Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. More's the pity.

Spoilers: This story takes place immediately after 2.02, Everybody Loves a Clown.

a/n: I am currently working on the first chapter of Weapon and the Wound. If all goes well, it will start posting next week. You know how life can be...

Anyway, this story was written for and printed in the Brotherhood zine in the fall of 2007. I recently found out that the time limit for posting was up, and wanted to share it with you. I hope you enjoy. I'll be posting it on my LJ as soon as thruterryseyes completes the banner.

"Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in the lonely frustration for the life you deserved but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won, it exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours."

-- Ayn Rand

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"Sam?"

Sam jumped at the unexpected sound of Bobby's voice, so intent on his watch of the morning light creeping over the quiet junkyard that he'd blocked out the surrounding noise of the earth coming once more to life.

"You been out here all night?" Bobby's heavy boots shuffled up behind him.

Sam shifted on the top step to make room for the older man. Bobby's knees crackled as he sat down, a mug of steaming coffee in his hand, the scent instantly making Sam's mouth water. "Yeah," he answered, his voice rough from sorrow and lack of sleep.

Bobby handed the mug to him, and Sam noticed he kept his eyes carefully hidden beneath the visor of his ever-present hat.

Sam blinked at him, wondering as he always did what Bobby was thinking. There always seemed to be a careful calculation in the hunter's eyes that left Sam feeling exposed and defensive. Taking the offered beverage with a small smile of thanks, Sam wrapped his long, cold fingers around the warm mug.

"Why?"

Sam slid his eyes toward the silent junkyard. "Dean." His brother's name was heavy in his mouth; it held the pain from his father's death and his brother's silence in one syllable.

"What about him?" Bobby asked, turning away, his voice guarded.

"He hasn't come back in. Sat out there all night. In the car. What's left of it, anyway."

"Give him some time, Sam. This…this is hard on both of you."

Sam felt his jaw tighten, and indignation leapt from him before he could temper it. "Like I don't know that?"

Bobby glanced at his shoes, and Sam felt him stiffen. He looked like he desperately wanted to walk away.

Sam suddenly thought about the fact that John's death affected not only him and Dean, but others as well. Others like Bobby.

"Not what I meant, Sam," Bobby said gruffly. "Your brother… He's…he's been through a lot."

"And I haven't?"

"No, no, you have," Bobby placated. "The difference is," he looked over at Sam, "you know it."

"He beat up the Impala, Bobby."

"I heard."

"He loves that car more than anything," Sam muttered, shaking his head. "Why would he do something like that?"

Bobby leveled his eyes on Sam, allowing the answer that lingered there to hang, silent and suspended between them. Sam clenched his jaw, the ache that had been beating unrelenting inside his chest since they'd burned John's body, intensifying at the memory of the hollow eyes staring from his brother's face.

"Maybe I should…try to talk to him again," Sam said, twisting the mug around in his cold hands.

Bobby shook his head. "Not yet, Sam."

"He needs to talk about this, Bobby—"

"No, Sam, you need to."

"But—"

"Dean's not like you." Bobby looked away from Sam, toward the junkyard. Sam followed his eye-line, watching the rising sun glint off the chromes and burnished metals strewn about the yard in front of them. He listened as Bobby's aged grumble slid over his ears, seeping in and leaving pain behind. "Losing your daddy…it's hard for you, I know. But you've got Dean. Who does he have now?"

"Me!"

Bobby dipped his head in a single nod. "It's different, Sam."

"I know, but…" Sam rubbed the calluses of his right palm with his left thumb, wishing briefly that he had a ring he could worry as he'd so often seen his father and brother do when at a loss for how to articulate feelings so vibrant, they actually stung. "I know I can help him, Bobby."

"Sam." Bobby pressed his hands against his bent knees, pushing himself slowly to his feet. "There's just some things inside that nobody can fix for a person 'cept that person." He tilted his head, capturing Sam's eyes with his own. "And I hate to tell you this…but I think that, for Dean? This is one of those things."

Sam frowned, looking away. He tried to make out the silhouette of the Impala in the brightening light of day. After a minute, he heard Bobby walk back into the house, the screen door banging twice behind him, and felt the morning silence settle around him.

He needed Dean to talk about this, about Dad, about what they were going to do now. They'd survived that damn clown, but they'd been…disjointed, off-beat. Sam felt the distance between them increasing as the days wore on since John's death.

Sam closed his eyes, an almost physical need to reach his hand out and feel Dean at the edge of his fingers overwhelming him. He wanted the contact with his brother that had somehow gone missing in the time between No, sir, not before everything, and Did he say anything to you? Sam's darkened vision swam behind his closed eyelids; he was falling inside himself, and if he couldn't grab onto Dean…he was afraid there wasn't going to be anyone to catch him.

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"Bobby, I've been all over this damn yard, and I can't find another trunk lid for the Impala."

"That's 'cause there isn't one, ya idjit."

"None?"

"No. I gave you what I had."

"Well…I need to borrow a car, then."

"Last one you borrowed ended up on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere."

Silence.

Bobby looked up from the ancient text he was restoring to regard the boy in front of him. It wasn't the first time he'd really looked at Dean since the accident, but he realized he didn't do so often. There was so much anger and pain radiating off Dean that it physically hurt to look at him. The kid stood in front of his desk, gray shirt grease-smeared, torn jeans dusty from sliding beneath the Impala, rumpled pink shop towel twisted in his hands, dark smudges of dirt and exhaustion hollowing his cheeks and accentuating the emptiness in his green eyes.

Bobby watched Dean work his jaw, the muscle there rippling beneath the taut skin like it was trying to escape. The kid's eyes were directed at him, but they rested on nothing. Bobby knew Dean wasn't really seeing him. He was seeing the shell of metal that held the last vestiges of his father. He was seeing fire and loss. Bobby sighed, giving in to the inevitable.

"Where are you gonna go, smart guy?" Bobby tilted his head, reaching up to pull at the wiry hairs covering his chin.

Dean lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "Find another junkyard. Get another trunk lid."

"For a '67 Impala? You think they're just lying around?"

"Hell, Bobby, I don't know." Dean turned from the desk, rubbing the back of his neck and staring out of the window. "I need to…I need to fix this."

It was on the tip of Bobby's tongue to say he knew who Dean had wanted to lay into when he'd taken the crowbar to the Impala's trunk, but he stayed silent. Those blows had cut as deeply into Dean's heart as they had the black metal, and Bobby ached simply looking at the hard set of Dean's shoulders as he stared outside, searching for the break he so desperately needed.

"I know where we can get one," Sam spoke up from the doorway.

Bobby looked over, surprised, catching Dean's quick turn out of the corner of his eye.

"What?"

"I know where we can get a trunk lid," Sam repeated. "I, uh, did some research. There's this shop in Iowa. Near Des Moines. They handle vintage cars."

Dean blinked at Sam.

Bobby blinked at Sam. He remembered the kid's soft words more than two weeks before. Even if there's one working part…we're not just gonna give up on…

He turned and met Dean's eyes, knowing the boy's next words before they could tumble free from Dean's mouth. "Okay!" Bobby held up a surrendering hand. "You can take the Ford."

"Ford?" Dean tilted his head in question.

"The old green truck out back. Keys are on the wall next to the crucifix."

"Does it even run?" Dean asked, his brows raised in a cocky question mark.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "That's not my problem, is it?" he challenged Dean with a tip of his chin. He knew what made this kid tick: keep him moving, and he wouldn't drown in his own misery. Keep him moving, and he might be able to make it through this thing alive. "You get it running, you can take it to Iowa."

Dean grinned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Get on out of here," Bobby grumbled. "I got work to do."

He watched Dean all but scamper toward the keys, then slid his eyes to meet Sam's relieved smile before he turned to follow his brother out the door.

"Be careful with him," Bobby whispered after Sam.

*****

The old Ford was held together by a whisper. The front bumper clung precariously to the frame with several strips of duct tape. The floor-mounted gear shift was simply a metal pole topped off with a shop towel Dean had wadded up and also wrapped in duct tape so he didn't tear his palm up. The radio hung from the dash by connective wires, but at least it worked. Barely.

After several hours and a fair amount of cursing, Dean had been able to get the Ford running, but keeping it that way was proving to be more of a problem than he'd thought when they'd set out toward Iowa. Four hours later, his face was still folded in the same uncomfortable frown he'd chiseled deep into his features when Sam's duffel had followed his into the rust-lined bed of the old truck.

"Damn, it's hot in here," Sam said for the thirtieth time, tipping his forehead toward his opened window. The passenger window was the only one that would roll down—the driver's side window held fast, and the rear windshield was a plank of wood secured by large metal screws long ago—and there was no air conditioning.

"Nobody asked you to come," Dean grumbled.

Sam shot him a look. "What else was I gonna do?"

"Wait at Bobby's."

"I want to help, Dean."

"Don't need your help, Sam."

Dean watched from the corner of his eye as Sam pressed his lips tight, clamping off whatever he was going to say. Sam turned to look out the side window, his bare elbow resting on the sun-warmed opening.

Dean shifted his eyes back to the road. He didn't want the responsibility of Sam, the job that had always been Sam, right now, even if his brother's presence gave him a glimmer of peace just knowing he was okay, he was safe, he was alive. These days it was hard enough to be alone; taking care of Sam's feelings at the moment felt almost as impossible as the idea of doing what John had told Dean—ordered Dean—to do.

If you can't save him…

Dean pulled himself straighter in the seat, using the steering wheel as leverage. Sometimes the natural act of breathing proved difficult. John's voice screaming in his head didn't help matters any.

"We never had a car with air conditioning," Sam was saying. "Not even Dad's tricked-out truck. Why is that?"

Dean frowned, shooting an irritated glance in Sam's direction. We've been on the road for hours and he hasn't stopped…always with the questions… Damn, it is hot in here… Dean reached down and uselessly pulled once on the window crank. Nothing. The glass didn't budge. Shit.

"Dad always turned it on in the motel rooms, remember? Made sure we had it at the houses we rented. I remember camping out in front of that window unit in that one house in Ohio—you actually built me a tent. How old were we?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"I don't think I was in school yet." Sam paused, chuckling. "I can remember Dad coming home from a hunt, sitting down directly in front of that window unit in his USMC t-shirt, and popping open a beer. He'd always say, Front and center, Sammy, let's hear it… I remember trying to salute."

Front and center…let's hear it, what happened while I was gone? You keep your brother safe? You keep the bad guys away?

"I remember riding in the back seat with the windows down and the air was hot…like today. Even the wind didn't cool us down. And I asked Dad about air conditioning…"

God, Sam, stop. Just friggin' stop!

Dean felt Sam filling the void between them with memories, recollections of John in normal times, in times when he'd been their father, when he'd been Dad. Each word was like a paper cut on Dean's heart: small, sharp, and painful. And the longer Sam talked, the worse they bled.

"How much farther is it?" Dean snapped.

Sam ignored his tone, peering at the folded map between them on the seat. "Dunno…couple hours, maybe?"

Dean sighed, rolling his stiff neck. Sam started talking again—this time about the merits of the houses they rented versus the motels they stayed at when they were kids—and Dean resisted the urge to reach out and clap his hand over Sam's mouth.

Don't you get it? He's gone, okay? Gone. No amount of talking is going to bring him back.

Pausing at a crossroads, Dean glanced in both directions, revving the sputtering engine, noxious blue fumes spurting from the back tailpipe and twisting up and around on the limited breeze until they started to waft into the cab of the old truck.

Sam pulled in a breath, coughing as the exhaust choked him. Dean allowed himself a wicked grin: Sam couldn't talk while he was coughing. He pressed the accelerator and bumped over a cattle guard to continue down the rough road, clearing the air with the wind through the opened window.

"You sure this is the quickest way?" he asked as Sam caught his breath.

"According to the map," Sam said, picking up the paper again.

"What's the map say we're on? Bob's Road?"

Sam grinned, shaking his head. "Highway 56."

"Highway, my ass," Dean grumbled. He looked out his side window. "There's nothing out here, Sam. Corn. I see a helluva lot of corn."

"We're still, like, an hour from Des Moines, man."

Dean sighed, bumping his elbow on the stubborn window as he tried to rest his arm against it. "Damn it."

He felt Sam go still next to him, his brother finally recognizing the fact that Dean was not in a happy place at the moment. He wanted to rear back and punch out the side window, just to get some air, just to be able to breathe…

"Let's see if we get any radio stations around here," Sam muttered, reaching for the dangling radio.

Dean twisted his fingers tighter around the steering wheel, trying to pull in a calming breath. The old radio had been able to pick up two stations of static this whole time; he didn't think Sam was going to have any luck. He shot his eyes to the dash in surprise when the last strains of the Stones' "Gimme Shelter" was caught in the net of the speakers and filled the cab of the truck with the tinny reverberation of Mick's wail.

Sam sat back, grinning. Dean allowed the pull of his brows to relax slightly, his scowl easing to a frown.

The song ended, and the first chords of CCR's "Bad Moon Rising" followed.

Dean's hand beat Sam's by a fraction of a second to the volume knob as they turned the radio off and sat in silence interrupted only by the harsh rumble of the ancient engine. Just to be safe, Dean grabbed the base of the radio and pulled it free of the connecting wires, setting the dead box on the seat between them. Friggin' song…

"Funny," Sam said softly. "I never really thought about music meaning so much."

Dean suppressed a sigh. Can't you just be quiet, Sam? Just…for once, just let it be? Dean straightened up in the seat again, arching his back slightly, trying to expand his lungs. It was as if they'd suddenly collapsed against his ribcage.

"Dad always listened to music, didn't he? Maybe that's where you got it. I always wondered why you liked classic rock so much. Now, I think it was your way of being close to him. Y'know, I never really thought about how much you needed that—"

"Jesus Christ, Sam."

"What?"

Dean shot his eyes to the side, feeling an unfamiliar burn lingering there. "Shut up. Okay? Just shut the fuck up about Dad."

Sam blinked back at him, surprised. Hurt flashed quickly across his face, leaving a dark spot on Dean's heart, but it wasn't enough to suppress the sudden flurry of words vying for attention at the back of his throat.

"He's gone, okay? He's gone and I don't need you yammering about it over there all the friggin' day to remind me!"

"Dean, I—"

Dean looked back at the road, centering the old truck in the worn ruts left from the millions of cars that had passed that way before. "Just… Just stop, Sam."

"You gotta talk to me someday, man." Sam's voice was certain.

"Like hell."

"Oh, what, so it's better to beat the hell out of your car? That it? I don't get you."

Anger burst clean and pure inside of Dean's chest. He shot his eyes to the side, ready to tear into Sam about the sheer magnitude of things his little brother didn't get.

He had one second to open his mouth, one second to change his mind, one second to reach for Sam, one second to pull his brother toward him and away from the window, and one second to gasp in a breath he was sure would be his last.

Like something from a nightmarish memory, the SUV approaching from the side road toward Highway 56 slammed into the front right quarter panel of the old truck, shoving the side mirror into the interior of the cab, propelling the truck sideways across the road and tipping it onto the driver's side into a ditch.

In the five seconds it took Dean to travel from anger to oblivion, he had one thought: Save Sam.

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He heard a baby crying.

What the hell…?

Awareness returned to Sam slowly and in stages. The first thing he felt was something long and thin pressed against the inside of his leg, the rounded end digging painfully into his groin. The next thing he was aware of was that his left elbow was resting on something soft, and a hard edge was digging into the side of his face.

Opening his eyes, he saw at once that he was lying on top of Dean. His weight held his unconscious brother against the driver's side of the truck, which seemed to be flush against the ground.

Sam's right leg was tangled around the gearshift, his left shoved under the steering column. The broken radio was trapped between his face and Dean's, knobs bruising both of them. Grunting, Sam reached up and grabbed onto the steering wheel, pulling himself up and off Dean. With concentrated effort, he untangled himself from the gearshift, gasping as the release in pressure flooded feeling back into his leg, bringing with it a harsh stinging sensation on the inside of his thigh.

Gingerly, Sam wedged his back against the windshield, his knee against the steering wheel, and glanced down at his leg. The gear shift had torn through the inside lining of his jeans, raising a welt.

Taking a breath, Sam checked his balance, then looked back at Dean. His brother hadn't moved, but Sam could see the steady rise and fall of his chest.

"Dean?" His voice sounded loud in the close confines of the wrecked truck.

He picked the radio off Dean, tossing it to the floor—which was actually the side door at the moment—then grasped Dean's chin, turning his brother's face toward him. Dean's head rolled limply against Sam's probing hand. There was a rising bruise on his forehead above his left eyebrow, and the radio dials had cut into his temple. A small trickle of blood seeped from the cut in his hairline.

Sam shifted his eyes over the rest of Dean's awkwardly sprawled body and could see almost instantly that his shoulder was out of its socket. It didn't look like anything else was broken, but he knew he wouldn't be able to tell how badly Dean was hurt until he got him out of the truck.

"Shit, Dean," Sam whispered. Too soon.

Sam swallowed hard. It felt like just yesterday he was watching them shock his brother back to life, watching them tear open the Impala to pull Dean's bloody body free of the wreckage, watching Dean's tired eyes stare back at him from the rear view mirror. This is wrong. It's all wrong…

"Hang in there," Sam said, squaring his jaw. "I'm gonna get us some help…I think. Just gotta…climb out…somehow…" He heard the hesitant uncertainty in his voice and was glad Dean wasn't conscious to bear witness. Dean, who always had a plan. Always knew the next move. Was always one step ahead of the bad guys.

Raising his eyes to the opening above him, Sam pushed off the steering column, wincing as his jeans rubbed against the raw wound on his leg, and reached for the window ledge. He wasn't sure if he could open the passenger door from this angle, but he was pretty sure he could climb free through the window.

As he levered himself up, Sam heard the baby's cries intensify, then the answering sound of a man's nervous voice.

"It's okay, honey, you're okay… I just gotta…damn it! No, no, sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell…"

Sam puffed out a breath, pulling his head and shoulders free of the truck, then resting his arms on the outside of the door. The truck had been pushed from the surface of the road, resting along the embankment with its driver's side door flush against the edging grass and the underside of the vehicle propped up by the slope. The passenger-side wheels were suspended in the air about three feet from the crumbling asphalt.

The black SUV that had hit them looked basically undamaged. There were no other cars in any direction. A young, sandy-haired man in a business suit was pacing outside the open driver's door, pulling out a cell phone. Sam watched as he flipped the phone open, then banged the uncooperative device against his open palm.

Sam shot his eyes to the interior of the SUV, angled across the rutted asphalt. He could see no one else inside, but he could hear the baby's wail clearly enough. Grunting with exertion and pressing his feet against the dash, Sam pushed himself farther from the truck, twisting around until he was able to sit on the outside of the door. Peering back in at Dean, he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as his heart slammed once, hard, to see his brother lying so still in the interior of the cab.

"Hey!"

Sam shot a look over his shoulder, his vision swimming slightly. The young man had shoved his cell phone into his jacket pocket and was trotting toward him.

"You okay? Hold on, don't move, okay?"

"I'm fine," Sam said, turning to pull his legs free of the cab.

"You sure? You're bleeding."

"I am?" Sam frowned at the man's anxious gray eyes.

"Your mouth."

Sam reached up, suddenly feeling a sting on his lip he hadn't noticed earlier. "Huh," he muttered, swiping his thumb at a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. He ran his tongue along the inside of his lip, feeling a decent-sized gash on the tender flesh there. "I didn't notice." He glanced down carefully at the decent-sized patch of skin the gear shift had scraped free from his leg. That's nice and…ugly.

"Lemme help—"

"No, really," Sam shook his head, "I'm okay. My brother's hurt pretty bad, though."

"Oh, shit, shit." The young man pounded a fist in the air. "I can't get any cell reception. I'm so sorry, man. I was distracted by the baby, and just coming back from the lawyers, and I wasn't watching where I was going and there's, like, never anyone on the road, seriously, and, oh, man, look at your truck and your brother—"

"Hey, calm down." Sam patted the air, trying to bring the man's focus back to him. He dropped to the ground, reaching a hand out to lean against the underside of the truck. His head was pounding. "Is your baby okay?"

The man shot a look over to the black vehicle. "I think so. She was in her seat. Those harnesses are pretty tight."

"Why don't you go get her, okay? I need to get Dean outta here…somehow."

"How are you gonna do that?"

Sam rubbed his forehead with a trembling hand. "Still working that out."

The baby coughed, worked into a frenzy from fear and uncertainty. The man turned from Sam and loped back to the SUV, pulling the back passenger door open. Sam watched him through the open door as he unbuckled the baby, pulling her from the seat. Sam could see blonde hair sticking up in a Mohawk on the top of her head. The minute she was free and safely in his arms, the little girl stopped crying.

"S-sam?"

Sam turned around so fast at the sound of Dean's weak call that he bumped his nose against the side of the truck. "Dean?"

"Wh-what the hell…?"

"SUV hit us. Hang on, man."

Sam thought furiously, trying to figure the best way back into the truck. He couldn't pull himself up and over the edge of the door because of the angle, but there was no way in to Dean except through the passenger side window. He finally climbed into the bed of the truck, then flipped his sore body up over the side and ducked his head into the open window. Dean had twisted himself sideways until his back was against the driver's side window, his face lifted to the opening. He held his left arm with his right hand, his shoulder at a wicked angle.

Sam met his brother's bleary eyes. "I'm gonna get you out, okay?"

"Bobby is gonna kick my ass for this," Dean muttered. And then to Sam's surprise, he began to chuckle, his laughter cut short by a wince of pain as his hand moved from his arm to press against his side.

"What's so funny?"

"Life, Sam." Dean shook his head slowly, his eyes slipping closed. "Life is funny."

"Don't close your eyes. Dean!"

Dean's eyes snapped open.

"You keep your eyes open, okay? Keep them on me."

"'Kay."

"You broken?" Sam looked at Dean's side.

"Don't think so. Just cracked."

"Well, that's not much better."

"You're telling me."

Sam chewed on his lip, glancing around the interior of the cab.

"Is that a…a baby?" Dean blinked up at Sam, his green eyes beginning to clear.

"Yeah." Sam nodded, shifting until his legs were dangling into the cab. "Guy that hit us has a baby with him."

"Shit." Dean frowned.

"She's okay." Sam dropped into the cab, balancing on the steering column.

"That's good."

"How's your shoulder?"

"Hurts," Dean grunted out through clenched teeth.

"Can you move it at all?"

"No." Dean shook his head once. "Fingers feel like ice."

"Was afraid of that," Sam muttered. He licked his lips, glancing up once, then back down at Dean. "You're gonna have to kinda…climb me."

"Huh?" Dean tipped his head to the side, squinting up at Sam.

"Use me as like a ladder."

"How the hell am I gonna do that?"

"Just…" Sam shifted for balance, reaching down toward Dean. "Grab my hand and then, y'know, use my legs and body to get up out of there."

Dean slid his eyes up Sam's awkwardly balanced form, his lips quirking.

"Shut up," Sam grumbled. "You got any better ideas?"

"Not really."

"Well, get over your personal space issues and start climbing, then."

Dean sighed. As Sam watched, he turned to his right, using his good arm to balance while carefully shifting his body so his legs were folded beneath him. With a grimace of pain, he held his left arm tight against his body and used his right to reach for Sam.

Gripping Dean's forearm, Sam pressed his back against the windshield, easing Dean up against him, twisting his face away so he could still breathe in the close proximity. Sam could feel his brother trembling as he reached for Dean's belt, trying to leverage what room he had to shove Dean up toward the window.

His hand bounced against Dean's left elbow, and Dean cried out, the sound a harsh bleat of pain that tore into Sam. Dean's knees disappeared, and Sam found himself holding his brother up against him by his right forearm and his belt loops. He fought to maintain his balance, scared to death he would tip over and land once more on Dean.

"Sorry," Sam breathed, trying to get a more solid grip. "I'm sorry, man."

"'S okay, 'm okay," Dean panted, his head down, his body trembling. "Shit. This sucks out loud."

"I know, I know, just…gimme a sec…" Sam tried to pull Dean up higher, but his own arms were beginning to shake. He felt Dean push against him, trying to find his legs once more.

"Hey," said a voice from above them. Both brothers lifted their heads, squinting in the midday sun at the face that hovered in the open window. "Can I, uh, help?"

"Where's the baby?" Sam asked.

"Put her back in her seat. She's okay for now," the man replied, shifting so he could reach farther into the truck. "Name's Wick, by the way. Wicklow Bishop."

Dean dropped his head and met Sam's eyes. Sam could practically hear the snark bouncing around in his brother's head at that name, halted only by the pain that was currently making him pale as a sheet.

Wick apparently picked up on the silent communication. "It's a family name," he offered, a shrug in his voice.

"I'm Sam. This is my brother Dean. And, yeah, we'd appreciate the help."

Standing balanced in the bed of the truck, Wick leaned his body over the side and reached down for Dean's right arm, gripping his t-shirt in sure, steady hands.

"Watch his shoulder," Sam grunted, pushing Dean up at the waist, then supporting his brother's legs and feet as Wick helped him from above.

Sam could hear Dean puffing out breath, working to maintain his composure, to keep up the tough exterior that protected him from the unknown. But every slight shift, every grip of hands from above or below, shot visible tremors through Dean's body, and Sam knew his brother was seconds away from crying out. Wick's head and arms disappeared from Sam's sight as they lifted Dean out of the truck, balancing him on the door for a moment with his legs dangling into the cab as Wick jumped down to the ground.

Sam paused, his hand on Dean's lower leg as Wick helped his brother turn, then drop to the road at the edge of the ditch where the truck sat tilted at a crazy angle. The minute Dean's legs were free of the window, Sam clambered out of the truck, dropping down to the ground next to his brother.

Dean sat in a heap, curled around his arm, swallowing convulsively. Sam regarded him, then used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his upper lip as he tried to remember if they had any bottles of water in their bags. If the pain made Dean sick, he was going to need some.

"You need to do something with that shoulder," Wick said softly, standing off to the side with his hands on his hips, regarding Dean with trepidation. His sandy curls were damp with sweat, and his gray eyes were narrowed in concern.

"Ya think?" Dean growled.

Sam frowned, shifting his eyes between his brother's pale face and Wick's worried eyes. "Don't mind him. He gets surly when he's hurting."

"You want surly, I'll give you—"

"You get anyone on that cell phone?" Sam interrupted, glancing at Wick.

Wick shook his head. "This is a pretty remote place. My sister's house is about ten miles thataway." He tipped his head toward the west. "I know a guy with a tow truck that could get your truck out of the ditch, but it looks like I'll have to drive you to a hospital—"

"No," Dean barked. "No hospital."

"Dean, maybe we should—"

"Sam." Dean looked up. "No. Just…no."

Sam stared at his brother, watching the resolution build in his eyes even as he sat trembling from the pain of a dislocated shoulder. Closing his eyes briefly, Sam relented. "Okay," he said softly, "but I'm going to have to try to set that for you."

"Just get it over with."

"What can I do?" Wick stood by uncertainly, clenching his fists.

Sam took a breath and met Dean's eyes, then addressed Wick. "I need something to immobilize his arm."

"I got a couple baby blankets in the car," Wick offered.

"That'll work." Sam frowned as Dean tipped forward slightly. He crouched in front of him, taking his chin into his hand. "Dean?"

"Mmm?"

"Hey, man." Sam used his thumb to wipe the blood from Dean's eye. "You gotta stay with me if we're gonna do this."

"I'm with you."

"I mean really with me." Sam dropped his chin, trying to catch Dean's half-opened eyes with his. "Open your eyes, Dean."

"They're open."

"More. Look at me."

Dean swallowed, and Sam watched him pull his eyebrows up, forcing his lids to follow. He blinked twice, then stared at Sam. "Anyone ever tell you you're bossy as hell?" Dean slurred.

Sam nodded, not in answer but with satisfaction. Dean's eyes were glassy with pain but aware and focused.

Wick returned holding two pink receiving blankets in his hand.

Sam followed Dean's narrowed eyes, grinning at his brother's incensed, "Oh, you've gotta be kiddin' me!"

"Hey, sorry." Wick shrugged. "It's all I got."

"It's fine," Sam assured him. "Give them to me. Take your jacket off and get behind him."

"What do I—?"

"You're gonna have to hold him."

Dean had dropped his gaze to the ground and was once again pulling in harsh breaths through his partially-open mouth. Wick swallowed, then nodded. Sam watched as he carefully positioned himself on the ground behind Dean, taking off his jacket as he did so.

Sam instructed him where to grip so he wouldn't do further damage to Dean's wounded ribs. "Use your jacket—twist the arms like, yeah, that's it. Wrap it around his mouth."

"His mouth?" Wick asked, puzzled.

"Give him something to bite on," Sam explained. "This is gonna hurt like a bitch."

"A bitch in stilettos," Dean panted weakly.

Wick turned the arm of his jacket into a rope, giving it to Dean as a brace to bite on. Dean took three quick, wet breaths, then clamped down on the cloth sleeve with his teeth, reaching up over his right shoulder to dig his fingers into Wick's forearm.

"You ready?" Sam asked, his voice low, steady. He had done this before, never to Dean, but once for John. It was not easy and had made him almost as sick as his father had looked. Sam knew where to place his hands, how to pull, but sweat ran down the sides of his clammy face at the thought of what was about to happen.

Dean nodded once.

"On three, then, okay? One, two—" Sam pulled once, hard. Dean's shoulder popped smoothly back into place.

The scream of pain that erupted from Dean through the cloth gag echoed between the vehicles and caused the baby to start crying again. Wick released his grip, and Dean slumped to the side, sweating and trembling, air sounding like it was skipping across his lungs, not filling them.

Sam instantly curled over him, a gentle hand on the small of Dean's back, his voice low and soothing, saying nothing and everything in that one moment. "I got you… I got you, man. It's over, okay? You did good."

Dean was pale, his eyes closed tightly, breath puffing out through tense lips. Sam kept his hand on Dean's back, rubbing slightly as the trembling seemed to shudder through his brother like a wave.

"Easy," Sam soothed. "Easy, man. It's over. You're okay."

Dean simply shook, his forehead rubbing into the dirt of the road, but he didn't push Sam away, and for that Sam was relieved. He needed to be there for Dean, at least once. He needed Dean to see he wasn't alone.

Wick stood quietly, leaving the brothers and heading over to soothe the baby. Sam waited until Dean's trembling slowed, then removed his hand, sitting up and glancing around. Then he looked back down, watching as his brother twisted his head to look up at him.

"Well," Dean panted. "That was fun. We really ought to do this again sometime."

"We've gotta immobilize your arm," Sam reminded him.

Dean blinked, dirt blending with the tacky blood on the side of his head and turning into a matted paste. "Got a better idea," he said in a rough, breathy voice. "Let's not."

Sam raised an eyebrow, reached over with his index finger, and lightly tapped Dean's left elbow.

"Gah! What the hell, Sam!"

Sam tried to pull off sympathetic and ended up with exasperated as Dean frowned fiercely at him. "C'mon, man," Sam said, running his tongue unconsciously along the cut on the inside of his lip. "Pink's your color. How about you let me help you sit up?"

"How 'bout you go screw yourself?"

"Dean."

"Sam."

They stared at each other for nearly a minute, each hiding thoughts behind different versions of the same wall, until an aggravated cry from the baby in the SUV pulled their attention.

"Sorry," Wick called from the back of the black vehicle. "She hates to get her diaper changed."

Dean sighed. "Fine. Gimme a hand." He reached up for the hand Sam extended and pulled himself carefully into a sitting position. Dirt clung to his sweaty forehead, causing his face to look even paler.

Sam waited until Dean was balanced, then looked over at the tilted truck. "We're not going to be able to get that out of there without a tow."

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "I know." He shook his head. "Bobby is going to be so pissed."

"You could come with me, use the land line back at the house," Wick spoke up. "I know you probably don't want to get in a car with the maniac that just plowed you off the road, but…"

Sam looked over at Dean, waiting for an answer. He knew what he would do, but this was Dean's call. It was his trip.

Dean swallowed, blinking once, then nodded. "Let's get this over with," he said, looking at the pink receiving blankets in Sam's lap. He was already clutching his left arm close to him.

Sam nodded, carefully wrapping one blanket around Dean's upper arm and chest, tying it tightly on his right side, then using the other blanket as a sling, knotting the ends behind Dean's neck. The pink of the blankets stood in stark contrast against Dean's gray dirt- and blood-smeared t-shirt.

"Thanks," Dean breathed, sliding his eyes closed.

Sam's lips slipped up into a smile. "Sure." He stood stiffly, the scrape on his leg rubbing against his jeans with the movement, and headed toward the ditch. "Wait there a sec."

Climbing down over the back of the truck bed, Sam tossed their duffels up and onto the road. Wick grabbed them and headed back to his SUV. Then Sam stood over Dean, grabbing his good arm before reaching down and wrapping his other arm around Dean's waist, gently lifting his brother to his feet. Once vertical, Dean wavered for a moment, allowing Sam to grip his arm tightly until he'd regained his balance.

"Ready?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded, stepping away from Sam and leading the way to the SUV.

Sam watched him attempt to square up his shoulders, holding his left arm close to his side, the blankets doing a marginally decent job keeping the arm still. Dean walked with confidence, Sam observed, even when he had no idea where he was going or why he was going there. It was something he'd always admired about his brother.

"Why don't you get in the back," Wick suggested, eyeing Dean. "The seats separate and you can recline them."

Dean nodded and reached into the vehicle, pulling himself in. He frowned at Sam when he leaned in to try to help shove the seat back, and Sam stepped away, hands raised, eyebrows up. Shutting the door firmly, he jogged around to the passenger seat, climbed in, and closed his door.

Ignoring the sting along the inside of his leg, Sam twisted around to check on Dean, coming face-to-face with the largest blue eyes he'd ever seen. Long, thick lashes swept cheeks pinked from crying, and tears trailed down to a rosebud mouth. Sam swallowed.

"Hi," the little girl whispered.

"Hi," Sam replied, surprised at the candid expression on the small face.

"That's Kate," Wick informed them.

"Hi, Kate," Sam said, grinning at the cherub. Kate frowned, then looked away, toward the outside window. "She's gorgeous." Sam glanced over at Wick.

"She's her mother," Wick said softly, starting up the big engine and turning the wheel. "Lisa was an amazing woman."

Sam met Dean's eyes, mirroring his brother's frown. "Was?" Dean asked, shifting back into his seat.

"Kate's my niece." Wick eased the SUV over the cattle guard and onto the dirt road that led toward their destination. "My sister, Lisa, and her husband Paul were killed last week."

"Oh, man, I'm sorry," Sam said automatically, watching Wick's profile. He could see Dean out of the corner of his eye; his brother was watching the back of Wick's head, waiting for more.

Wick swallowed, shaking his head. "We're on our way back from the reading of the will. Lisa left Kate to me."

"Oh, wow." Sam sat back.

"I don't know what she was thinking," Wick continued, as if talking to himself. "I'm, like…the world's worst idea of a father. You ever see Raising Arizona?"

"Yeah," Dean replied. "Hilarious."

"Yeah, well, that could be me."

"Which one? John Goodman? Or Nic Cage?"

Sam shot a frown over his shoulder to Dean, then addressed Wick. "She must have known—"

"I got nothin', man," Wick interrupted Sam's attempt to placate him. "She's not even two yet. I've got no idea how to raise her, what to tell her… I mean, that's why we're heading back to their house right now. I would never take her back there, except…my place is so not ready for a baby…"

"Why don't you want to go back there?" Dean asked.

Wick shot his eyes up to the rear view mirror. "Because that's where they were killed."

Kate started to hum.

"What happened?" Sam asked. His whole focus was on Wick; he didn't see Dean turn slightly and pick up the hard-covered baby book lying on the seat next to Kate's carseat. Sam leaned forward, wanting to hear the details.

"I was visiting," Wick said, his boyish face tightening with tension. "Told Lisa I'd take Kate out for a while, give them some time alone. We were gone for…maybe four hours?"

Wick paused, and Sam heard Kate start to chatter a little but didn't pay much attention.

"The police said they were victims of a home invasion, a robbery gone wrong. I found them in their bedroom, and…man, it was like someone tore them up."

"God." Sam swallowed, hazarding a glance back at Dean, then froze.

Dean was holding the baby book up so that Kate could see, watching the baby's face as she pointed to different things on the page and rambled away in what sounded, to Sam, like Swahili. Dean grinned, and Sam pulled his head back with a sudden, fierce pain in his heart. He hadn't seen a smile hit Dean's eyes in weeks.

"That, uh." Sam tried to bring himself back to the present. "That sounds awful."

"I think they were being stalked, actually," Wick said.

Sam found it harder to focus on Wick; he could hear his brother softly asking the baby, "What's that one? Yep, and that one?" while she pointed to different pictures in the book, Kate's tiny voice answering.

"Stalked?"

Wick nodded. "Lisa said that she had been hearing voices outside around the property but could never find anyone, and there was all this weird banging on the doors and windows."

Sam lifted his eyebrows. Stalked, huh? It amazed him how many different ways people could find to explain the unexplainable.

"They moved into this house when Kate was about nine months old—haven't lived there a year yet. Lisa was going to fix it up while Paul worked in the city."

"Who lived there before them?" Sam asked.

Wick shrugged. "No one, I don't think. They got it pretty cheap. Think it was a foreclosure or something."

Sam shot a look back at Dean.

"Ouch," Kate suddenly spoke up. Sam shifted his eyes to her. She was pointing to the blood drying on Dean's face and causing his hair to stick together in dark red clumps.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Doesn't feel so good."

"Mama ouch," Kate said, her bottom lip protruding.

Dean blinked, glancing up at Wick. "She…saw?"

Wick shook his head. "No, of course not. But she knows. She's real smart. Been talking since she was about ten months old. Most of it is Greek to me, but she knows what she's talking about."

Sam looked back at Dean, who looked over at Kate. The little girl regarded Dean with solemn eyes, repeating, "Mama ouch."

"Yeah, I heard," Dean answered softly.

"Here it is," Wick said, turning down a gravel drive toward a white, wooden, two-story house, front stoop slightly crumbling, wide front windows flanking the door.

He stopped near the door, then shut off the engine. "I'll grab your bags after I get Kate out."

"Don't worry about it," Sam assured him. "We got it."

"Yeah, but, your brother—"

"He said, we got it," Dean all but growled.

Sam looked over at him. He knew by the pinched expression that Dean was hurting, not enough to keep him quiet but plenty to keep him grumpy. Sam shot an apologetic look to Wick, then got out to help Dean from the car.

Dean hissed as he turned to put his legs on the ground. Sam could tell he'd stiffened up in that short ride to the house, but at least he was still moving.

"You gonna make it?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Gimme my bag."

"Don't be an idiot," Sam snapped. "You're not carrying a bag. You can barely straighten up."

"Sam, I'm—"

"Dean? Shut up."

Dean glared at him for a moment, then turned to follow Wick and Kate into the house.

Sam sighed. He'd wanted to join Dean on this road trip for an Impala part in an effort to fix this situation between them. He had a feeling things had suddenly gotten much more complicated.

www

The house smelled like apple pie and bleach.

Dean frowned at that, watching Wick set Kate on the other side of a baby-gate barrier into an obviously baby-proofed family room. The apple pie scent was comforting, and a quick glance told Dean it emanated from a plug-in air freshener situated just inside the door, next to what looked like a coat closet.

Hesitating in the doorway, he scowled when Sam took his right elbow and turned him toward one of the kitchen chairs in the room directly across from where Kate was playing with crayons and books. He wanted to push Sam away, tell him he was fine. But the fact of the matter was, he hurt. His left arm ached from his fingers to his teeth. His ribs pinched painfully with each breath. And he could feel his legs trembling. Dean sank gratefully into the kitchen chair.

"I'd give my right arm for an aspirin," he muttered aloud.

"I think I can help with that," Wick said, crossing to the telephone and dialing a number. He opened a kitchen cabinet, pulled out a bottle, and tossed it to Sam.

"Percocet?"

Dean heard the surprise in Sam's voice, but he didn't lift his eyes.

"Paul had knee surgery a couple of months ago—hey, yeah, Junior? Yeah, this is Wick Bishop." Wick turned away from the brothers, putting a hand over his free ear as he addressed the telephone.

"You want one?" Sam offered Dean the bottle.

"Hell, yeah." Dean reached for the proffered relief, dry-swallowing the pill and rolling his neck. "Gotta call Bobby," he said to Sam.

"He'll find out soon enough, Dean. Save the yelling for after the pain meds kick in."

"Good point."

Sam leaned against the wall, his eyes heavy on Dean.

"I'm not gonna vanish, Sam."

"What?"

"Quit staring at me like that." Dean shifted. "You're starting to creep me out."

"Just wanting to make sure you're okay, that's all," Sam snapped. "You—"

"Don. Go 'way."

The little voice from the other room drew Dean's attention from his brother's concerned voice. Pushing himself up stiffly from the chair, he tried not to wince at the pull in his side. He'd broken ribs before; he knew he was only bruised or, at the very worst, cracked, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch. Leaning against the wall, he peered in at Kate.

She was sitting with a coloring book open on her lap, a cluster of crayons gripped in one hand, her pacifier in the other. She seemed to be glaring at the wall.

Dean tilted his head, stepping closer. "Don?"

Kate nodded, keeping her eyes on the wall, her lips turned down in an unhappy glower. "Don," she repeated. "Go 'way."

Then, with a quick, satisfied bob of her head, she returned her pacifier to her mouth, selected a color from the crayons in her hand, and continued to draw.

"That seem weird to you?" Dean asked.

Sam had been splitting his attention between Dean's movement and Wick's conversation; he'd missed Kate's exchange with the wall. Looking over at his brother's question, he shrugged in response. "She's a baby, Dean," he replied distractedly. "Who knows why they do what they do?"

"Okay, guys, good news and bad news." Wick came around the corner of the room, returning the phone to the hook. "Junior can pull your truck out, but…not until tomorrow morning."

"Swell," Dean sighed, slumping against the doorway, cradling his aching arm against his side. He could just about feel his fingers again, but his hand was swollen and useless, and his heartbeat pulsed behind his eyes. Pain meds can kick in anytime now…

"Why don't you guys stay here until morning?" Wick offered. "It's seriously the least I can do…and there's not a hotel between here and Des Moines."

Dean lifted hesitant eyes to Sam, waiting for his brother to make the call. He was simply tired of making choices, and he had the mother of all choices hanging over his head: his brother's salvation or his life.

Kate began to hum again, and Dean looked over at her. Her blonde head was tipped forward, her large eyes on the paper before her, two crayons in one hand busy tracing swooping circles. Her lips were pressed tightly together and she bounced her upper body in time with the tune in her head, her soft hair fluttering with the motion.

"We'd appreciate the hospitality," Sam said.

Dean continued to watch Kate, tilting his head. Her tuneless hum suddenly started to sound familiar. "Is that…'Crazy Love'?"

Wick chuckled. "Yeah. Lisa is—er, was—nuts about music. She sang all kinds of stuff to Kate. That one was their favorite." He shook his head in wonder. "I can't believe you recognized it. She's no Van Morrison."

"It was the beat," Sam said softly, and Dean turned to see his brother's eyes on him. "He recognized the beat."

Dean nodded, surprised that Sam figured that out. There was something in Sam's expression he couldn't quite place. Something almost like…admiration. Dean folded his lips into a frown. There was nothing in him Sam should be admiring. If Sam knew the truth…

"You got some place we can clean up a little?" Sam asked, turning to Wick.

"Sure, follow me."

"What about Kate?" Dean asked, surprised Wick would head up the stairs and leave the baby alone in the family room.

"Oh, shit, right." Wick shook his head. He headed over to the baby gate. "C'mere a second, kiddo."

Kate stood, walking over to her uncle, crayons still gripped in her hand. She reached trusting arms up to him and he lifted her, positioning her on his hip.

"You want to put those down?" Wick asked her, indicating the crayons.

"No." Kate shook her head.

"Okay then." He turned back to the brothers. "Told ya," he said, shrugging. "She'll be lucky if she sees two."

Offering him sympathetic half-smiles, the brothers followed Wick up the stairs, Sam carrying their duffels.

"Kate's room is here, at the top of the stairs. Lisa and Paul slept there." Wick pointed to a closed door. "After the cops were done, we cleaned it with, like, a year's supply of bleach, but…I still won't go back in there."

"Don't blame you," Dean said softly, leaning against the banister at the top of the stairs.

"Guest room is down the hall, and the bathroom is there." Wick pointed to a fourth door. "I've been staying in the guest room. You guys'll have to sleep on the pullout couch downstairs."

"That's fine. Thanks, Wick." Sam smiled, taking the towels Wick pulled from a linen closet and heading to the bathroom. Dean smiled at Kate as he passed. Her lips tucked back into her chubby baby cheeks when she returned the grin.

"We'll probably eat in like an hour or so," Wick said. "You guys like pizza?"

"Absolutely," Dean said, his gaze still on the china blue eyes blinking back at him.

"All right then." Wick nodded. "I got a diaper to change." He turned and carried Kate back down the stairs, leaving the brothers alone.

Sam opened the bathroom door, and Dean peeked in over Sam's shoulder. It was huge: a separate tub and shower, two sinks, and a side room for the toilet.

"Nice." Dean nodded approvingly. He stepped in around Sam, glancing at himself in the mirror. "Yikes. Not so nice."

"You've had better days."

"Yeah, the ones that don't involve us getting shoved off the road by a two-ton SUV are usually better."

Sam closed the door behind him, dropping the duffels on the floor. "Just be glad we weren't in the Impala," he muttered.

Dean winced. "Don't even kid about that, man. She's been through enough." He started to reach up behind his neck to untie the pink blanket that Sam had used as a sling, pausing when his arm throbbed once, hard, stealing his breath. He leaned against the large counter that connected the two sinks, waiting for the world to settle back into place.

"Here," Sam said, stepping closer. "Let me help."

Dean didn't have the strength to protest, though the last thing he wanted was Sam's cautious care. He felt guilty enough as it was, keeping up the lie that John hadn't said anything to him before he'd died. The nicer Sam was, the harder he pushed, the faster and farther Dean wanted to run and the more opaque his mask became.

Sam untied the knot, sliding the blanket free, then removed the one holding Dean's arm against his chest.

"You're not gonna be able to pull that shirt off."

"I know," Dean breathed. If not for his grip on the edge of the sink, he would have been on the floor. His legs were trembling so badly, he knew Sam could see it.

"Want me to cut it off?"

"Yeah." He hated to lose a shirt—they had so little to start with—but until the pain meds kicked in, there was no way he was going to move his arm any more than absolutely necessary.

He rested his hip against the edge of the sink, watching with tired eyes as Sam pulled his razor-sharp Bowie from one of the duffels, slid the blade under the front of Dean's t-shirt, and sliced upward. Dean turned his head to the side as Sam approached the neck of his shirt. Sam sucked in his breath upon catching sight of the bruising on his chest, then cut the shirt free from both arms, letting the cotton material drop to the floor.

"Just our luck, huh?" Sam said, grimacing at the marks on Dean's side.

"What, getting hit by another truck?"

"Well, yeah, that, but also a truck linked to a case."

Dean met Sam's eyes. "A case? What case?"

Sam's eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose. "Are you kidding? This place is haunted, Dean."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "First it's killer clowns, now you sense ghosts?"

"Hey, I was right about the clown, and if you'd been listening to Wick in the car—"

"I was listening," Dean grumbled, sliding his hip along the counter toward his duffel, then reaching in and grabbing a rolled Ace bandage. "His sister and her husband were killed by someone who was watching the place."

"Dean," Sam said, exasperation plain in his voice. "You don't believe that. I don't believe you believe that."

"Doesn't really matter what you believe, Sam," Dean said quietly. "Does it?"

Sam pressed his lips together, sighing. Dean started to unroll the bandage, when the room suddenly tilted. He dropped the elastic and caught his balance with a weak, "Whoa."

"You okay?"

"Think the pain meds just kicked in…"

"You look a little pale. You need to sit down?"

"Y-yeah. Maybe."

Dean closed his eyes, willing the world to slow down just a bit. He felt Sam's hand on his elbow, guiding him backward to sit on the edge of the tub. He pulled air in through his nose, easing it out between parted lips. He was not going to get sick.

"I think you need to eat something," Sam said softly. "Dean."

"Hmm."

"Can I…?"

Dean kept his eyes closed, concentrating on breathing. He heard Sam's sigh shift as his brother crouched in front of him, and forced himself to open his eyes, seeing the bandage in Sam's hand. Memories like flashbulbs snapped across his vision as he watched Sam. His brother's panicked voice calling for help when Dean woke up in the hospital, choking on the tube; hazel eyes pleading for connection in Bobby's junkyard as Sam called him on the pain he was trying to hide; shy eagerness radiating off him as Sam revealed he knew where a trunk lid could be found.

Dean felt a sudden burst of regret for how hard he was making things on his brother. He knew he wasn't the only person who'd lost someone. He was acting like a friggin' jerk, and all Sam wanted to do was help.

"Think you can wrap this without passing out, Samantha?"

"Who, you or me?" Sam raised an eyebrow.

Dean gripped the edge of the tub. "Good point."

"Just breathe easy, man," Sam said, his voice low. Dean closed his eyes, letting Sam wrap the bandage tightly around his bruised ribs, supporting them.

When Sam paused, Dean opened his eyes. "What?"

"Well…" Sam winced as he stood, and Dean saw a flash of something that looked like blood on the inside of his brother's leg. "You need a clean shirt on before I wrap your shoulder."

"Sam," Dean said suddenly. "What happened to your leg?"

"Huh?" Sam looked down. "Oh. Right. Think it was the gear shift."

"Clean that up first."

"Dean—"

"Sam, just do it." Dean kept his right hand braced on the side of the tub, breaths coming easier now that his bruised ribs had some support. The pain medication still had him spinning, though. His vision bounced in and out of focus like someone was shaking the camera in his head.

Muttering under his breath, Sam slid his jeans free, kicking them off over his boots. Dean narrowed his eyes at the abrasion on the inside of his brother's right thigh.

"Damn, Sammy," he commented. "Two more inches higher and you really would be a Samantha."

"Shut up," Sam grumbled. "You're the one that pulled me across the cab of the truck."

"To get you away from the speeding vehicle," Dean countered.

Sam wet a rag and started wiping the dried blood from his leg. "Yeah, and that worked out so well for you."

"Bite me," Dean snapped.

"You wish." Sam winced, cleaning the scrape with antiseptic and placing a wide bandage over the raw part of the wound, then dug into his duffel for a clean pair of jeans. Easing down onto the closed toilet seat, he pulled the jeans on, then regarded Dean.

"See something you like?" Dean groused.

"I need to clean that cut," Sam announced, ignoring Dean's attitude. "Hold still."

"Not going anywhere, man," Dean admitted.

Sam grabbed another clean rag, gently wiping the blood from Dean's hair and face. "Want to wash your face?"

"Not particularly."

"Seriously, dude, you're a mess."

Dean sighed. He didn't think he could stand up without weaving, and he was starting to hate the fact he was so dependant upon Sam's help at the moment. Clutching his left arm to his bandaged side, muscles protesting, he reached for Sam. Feeling his brother's strong fingers wrap around his wrist, he pulled himself to his feet, relieved when he didn't tip sideways.

Shuffling over to the sink, he glanced once more in the mirror. It wasn't the blood and the dirt that made him agree with Sam. It was the unfamiliar look of defeat in his eyes. He felt dead inside. Hollow. Empty. The contrast of what he was seeing to what he used to know, was so great that he had to look away. Turning on the tap, he cupped his right hand under the warm water and leaned over carefully to splash it on his face.

Silently, Sam used the edge of the rag to wipe away the dirt that sluiced down Dean's face with the water, acting as his other hand. Dean didn't say a word, simply let his brother help him wash away the evidence of pain. When Sam was done, Dean turned around, setting his rear against the edge of the sink.

Sam had pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, and Dean could see him worrying it with his tongue. They stayed silent as Sam dabbed ointment on Dean's cut, fixing two butterfly bandages there. Not meeting his brother's eyes, Sam bent and grabbed a black t-shirt from the duffel.

"Ready?"

Dean nodded. He was tired of fighting. Tired of putting up the front of strength. Tired.

Sam wadded up the t-shirt, sliding Dean's left hand through the sleeve, then easing it up and over his bruised shoulder. Ducking to the side, Dean slid his head through the neck hole and raised his right arm to slide the shirt on the rest of the way. Smoothing the black cotton over his bandaged ribs, Dean glanced at Sam, letting him know he was ready.

Sam grabbed the second, and last, Ace bandage from the bag, wrapping Dean's upper arm against the side of his chest and then supporting his forearm in a makeshift sling.

"You really need to see a doctor, man," Sam grumbled.

"Not gonna happen," Dean muttered.

Sam continued to wrap. Just before he clipped the ends of the bandage, he spoke again. "Hey, Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"You think Dad would look into this?" Sam asked, his voice halting. "The haunted house?"

Aw, Sammy…stop…just… "Yeah," Dean found himself saying. "He probably would. Man was crazy enough to check into any lead. Why do you think he left us so much?"

Sam was silent for a moment. Dean let his brother process the comment while memories sliced through him like razors. Memories of climbing silently into Sam's crib because it was the only place left where he felt safe. Memories of staying awake with a rifle over his lap because Dad wasn't home when he said he'd be. Memories of a voice, words spoken in anger and sorrow, regret thick in the air, pride tracing lines of tears down his father's face.

"You have all the usual, right?" Sam asked.

"'Course," Dean replied, grateful that the nauseating spin that had swamped him earlier seemed to now be simply a slow rotation of the earth. Just because he hadn't anticipated a hunt when they left Bobby's was no reason to be unprepared for one.

"I'm gonna check for EMF up here. See what I can find."

"Knock yourself out," Dean said tiredly. "I'm gonna go down and hum with Katie a while."

www

Watching Dean slowly descend the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister, Sam felt a sharp pull of guilt. Dean was telling him every way he knew how that he wasn't ready to talk about Dad, about what was happening to them, about what had come between them. But Sam refused to listen. He couldn't listen. He was afraid to let this go. He needed his brother too much.

He pulled the EMF meter from Dean's bag, taking note of the guns and ammo Dean had stashed among his jeans and t-shirts. Turning it on, Sam held the device out in front of him, watching carefully for the green lights to shift to red, listening for the high-pitched whine that indicated spectral activity.

Nothing.

"Huh." Sam shook his head. "I could have sworn…"

He moved down the hall, toward Lisa and Paul's room, carefully opening the door. Nothing. Turning, he entered Kate's room, getting the same result.

"Doesn't make sense…"

"Sammy! Pizza!"

Dean's bellow made him jump, and Sam quickly switched off the meter. Grabbing their duffels, he headed down the stairs. He dropped the bags next to the couch in the family room, where he saw Wick had already stacked blankets and pillows, then turned and headed into the kitchen.

Kate was sitting in a highchair, Wick next to her, Dean on the other side. Sam crossed to the empty seat, taking the beer Wick offered. He frowned at Dean, who was sipping a beer.

"Dean, should you be drinking—"

"Told ya," Dean interrupted, shooting an empty grin over at Wick. "Mother friggin' hen."

Wick nodded. "Yeah, well, guess it's good to have someone watch out for you."

"Mo'," Kate demanded, pointing her index finger into the palm of her hand.

"Is she…signing?" Sam asked, sliding a glass of water over to Dean, watching as his brother set the beer down and picked up the water without commenting.

"Yeah, Lisa taught her baby signs when she was really little. She does a few of them. Bad thing is, I don't know any of them. So, I'm back to guessing. Here you go, kiddo," Wick said, cutting more pizza up with the side of his fork, then setting the pieces on her highchair tray.

Dean shook his head. "Baby signs… Sam was lucky he learned his ABCs."

"Hey!" Sam protested.

"It just the two of you?" Wick asked, passing the second box of pizza around.

Dean glanced away, and Sam concentrated on his slice.

"Yeah," Dean answered. "It is now. Our, uh, dad died about a couple weeks ago."

"Oh," Wick said, subdued. "Sorry, man."

Dean lifted his shoulder, silent.

"Dean was the one who raised me, anyway," Sam said, surprised to hear himself offering such information to a stranger. Dean looked at him, questions in his eyes. "Dad wasn't around much."

"Your mom?" Wick asked, giving Kate more pizza when she patted her finger against her palm once more.

"She died when I was a baby," Sam replied, not looking at Dean.

"Man." Wick lifted a hand as if in apology.

"Eh, it was a long time ago," Dean said around a mouthful of pizza, waving a dismissive hand toward Wick. "You're gonna do just fine with this one, man."

"I don't know." Wick shook his head. "She's already smarter than me and she knows, like, ten words."

"Well, they surprise you every day, that's for sure," Dean nodded, wiping his mouth with a napkin. Sam watched him, listening silently. "But you just gotta stay consistent with what you tell them. And listen to them. They'll tell you what they need."

Wick was leaning forward, absorbing Dean's words. Sam was leaning back, surprised by them. He'd seen his brother with kids before—Lucas and Michael in recent memory—but he never really thought about Dean knowing how to care for a child. Despite what he himself had just said about Dean raising him. The fact it had been done with cunning and not simply luck was just beginning to dawn on Sam.

"All done," Kate declared, waving her hands at her sides. She started to push the uneaten parts of her pizza off her tray.

Sam laughed, Wick shook his head, and Dean reached for a napkin, standing carefully and wiping Kate's hands and face. Sam's laugh cut off abruptly. Dean moved as if he'd been cleaning up babies his whole life: naturally, with slow, sure motions. Even hampered by his bandaged arm, he looked like he knew what he was doing.

Sam felt his heart slow, struck with sadness for what Dean had lost and what he would never have. His brother was a born father. Sam was living testament to that. And yet life, apparently, had other ideas. Just isn't fair…

"I'm gonna give her a bath," Wick said, pulling Kate from the chair. "You guys just make yourselves at home. I'll clean up later."

Wick shifted Kate to his hip, the baby's chattering fading as they climbed up the stairs. Sam sat still, staring at his empty plate, feeling Dean's silence beside him. He wanted to talk to him, wanted Dean to talk. Not even about Dad, just…talk. About anything. But he couldn't think of a word to say. He couldn't think of an easy break in conversation that didn't either start with pain or threaten to end that way.

"Gonna go in the other room," Dean finally said, standing stiffly.

The bruises around his eye had darkened, but his face looked less pale. Sam watched him walk from the room, his loose-limbed stride looking off-balance with his arm bound to his side. Sam knew he should be seen by a doctor, just to make sure there wasn't any real damage. Maybe I can get Bobby to convince him to go…

Sam cleared the plates from the table, stacking them beside the sink, then joined his brother in the family room, stepping over the baby gate.

Dean was slouched on a reclining chair, the footrest part of the way out, his head back, eyes closed. Sam sat on the couch, letting his eyes roam the room. Framed posters of concerts and singers graced the walls; everyone from Pearl Jam to Frank Sinatra. Sam's lips quirked in a half-smile, impressed. He stood and wandered to a collection of pictures next to a baby monitor on a bookcase.

"Think this is Lisa?" Sam asked suddenly. He saw Dean jump out of the corner of his eye, mentally kicking himself for not checking to see if his brother had actually fallen asleep.

"What?"

"This picture here—looks just like Kate."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"We ever have stuff like…baby gates?"

Dean chuckled softly, and Sam turned from the bookcase to face him. Dean's head was back again, his eyes closed, but the sleepy smile on his face made Sam think the pain meds were doing a fair job of keeping the aches at bay.

"Not exactly," Dean drawled. They could hear Wick talking to Kate and the toddler's answering babble on the monitor. "Dad kinda jury-rigged some barricades for you in different motel rooms—the ones that had those kitchen things, and I figured out how to move furniture so you would stay in one place."

Sam sat on the couch heavily, surprised to hear a memory about Dad flow so easily from Dean. After feeling his brother sag against him in the doorway of that hospital room as the words, Time of death, 10:41 a.m., echoed through his head, he'd wondered if Dean would ever bring up Dad in casual conversation again. Sam held his breath, afraid to break the spell.

"You were a clever baby, though," Dean said, yawning. "You always managed to find ways into and out of stuff. I couldn't let you out of my sight."

"I was a pain in the ass, huh?" Sam asked, a small smile in his voice.

"Nah." Dean shook his head, his eyes opening slowly as if the short break in vigilance had woven his lashes together. "You were a kid, Sammy. You were just a kid. And I…"

"What?"

Dean lifted his head, his eyes once again hollow. "Nothing."

Sam was silent, watching Dean.

Wick walked into the room, Kate in his arms, her soft blonde hair still damp and sticking up around her head. Wick frowned at the brothers, evidently realizing he'd interrupted something. Kate, however, could care less.

"Store," she said, reaching for the ground. "Store."

"Store?" Sam asked, tilting his head, confused.

"Story," Dean said, his eyes on where Kate was reaching.

"Oh, yeah." Wick nodded. "Yeah, Lisa always read to her before bed." He smiled at Dean. "Nice job!"

The corner of Dean's mouth tugged up in a grin. Wick set Kate down inside the room, then stepped over the baby gate.

"I'd take it down, but it's such a pain to put back up," he said apologetically, sitting on the couch and watching his niece. Kate found a book, then regarded her uncle carefully. He reached out to her and she frowned, turning from him and heading over to Dean.

"Up," she demanded.

Sam watched Dean blink in obvious surprise, staring back at the little face before him.

"Up," Kate demanded again, this time reaching for him.

Dean started to lean down, but Sam could see he wasn't going to be able to pick her up with one arm. Sam crossed the room, reaching for Kate. His large hands awkwardly splayed around her tiny torso, Sam lifted her from the floor, arms extended, and stepped toward Dean. Ignoring his brother's amused smirk, he set Kate down gingerly in his brother's lap, then dropped down on the other side of the couch to watch as Dean started to read the book to Kate.

Soon, though, she took over, turning the pages backward and forward, pointing to pictures and stating her version of the word associated with the image. Dean grinned, shooting his eyes up to Sam. He nodded solemnly, though, when Kate twisted her head around to make sure he was paying attention.

Sam watched with awe. His rogue of a brother, who looked more at home in a bar or under the hood of a car than just about anywhere else Sam had seen him, who only visibly relaxed when he had a gun in his hand, who slept with a ten-inch Bowie knife under his pillow, who had killed more evil than Sam had ever seen in his lifetime, looked completely at peace sitting in a recliner with a baby in his lap.

Sam wasn't sure what to do with that.

"Don," Kate said, pointing to a picture.

Sam saw Dean's head snap up. "What?" he asked him.

"What's that, Katie?" Dean asked.

"Don," Kate repeated, pointing to the book again.

"She calls farmers 'Don'?" Dean asked Wick.

Wick shrugged. "I guess. Maybe…like Old McDonald?"

Dean nodded. Kate turned the pages and kept reading.

Sam watched him. "What is it, Dean?"

"She said that earlier this evening. Told 'Don' to go away."

Sam shrugged. "So?"

Dean shook his head. "Never mind…probably nothing."

The clock on the mantel struck eight, and Wick stood. "C'mon, kiddo," he said, reaching for Kate. "Time for bed. Say g'night."

Kate looked down at Dean. "Be good."

Sam chuckled. Dean nodded solemnly. "You, too, Katie."

Wick carried her upstairs, and the brothers sat listening to the sounds of Kate humming herself to sleep over the monitor. Wick bade them goodnight soon after, and they were left with the uncomfortable companion of time and circumstance between them.

*****

I've done everything you've ever asked me… I've given everything I've ever had…and you're just gonna sit there and watch me die?!

Is this really you talking? Why are you saying this stuff? You're scaring me…

Yeah, Dad, you know I will…

He couldn't hear Dad. He wanted to, but he couldn't. Dean turned, straining to hear his father's words. Needing the reassurance of that deep timbre, the liquid-metal sound rolling over him and through him. But there was nothing there. It was as if the place he'd hidden John inside him had been scooped out, lost, shattered.

He turned again, moving through gray shadows, whispers of voices meeting his ears, teasing him with an almost sound, not quite words but very nearly noise. He wanted to see Sam. He knew Sam was around, but the gray was getting in the way. He needed to get out of the gray, but there was so much of it.

"Sam?"

"Hey, Dean, hey…"

There he was. Wait, where did he go? He was just there.

"Dean, hey, it's okay, man, open your eyes. Dean! Hey, Dean, open your eyes."

Dean obeyed. He was sweating, his left arm throbbing, his ribs ticking with little pinpricks, painfully adjusting to his new position. He blinked in the darkness, working to orient himself. Sam leaned over him, one hand on his chest, the other braced on the back of the chair.

Dean rubbed a trembling hand over his face. He'd fallen asleep in the recliner, the angle easier on his ribs. Sam was in his t-shirt and boxers, the angry red scrape on his thigh visible in the dim light from the hallway, his hair spun around his head from his pillow.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Dreamin', I guess."

"You were talking," Sam said, sitting on the edge of the pullout bed, his hands sliding free from Dean, leaving him to shiver in their wake. "What did Dad say?"

"Huh?" Dean pulled his hand from his face.

"You said he was scaring you," Sam said. "What did he say?"

Dean went cold. He felt the blood drain with the emotion from his face. "Nothing, Sam."

"It wasn't nothing, Dean."

"It was just a dream. It was nothing."

Sam stared at him another moment. Dean stared back, unrelenting. He wished he'd at least removed his jeans; the denim was now twisted around his waist and tight on his calves.

The monitor fuzzed, red lights arcing with the feedback. Dean frowned at the lights. They faded back to nothing, then spiked once more.

"Were you…whispering?" Dean asked suddenly.

The lights faded, then flashed, bringing with them a strange hushed sound.

"Me? No. Wick's in Kate's room, though. I can hear him on the monitor."

"Oh." Dean nodded, shifting in the chair, his ribs finally having enough of being at an odd angle. He kept his eyes on the red lights of the monitor, concentrating on the sounds that had captured his attention.

He realized he could hear voices. Words. Focusing, Dean frowned. It didn't sound like Wick, though. In fact…

"Sam." He sat forward, his arm protesting. "That's a woman's voice."

"What?" Sam leaned toward the monitor.

As he did so, Kate spoke up, very clearly, her voice angry. "Don. Go 'way."

Dean was out of the chair, dipping a hand into his duffel and grabbing his pearl-handled .45, then over the baby gate before Sam had pulled his jeans on.

His left arm pinned against his side by the bandages, muscles screaming in protest, Dean took the stairs two at a time, meeting up with Wick at the top in front of Kate's bedroom door.

"Someone's in Kate's room," Wick whispered.

"I know," Dean replied. "Stay back."

His breath beating against the base of his throat, Dean shoved his gun into the back waistband of his jeans, then reached out and touched the door handle of the baby's room, jerking back suddenly.

"What? What? Is it hot?" Wick asked nervously.

"Cold," Sam guessed, his voice laced with dread.

"Damn cold," Dean said, shaking his hand vigorously, then reaching for the knob again.

"Cold?" Wick stepped forward, his voice incredulous.

Dean opened the door and, for a moment, the whispering intensified, causing him to flinch back. Just before it ceased altogether, he heard a woman's voice utter the word "safe" almost like a plea. And then there was silence.

"Mama," Kate called.

Dean stepped into the room, his breath condensing in small clouds. He headed directly to the crib. Kate sat there, her pacifier in one hand, blanket in the other. Seeing him, she reached up.

Ignoring the harsh protest of his arm, Dean leaned over the edge of the crib, scooping the tiny girl up with his right hand, holding her against him and turning from the room.

Wick took the blanket from Kate's small hand, wrapping it around her back, and took her from Dean. Sam shut the bedroom door, ushering the trio in front of him down the stairs.

Dean watched Kate's face over her uncle's shoulders. Her teeth chattered and her lips were bluish, but she wasn't crying. She seemed more annoyed than scared.

Once back in the family room, Wick turned to the brothers. "What the fuck was that?"

Instead of answering him, Dean grabbed another blanket from the pullout bed Sam had been sleeping on to wrap around Kate. She had felt too cold to him. It made him want to shiver.

"You have any salt, man?" Sam asked, his voice terse.

"Salt?"

"Yeah, salt. Anything will do."

"Uh…maybe in the kitchen. And, uh, there's a water softener in the basement."

"Perfect," Dean said. "Stay here. And keep her warm." He turned to Sam.

"I'll get the salt from the basement," Sam volunteered before Dean could say anything.

Dean nodded, heading for the kitchen. He quickly found a canister of Morton's and returned to the family room, using the salt to line the window ledges and baseboards. Sam returned with a large yellow bag of rock salt and lined the entrance to the family room, leaving the bag sitting in the corner and stepping inside.

Wick was pacing, and Kate had started to whimper. Dean could see Wick clutching her tighter in his anxiety. Exchanging an, Are you gonna do this, or should I, look with Sam, Dean crossed to Wick, shifting the baby from her uncle's arms to his, and sat down in the recliner, Kate in his lap.

Wick continued to pace, hugging his arms as if he hadn't realized he no longer held a baby. Kate curled up against Dean's right side, and Dean wrapped the blanket around her.

"So, uh, Wick," Sam started, clearing his throat. "Looks like this house is haunted."

"Way to break it to him gently, there, Sam," Dean muttered.

"You wanna do this?"

"No, no, you're doing just fine." Dean raised his hand in a gesture of innocent acceptance.

"Because last time I checked, you weren't buying that there was a case here, Dean."

"What do you want me to say? I was wrong?"

"Yes!"

"Okay, I was wrong, you were right. You happy?" Dean snapped. Kate whimpered, then settled again, falling into an uneasy sleep against Dean's chest.

Sam looked down at her. Sighing, he shook his head. "Actually…no," he said softly.

"Haunted?" Wick said finally, several beats behind the conversation. "Like…with ghosts?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Ghosts."

"You mean…Lisa?" Wick said in a small voice, his eyes shooting to the pictures on the bookshelf.

"No, no." Sam shook his head, exchanging a look with Dean. "At least, we're pretty sure. We, uh…the way you described what Lisa heard before they were killed…the place might have been haunted when they moved in."

"What!"

The shock in Wick's voice pulled at Dean. It was never easy to hear the truth.

"Listen," he said softly, Kate's sleeping body warm against him. "We know it's hard for you to understand, but…it looks like your sister and her husband were killed by a spirit—a nasty one, by the sound of it."

"I can't believe this." Wick shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck as he paced. "I mean, this is like…TV shit. This doesn't happen. Not in real life. Ghosts aren't real."

"Hate to tell you this—I mean, I really hate it—but ghosts are real," Dean said, his eyes on Wick, cool and dangerous. "They're very real. But we know how to take care of this."

"You do?" Wick looked from Dean to Sam. "How the hell does someone just know that?"

"We were kinda…raised to know it," Sam said, sitting on the edge of the pullout bed.

"Wait a second. You're telling me…" Wick shoved his hands into his hair. "You're telling me my sister was killed by a ghost…which just so happens to still be here…and I managed to run over the friggin' Ghostbusters?"

Sam shrugged, looking over at Dean. "Uh, yeah, basically."

Dean sighed. "Sam, what time is it?"

Sam looked at his watch. "'Bout five."

"Okay, we got a little time before dawn…"

"Wait, I still don't know if I buy this. I mean, this place used to be a church, for Christ's sake."

"What?" Dean and Sam exclaimed in unison, staring at Wick, incredulous.

Wick looked back at them, eyes darting as though he'd just been caught in a lie. "Well…yeah, I mean, a long time ago, it was a church. Someone turned it into a farmhouse in the 1920s."

"This place used to be a farm, too?" Dean asked.

"Like a million years ago, yeah," Wick said.

Dean looked at Sam. "Holy shit, Sam, she knew."

"Knew?"

"Who knew? Knew what?" Wick's eyes bounced between them.

"Katie. She saw him. It. The ghost."

Sam dropped his head back in realization. "Don."

"Yeah, Don."

"What the hell are you guys talking about?" Wick yelled.

Kate jumped, jolted from sleep by the harsh bark of her uncle's voice.

"Your niece, man," Dean explained, drawing Wick's eyes. "She saw the spirit. Her baby monitor was acting like a friggin' EMF meter."

"A what?"

"It detects spirits," Sam explained. "Dean." Sam shifted his eyes to his brother. "If it was a church at one time…maybe there's a cemetery nearby."

"There is," Wick said, crossing his arms over his body. "About twenty feet off the back porch."

"Un-freakin'-believable," Dean muttered, shifting Kate against him. He tipped his head back against the recliner, the ache in his bones that had momentarily disappeared when he'd run up the stairs returning with a vengeance.

He felt Sam's eyes on him but lacked the strength to meet his brother's gaze. Sighing, he settled his hand on the baby's back, her small face pressed against his chest, her hand clutching his t-shirt. It had been a long time since someone that little had trusted him so completely. It had been a long time since anyone had trusted him so completely. Even after all this time, he could feel Sam hold back some doubt, his constant questions a way of balancing Dean's I'm the oldest so I'm always right routine.

Rolling his head, Dean looked at his brother through his lashes. He knew Sam felt the chasm between them, knew Sam was desperately seeking a way to cross it, knew he was making that search impossible. He wasn't sure what he'd do if Sam made it over, got near him again. He had to keep his game face on, had to keep up the front, otherwise…

"So, what are we gonna do, man?" Sam asked.

"We're gonna find the bones. Salt and burn, Sammy," Dean answered, not raising his head.

"Bones?" Wick's voice trembled.

"How are we gonna figure out who's haunting this place? I don't have my laptop. Doubt there's an internet connection out here, anyway."

"Old-fashioned way." Dean grinned. "Library."

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "That's something I never thought I'd hear you say."

"What are you gonna do with the bones?" Wick tried again.

"Okay, so… Library. Town. Not here… We don't have any wheels, Dean. How am I gonna get there?" Sam frowned.

"Well, when Bubba gets here with the tow truck, you go with him and get Bobby's truck out and head to the library."

"What about you?" Sam asked, his eyes flicking from Dean's bruised face to the baby in his arms.

"I'm gonna get our weapons stash ready. Just in case Don doesn't want to go quietly into that good night."

"Hello!"

"What?" the brothers snapped at Wick's bellow. Kate squirmed against Dean, blinking large blue eyes up at him.

"What the hell are you gonna do with the bones?"

"Salt and burn them," Dean replied. "Only way to get rid of the spirit."

"Oh," Wick replied in a small voice. "Thanks."

"How long until—"

"Junior said he'd be here around eight," Wick replied, sitting down next to Sam on the pullout.

"Good," Dean yawned. "Get some rest."

"In here?" Wick blinked at him, incredulous.

"We're safe inside the salt," Sam told him, scooting back to the head of the bed. "Dean's right. It's gonna be a long day."

Dean tipped his head to the side, his cheek resting against the top of Kate's head, her wispy hair brushing his nose. She curled her fist tighter into his shirt, whimpering, unsettled by the raised voices.

"Lisa would sing to her," Wick said softly. "She was always singing."

"Why don't you sing to her?" Sam suggested sleepily.

"'Cause I don't sing," Wick yawned. "Lisa got all the talent in the family. She really was amazing." Wick's voice thickened with emotion.

"Well, Katie," Dean said softly against the baby's head. "Don't know all the words to Crazy Love, but I could sing you some Metallica."

"Nice, Dean," Sam chuckled.

Dean ignored him. Metallica had been good enough for Sam when he was little, though his brother probably wouldn't remember that. Dean recalled more than one night, alone in a motel room or a rented house, when Sam would climb under the covers, his cold feet waking Dean as his little body tucked up under his big brother's arm. Softened words to Dean's favorite band had lulled Sam back to sleep more times than he could count.

"So close no matter how far. Couldn't be much more from the heart. Forever trust in who we are…and nothing else matters…"

He kept his voice low and soft, pitching it just for Kate but knowing Sam heard him. He felt his brother's quiet from across the room. The space between them wasn't so deep that he couldn't sense his brother.

"Never opened myself this way…Life is ours, we live it our way. All these words I don't just say…and nothing else matters."

Somewhere between the second and third verse, Dean fell asleep.

www

"Bobby is going to kill us," Sam muttered as Junior pulled the old Ford, metal creaking against metal, twisted at an unnatural angle, out of the ditch, digging furrows into the soft earth at the side of the road.

The mirrors on both sides were destroyed, and the front right quarter panel was crumpled. The front bumper, which had been attached by strips of duct tape before, lay behind in the ditch, having given up the struggle to hold on. It was a miracle the front tire wasn't flat. Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Junior, a slip of a man with a mullet that would put Ash's to shame and a red baseball hat turned backward on his head, jumped from the cab of the tow truck and whistled.

"Gotta say," he spat tobacco juice toward the side of the road, wiping at the drip that didn't quite make the escape off his chin with the back of his hand, "this here's probably the oldest truck I've seen in a long while."

"Yeah, well," Sam sighed. "Our other car's…broken." Somehow, saying it out loud felt like a betrayal. Fixing the Impala meant more than just getting their wheels back. In a way, fixing the Impala, Sam knew, helped fix Dean.

"You sure it's gonna run?" Junior asked, spitting again.

"No, I'm not sure," Sam grumbled, eyeing the crumpled vehicle with trepidation.

Damn it, Dean, you should be here, not me.

Sam winced inwardly, thinking of Dean's pale, pinched face in the morning light. He had barely been able to climb out of the chair when Wick lifted Kate from his chest. Another Percocet after breakfast had allowed him to take a deep breath, but he still wasn't able to move his arm.

Junior lifted his hat, scratching at his stringy blond hair. "Want some help?"

"Yeah." Sam smiled gratefully. "That'd be great."

Sam climbed inside the cab of the truck, following Junior's instructions until the truck dutifully roared to life. As Junior came over to the window, Sam leaned out.

"Hey, you know how to get to the public library?"

Junior laughed. "Kid, that's probably the first time in my life anyone's ever asked me that."

Folding his lips into an agreeable pout, Sam nodded. "Okay, how about Dodd's Classic Cars, then?"

"Now you're talking sense." Junior spat over his shoulder, wiped his chin, and proceeded to give Sam directions that consisted of turning right at the red barn at the end of the road, left at the gas station, skipping the road next to the Dunkin' Donuts, and turning left at the arcade.

"Can't miss it," Junior asserted.

"How long?"

The mechanic shrugged. "Hour, maybe?"

Three hours later, Sam had the trunk lid, wrapped in a protective layer of foam padding and bungee-corded to the bed of the old truck. He was sitting in the public library—thanks to a mechanic who had been asked how to get to the library once before in his lifetime—looking up the history of Lisa and Paul's house. It wasn't hard to find the former owners. Des Moines, Iowa, was apparently big into the history of the surrounding townships.

Sam felt the time tick by, unable to reach Dean and check on him, see if he was okay. Not that Dean would probably talk to him on the phone any more than he had been face-to-face. But being physically separated from his brother at the moment was almost painful.

Scrolling through ancient microfiche, Sam rubbed his eyes, his head aching from the tedium of research. His gaze caught on something and he frowned, tilting his head in concentration. He scrolled backward through several slides—the screens moved so damn fast—until he returned to what he'd seen.

Murder-Suicide.

He leaned closer. "Holy shit," he whispered.

As Sam continued reading, dread settled like a block of ice in his stomach.

"We're in big trouble."

www

"She's not usually this grouchy," Wick apologized, his voice raised over Kate's wail.

The little girl was red-faced, tears creating trails down her chubby cheeks and snot collecting at the base of her nose. She was not happy. Wick held her against him, pacing and bouncing as he'd obviously seen his sister do in the past.

"I don't know what the deal is. I've changed her, fed her, nothing's poking her…" Wick continued to pace, bouncing Kate hard enough that her wails undulated in halted sounds.

Dean stood in the kitchen, hip resting against the table, filling a third bottle with lighter fluid and crushed rock salt from the bag in the basement. It was a tedious task with one hand, but he wasn't about to remove the wrapping without Sam's help. Which meant no shower. Which meant he felt even worse than if he'd just been in pain.

He glanced up at Wick's thinly disguised plea for help. His instinct was to take the baby girl from her agitated uncle, but Dean knew from the way he was aching that he wouldn't be able to hold her for long.

Waking that morning without a verbal protest of pain had been a monumental effort in control. His body felt like one large bruise; his shoulder ached into his teeth, a bone-cold ache that told him it was planning on hanging around for a while. His ribs seemed to have collapsed against his spine overnight and refused him even the smallest of breaths until Sam gave him another Percocet with his Cheerios.

Now, at least Dean could breathe, but his arm was another matter. He was having trouble making a fist, and he knew from experience that was going to be a problem. He was just glad it was his left arm. Had it been his right, raising his hand to fire a weapon would have been out of the question.

"Try water," Dean said, capping one bottle of homemade ghost repellant and picking up another.

"Water?"

"Come in here and turn on the water," Dean said, tipping his head back toward the sink. "Let her listen to it. Always worked for Sammy."

"Huh." Wick shrugged. He did as Dean suggested, smiling over his shoulder as Kate started to settle down, tears turning her long lashes into tee-pees as she watched the water pour from the faucet. "I'll be damned."

"Damn," Kate repeated, staring at the water.

Dean chuckled.

"Shit," Wick whispered. "I gotta watch that."

"Yep." Dean nodded, filling the bottle. "Dad got in trouble when Sam showed up at kindergarten and knew Latin but was a little shaky on his colors."

"You guys really grew up…killing this stuff?"

Dean nodded.

"I thought my childhood was screwed up… Lisa was a great sister, but our parents..." Wick swallowed loudly and shook his head, his voice drowned in surfacing emotion.

Dean looked over his shoulder, setting the fourth bottle down beside the rest. "Everyone has their issues. Some are more bizarre than others, but it doesn't mean they're any more important."

Wick nodded, looking down at Kate. "Well, she's sure gonna have hers."

Dean was quiet a moment, thinking of Sam. Of how hard he had always worked to keep Sam safe. Of John's dire warning that could destroy a lifetime of protection.

"Just watch out for her, man," Dean said softly. "It's all you can do. Put yourself between her and the bad guys."

Wick lifted his head, staring hard at Dean, saying nothing. After a beat, he looked back down. "She's asleep. Think I can lay her down in her crib?"

Dean pressed his lips out in thought. "Yeah…," he replied hesitantly. "Put some salt around her crib, though. Sam'll be back soon." He faced the bottles once more while Wick turned off the water and carried Kate upstairs.

Dean studied his arsenal. He had his .45 and one extra clip of cartridges, but that wasn't going to do much good against a spirit. Then again, tell that to Constance Welch, he thought, remembering the effective use of his gun when the Woman in White had tried to attack Sam.

He had a lighter, four bottles, rock salt, and lighter fluid. He began to fill the glass bottles with lighter fluid, holding the bottle in his weak left hand and using the edge of the table to balance the can of accelerant. Once the bottles were half-filled, Dean began to funnel the rock salt into them. If nothing else, those modified Molotov cocktails could be used to break against the bones in a hurry.

Wick set the monitor down on the table when he returned from laying Kate down. "I'm gonna run out to the truck, grab some of her stuff I left in there last night. Be back in a sec."

Dean lifted his chin in acknowledgement.

He had completed four rock-salt bottles when he heard the voices.

The monitor lights arced to the top of the spectrum, bright red as Dean realized he was listening to two people—a man and a woman—having an argument. He heard the words "baby," "mine," "kill," and "safe" as he grabbed his .45, its grip as comforting as it was useless.

Heading up the stairs at a stiff run, Dean didn't bother turning the handle of Kate's door. Rearing back, he kicked through the frosty wood, the sight on the other side causing his blood to run cold. Kate stood in the back corner of her crib, eyes wide, her mouth covered by a pacifier and her blanket clutched in a tiny fist.

Standing with her back to the crib, arms spread as if in protection, was a young woman, her face marked with bruises and her eyes furious. A man dressed in denim and flannel faced her, his back to Dean, a rifle barrel visible over his shoulder.

"Hey!" Dean barked.

The man turned, and Dean caught a quick glimpse of manic dark eyes and a pockmarked face before he fired at the image. With a roar, the man vanished, the woman following suit. Dean saw his bullet bury itself in the opposite end of Kate's crib from the baby.

Shoving his gun into his waistband, his t-shirt protecting his skin from the warm barrel, Dean hurried to the crib. Scuffing the ring of salt Wick had laid down, he grabbed Kate up and turned from the room. He could feel the pressure in the house increase, knowing instinctively that he'd only managed to anger the spirits.

As he stepped from the baby's room, the house went insane.

A scream tore through the upstairs, shooting past him and down into the family room like a train, pulling icy air behind it. Kate clutched at Dean's neck; he gripped her tight with his right arm, taking the stairs as fast as he dared. Pictures began to fly off the bookshelf, papers from the kitchen fridge flying around the room. Cabinets opened and dishes crashed to the ground.

As he reached the landing, Dean felt a pull at his midsection and had one moment to gasp in a breath before he was thrust across the room, his back slamming viciously against a wall. Kate screamed, her tears wetting Dean's neck. He tried to reassure the child, but he couldn't speak, the wind in the house ripping the breath from his body. His arm trembled, threatening to drop Kate even as the spectral power that held him fast.

The front door slammed open, the knob bouncing against the opposite wall.

"What the hell—" Wick's voice was high-pitched with shock.

"G-get the baby," Dean gasped. "Get her out of here!"

Wick crossed to Dean, ducking a flying toy that sailed through the air before embedding itself in the opposite wall. Kate screeched as Wick pulled her free from Dean, her tiny hands clawing and gripping at Dean's neck, terrified at being torn from safety.

"'S okay," Dean managed, trying to pull himself free of the invisible vice that gripped him. "'S okay, Katie."

"What about you!" Wick yelled over the cacophony of screams and slamming furniture. He curled his body around the small one in his grasp as glass flew across the room from one of the cabinet doors.

Dean saw it and closed his eyes, trying to flinch away but unable to move. He cried out as he felt the sharp edges embed themselves in his left hand, arm, and cheek. "Get the hell out of here!" Dean roared, opening his eyes to stare down Wick.

The moment Wick and Kate stumbled free of the house, the door slammed shut behind them. The force holding Dean to the wall relaxed and he fell to the ground.

Then all hell broke loose.

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Sam slammed on the brakes when he saw Wick sprinting from the house, Kate clutched in his arms. He barely remembered to shove the gear into Park before he tumbled out and ran toward them.

"Where's Dean?" Sam demanded, catching Wick by the shoulders.

"He's still inside," Wick panted. "The house, it's—"

"Stay here," Sam commanded, pushing past Wick and heading for the door.

He tried the handle, but it didn't budge. He knew who the ghosts were, and knew that if Kate was outside the house and Dean was still in there, his brother was as good as dead.

"DEAN!" Sam beat on the door, kicking the base of it with his foot. It wasn't budging. Backing away, he scanned the front of the building with quick eyes. There was only one option.

Grabbing one of the larger rocks from the landscaped edging around the house, Sam lifted it, grunting with effort, and heaved it through the large picture window to the right of the door, hoping Dean wasn't directly on the other side. The glass shattered, and Sam lunged for the opening.

"DEAN!"

"Sam—" Dean's voice was angry, frantic, and weak.

"I'm coming in!"

"Don't! Sam, stay back!"

Sam could barely hear his plea over the screaming in the house. "What?" he covered his hand with the sleeve of his shirt, grabbing the windowsill and pulling himself up.

"Stay back! Don't come in!"

"Like hell!" Sam returned, finally finding Dean half slumped in the corner of the family room, a rough ring around him of the rock salt that had protected the room the night before. "I'm not leaving you in here." He stumbled over to Dean, ducking flying toys and books, the corner of one larger volume cracking across the side of his head, knocking him to his knees. Sam pulled himself up, crawling toward Dean. A grip, strong and invisible, captured him at the waist, shoving him up off his knees and propelling him through the air. He felt his hip and shoulder groan in protest as they crashed against a bookshelf.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelled. "Sam! You okay?"

Sam tried to answer, but the power of speech seemed to be beyond him in that moment. He lay in a heap at the base of the bookshelf, curling his body as he fought for air.

"Hey, you freakin' bastard!" Dean yelled. "You want to mess with someone, mess with me!"

Sam blinked at the rage in his brother's voice. He pulled his head up, shocked to see the figure of a large man in flannel turning from him to his brother. The sharp retort of Dean's .45 made Sam jump. His brother fired three times, the spirit screeching with each hit, and then, for one blessed moment, all was silent.

"Dean?"

"Sam, get the hell out of here," Dean gasped. "Go now!"

"Not without you." Sam shoved himself to his knees, scrambling over to the pile of person that was his brother. Grasping Dean by his arm and belt loops, he lifted his brother from his knees to a crouched run and propelled them toward the door.

The house took a breath; Sam literally felt the gasp as they opened the door. As they stumbled out, slamming the door behind them, a woman's wail of sorrow tore through the empty rooms.

Then all was silent once more.

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"Why the hell didn't you listen to me?" Dean growled, trying to open his eyes.

The world was spinning around him, and if it weren't for Sam's strong arm around his waist, he would be on the ground. Despite that, he continued to push at Sam, working to get his brother to step away from him, give him space. He couldn't breathe.

"Because you were gonna get killed in there, Dean," Sam rasped, his voice rough from yelling. "Jesus, man, you're bleeding all over the place."

Dean finally pried his eyes open, seeing the SUV in front of them. Sam sat him down on the running board, the sun-warmed metal of the vehicle door at his back. Dean winced as Sam touched his left arm.

"Glass?"

"Yeah." Dean swallowed. "From a cabinet, I think."

"All our stuff's inside," Sam growled. "I'm gonna have to use a shirt or something."

"Do what you have to do," Dean whispered. He was starting to feel cold, shaky. He knew it was shock. He needed to move. Moving kept him warm, kept the demons at bay. "Where's the baby?"

"She's here." Wick's voice came from his right. Dean opened one eye, rolling his head toward the sound. Wick stood at the front of the SUV, his arms wrapped tight around Kate. She regarded Dean with wide blue eyes.

"She okay?" Dean asked.

"Seems to be."

"You're not," Sam snapped. "Hold still, damn it." He'd pulled his long-sleeved shirt off and was trying to tear it at the seams with his teeth.

"Sam." Dean's voice was rough. "Knife…pocket."

"Great." Sam dug two fingers into the front pocket of Dean's jeans, pulling his brother's folded knife free. Using the blade, he removed the arms of his shirt from the body. "These ones on your face aren't so bad—"

"Thank God," Dean said, pulling his lips into a grin. "Can't mess with perfection."

"—but you got a nasty one on your left hand and upper arm."

"Putting that arm through the wringer." Dean tipped his head down, looking at his wound. "Well, at least it's not my gun hand."

"Yeah, guess there's always a silver lining," he scoffed as he wrapped one sleeve tightly around Dean's hand, then shifted to his upper arm. Dean hissed as Sam shimmied the shirt sleeve through the blood-stained Ace bandage, pulling it tight around the slice in his skin, working to stop the bleeding. "We gotta get these checked out, Dean."

Dean nodded. "When the job is done."

"What!" Sam and Wick exclaimed together.

Dean looked up at Wick. "You just never gonna go back in there?"

"I was considering it," Wick said, nodding.

"Dean, listen." Sam crouched in front of his brother, resting a hand on Dean's knee to draw his attention. "I found the ghosts. They are buried here. Not sure which grave, though, because their names weren't put on the markers."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because it was a murder-suicide," Sam said, eyebrow raised. "They shamed the Church."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Did it have to do with a kid, by any chance?"

Sam drew his head back. "Yeah, how'd you know that?"

"Call it a hunch," Dean muttered, glancing up at Kate. She reached out for him, and Wick shifted her in his arms, shushing her when she protested being denied what she wanted.

"Well, it was back in the Thirties. Second generation to live on the farm after it was converted from a church." Sam shifted his balance so his hand was no longer on Dean's knee. Dean looked back at his brother. "Seems the couple had a baby after years of trying, and when the kid was born, he very definitely did not resemble the husband. The guy overlooked it for a while until he found out that the wife had had an affair. By this time, the kid's, like, a year old."

Sam stood, rubbing his bruised shoulder. Dean winced, remembering his brother's flight into the bookcase.

"So, the guy gets pissed," Sam continued, rolling his neck, "goes after the kid. The wife tells some farm hand to go for help and, when they get back, they see that the husband shot the wife, then killed himself."

"The kid?" Dean asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"Fine, apparently. Someone in the community raised him. He got a shot at a normal life," Sam said, not meeting Dean's eyes.

Dean heard Sam's unspoken question. Wonder what we would have been like if Dad had given us that same shot.

He dismissed the thought the instant it blossomed in his head. Dad had done the only thing he could, the only thing Dean would ever want him to. He'd kept them together. He'd kept them alive. And he'd told them the truth. For the most part…

Dean took a breath. "So, the mom tried to protect the baby, got killed, husband couldn't deal with what he'd done, killed himself, that it?"

"Yep."

"That's why we were okay when Kate was in the house with us," Dean said softly.

Sam nodded.

"What? No, you weren't," Wick protested. "When I got in there, you were pinned to the wall."

"Yeah, well, I might've pissed Don off a little by, uh, shooting him," Dean said. "But they weren't going after me until you took Kate away. The mom was protecting the baby from him."

"Wait, we have two spirits?" Wick looked back toward the house. "One that wants to kill Kate, and one that's protecting her?"

Sam nodded. "Basically, yeah."

"So…that means…" Wick leaned against the side of the SUV, sliding down to the ground, Kate curled in his grasp. "I…killed my sister."

"What?" Dean looked at Wick.

"No." Sam shook his head. "No, man."

"You guys just said that they were okay when the baby was in the house," Wick whispered. "I took her out and…he killed them."

Sam shifted his feet in the dirt, silent. Dean pulled in a breath, his hand, arm, face stinging from the punishment the spirit had set upon him. He slid his gaze up Sam's long body, searching for his brother's eyes in the fading light of day. He could feel Sam looking for words, for a way to absolve Wick of this self-appointed guilt, just as he'd felt Sam seeking a way to tell Dean it was okay to hurt. It was okay to be angry. It was okay to miss Dad.

Dean rolled his head to face Wick. "You listen to me," he said, hearing how dead his voice sounded but unable to infuse it with the emotion echoing in his heart. "You had no way of knowing, okay? You had no idea what was going to happen when you left. You did what he—what they—asked you to do, and you did the right thing. Anything that came after…that was not your fault."

Dean was looking at Wick, but his heart beat loud against his ears, hoping Sam had heard him. Hoping he'd offered Sam the first step across the bridge between them. Hoping it was enough to get Sam to back off, just a little bit. Get him to not push so damn hard.

Kate started to hum, squirming in Wick's grasp. She reached up to her uncle's face, jabbering as though her words held meaning to others besides her. Wick tucked her soft hair behind her ears, running his fingers over the Mohawk at the top of her head.

"Yeah, okay," Wick said softly. "But…what do we do now?"

"We gotta find the graves," Sam said. "I have a basic idea where they are, but we're going to have to look."

"Then what?"

"Well." Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean, his eyes soft in the waning light of the day. "We're gonna have to go back into the house. Get our supplies."

"You got a shovel out here?" Dean asked Wick.

"Probably one in the shed over there."

"Give Sam the baby and go get it," Dean instructed. "We need to be ready."

Sam reached out for Kate, holding her awkwardly. Dean grinned at the sight of Sam and Kate eyeing each other warily as Wick got to his feet, scrambling around the side of the house and returning a minute later with a shovel.

"The records say that the graves would be at the far east end of the cemetery. Something about keeping them away from the rest because of their sin." Sam shrugged, still eyeing Kate.

Dean used the door handle and pulled himself carefully to his feet. His legs felt hollow, light, as if he were walking under someone else's power. He took a breath. "Okay, this is how it's going to be," he said, wishing his voice sounded stronger, wishing he didn't sound so dead. "I don't like this, but our best chance of getting in there and out again in one piece is keeping the baby with us. So, I am going in first, then Sam and Kate, then Wick."

"What? Dean, I—"

"No," Dean cut Sam off. "This is the only way I can protect you. We're going into the kitchen, grabbing our bags and the bottles of rock salt, and getting the hell out."

"What should I do?" Wick asked, gripping the shovel handle convulsively.

"You just be ready to take the salt from me and dig, you got that?" Dean pointed at Wick.

"This is stupid, Dean." Sam shook his head, shifting Kate to his hip without thinking about it. "You shouldn't even go in there."

"We're not talking about this anymore," Dean said.

"Why not!"

"Because I said so, that's why!"

Dean was breathing hard, his jaw tight, the muscles there coiled and aching. Sam's lips were pulled flat against his teeth in rebellion, his eyes boring holes into Dean's. They stared at each other another moment, then Kate squirmed in Sam's arms.

"Let's go," Dean said softly. He turned on rubber legs toward the house, willing the world to slow the hell down for just a damn minute. Just until he could get the supplies. Just until he could get them out safely.

The door opened easily. Dean stepped through, listening to the echoing silence disturbed only by Sam's careful footfalls, followed closely by Wick's. They moved down the hall and toward the kitchen.

"Don," Kate's tiny voice proclaimed.

Dean turned, seeing Sam's eyes widen, hearing his brother gasp. As if he were moving in slow motion, Dean reached out to him as the closet door opened and Sam was pulled away.

"SAM!"

Five seconds after Kate spoke, the house exploded in sound once more.

"I thought you said we'd be safe if she was with us!" Wick yelled.

"SAM!" Dean pounded on the door. "SAMMY! Can you hear me?"

"Dean!" Sam's answer cry was small and sounded far away.

"Get out there." Dean grabbed Wick's shirt, shoving him toward the door. "Find the bodies."

"What about that salt stuff—"

"Damn it," Dean cursed, hurrying through the swirling papers toward the kitchen. He grabbed up three of the salt-filled bottles and a lighter with his right hand, thrusting them at Wick. "GO!"

Wick turned and ran from the house.

Dean returned to the closet. "Sammy, hang on, okay?"

"Dean—we're okay…but…there's someone in here with us!"

"Who?!"

"I think…it's the mom."

"Oh, shit," Dean whispered, turning his head slowly to look over his shoulder. "That means…"

Don was standing behind him, his pockmarked face gray with death and anger, his eyes glittering darkly. The shotgun gripped in his hand lowered, and while Dean was pretty sure rounds fired from a ghost's shotgun couldn't kill him, he wasn't keen on finding out what kind of damage they could do. He dropped to the ground, the buckshot peppering the wall where his head had been.

Dean shot a frantic look over his shoulder. "Son of a bitch," he gasped, scrambling from the spirit, leading him away from the closet.

Don threw the recliner across the room, slamming it into the wall just in front of Dean, cutting off his escape. Dean heard a distinctive shink from the kitchen and dove behind the chair just as several knives flew at him, embedding themselves in the leather back of the recliner.

"Shit," Dean groaned, holding his injured arm close to him, pain slamming into him in shudder-inducing waves. He wasn't going to be able to take much more dodging. "Hurry the hell up, Wick," he gasped.

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"Far east corner…far east corner…which way is east?" Wick lamented, eyes darting frantically around the darkening cemetery. "Oh, wait, sun setting in west, that means east is thataway."

He scrambled over to a group of slumped limestone markers. Muttering to himself, he scanned each, reading off faded names and dates, searching for two that might indicate souls that had shamed the Church. He was in such a hurry that he almost tripped over one that was practically horizontal to the ground, the year of death nearly worn away by time and weather, no names present.

"Please, let this be it," he whispered, digging the tip of his spade into the earth. He dug frantically, puffing air, thinking of Kate in the closet with Sam, thinking of Dean taking the beating that was meant for him, thinking of Lisa's terror as the ghost ripped her apart.

He ducked when a crash sounded inside the house, followed by a curse. Digging faster, he finally came to a wooden box, stabbing the shovel in and breaking it open. The smell of death and decay wafted up and around him, causing him to gag and turn away a moment, breathing into his shoulder. After a moment, Wick turned back, gazing with trepidation into the wooden box in the waning light of day. Inside lay the skeletal remains of a man, dark suit rotten and worn, hands folded over chest, bits of hair still clinging to the brownish skull.

"Yes!" he proclaimed. "Wait…that's only one body…" He glanced over his shoulder toward the house.

What do I do now?

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"You fucking son of a bitch!" Dean yelled as the recliner was ripped away, Don moving closer with an expressionless face like something out of a Halloween movie. "So it wasn't your kid! So the hell what?"

Dean stood, backing away from the spirit, thinking desperately.

"You think you deserve a kid? You think you deserve to be a father?"

Dean dodged a flying book, ducking around a corner and back into the kitchen, still avoiding the spirit's ghostly buckshot.

"You think you can just control us because of who you are? Never mind what we want, what we think, what we might be fighting for!"

The spirit stuttered, stumbling. Dean held his bandaged left arm stiffly at his side, the remaining bottle of rock salt gripped in his right hand. He had to time this just right.

"You can't wait until the end to care, man, you have to mean it all the time—you have to let them know all the time."

Don tried to lift his shotgun once more, his arms flashing briefly in and out of focus. Dean counted to three silently in his head, then threw the bottle of rock salt at the spirit, the glass breaking against the floor and the bits of salt finishing the job that Wick's burning had apparently started.

Dean took a moment to pull in a trembling breath, his weakened body allowing a sob of regret to lick the edges of the sound. He turned, moving back toward the closet.

In the space of a heartbeat, he shifted from relief to trepidation as the air seemed to tighten around him.

With a force that stole his breath, Dean was pulled off his feet once more and slammed against a wall. There, he found himself face-to-face with the bruised countenance of the woman who'd stood in front of Kate's crib.

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"Where is it, where is it, where is it…"

Wick spun in a circle, eyes scanning the darkened cemetery lit now mainly by the light from the burning bones. There had to be another grave…but he could barely see anymore, and the grave he had found seemed to be set off all alone.

"Okay, think, man, think. They were buried away from the rest because of their sin… This was the guy, so…what would a church do with a woman that cheated on her husband…that caused a suicide…"

A scream tore from the house, pulling Wick's eyes away from the fading fire toward the building behind him. That wasn't the scream of a spirit, he knew. That was a scream of pain deeper than bruises and a dislocated shoulder. That was the pain he'd seen lurking in green eyes since the moment he'd met Dean.

He had to hurry. His hesitation was killing Dean. Wick was killing him because he couldn't find the other one. He couldn't think of what the Church would do to someone who'd shamed them, who had caused her husband to take his own life, who had betrayed her husband…

"They're always trying to teach lessons," Wick muttered, his eyes darting across the glowing ash at the bottom of the grave. "Even after death. What lesson would they teach some chick who cheated on her—"

He stopped, peering closer at the cooling coals.

"Holy shit," he said as realization burst upon him. "That's it!"

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Dean screamed.

He felt her cold hand on his chest, burning him through his t-shirt and bandages, and screamed. He felt life ebbing from his body, felt the cracks that had been miraculously healed inside of him begin to reappear. He felt his breath stall and his heart slow. And that made him mad.

He was mad. So he screamed.

"I shouldn't…shouldn't be here," he forced through clenched teeth. "But you're not…gonna…take me…"

"Dean!"

He heard Sam's tinny voice in the background, heard the dull thump thump thump as his brother kicked at the door. Heard Kate's wails as she protested the dark, the noise, the unrest surrounding her.

"No!" Dean yelled, staring at the tortured eyes of the spirit in front of him. "You aren't gonna finish what that…yellow-eyed bastard started. I beat a friggin' reaper…you're not…gonna take me."

"Safe," she whispered, and her voice was like ice as it slid over Dean's ears.

"Safe?" Dean ground out, arching his neck against the pain in his chest.

"Safe," the spirit repeated.

And then it hit him. The image of the spirit standing in front of Kate's crib, arms flung out, putting her body between her baby and the bad guy. Protecting her child with her life.

"She's safe," Dean breathed, head pressed back against the wall. "The baby is safe."

The hand dropped. Dean blinked, gasping, and lowered his head to look at her.

"Safe," she whispered again.

"She's safe," Dean whispered back. "You did good. You saved her."

And in that moment, fire, quick and empty, flashed up around her image. The spirit closed her eyes and the fire consumed her.

The room fell silent, and Dean dropped to the floor. He started to shift his failing body toward the closet, but his strength had left him. His lashes fluttered, his eyes rolled back, and he found himself falling into the waiting arms of darkness.

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Sam realized three things in very quick succession: it was quiet, he could open the door, and Kate had stopped crying.

He half fell, half stumbled from the closet into the hallway, the open air of the house cool against his sweaty face. Dean lay in an unmoving heap on the floor across the room.

Sam started to set Kate down to go to him, then stopped. There was broken glass and furniture everywhere. He headed to Dean, Kate in his arms, pulling up short when Wick stumbled through the door.

"Did it work?" he gasped, covered in dirt and ash from head to toe.

Sam nodded quickly. "It worked. Here, take her. I gotta get to Dean."

"C'mere, kiddo." Wick reached for Kate.

"Messy." Kate frowned, running a tiny finger down Wick's dirt-covered cheek.

Sam crossed the room in two strides, falling to his knees beside Dean. All he'd been able to hear for the last several minutes was the sound of his brother's scream. It had canceled out rational thought, logical exposition. It had been the sound his heart had made when he'd watched the doctors set paddles to his brother's chest. When he thought Dean was going to leave him and not come back.

Sam rolled Dean to his right side, his quick fingers finding his brother's pulse as it beat a staccato rhythm of life in his neck. Sam carefully checked him for additional wounds; other than the bloody shirtsleeves wrapped around Dean's hand and arm, Sam couldn't see anything else wrong, but he knew fighting ghosts didn't leave you unmarked. Dean was going to be hurting for days.

He gently pulled his brother's head and shoulders into his lap, wrapping long fingers around Dean's arm in an embrace he was only allowed in moments like this. Closing his eyes and tipping his head forward, Sam recalled vividly the afternoon—just two days before—in Bobby's junkyard. The look in Dean's eyes had dug into his gut, making the words he knew he'd needed to say even harder.

Why won't you talk to me, Dean? Tell me what you need. Tell me how I can help you. I need you, man. I need you and you're backing away from me…

"Uunh…," Dean groaned, shifting his head weakly against Sam's lap. "You get the plates?"

"Plates?"

"Of the truck that hit me," Dean slurred, fighting to open his eyes.

Sam swallowed, trying to grin. "It's over, man."

"Never over, Sammy," Dean whispered. His eyes slid closed once more. "Too many bad guys to be over…"

"It's over for now," Sam corrected. "You did it."

"Wick did it," Dean said. "Baby okay?" He blinked his eyes open once more.

"She's fine," Wick said, his voice thick with tears. "She's just fine. And she's gonna stay that way, too. We're leaving."

"Place is clean now," Sam said, looking up.

"No." Wick shook his head, smoothing Kate's blonde hair on the top of her head. "It's not clean. It's never gonna be. Lisa died here. Because of me." He looked up at the brothers' silence. "And I'm gonna make it right." He kissed Kate's forehead. "I'm gonna fix this."

Dean struggled in Sam's lap, and Sam eased him up, resting him back against the wall. Dean rolled his head sideways, his upper body still resting against Sam.

Wick crossed to the brothers. "Hold her a sec," he said. "I'm gonna go pack up her stuff."

Sam took Kate and sat her on his lap. Kate turned limpid eyes toward Dean.

"Hey, Wick," Dean called.

Wick paused on the stairway, looking back at them.

"Thanks."

"Yeah, well." Wick met Dean's eyes. "I'm sorry I couldn't go faster. But it's hard trying to think like the Church."

"Huh?" Sam pulled his head back in confusion.

"They buried them in the same grave, one on top of the other," Wick revealed. "I just didn't dig deep enough until…"

"Doesn't matter." Dean shook his head wearily. "You figured it out."

Wick nodded once, then jogged up the stairs.

Sam ran his large hand over Kate's hair, marveling at how small her head was in comparison to his fingers. She was still looking at Dean.

"Ouch," Kate said softly, pointing to Dean's bleeding face.

"Yeah, kiddo," Dean said, and Sam watched him reach for the cuts with trembling fingers. "Big time ouch."

Kate sighed and looked around the destroyed room, returning her gaze to Dean. "Don. Go 'way."

"Yeah." Dean nodded. "He went away."

Kate frowned, her lower lip trembling. Sam felt a lump gather at the base of his throat in reaction to the tears swimming in her eyes. Kate reached out toward Dean, who lifted his right hand, letting her curl her fingers around his.

"Mama?" Kate asked, her voice small.

Dean pressed his lips together, shaking his head. "Sorry, baby," he whispered. "Mama's gone."

Kate sniffed, and Sam tucked her small head under his chin, completely enveloping her with his long arm. They sat in a pile, Dean slumped against the wall, Sam on his knees next to him with their legs touching, Kate in Sam's lap, her little fingers gripping Dean's hand. They stayed there until Wick had loaded the baby things, his clothes, and several pictures and albums from the mess in the family room into the SUV.

Returning to the brothers, Wick bent and picked Kate up.

"What about the rest of the stuff?" Sam asked, looking around.

Wick shrugged. "I have what matters. And I have enough to tell Kate about her parents." He shifted the baby to his hip. "We'll let the lawyers deal with the rest."

Sam nodded, turning back to Dean, who was struggling to keep his eyes open.

"I don't know how to thank you guys," Wick said. "I want to…give you something at least."

Sam bent, tucking a hand under Dean's right arm and gripping his waist, pulling his brother to his feet.

Dean shook his head, his eyes heavy. "You just take care of her," he said, his voice laden with pain and weariness. "Keep the bad guys away. Keep her safe."

"That I can do," Wick said, kissing Kate's forehead, then heading out the door.

Sam followed, supporting Dean. He frowned when Dean stepped awkwardly off the crumbling stoop, leaning on Sam yet holding himself taut. They reached the truck, and Sam felt him give a little, his right shoulder resting against Sam's chest as he opened the door. Sam shifted his hands to Dean's waist, subtly lifting his brother into the cab of the truck, his gut clenching as Dean dropped his head wearily back against the seat.

If Bobby can't convince him to go to a doctor when we get home, I'll knock him out and take him myself, Sam grumbled silently as he moved around to the other side of the truck. He climbed behind the wheel, pausing before he shut the door as Wick stopped just shy of them.

"Hey," Wick called from the window of the SUV. "You guys gonna be okay?"

Sam glanced over to Dean, who opened one eye, letting his gaze rest on Sam.

"Eventually," Sam answered.

Sam lifted his hand and watched Dean salute from the corner of his eye. He started up the ancient motor, thankful it responded.

"How'd you get it to run?" Dean asked in a weary voice.

"Hey," Sam protested. "I do know a few things, you know."

"You got Bubba to help you, didn't you." Dean turned his head against the seat, regarding his brother.

Sam shrugged, shoving the gear shift into first. "And one of those things is how to get others to work on cars for me," he said without missing a beat.

"That's my boy," Dean whispered, his eyes sliding closed. They popped open when Sam crossed the cattle guard. "Sam," he said with sudden urgency. "We gotta go get the—"

"Already in the back, man," Sam said. "I picked it up before I went to the library."

"You did?"

Sam nodded.

"Huh. Thanks, Sammy," Dean said softly, his body folding back against the seat, the air from the opened passenger window ruffling his short hair. "Gonna…just rest my eyes."

It was on the tip of Sam's tongue to insist Dean stay awake. But when he looked over at his brother, saw the utter exhaustion lining Dean's lean face, he relented, promising himself he'd wake him in an hour to make sure he was okay.

The quiet in the cab of the old truck was heavy on Sam, even with the cacophonous rattle of the engine. No radio, no voices, not even Dean's irritating habit of singing classic rock tunes to pass the time. Just the incessant voice inside his head that said Dean was spinning away from him and Sam wasn't going to be able to hold on tight enough.

He heard Dean groan softly in his sleep, his face pulled into a now-familiar frown.

"We're not okay," Sam whispered, glancing at his brother. "But I'm not going anywhere. You're not alone, Dean."

www

Bobby looked up at the sound of the old Ford rambling into his lot, one day late. Setting down the curse box he'd been fashioning, he stepped around his desk and ambled toward the door, ready to tear into one or both of the Winchester offspring for being late and not calling. Something he knew neither of them was used to.

Well, Dean's not used to it. Bet big brother let Sammy have it a time or two over the years…

Bobby stepped out onto the front porch, letting the screen door bang behind him, his face pulled into a scowl. It was nearing one in the morning, and he was tired.

"You boys best have a damn good excuse this time," he grumbled low.

When the Ford stopped right in front of his porch, Bobby tilted his head. Looking closer, he could see by the light from the front room that the truck was mangled. I'm gonna kill 'em…

Gritting his teeth, Bobby pulled in a breath, preparing to rip Dean a new one as the driver's side door opened. "What the fu—"

Sam moved around the front of the truck. Bobby paused mid-rant, his mouth hanging open. Sam was driving? Peering closer, he could see that Sam's t-shirt had blood stains on it. He could also see rising bruises on his face and arms. Bobby stepped down the first step from his porch. If Sam's hurt, then Dean's…

Sam opened the passenger door of the truck, shifting quickly as though to catch something. Bobby stepped the rest of the way from the porch, hurrying over to the side.

"Holy shit," he breathed when he saw Dean. Blood had dried on his cheek, his forehead and eye were bruised, and he had parts of a bloody shirt wrapped around his hand and arm, which in turn was lashed against his chest with a blood-stained Ace bandage.

Dean blinked bleary eyes at him, clutching at Sam's sleeve with a trembling hand. "Hey, Bobby," he rasped. "Sorry 'bout the truck."

Bobby took a moment to consciously slow the sudden racing of his heart at the sight of Dean's battered form. He's alive… Sam's alive… they're okay… He stifled the urge to run a worried hand across his mouth, feeling Sam's eyes on him, seeing Dean wait for some sign they were home. That the hunt was over.

"You're goddamn right, you're sorry!" he bellowed. "I oughta kick your asses. This is the second one I've let you borrow and you've trashed it! What the hell happened?" Bobby stepped next to Sam, helping Dean set his feet on the ground, and tried to take some of his weight. Dean hissed harshly as Bobby touched his left elbow.

"Watch his arm, Bobby," Sam commanded. "We, uh…ran into some trouble on the way to the car place."

"Actually," Dean said, leaning heavily on Sam as Bobby grabbed his belt loops, helping him up the stairs. "Trouble ran into us."

Sam chuckled. "True. About ran us over."

"Plowed us right off the friggin' road," Dean said, a grin in his voice. Sam laughed as Bobby opened the door.

"Have you two lost your minds?" Bobby muttered, leading the way to the couch and helping Dean ease down.

Sam dropped heavily into the chair opposite Dean, staring vacantly at his brother.

Bobby stood between them, glancing back and forth, waiting. "Somebody gonna tell me what the hell happened to my truck?" he finally said, knowing it would get a rise out of one of them.

"A guy hit us…with a haunted house," Dean drawled, his head back against the cushions, his eyes closed.

"You got hit by…a house?"

Sam chuckled again, sounding more than a little punch-drunk. "The guy that hit us had a haunted house. Dean got banged up pretty good."

"Yeah." Bobby frowned. "So I noticed. You don't look too good yourself, Sam."

"'M okay." Sam waved a hand at him. "Just tired. And I ran into a bookcase."

"With a little help from a spirit, huh?"

Sam nodded, his eyes blinking heavily. "Dean needs help, Bobby," he said softly. "Needs a doctor."

"No, I don't," Dean spoke up, eyes still closed.

Sam sighed, his features suddenly sober. Bobby could see the giddy effect of finally being at their destination—finally being safe—was beginning to wear off, and a weary, timeworn concern was settling back into place. Bobby didn't think there was a time when he had looked at Sam Winchester and hadn't seen a shadow of concern lurking in his hazel eyes. The reason shifted depending on circumstance, but the concern was always there.

"He dislocated his shoulder when the SUV hit us, then got tossed around and cut up by the spirit."

"'M fine," Dean protested as Bobby leaned over, unwrapping the shirt sleeve Sam had used to bandage Dean's upper arm. "Just a scratch." His voice slurred as Bobby's ministrations jarred his wounds.

Bobby sighed. "Sam, go back to the spare room and lie down before you keel over. You're too big to be carried."

"But what about—?"

"I'll take care of your brother." Bobby tossed a stern look over his shoulder. "Go. Now."

Sam stood on wobbly legs, staring at Dean another moment. "Thanks for pulling me out of the way," he said softly.

Dean didn't respond. Bobby wasn't sure if it was because he hadn't heard or because he didn't know what to say.

Sam shuffled to the back room the boys had been sharing since John's death, closing the door softly behind him.

"Dean?" Bobby said softly. Dean didn't even flinch. "Boy, you sure are a magnet for trouble."

Bobby shook his head, heading to his stash of medical supplies. He returned to find Dean just as he'd left him, his chest softly rising and falling with the steady rhythm of exhausted sleep.

Bobby took care to clean Dean's face first, applying liniment to the bruising and butterfly bandages to the new cuts, inspecting the one beside his eye and leaving it be. He frowned when Dean simply rolled his head as Bobby removed the wrap around his hand. Cutting the bandages and Dean's t-shirt from him, Bobby wrapped the slices on his arm and stab marks on his hand, noting the tightly-wrapped Ace bandage around his ribs and purpling marks on his shoulder.

"You always gotta do everything yourself, dontcha?" Bobby whispered, shifting Dean to his side and cupping the back of his neck as his head lolled. He eased Dean down on the couch, pulling a quilt from the shelf and laying it over his battered body, then sat in the chair Sam had recently vacated. "Someday, boy, you gotta let someone carry you. John had no right to make you do so much alone."

Bobby glanced at the back room, sighing.

"You boys are gonna break my heart," he muttered. He slouched low in the chair and, resting his head on the back, kept watch over his young friend as he slept.

www

Dean smelled coffee. It was the smell of morning and duty. The smell of motion. It snapped his eyes open and called him to sit forward before his body reminded him that sitting forward wasn't such a great idea.

"Whoa." Bobby's voice was at his side as Dean clutched at the edge of the couch, pulling in calming breaths as the world spun around him. "Take it easy there."

"Where's Sam?" Dean asked automatically. He heard the flatness to his voice, different from the relieved near-hysteria he'd felt edging the corners of his mouth when they'd showed up at Bobby's the night before.

"Well, he ain't out fixing my truck, if that's what you're wondering."

"Truck?" Dean blinked, confused, at the bearded man who had become more important to him in the last month than he would have thought possible.

"Forget it." Bobby shook his head, pulling at his beard. "I suppose I oughta warn you—"

Dean shot his eyes over to Bobby, staring at the older hunter. "Where is he?"

Bobby sighed. "You need to see for yourself."

Dean gritted his teeth, curling his stiff, sore body forward, pulling himself upright with his good arm. He noticed that his cuts were wrapped and his shirt was gone. Bobby handed him a t-shirt, and Dean held it in loose, uncooperative fingers. There was no way he was going to be able to pull that over his head.

"Bobby, I can't—"

"Figured as much," Bobby muttered, grabbing a long-sleeved button-up. "Pretty sure you can pull that on."

Taking the shirt from Bobby, Dean used him as leverage. He stood, tightening his grip on Bobby's hand as the world spun again. Finding his balance, he opened his eyes and shuffled slowly to the bathroom there.

Dean eased into the shirt, sweat gathering on his upper lip and the back of his neck as he slid it over his still-puffy hand and bruised left shoulder. He rolled the sleeves up to his elbows and left the top several buttons undone.

After using the bathroom, carefully avoiding meeting his own eyes in the mirror, he returned to the front room.

"Where's Sam?" he asked Bobby again.

"Outside."

"Outside, where?"

"Impala," Bobby said. He handed Dean two white pills and a glass of water, then, with the ease born of one-too-many hunts gone wrong, settled Dean's wounded arm into a sling.

Frowning, Dean allowed Bobby to alleviate the pain the simple weight of his arm put on his shoulder, swallowed the pain meds, then headed with careful steps to the door.

The sun was bright and high, telling him he'd slept a lot later than he would have had he been free of injury. The South Dakota wind was brief and brisk, pressing his loose shirt against his bandaged chest and stirring his short hair.

Dean squinted at the junkyard, looking for signs of Sam. Using the railing for support, he descended the steps, walking slowly and stiffly across the empty lot toward where he knew the Impala was waiting, his left arm pressed against his side.

Standing behind the trunk, staring at the new lid that was resting awkwardly on the back of the Chevy's frame, was Sam. He was dirt and grease from forehead to neck, his hands and arms covered with smears of grease and bruises. A shop towel hung from the back of his jeans pocket, and a wrench—the wrong one—was clutched in his hand.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, trying to puzzle together the images in front of him.

Sam jerked at the sound of his voice, turning. "I wanted to fix this before you got up," he confessed.

Dean approached the battered shell of the Chevy, noting that Sam had been able to remove the old, destroyed trunk lid. He swallowed, his chest tight, his eyes burning.

"I can't figure out how to get the…hinge thingies attached," Sam grumbled.

Dean cleared his throat. "You've got the wrong wrench, to start with."

"Oh." Sam looked at the tool in his hand.

Holding his left arm against his side, Dean turned to the tool box, reached in, and grabbed the right wrench, then handed it to Sam. "Here," he said. "Try this."

"Thanks." Sam reached for the proffered tool.

Dean didn't release it. Sam didn't pull it toward him. They simply stood there a moment, each holding the opposite end of the wrench, eyes on each other's hands.

"We're gonna be okay, right?" Sam asked, his eyes down.

Dean hesitated.

When the difference between the truth and a lie is the space of a heartbeat of time, how do you know what to say? How do you save someone you've spent a lifetime protecting when the solution to his salvation might rest in his death? How do you remember the way to just be a brother, when you've walked the knife's edge between light and dark?

"Eventually," Dean replied, releasing the wrench. "You ready to do this thing?"

Sam moved over to the trunk of the Impala. "Waiting on you, man."

a/n: Thank you for reading. As this was a zine story, I would really like to hear what you think. It was written a long time ago, it seems, so I find myself wondering if it's still entertaining.