I fired, she dodged toward me."

Ripples of anxiety buzzed through him, pulse thumping in his ears—he started to feel a little dizzy.

Sam seemed not to notice that either.

"She moved towards you. So you're saying it was her fault?"

"What?! No! Hannah did nothing wrong." What the hell, Sam? His chest tightened and he struggled to keep it together, old wounds becoming fresh and new. He could hear Hannah's screams loud in his ears. The sound of breaking glass was all around him. Dean blinked and tried to push it away.

"Okay, then that makes you a lousy shot." Sam walked toward Dean nonchalantly, taking his time.

"Sam," Dean growled in warning. His brother knew better than to question his skills. It was the one thing he always did right.

Holding his arms out, palms up, Sam asked, "Well…which was it, Dean? Either you are a lousy shot or it was her fault for getting in the way." Sam was now directly in front of him, gaze unwavering and voice determined. "Whose fault was it, Dean? Huh? 'Cause we both know you're an excellent shot. Did you shoot her on purpose?"

"Don't be stupid, Sam." Dean leaned away, tight-lipped, jaw rigid. Why was Sam doing this? Inside he was falling apart, overwhelmed by being here and by his brother's intrusive questions.

"Then it must be her fault, Dean." Sam's voice was loud and prosecution provocative.

Dean shook his head, replaying each step in his mind. Trying to get a clear picture, aware he was breathing funny, strange sensations flooding his body, fingers going numb.

A ghostly wail filled the room as the creature charged the cowering girl.

No time to think, Dean drew the shotgun up and fired at the same moment Hannah tried to dodge the attacking ghost—putting herself directly in Dean's sights. Rock salt blasted through the spirit and hit Hannah full-center of her chest, knocking her through the window in an explosion of glass and screams.

"NO!"

Exploding glass. Hannah's screams. His screams. Blood, so much blood on his hands, everywhere, everywhere. Always there's so much blood.

Flinching back to the present, Sam was crowding him, toe to toe, egging him on, talking in that stuffy, logical, refusing-to-see-reason voice. How much time had he lost?

"It had to be Hannah's fault!" Sam was saying. Poking one finger into Dean's chest, he picked up volume and repeated, "If you didn't shoot her on purpose and if you're not a lousy shot, then it had to be her fault for getting in the way." Dean's palms pressed against his brother's chest, trying to keep him at bay. "Can't you see, Dean? It was her fault all along. She was the one—"

Sam's words hammered at him and the rising tide of grief started to unravel somewhere inside—stretching, fraying, coming loose.

Fault. Who's fault, Dean? Who's fault? Not Hannah's fault. Never hers.

Fault. Blame. Guilt.

Screams. Blood. Death and decay everywhere.

Everywhere. It follows me everywhere.

Stains everything I touch.

Suddenly, he couldn't get enough air or swallow, his hands started shaking and his insides quaked. The room was closing in tooclosetoocosetooclose. His ears were ringing. What was happening to him?

Long, dark hair billowing out in the rising wind, she hesitated, then said, "Dean, I'm scared. I don't want to die."

I don't want to die.

Die.

Everyone dies.

Everyone...

but me.

"—that's what we need to decide, here. Are you listening to me? Dean? Answer me!"

"She dodged, I fired. It-It just happened." His fingers were wadded in Sam's shirt, twisting and jerking as he tried to push his brother away. But Sam wasn't letting go, his strong grip had wrapped around Dean's upper arms, squeezing and pressing. And maybe that was good because he wasn't so sure his gelatin knees could keep him on his feet.

"Whose fault was it?!" his brother shouted again, relentless.

"Sam."

"Whose. Fault. Was. It?!"

"Nobody's!" He shouted back. Eyes begged for mercy as his voice cracked, "It was nobody's fault."

Resignation heavy in his words, in his soul. His legs gave out from beneath him and he slid to the floor. Sam made the decent gentle. Fat tears trailed down Dean's cheeks and his shoulders hitched with the emotion he'd struggled so hard to contain. Ultimately, it was a losing battle. Hugging himself, he withdrew against the door, trying to pull away and hide. Hide his guilt, his shame…his loss and fear. All the things that should stay hidden, all the things Sam should never see.

Radically, Sam's demeanor changed. His warm hand squeezed Dean's shoulder, pulled him forward. His little brother rubbed circles on his back and, voice soft and compassionate, he murmured, "It's okay, Dean. You're okay."

Dean tried to speak but his throat closed up around the words. A few seconds felt like minutes until he finally forced out, "I'm sorry, Sam."

"Dean. You don't hav—"

"I should've told you," Dean kept going, trying to say what had been kept inside for so long. "She was your friend and now she's gone…because of me.Maybe it wasn't my fault directly, but..."

Sam pulled away to make eye contact, voice hitching, "But don't you see, Dean? I don't blame you. You did nothing wrong. She did nothing wrong. It just…happened."

Dean sucked in an unsteady breath, avoided Sam's gaze and insisted, "I should've never…should've never gotten her involved."

"Maybe. But how could you have known what would happen? Could you have stopped her from coming up here on her own? You didn't even know until she was already in trouble."

Miserably, he shook his head. "But I'm the one who brought her into it. Me, Sam. No one else made that decision. I could've kept her out of it from the beginning."

"Give me a break, Dean. We do it all the time. We're not superheroes, man…sometimes we need help. Without Hannah, more people could've gotten hurt before you even figured out where all these," his hand waved at the air around them, "hallways and stairs go…and once she was involved…Hannah always was curious about everything."

Dean's fingers upturned in a gesture of helplessness, head dipping.

"Truth is…I wanted her with me. I liked being with her—and she trusted me, Sam. Believed me when I told her about what we do… didn't look at me like I was a freak."

Head tipping back, Sam peered through veiled lashes at Dean, a sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "So you enjoyed her company, Dean. So what? There's nothing wrong with that. Don't feel guilty for being attracted to her. She was a great girl and no one can blame you for being lonely and needing someone."

Dean met his brother's eyes, searched for any hint of blame or deceit—found none.

Sam shrugged, frowned as he continued, "Maybe you should blame me for not being here. I mean, you know, if I had been here instead…maybe none of this would've happened."

"No, Sam. Don't do that. This was my hunt, my call."

"Yeah, it was, Dean. But this," Sam gestured toward the window, "was not your fault, either. You did the only thing you could've. You've got to stop punishing yourself for this. Things happen—you know that. It's time to let yourself off the hook. For all of it…'cause, you don't need to apologize to me…about anything…I understand. Okay?"

Dean finally dipped his head in acquiescence, one brow arching as he pursed his lips. With a final squeeze-pat, Sam let go of his neck and settled in beside him, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Wiping away the wet streaks marring his cheeks, Dean sniffed, sat back, legs stretching out beside Sam's. He tilted his head toward the window, giving his weight to the solid wood behind him. The cold penetrated his thin tee-shirt and stole some of the heat from his body.

Outside, shadows lengthened, the deep gold-orange of early dusk painted everything with a heavy hand, setting the world on fire. Stunning. He'd forgotten how beautiful sunset around here was.

Sam rolled his head toward him.

"You gonna be okay?"

Thinking the question over, he wasn't sure what to say. Just being here again triggered so many feelings and memories he'd forgotten. Some bad, some good. Some stuff the Culpa Moh had purposefully neglected. Maybe it really hadn't been his fault. Maybe Sam was right. But maybe it would never feel right the way Sam wanted it to, either.

"As okay as it can ever be," he finally answered.

Frowning, Sam nodded. "I guess I can live with that."

Dean could see his little brother from the corner of his eye—Sam was dying to ask a question he wasn't sure he should ask.

"What, Sam?"

"Sooo…you really liked her?" Sam nudged him as he asked it.

One shoulder lifted then dropped. "What's not to like? She was sweet, funny and sexy as hell. And, even better, she didn't think I was fruit loops. I didn't have to pretend to be someone I wasn't with her."

Sam's fingers laced together across his knees, pointing and moving as he talked. "You think it could've been something…more?"

Dean snorted. "Nah. She'd have wised up sooner or later. Can you imagine a girl like her taking me home to Mommy and Daddy?"

"I don't know… Thing is, you'd have liked for it to have been something though…right?" Sam said, tapping Dean's knee with his own.

Dean didn't answer at first. Staring into the distance, a wash of memories, watercolor-pale, began to brighten and take form. Things he hadn't felt he deserved to remember and others that just hurt too damn much to remember.

The last night they spent together was one of the hardest, most bittersweet. Walking through a park near the San Francisco Bay, they had talked for hours, walking side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing. He'd been shocked by his openness with her, how easy and comfortable it had been to just be Dean. Her acceptance of his life—his job—was confusing at first, unexpected. There were no pretenses to be kept up, no expectations to be met, and it was as liberating as it was strange.

As they talked, they recognized themselves in each other. The steadfast loyalty and love they held for the important people in there lives. That same willingness to be lost for the sake of another, to disappear and cease to exist. With Hannah, he'd found commonality, mutuality, sameness of self and yet…not. There was a duality there, too. Where he was all hard lines, buried secrets and shadowed darkness, she was gentle bends, open book and illuminant innocence.

Not realizing he'd been lost in thought, he jumped when she touched his arm. The bronzing sun picked up the red-gold highlights in her hair, making it glow and shimmer, changing colors as it shifted with the wind. She smiled up at him, joy of life, joy of his company, didn't really matter which, shining in her eyes. It made her even more beautiful, more desirable. Caught up in the moment, he'd grabbed her into his arms, pulled her under the canopy of a Kwansan tree and told her so. She'd blushed and looked away, uneasy with the compliment.

Wanting her attention back on him, he'd said something clever, making her laugh full-throated, head pitched back. And, he'd wanted her. Wanted the feel of her on him, wanted her to take away the coldness, the bitter loneliness that had settled into his bones since taking this job and seeing Sam happy in his new life. Sam, who had looked content, safe. Sam, who didn't need him anymore.

But Hannah did. Her eyes were lit up with need. Need to be held. Need to be protected. Need for him. His aching heart recognized her need and answered it.

She tasted like cotton candy and he hadn't expected that. Pink, fluffy cotton candy. Maybe it was her lip balm or maybe it was something else, he didn't know, but he liked it. Her lips were sweet, juicy and soft. Fingers came to rest alongside his face, her thumb running across the apple of his cheek in delicate strokes. And he liked that, too—found himself leaning into her touch. He deepened the kiss and felt her tentative exploration of his mouth, and then hesitation—maybe from inexperience, maybe from resistance.

Pulling away, he looked down at her to see which it was. She looked back. Her eyes held a hint of nervousness, of vulnerability. And there was softness there, a tenderness none of his previous lovers had held. She smiled, cheeks blushing pink as he continued to stare.

The cavernous hole in his heart that had started with Mom, culminated that first hellish year without Sam and kept on growing with every passing day, week, and month since seemed to ease. Something about this girl made it ache a little less. Her easy companionship? Her willingness to give of herself? Maybe her total lack of judgment of him? He didn't know what equation made this moment, this time different, special, but fierceness for this girl he barely knew ravaged his heart, made him feel dangerous and possessive. And, while these feelings terrified him, he had never been more exhilarated.

"What?" she'd asked when the stare became prolonged, intense.

The corners of his mouth pulled up into a grin. "Nothing. Just…you're beautiful."

"So are you," she whispered back, without reserve, somehow meaning something more than just his face. It took him by surprise and warmed the neglected things he'd tried to ignore. Things he pretended didn't exist or matter.

Needs and desires he'd pushed away and down deep overcame him. His soul stirred within, dared him to want things he'd never hoped to have. Uncertain, he covered by doing what he knew had worked in the past.

But this time when he dipped in to cover her mouth with his, their noses bumped awkwardly and nervous, self-conscious laughter burst from both of them. His cheek came to rest against her forehead, her giggles tripping along his jaw.

She tilted her head away from his, smiling. Tender fingers traced the edges of his hair, tickled behind his ears and tugged at the hair there. She drew him slowly back to her, hesitating just before their lips met. A tremor shook her and he wondered if it was from cold or anticipation, but the thought fell away when she closed the distance between them.

At first, her shyness made her efforts graceless, clumsy, but then her body pressed close and her mouth began working in perfect tandem with his, igniting a tingle in his stomach that did funny things to his heart. The heart-thing was new and he wasn't sure he liked it. It almost hurt and yet felt good and right. It was scary and wonderful all at the same time. The blood pounded in his ears—through his veins, arteries and every part of his body. His skin tingled—he felt so alive.

Hannah's hands slipped beneath his shirt, got lost in the folds of it, finally ended up at his stomach. She kneaded his ribs then moved up to his chest, around to his back, to pull him down, urging him closer. Her touch left sparks of sensation, his skin greedily drinking in the warmth of it. His guard fell away; he wanted this more than he wanted the safety of holding himself back. Wanted to crawl inside her and lose himself. Heal me, his heart begged.

He nipped at her full, lower lip, trailed kisses down and across her collarbone. He sucked at the base of her neck, breathing in the vanilla overtones of her perfume, and laughed in his throat when she went weak against him with a gasp-sigh. His chest swelled and his stomach clenched that he could do that to her. Suddenly, it mattered a great deal to him, this power to please her. It heightened the experience and, yet, made him more uncertain of himself. But then she'd whispered his name against his skin and he lost the ability to think. Only to move.

Still sheltered by the drooping limbs of the cherry tree and falling dusk, they sank to the ground, lost in a moment of touching, tasting, and breathing—blossoms dropping all around them like pink rain. Explosions of white, thrills of heat and consuming need filled him. He offered himself to her, hummed with pleasure when she slid a hand passed his waistband and grazed the naked flesh of his hip. Electricity jolted from limb to limb and he craved skin on skin contact. Shaking, hurried fingers fumbled at their clothes, his chest pressing deeper into hers. The horns on his charm accidentally dug into their flesh and they both grunted in response. The reminder of who he was and where they were was just enough to let him regain himself. To remind them both of their all too public surroundings.

Flushed and panting, they reluctantly pulled apart, stared at the offending piece of jewelry with a mutual groan. Their bodies jumped with laughter, his head falling to her shoulder and resting there until he could recover from his upward spiral—body still weak with crazy-strong desire. Conscious of his heavy weight crushing down on her, he braced one hand on either side of her and rolled off to lie in the cool grass. Turning to his side, his chest pressed against her elbow—not yet ready for a total loss of contact.

"You want to go…somewhere?" she'd asked.

The trip in her voice told him she wasn't used to making such suggestions. He'd lifted his head and found her rich, soulful eyes devouring him. But he saw more than physical need there, too, and in that moment, he knew he'd only hurt her. She wasn't one of his one-night stands and, right now, he wasn't free to offer much more. He traced a finger along her jaw and over her lips, wishing things could be different.

Leaning in, he pressed his forehead to hers, moaning his regret before pushing away. "Better not. I've still got some research I need to do before tomorrow and you've got your early class in the morning."

It gutted him to say it, to let the moment between them end, but he wouldn't have her damaged by his need. Something inside broke at the thought that he had to protect her from himself. From the hurt that followed his life with a relentless determination to destroy and ruin.

Suddenly unsure and maybe a little embarrassed, she'd straightened her clothes and averted her eyes as she stood. "Yeah, you're probably right. I have a test tomorrow in Biology…"

As she'd turned to walk away, he shot to his feet and grabbed her hand, pulling her back into his arms. "Hannah. It's not that I don't want to…'cause I do…it's just…it's just not good timing, ya know?"

Tentatively, she searched his face, must have found the truth she'd been looking for and smiled, dimples caving in at the corners of it. "Yeah…yeah, I think I do." Mischievousness crept into her eyes as she leaned up to kiss his cheek and whisper, "You owe me a rain check."

"Dean? Earth to Dean." Sam's fingers were snapping inches from his face and he flinched, bringing up a hand to swat at them.

The memory fell away like so much sand sliding through his fingers, leaving him cold and vacant in the absence of her.

"You okay, man?"

Blinking to Sam's face and then away, he answered, "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Dr. Phil. I'm fine. Just," his cast his eyes away, "…remembering."

His body echoed remembered desire, but more than that, he ached for her touch, for the way she'd looked at him—made him feel whole and not quite so broken.

"Anything I need to know about?" Sam asked.

A slow, lop-sided grin transformed his face, putting a twinkle back in his eyes. Holding up one hand, palm out, he said, "Nope. Some things I need to keep for myself, little brother."

Letting out an exaggerated grunt, Sam stood and offered his help up. "You ready to blow this joint, then?"

"Are you kidding? I never wanted to be here in the first place."

He gripped Sam's hand and stood, wincing, his body protesting the fresh blood rushing to cramped muscles and still healing wounds. With one last glance at the window, he nodded then turned and headed toward the stairs. Snagging their duffle, Sam gave the place one last look, too, before trailing after him.

"Hey, Sam? Can we make one stop on our way out of town?"

"Sure. Anything you like."

oooOOOooo

Everything's broken, everything's vacant,

Everything's wasted time again.

Sentiments, hopeless

Innocence, jaded

Everything's wasted time again.

Sam watched from the car, curious as to why Dean had wanted to stop here. The door jingle-jangled open and when he looked up, his jaw fell slack. He couldn't have been more shocked than if his brother had exited wearing a sequined dress. When Dean dropped into the seat next to him, he couldn't stop staring.

"Better close your trap, Sam. You'll swallow one of those exotic fruit flies they have out here."

Still not completely sure of what was going on, Sam asked, "What's going on?"

Lips twisting into a half-grin, Dean answered, "C'mon, Sammy—I know roses are your favorite." Then, falling serious, continued, "Santa Clara's on our way out of town. Think maybe we have time for a quick stop?"

Dean's gaze held Sam's until he nodded, shifted the Impala into gear, and pulled away from the curb. Stealing quick glances at Dean, Sam watched his brother carefully place his purchase across his lap, fingers gentle and reverent, then crank down his window. Fresh air spilled into the car and teased Dean's spiky tufts, he lifted his face into it and, with eyes closed, released a long sigh.

oooOOOooo

Someday we might find

Some sacred place in time

But until then

All we'll share

Are dreams we left behind.

Sam kept Dean in his sights. He'd thought about going with him, but decided his brother deserved to keep this to himself. Sam had said his goodbyes long ago and didn't need closure. Not anymore. He just needed his brother to be okay with this and, well, just okay.

He leaned against the Impala, let the warmth of it sink into him and tried not to stare too much. Found he couldn't not look. He wanted to touch this part of his brother, hug it close and keep it for himself—this part of Dean kept so closely guarded. He felt another painful thump in the center of his chest as he watched his brother wipe at his face and turn to leave. Sam pretended to study his left thumbnail with rapt attention. Dean picked his way back across the cemetery, donning his sunglasses even though night was already well on its way. Sam climbed back into the driver's seat and waited, blinking his own eyes clear.

The car door squeaked open and he was greeted by a gruff, "Let's hit the road, Sam."

And they both left it at that.

Behind them, the last stray beams of day struck the petals of the pure white roses snugged next to the onyx gravestone. Dusk colored them purple-pink for a few seconds before the sun completely dipped and disappeared beyond the horizon.

oooOOOooo

As the Impala roared down the freeway, Dean pulled his coat tighter around his middle, the night air rapidly cooling. He'd been the one who had insisted on keeping the windows down—needing the openness and the air—despite the night's sudden bite and wasn't about to give in now.

Turning the radio up a notch, he curled into the soft leather seat and mumbled, "Wake me when we get there, Sam."

As he drifted off, he thought he heard his name whisper on the wind, accompanied by faraway feminine laughter. He smirked at his own foolishness…but for the first time in a long time, he felt at peace. That night, when Hannah came to haunt his dreams, he clung to the memories of a girl who'd touched his soul with kindness and acceptance…and found he no longer needed nor wanted to forget.

The End.

A/N#2:

I hope this was a satisfying conclusion for you guys. I apologize profusely for taking so long, but it was, not one, but several events that contributed to my sluggishness. The least of these not being a terrible bout of writer's block and much agonizing over the love scene. I nearly cut that section several times, did rewrite it several times and I'm still not satisfied with it, but I didn't feel like I could make you all continue to wait on it.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for reading. I appreciate every single person who read this story whether you reviewed or not. But, I especially appreciate all of you who have supported me with your kinds words, followed me from chapter to chapter despite the sometimes lengthy absences…it was needed and greatly appreciated.

Also, I'd like to thank everyone who contributed to this chapter with varying degrees of beta'ing and opinion giving. Thanks to Gaelicspirit and Thru Terry's Eyes for being the voices that calmed me down when I nearly junked the whole thing.

Thanks to Tidia for her valiant efforts at keeping me brief and focused as well as correct in form. Thanks to Mady Bay for holding my hand and catching so, so many mistakes that my eyes flew right over without a pause. Also, everyone give thanks to Mady, she made a great catch on the guilt/blame thing toward the end. I was not making much sense before she straightened me out.

And lastly, I'd like to thank Sodakey for some invaluable advice and several needed suggestions throughout that helped make it all read a lot better.

I appreciate each and every person who beta'ed this thing. The improvements are clearly a result of your sharp eyes and continuing wisdom.

The song lyrics scattered throughout are as follows:

"Fire in the Sky" by Ozzy Osbourne

"Wasted Time" by Fuel

Oh, and there really is a cemetery in Santa Clara, CA, called Mission City Cemetery…and it's located not far from the location of this story (San Jose) on North Winchester Boulevard. Convenient, eh?

Next on the docket, "What Comes After," the follow up to "The Wake-Up Call." It's outlined and ready to go. I expect to start posting it sometime in January.

All reviews will be smished, squished, and hugely appreciated.