Disclaimer/Spoilers: See Chapter 1.

a/n: This author's note is ridiculously long. Apologies up front.

We've come to the final chapter! Thank you all so much for returning to finish out the story with me; the hunt may have been over, but the story wasn't complete. At least not for me.

Those of you who wanted to wait until the story was done (assuming you came back *smiles*) I hope the wait was worth it. A special thank you to those of you who took time to leave me a review or comment; your words are gold to me and a reward for the time spent working out this story.

There are always people who help us reach our destinations. My wonderful friend thruterryseyes has patiently provided a sanity check for each chapter—often times reading 50 pages in a few hours to help me meet self-imposed deadlines. Not only that, but she's created beautiful posters for each chapter. I'll be setting up a Master Post of this story on LiveJournal so that each piece of art is captured and can be enjoyed. Thank you so much for sharing your talent with us, Terry.

This story was written because one person knew I needed to do it. She claimed it was for her—that she wanted to request a story from one of the earlier seasons—but I think it was really because she knew I needed one more long story fix. Caroline, you are a brilliant writer, gorgeous person, and dear friend. You have done amazing things so far in your life and I know you will make the world more beautiful through your current efforts. Thank you for poking me into writing one more long fic. And thank you for allowing me to follow my muse.

With that extra bit of rambling, I give you the final chapter—a way for me to bridge the gap between impact and meaning when it comes to pain. I've talked to many of you about why we like to put our heroes through these trials by fire and the thing that I've come to realize is that—for me—it's simply seeing them heroically emerge on the other side. Changed, scarred, damaged to varying extents, but still standing.

I can do nothing to stop the pain many of the people in my real life feel, but in this world, through these characters, I can create it, experience it, survive it, and end it.

I hope you enjoy.

And I understand
These winds and tides
This change of times
Won't drag you away
Hold on, and hold on tightly
Hold on, and don't let go

~ Drowning Man by U2

www

The Impala was a heavy machine.

Her powerful Chevy motor had carried them across endless miles of road. She'd been broken and rebuilt, offered them shelter and protection, and had stood her ground as the one constant in their lives.

And Dean could sense all of that coming to an end.

He felt her floating across the pavement, the grip of his hands doing little to assuage the panic shaking through him as she lost traction for a moment before cleaving once more to the road. Everything that mattered was in this car with him, in this moment with him.

Everything.

The blare of sirens beating in time with the red and blue flashing lights glinting off the rear- and side-view mirrors tattooed their fate across his vision: Hendrickson had found them and this time they weren't slipping away. He didn't dare tear his gaze from the road ahead of him to look askance at Sam, though he wanted to. He had so many things he needed to say.

We tried.

You did good.

I'm sorry.

Ahead of him were two police cars creating a blockade and several officers with weapons drawn positioned behind it; behind him were two more police cars, gaining quickly. He'd tried to out-run them; banking on the power of the Impala to slip free of this net, needing her to be the good-luck charm she'd been so many times before.

But their luck had run out.

The Impala's tires hit the speed spikes that had apparently been rolled out as a deterrent to continue the chase. Dean gripped the wheel tighter, an automatic reaction and a desperate attempt to keep them on the road and in one piece. But the laws of physics were too great even for a Winchester to combat.

He felt the car kick sideways, rolling to her passenger side and sending him slamming against Sam, crushing his brother against the door. His equilibrium toyed with his vision as they rolled, gravity becoming irrelevant. Arms flopped, legs collided, back hit chest and chest smacked dashboard as the Impala continued to roll.

Dean lost his air, unable to draw it back again as the world spun in slow-motion around him. When the car came to a rest—on her roof—the engine was still revving, unwilling to give up, unwilling to give in.

Everything hurt; he couldn't move, he couldn't blink, he couldn't breathe.

His eyes desperately searched for Sam—needing to see him before they came, before they pulled him away and ended this life forever. He tried to turn his head, but felt trapped, pinned. He reached out with his left hand—the only thing he could manage to move—and willed Sam to reach back.

He'd know it was Sam and not someone else coming to take him away. He'd know.

"Dean."

He heard him, then. Sam was alive. And near. He stretched his hand, wanting to order his brother to grab it—pull him free. Get them out of this. Escape one last time.

But he couldn't speak.

"Dean!"

I'm here, Sammy. See me? I'm right here.

"Hey, c'mon, man. Open your eyes."

He hadn't realized they were closed. Obeying, he opened them and blinked in confusion. He was in the Impala, but she was upright, intact, and still. No desperately revving motor, no crushed interior.

Just daylight, Sam…and pain.

Dean blinked again, rolling his eyes down to his chest where he felt the most pressure. Sam had one hand resting lightly there, not enough to cause the wicked stab of pain he felt cutting across his ribs, preventing him from taking a full breath. Sam's other hand was gripping Dean's left, both sets of knuckles white from the hold they had on each other.

"Easy," Sam said, his voice low, gentle, as if talking to a wounded animal.

Dean swallowed, working to take in air, finding that simple, automatic task terrifyingly difficult. He turned to meet his brother's eyes, slightly shocked to see how battered Sam's face was. Confused, disoriented, and weaker than he could remember being in a long time, Dean fought to draw words to the surface, searching for reason in the chaos of sensations.

"You were dreaming," Sam supplied at the behest of Dean's wordless croak. "From the sound of it…pretty nasty one."

Dreaming.

Dean continued to blink at his brother, trying to weave together meaning. The police barricade, Hendrickson finding them—none of it was real. They hadn't rolled the Impala, they hadn't crashed…but then why did he hurt so much? And why was he freezing?

"I had to pull over," Sam continued. "We're only like an hour and a half out of Lethe, but…."

Sam pulled his hand away from Dean's chest and Dean nearly tipped forward into the space it had occupied. Slowly, Dean released his grip on Sam's hand, retracting it with uncertainty. He felt off-balance, too-light. As if without Sam anchoring him, he'd slide off the Impala's seat and into nothing. He took the bottle of water Sam offered and cooled the fire in his throat.

Reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, Sam sighed. "I couldn't get you to wake up," he told Dean; his eyes closed, his voice dampened with weariness. "And I need some aspirin."

"Wh—" Dean tried, but was forced to stop, the stabbing in his chest choked off by the unbelievable urge to cough. He instinctively worked to resist, but his body betrayed him. Shoulders shaking, eyes streaming tears, he bent over, catching himself against the seat with his elbow, unable to breathe.

Sam's hand was on his back, not moving, just a weight of familiarity grounding him as the world came painfully back into focus, memory returning with jagged claws that ripped up through his throat, tearing his insides apart. He was suddenly burning up, heat rocketing through him and burning the backs of his eyes. He took a slow, shuddering breath, wiping the tang of blood from his mouth with the back of a shaking hand before forcing himself upright to sag against the passenger door.

He remembered now. All of it. The snow storm, the lake, the darkness….

And for a moment, he almost wished they were in the dream. For a moment, he simply wanted it all to be over.

"You okay?" Sam asked, peering at him through hooded eyes.

Sam was hurting; Dean could see that much even with the fever he felt burning through him, confusing him, and sending him spiraling into too-realistic dreams. Sam held himself carefully, as if his bones were made of glass and one wrong move would shatter him into pieces too small to reconstruct.

It was a look that had started to become familiar in the wake of Sam's visions, but Dean knew that this time it wasn't a vision that pulled his brother's eyes tight and set his mouth in a thin line. It was the course of their lives.

"'M fine," Dean rasped, slightly surprised at how rough his voice sounded in his ears.

"Don't move, okay?" Sam said, resting his hand lightly on Dean's shoulder. "I'm just going to get some stuff out of the trunk."

Dean watched Sam slide backwards out of the car, a blast of mid-day winter chill swirling inside the car as he opened the door. Burrowing deeply into his sweatshirt, Dean tried to still the fever-hungry shivers that took control of his muscles. He couldn't seem to stop shaking—it felt as if it had been going on for hours. His body was weary from the effort.

He leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the side window, drinking in the relief to the heat of his skin, even as he knew it would make his chills worsen. He tried to remember the last time he'd been this low.

Nebraska. The rawhead.

Even after that cabin in Missouri he hadn't felt as weak. That had been a different kind of pain; a sharp, vicious bite inside of him, a nameless hurt from seeing the yellow eyes of a demon caught in his father's face.

He remembered the cab ride from the hospital to find Sam after he'd been handed a death sentence back in Nebraska. Before Roy LaGrange. Before the miracle.

He'd remembered the feeling of resignation, the helpless acceptance of the weakness that had overtaken a body he once thought capable of withstanding almost anything. He'd barely had the strength to flag the cab and mutter directions to where Sam had been staying.

He remembered the feel of the cold vinyl seat, the buckle digging into the base of his spine, too exhausted to shift it out of the way. He remembered the stale smell of people and tobacco, the cool of the window against his forehead, the constant murmuring of the cabdriver into his cell phone.

The surprise on Sam's face when he'd opened that door had been the only thing that had kept him from falling face-first to the motel room floor. He'd instinctively resisted, he remembered. He'd not wanted Sam to help him, not wanted to need Sam's help so much. But Sam had been there, bracing him, guiding him to a chair.

"Keep that around you, Dean."

He frowned, turning his face toward Sam's voice, confusion setting in once more. He was so hot; he felt as if his bones were burning.

"You need to keep warm," Sam was saying. "You're shivering so much you're shaking the seat."

He opened his eyes, looking around. They were moving again, heading down a snow-framed, empty highway to destinations unknown. He didn't recall Sam getting back into the car. He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep.

He was losing time, losing focus. His world was reduced to dreams, pain, and memory with only the warring factions of heat and cold to keeping him within the confines of life.

Looking down at whatever his brother was tugging back up around him, he saw that he was covered with a large, plush towel—one of the nice ones they always tried to lift when they found them in a motel along the way.

"'the hell?" he mumbled.

"We don't have any spare blankets," Sam explained tiredly, as if he'd said the same words before. "Gotta keep you warm."

Dean peered around them blankly, trying to keep his mind on what was happening now, not what had happened a year ago.

"Where'r we?" he mumbled, his voice a low scratch. Feeling cold once more, he clutched the towel around him.

"East, like the man said." Sam shook his head, his face tight. "Stuck to I-94 for awhile. Didn't want to end up in another snow bank. Got nervous and turned off before we hit Madison."

"Need to stop soon," Dean declared, watching his brother's profile.

"I know, Dean," Sam snapped, worry clearly getting the best of him. "Just…we gotta be careful. When we stop, it'll have to be for awhile."

"You try Bobby?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head again. "No answer."

Dean closed his burning eyes. It was too much effort to keep them open when the only thing to see was a world buried in white and his brother's strained expression. Sam didn't even have the radio on, Dean realized.

The quiet around him, between them, was screaming at him. He suddenly felt strangely alone, as if he'd never left the lonely confines of the buried Impala.

Maybe he hadn't, he mused. Maybe the whole thing had been a dream. Maybe he was frozen behind her wheel, stuffed in a snow bank somewhere in Minnesota. Or Wisconsin. Or wherever the hell they'd been. Or were. Maybe he—

The cough exploded out of him, taking him by surprise. He bent forward, reaching blindly for a brace and gripped the dash. Blinking blurry eyes, he saw droplets of red staining the large towel wrapped around him.

"Dammit." Sam's voice was a literal growl. "That's it."

"Sorry," Dean gasped, managing to flop back against the seat, head canted, eyes closed.

"For what?" Sam's voice was incredulous, his teeth clicking together as he bit off the ends of the words. "For some asshat looking to make us the next notch on his belt? For getting shot by a ghost? For doing your job?"

Concentrating on the supremely difficult task of breathing, Dean simply nodded.

Any of those.

All of them.

"My fault," Dean rasped. He could feel the Impala turning, but didn't open his eyes. He couldn't.

"Yeah? And how do you figure that?" Sam's voice was pissy. He always sounded pissy when he was scared. Dean frowned. If Sam was scared, then Dean wasn't doing his job.

"Coulda…left," Dean tried.

"How?" Sam demanded. "The Impala was buried in the snow."

The car stopped; the engine's vibration a comforting rumble beneath Dean's fever-sensitive body.

"Ronald," Dean said simply.

Sam had wanted to leave it, let it go, not tell Ronald the truth. If Dean had somehow handled Ronald differently…if he'd somehow managed to keep the man from taking the bank hostage…maybe this all could have been prevented.

No Hendrickson, no Channel 8 News. No running.

"You couldn't have known, Dean." Sam's voice was subdued. "You just did your job. Our job. We did the best we could."

The quiet inside the unmoving car was almost enough to convince Dean to open his eyes. Almost.

"I'll be back," Sam said, and Dean felt his brother tug once more at the towel wrapped around him.

Which was good because he couldn't keep warm. He was either on fire from the inside out or so cold he ached from it. There was no solace, no middle ground, and it was taking its toll. He felt himself fading; if Sam blinked just right, Dean was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to see him any longer.

He knew things were bad this time. Out-of-his control bad. He felt everything slipping away.

Things had been bad before; it had been scary before. He remembered scary. He remembered hiding, slipping free of child services, of inquisitive teachers. He remembered Dad being hurt—bad enough that they'd needed help from Jim, from Bobby—and trying to figure out how he'd take care of Sam if Dad were gone.

But now he was. He was gone—not a voicemail away, not just out of reach. Gone.

He'd traded his life for Dean's. Gave himself over to a demon so that Dean could be here, watching out for Sammy, saving him so he wouldn't have to kill him. Without a guide, without a rule book, without someone or something to follow, to show him the way.

He was going to get them either caught or killed and it would all be because it should have been him. He should have died after that wreck, in that hospital bed. John should be the one here; Hendrickson would never have caught wind of John—he was too good, too quick. One deal, one moment had messed it all up and now here they were, broken and alone.

"I got a room." Sam's voice was suddenly beside him once more.

Dean tried to open his eyes, turn his face away from the memory of an empty dirt road and his one chance to make it right.

Your dad's supposed to be alive. You're supposed to be dead. So we'll just set things straight, put things in their natural order.

He shook, shivering with fever and regret, feeling a fire burning through him.

"It's around back, so we can hide the Impala," Sam continued, the car's motion modulating his voice slightly. "I don't think Hendrickson knows what the car looks like. Yet."

His brother's words seemed to be muffled, vowels and consonants striking glancing blows against a film of memory and pain that surrounded him. He knew the car was moving, knew Sam was talking to him, but all he could feel was an unbelievable pressure clenching his chest, a need to change things, to make it right.

All he could see were a girl's dark eyes and wide lips smirking up at him, sharing truth that cut into him like a thin blade.

See, people talk about hell, but it's just a word. It doesn't even come close to describing the real thing…. If you could see your poor daddy? Hear the sounds he makes 'cause he can't even scream?

"It's got one of those kitchen things in it so…Dean?"

He wanted to call the demon back. He wanted to change his mind. He wanted to switch places, give Sam his father, take up his place in Hell. He didn't want this weight…he wasn't strong enough for this fight.

"Aw, Jesus, Dean." Sam's voice was breaking, the plea in it penetrating the fog of memory enough that Dean turned toward the sound. "Hang in there, man. Just a little longer, okay?"

Sam voice was tight with unshed tears. There'd always been a tight trip of air at the back of his brother's voice when he pushed words past emotion. Dean heard that and wanted to take it away; opening his eyes he saw Sam on his right, peering over him, his brother's image bending and blurring as if the universe were messing with the world's focus.

Behind Sam was a white blur, reality on the other side of a piece of cellophane, muted and distant. He saw his brother reach for him as if stretching his arm across a great chasm; he felt Sam's fingers find him, get a grip of his shoulders, pulling him close. He rolled, his body pliant, weak, unable to do much to help.

"Easy, I gotcha," Sam muttered, sniffing.

Dean felt his arm flung across Sam's shoulders, felt the odd weightless sensation of being lifted, his knees disappearing as his body was slow to respond. They stumbled, Dean's weight pulling at Sam, both nearly landing on the snowy pavement next to the Impala before Sam's hand slapped her roof, catching them.

"I need you to help me, man," Sam implored, his voice strained. "I don't have much left."

"Trying," Dean promised, focusing his energy, his waning strength on his knees, forcing them to lock, gripping Sam's shoulder in a weak hold. "Gotcha."

"Few steps, okay?" Sam told him. "Just gotta get inside."

"'Kay," Dean whispered.

They stumbled forward; Dean felt himself dragging, pulling on his brother. He fought to stay upright, worked to carry his own weight. His vision swam, the image of Sam blurring and fading, a memory too full of monsters eager to allow nightmares their hold. Dean felt himself shaking against the onslaught of fever chills, his body quaking too much to keep hold of Sam.

"Almost there," Sam encouraged, adjusting his grip on Dean's side, turning him until Dean felt himself being dragged.

There was a brief pause at the door, a click of a key in a lock, and then the familiar, stale smell of a motel room. Dean closed his eyes, perfectly willing to fall to the floor and lay there forever. Sam had other ideas.

"Little bit further, man," Sam grunted, hauling Dean's mostly-uncooperative body forward until Dean felt his legs hit the side of a bed.

Sam eased him down, the side of his face rubbing against the course fabric of the comforter. He felt Sam lift his legs, resting them on the end of the bed, his hand pausing, heavy on Dean's calf.

With a last shuddering exhale, Dean slipped into a dark too deep for memories.

www

"Dean?"

His brother's breath rattled with almost disturbing consistency. Sam could tell by the completely lax expression on Dean's face that his brother was truly out this time; no nightmares no dreams no it should have been me.

Hearing those words whispered with fearsome vehemence from Dean's chapped lips had sent shivers through Sam that no amount of heat could have eased.

Swaying with exhaustion, Sam turned from the bed and went back out into the cold afternoon. Going through the Impala, he retrieved the duffel of clothes, a few weapons they always brought into motel rooms with them, and the canvass bag of medical supplies. He locked the car, returned to the motel room, and set everything down against the wall.

He slipped the chain lock in place, double-checking the deadbolt. He was too thrashed to ward off visitors and right now he didn't have Dean watching his back. Rotating slowly away from the door, he stood and blinked for a full minute before making himself cross the room to his brother.

Sam's mind screamed at him to move faster—Dean was burning up, shaking apart before his eyes. But his body rebelled, the pain in his head traveling down his neck to grip his shoulders and send him staggering.

Clumsily he pulled Dean's boots free and tugged the comforter and sheet out from beneath Dean's body until he could lift it up to cover up to his shoulders. Sam knew he needed to get more medicine into his brother, the constant shivering from the fever was beginning to really get to him. At least this helped Sam feel as if he was doing something productive, something that might help ease his brother's pain.

Turning away from the bed, Sam took two steps toward the canvass bag, fully intending to grab aspirin and cough medicine. But then, the world tilted, spilling him with almost gentle grace to the motel room floor.

He never felt himself hit the ground.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, the muted ringtone pulling him from oblivion just as the call ended. Blinking in confusion, Sam pushed his head from the carpet, gingerly rubbing his already bruised cheek. The room around him was dark—no outside light from the barely parted curtains offering him a clue as to the time. Rolling to his back, he stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling, working to gather his bearings.

He didn't remember passing out; he couldn't remember what had woken him. He had no idea why he was on the floor. And for a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. There had been so many motels in so many towns over so many years….

Until his phone rang again, he was utterly lost. The vibration in his pocket made him yelp and this time he was able to pull it free before the ringtone ended.

"'lo?"

"Sam?"

"Yeah." He pinched the bridge of his nose, the headache returning along with awareness.

Fennimore, Wisconsin.

Motel.

Dean.

Fever.

"It's Cooper."

"Yeah." Sam blinked his eyes wide, staring once more at the ceiling, defying it to burst into flames and take him away from all this.

"You boys okay?"

"No," Sam answered automatically, too tired and in too much pain to censor himself. A dull, almost-recognizable hum ran in a constant vibration in the background of the motel room.

"Yeah, figured as much."

"What is it?"

"Your Agent fella finally showed up a little while after you left." Cooper's voice sounded thin, reedy, as if he'd been running or was talking to him from the inside of a tin cup.

"Yeah?"

"Had a reward for information on your brother."

"Swell," Sam sighed, pushing himself up on an elbow. He had to pause with the change in elevation; his head literally swam.

He needed to check on Dean. He had no idea how long he'd been out—long enough that the light had disappeared leaving them cloaked in a suffocating, murky dark.

"Couple of people cashed in."

"Marshall or Mead?" Sam asked.

"Does it matter?"

"Guess not," Sam sighed, managing to get to his knees and peer over Dean's bed. He went cold.

The bed was empty.

"I'm the only one who knows what your car looks like," Cooper reminded him.

"True," Sam conceded, using the side of the bed to haul himself to his feet.

"I'm coming to help you. I've been driving south on I-94 about an hour now."

"Thought you couldn't leave," Sam replied.

"Decided to cash in on some vacation time."

"You're not gonna sell us out, are you, Coop?" Sam asked, his voice hard as he switched on the light beside the bed, turning in a slow circle to scan the empty room. Where the hell…?

Cooper was silent for a beat. When he spoke, his voice dug a furrow in Sam's heart.

"I'd no sooner turn you in than I would my own son."

Swallowing, Sam nodded, catching a glimpse of his worn, ragged appearance in the mirror across the room. In the reflection behind him, he saw something shimmer in the mirror.

The light was on in the bathroom, the crack beneath the door shining through.

"Oh, shit," Sam gasped, turning quickly—too quickly. He reached out for the bed, catching his balance.

"What? What is it?"

Sam dropped the phone in his haste to get to the door. Water. That had been the dull hum he'd been hearing. Running water.

He shoved the door open, the sight that greeted him enough to turn his blood to ice. Water poured unchecked from the bathtub faucet, running down the drain, the sound of it suddenly deafening in the confines of the small bathroom. Lying on the floor, dressed in only his jeans, was Dean—his face white, his lips blue, his quaking body the only sign that he wasn't dead.

"Oh, God," Sam gasped, going to his knees beside his unconscious brother.

He gathered Dean up against him, shocked at the heat that poured from him even as he lay half-dressed on the cold tile.

"Hey, hey," Sam patted Dean's cheek, cradling his brother's shoulders in one arm, the other feeling for a pulse, for the reassurance of breath. The gold amulet his brother always wore rested at the base of his throat and as Sam brushed it aside, he could feel the heat from Dean's body radiating from the metal.

He looked around the bathroom, seeing Dean's shirts puddled behind the door, trying to piece together the events that would have compelled Dean to be here, collapsed on the floor, the water running.

"Dean, what the hell, man?"

Sam cupped Dean's head beneath his chin, rolling his shoulders around his brother's, trying in vain to stop Dean's muscles from jerking and twisting, the heat from Dean's fever knifing through Sam and sending his heartbeat skittering to the base of his throat.

He reached over and turned off the water, once more hearing the rasp of Dean's ragged breathing as quiet returned to the bathroom.

"Hey, man, open your eyes." Sam shook him slightly. Dean's head slid forward against Sam's chest. "Wake up, Dean, c'mon."

When Dean remained stubbornly unresponsive, Sam clenched his jaw, left without choices. Rising up on his knees, he shifted Dean until his brother's heavy body was draped over one shoulder. Using the edge of the sink as a ledge, Sam pulled himself to his feet, gripping the back of Dean's legs, and stumbling forward until he had returned his brother to the bed.

Gasping from the effort, Sam cast about for his phone. The world spun in the opposite direction from his search, the motion sending him tumbling to the bed, his ribs hitting Dean's legs, his air huffing out in a grunt.

They needed help. They needed it now.

"Cooper?" Sam breathed into the phone, rolling forward at the end of the bed until his forehead rested on the comforter.

"What happened?" Cooper's frantic voice cut through Sam's dizziness, drawing him upright until he could once again see Dean's face, hear his brother's rasping breath.

"Dean," Sam said, pulling a knee up on the bed and resting his elbow on it. He dropped his forehead into his palm, knifing his fingers through his hair. "He was in the bathroom. On the floor."

"How is he?"

"The water was…the water was running…and he was passed out on the floor."

Why was it so hard to think?

He forced his mind to slow, to focus on his brother's face. Dean's left arm was splayed out from his body were it had fallen when Sam rolled him to the bed. Sam watched as his brother's fingers flexed and twisted the comforter as if fighting to anchor himself.

"How. Is. He?"

"He's hot. He's really hot." Sam closed his eyes. "And his breathing is…it sounds like crunching glass."

"Okay. Listen to me. It's going to be okay," Cooper tried, his tone edging on frantic. "I need to know where you are."

Sam opened his mouth, two heartbeats from telling him. His heart shouted you can't do this alone; in his head, however, he heard the one voice he and Dean had always instinctively trusted, the one voice that had given them the tools to survive as long as they had: his father.

Be careful. Be cautious. Can you trust him?

In that moment he looked at Dean and saw his brother's fever-bright eyes staring silently back at him, his expression grim, his lips parted, his body thirsty for air. It was almost as if Dean, too, had heard the voice.

Dean shook his head. Once. And then he closed his eyes again.

But it was enough to remind Sam who they were. Why they were here. And that Cooper had just told him that people in a town they'd just saved—a town Dean was literally dying for—had turned them over to the Feds.

"Are you being followed?

"What? I…no, I don't…I mean I didn't tell anyone why I was leaving."

"Anyone else get access to your phone before you left?"

Sam kept his focus on Dean's face, listening as his suspicion cut through the silence on the other end of the line, hearing the realization in Cooper's tone as he answered.

"I don't think so, Sam."

Dean shivered, rolling his head on the pillow, his brows pulled close, his mouth slipping down into a scowl.

"I can't risk it, Cooper."

"Sam, don't—"

"Have you ever read Last of the Mohicans?" Sam asked suddenly, trying for one desperate attempt at reaching out. If anyone were listening, he hoped the M.E. would be quicker on the uptake than any Federal Agent.

Cooper was quiet a moment. "Yes. A long time ago."

"You ought to take another look."

Sam closed the phone, his heart choking him, praying he made the right choice. Dean made a low sound in his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a word.

"Dean?"

"Fuck'n hurts…," Dean rasped.

"What does?"

"Everything."

"Okay," Sam nodded. "Okay, I got meds here, Dean."

"Too hot," Dean groaned.

Sam closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead in frustration. He'd been trying to cool down. That's what he'd been doing with the water. Dean had been trying to cool down and Sam had been too out of it to help him.

"Think, Sam," he admonished himself. "You're better than this."

He knew what to do about high fevers. Pneumonia and Dean's rasping breath, bone-breaking coughs, and blue lips were out of his league, but he knew what to do about fevers.

Gotta cool him down.

He pushed himself to his feet, bracing against the wall as dizziness threatened to overtake him once more. The dimly lit room seemed to warp, turning in a slow, nauseating circle. He took a breath and then, goaded by the sound of Dean's breathing, he crossed the room to the duffel bags.

Not knowing how close Cooper might be, if he was being followed by Hendrickson, if his phone was bugged, how safe they were, Sam moved on instinct. He grabbed the .45 he'd pulled from the trunk of the Impala, checked the clip, then tucked it into the front of his jeans. Next, Sam dug through the canvass bag, finding it hard to focus on the myriad of supplies.

In moments he found a bottle of water and ibuprofen. He swallowed three pills before turning to Dean.

"Hey," he called gently. "Think you could swallow some aspirin?"

Dean laid still, his heavy-lidded eyes regarding Sam dully. "Sam…," Dean swallowed, licking his dry lips sluggishly. "Should've been me."

"Stop saying that," Sam pleaded, climbing up on the bed and leaning a shoulder against the headboard. "Just take these, okay?"

"Mean it."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," Sam sniffed, surprised to find his throat choked with tears. "Brain's all fever-fried."

"I…know," Dean sighed, his eyes slipping closed. "Y'd be…better off."

"No." Sam shook his head, though Dean was no longer looking at him. "Don't say that, Dean. No."

Dean coughed weakly, turning slightly to his side. Sam took advantage of the angle and cupped the back of Dean's neck, bringing his head forward. He worked to ignore the fact that it was almost painful to touch his brother's skin. Easing the coated pills between Dean's lips, Sam helped him drink some water.

"Got some cough medicine here, too," Sam said, tipping the small cup to the edge of Dean's mouth.

"Sucks," Dean muttered after swallowing the medicine.

"I know," Sam whispered, gripping Dean's shoulder in what could—in their family, at least—pass for a hug.

He eased his brother back to the bed, then worked on the buckle of Dean's jeans, sliding the garment from his brother's legs, needing to rid him of as much clothing as he could to try to cool him down. Dean was awake enough to be aware of what was happening, unable to do much in the way of resisting the invasion of privacy.

Sam remembered acutely having the opposite problem just days ago, needing to warm his brother quickly and, as Dean put it, annihilating his personal space to do so. The plea in Dean's eyes now matched the desperate way Dean had shoved at him, trying to shield himself any way he could.

"Hendrickson's in Lethe," Sam told his brother, trying to distract him. "Has a reward on you."

"Swell," Dean croaked, one hand moving upward to rest on his sternum as if in protection.

"Cooper wouldn't tell me who turned you in." He pulled the sheet up, covering Dean to the waist.

"Doesn't matter," Dean sighed, the sound bleeding pain into the room.

Sam stood and draped the jeans on a chair, leaving Dean's black boxer-briefs in place, and made his way into the bathroom. Turning the water to cold, he gripped the sides of the sink for balance, desperately willing the pain throbbing through his head to subside, the dizziness to pass.

He just wanted to sleep. Just sleep.

But then who would watch over Dean? When had this become so hard? They had barreled through life, fighting against forces others never even realized were there, surviving because of skill, luck, and each other. And now, life decided to smack them down, show them they're fragile, that they can be broken.

Wetting three smaller towels, he twisted the excess water out, thinking about Cooper's grim words to Dean.

The human body can only take so much abuse.

He returned to Dean, folding back the comforter so that only covered up to Dean's knees, then carefully lay the first towel across his brother's forehead. Dean flinched back, eyes opening wide in confusion.

"Hey, hey, easy," Sam soothed. "It's just me."

Dean slid his eyes to meet Sam's and the look of pained remorse held there wrapped a tight fist around Sam's heart and squeezed. Swallowing, Sam tucked the other two towels up under Dean's arms, against the pressure points.

Working to help Dean swallow more water, Sam ended up sitting next to him, his hip at Dean's shoulder, his back against the headboard.

"'M sorry, man," Dean whispered.

"Shut up," Sam snapped, looking anywhere but down at Dean. "Just…shut up."

"Supposed to watch…out for you." Dean blinked slowly.

"Don't you dare say Dad should be here instead of you," Sam sniffed, finding the tears spilling down his face before he was able to deny them. "Don't you dare say that."

"Miss him." Dean swallowed.

"I know," Sam whispered. "But he…he made that choice, Dean," he declared, his voice gaining strength. "Not you. And if you keep talking like this…I'm…I'm gonna take you to a hospital."

"Can't," Dean looked at him quickly and Sam felt his heart slam against his ribs at the look of desperate panic caught in his brother's expression. "No…no matter what."

"Dean—this is…please, just—"

Dean reached for him, his hot fingers wrapping around Sam's wrist with surprising strength, his nails leaving four small crescents on Sam's skin.

"Promise me," Dean said, his voice two octaves deeper than normal, but his words unwavering for this one moment. "Sam. Promise me."

Sam was struck with the wicked sting of memory; his vision blurred and for a brief moment, he saw them not as they are now—Dean lying weak and shivering on a motel bed, Sam bent low so that he could catch his brother's words—but as they had been not long ago. He saw himself looking up at Dean, alcohol turning his world sideways, demanding the same words from his brother. Promise me.

And both times the promise could end in death.

"I can't make that promise, Dean," Sam replied, feeling like a hypocrite.

Dean gripped tighter, his fingers burning Sam's flesh, his eyes wide, the green barely visible in the dim light from the bedside lamp. Sam couldn't tear his gaze away, but felt as if he were staring into pools of pain.

"Sam."

He said it with a clear demand for compliance in a tone that Sam had rarely been able to ignore. Sam looked away, swiping roughly at the tears he could feel on his cheek, angry at himself for this weakness.

"He. Can't. Win."

Dean pulled once on Sam's wrist, calling his eyes. Sam looked down, listening with a broken heart as Dean's breath rasped through his blue-tinged, cracked lips. Dean reached up and pulled the towel from his forehead, turning his head on the pillow until he stared directly back at his brother.

"Don't let him."

Sam sniffed again. "You mean Hendrickson?"

"He doesn't…know us." Dean closed his eyes, his face pulling tight, his lips flattening in a line as he rode out a wave of pain. "He doesn't know…."

With a low groan of protest, Dean turned his face toward the pillow, a rasping cough sounding as if it were gutting him. His fingers fell away from Sam's wrist and his body shook.

"Okay!" Sam replied, reaching out to grip Dean's bare shoulder once more, flexing his fingers until he was sure his brother felt him. "Okay, Dean, I promise. I won't let him get us."

"He's…w-wrong," Dean gasped, his face still pressed close to the pillow.

Sam eased him back, wincing at the splash of blood visible on his brother's lips. He took a towel and gently wiped Dean's mouth clean. Dean lay as still as possible, his body trembling, but not quite as much as before. His eyes closed tight, his face fisted in quiet pain, he simply breathed.

"I know," Sam said finally, with the same soft resignation as before. "We'll stay off the grid. He won't find us. I promise."

For a moment, Sam felt very small. There was no one nearby, no one who understood, no one to help them. Their lives weren't all that different from the ghosts they hunted: in the world, but not of it. Invisible to almost everyone around them; when someone caught sight of them, it didn't end well.

"At least…this way a d-damn ghost…w-won't get me," Dean said, a wry half-smile cracking his dry lips.

"You're not gonna die, you jerk," Sam choked out, running the back of his hand across his nose. "C'mon, you really gonna let some…some cold take out the great Dean Winchester?"

Dean started to chuckle, but closed his eyes tight as another cough rocked through him, the force of it curling his weak body to the side, the helpless moan of pain fishtailing the end of the ragged sound enough to turn Sam's belly to liquid. Rubbing his forehead, Sam looked across the room to the canvass bag, trying to think through the medications Cooper had sent with them, frightened of making the wrong choice.

He dug his phone from his pocket, scrolling down to Bobby's number. The endless ring in his ear told him the elder hunter still wasn't reachable. In any other situation, this might be cause to worry, but Sam didn't have enough left in him to worry for someone else. He was all used up.

Pushing himself up, using the wall as a guide to keep his balance, Sam made his way over to the bag and began to set supplies out on the table. The labels blurred as he tried to read them; his fingers felt too large, his hands clumsy. He bent forward, bracing himself on the table and closing his eyes. He'd had concussions before; he knew this was more than his head being cracked by a ghost on steroids.

It was not sleeping for days. It was lack of food. It was worry and fear.

It was a brother who wouldn't quit until the world slapped him down. It was a dead father and a cryptic message. It was a murky fate and frightening visions of death.

It was the relentless pursuit by a Federal Agent. It was a lifetime of fighting and hiding and living on the edge.

And it was too much.

Sam's knees trembled and he almost fell. The ringtone of his cell phone grabbed him, catching his attention. Without looking at the screen to see who was calling, he flipped it open and answered.

"This is Sam."

"Motel 6 or The Watershed?"

Sam's relief at hearing the voice on the other end was so great he almost laughed.

"Where are you?"

"I'm at a payphone at a gas station in Fennimore, Wisconsin," Cooper replied. "No one followed me."

Sam bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, willing himself to shove his emotion back where it couldn't get in the way.

"There are only two hotels in this town, so which is it?"

He couldn't remember; he hadn't been paying attention when he pulled off. He'd simply needed to get Dean out of the car. He looked around, spying a notepad on the table next to the canvass bag.

"The Watershed. Room 60B."

"I'll be right there."

Sam looked over at his brother as he closed the phone.

"We got help coming, man," he said softly, sinking down to the edge of the bed as his legs turned hollow. "Hang in there."

Minutes ticked by. Darkness grew. Dean breathed.

Sam waited.

When the knock came, Sam flinched in startled surprise. He almost couldn't gain his feet. Leaning heavily on the wall next to the door, he pulled the .45 from his waistband and clicked the deadbolt. Opening the door just the length of the chain, he raised the gun and peered through the crack.

"Sam?"

"Cooper?"

"It's me."

"You sure you're alone?"

"Yes."

Sam closed the door, slipped the chain free, then opened it once more, not moving away from the wall. Cooper slipped inside, closing the door behind him and hastily refastened the locks. He turned to Sam, his body tightening and pulling away at the sight of the gun.

"Hi," he said, hesitantly.

"I can't believe you found us," Sam replied honestly.

"You can thank Mrs. Walker, tenth grade English for that one." Cooper had his hands up in a gesture of surrender. He made his way cautiously forward. "I had to search a map of Wisconsin for awhile before it clicked. James Fenimore Cooper. Fennimore."

"Resourceful," Sam commented. He felt oddly detached, almost weightless.

It wasn't until Cooper eased the weapon from his grasp that he realized he'd been training the barrel on the man's chest.

"How 'bout we get you two checked out, yeah?" Cooper said, taking hold of Sam's arm and guiding him from the wall toward the vacant bed.

Sam sat obediently, the world seeming to slowly retreat, bringing only Dean and Cooper into focus. He watched Cooper set the .45 on the nightstand between the beds, then lean over and touch the back of his hand to Dean's forehead.

"Damn," Cooper muttered. "You take his temp?"

Sam shook his head mutely. He could feel himself listing, trying to keep the world balanced around him. Suddenly, Cooper was in front of him, hands on his arms, mouth moving. It took Sam a moment to figure out what he was saying.

"Easy, I gotcha, Sam, just lay back."

Cooper held onto his arms as Sam melted into the bed. He took a breath, preparing to say something, remind Cooper of something, but he couldn't remember what.

And with no more resistance than a sigh, Sam gave in to the black.

www

Voices rose and faded around him. The sound of the mingled words felt like water, pulling him low, then buoying him up. He couldn't find one to hold onto, one to anchor him.

The tones were soothing when heat seemed to surround him; it burned with intensity from his heart through his skin. When the heat suddenly vanished to be replaced by cold, the voices became sharp, insistent, demanding.

The pain sucked away his air, pressing his lungs flat, drowning him in darkness. He tried to find relief, trying to roll away from the ache, trying to fight the quiet sighs in the back of his mind beckoning him to fall inside the black. His body pleaded for relief, for peace, for one breath without pain.

Then the fire returned, shaking him with its veracity, threatening to tear him apart, to burn him alive. He cursed it, fought it. He curled his fists tight, putting everything behind his punches, every bit of energy he didn't have. He fought and threatened, telling whatever it was that wanted to take him that he wasn't ready to go.

He had a job to do. And it wasn't finished.

A cooling hand and a whispered promise stilled him. Wetness flowed across his burning lips and down his parched throat. The voices returned; he didn't know what was real, what was memory. But this time there was one among the many. One that stood out, speaking softly, a gruff sense of affection echoing in words he'd never forget, words he held onto when others threatened to tear him down.

Don't be scared, Dean.

He turned to the sound of that voice, wanting to hear it again, wanting to escape from the heat, the cold, the pain in his chest, in his throat, the weakness that suffocated him. He wanted to hear that voice again, wanted to believe the words.

I am so proud of you.

He half-sobbed, needing to live up to those words, needing to know he'd earned them. And then he felt the heat begin to fade, not replaced by cold this time. Simply fade, ease up and drift away as if he were being granted a stay of execution. With the heat, the pain receded enough to allow him to gather a breath, his shaking body relaxing with the return of air. He sighed as darkness rolled over him once more, this time bringing peace.

www

"Is he actually asleep?"

Sam sat with is back to the headboard of his bed, one leg drawn up, the other hanging over the edge of the bed. Early morning light filtered through the slightly parted curtains turning the room gray.

He watched Cooper adjust the blanket around Dean, his brother's shoulders bare, one arm pulled free from the comforter, and IV tubing running from it to a bag of fluid and medicine above him. An oxygen mask was covering his nose and mouth; it had been hell to keep that thing on with Dean fighting them at every turn.

"I think so, finally," Cooper sighed. He checked the IV bag he'd hooked on the nondescript picture above Dean's bed. "I think he's sweated out the worst of the fever."

Sam relaxed slightly, unable to pull his eyes from his brother's still form, thankful for the quiet that had finally come over Dean's tortured body. It had been one of the longest nights of his life.

He'd slept for a few hours after Cooper's arrival, waking at the sound of a bullet sliding into a chamber. It was one of the only sounds that could wake him from a sound sleep. He'd opened blurry eyes to see Dean sitting upright, pointing the .45 Cooper had set on the nightstand directly at the M.E.'s forehead.

Cooper had been frozen, his eyes steady on Dean's.

"Who the fuck are you?" Dean had demanded, his voice low, dangerous, his eyes flat and feverish.

Sam had risen slowly, seeing from his angle that the safety was off of the weapon and Dean's aim was sure and steady.

"Dean," he'd said, quietly. "It's Cooper."

"Answer me," Dean had demanded as if Sam hadn't even been there.

"I'm Cooper," the M.E. had replied. "I'm here to help you."

Dean had jerked his chin sideways as if considering this information. "You're not here for Sam?"

"Say no," Sam told Cooper in a low, hurried voice. "Tell him no."

"No," Cooper replied. "I'm just here to help you."

Dean lowered the gun and, to Sam's horror, his eyes had rolled back in his head, his body turning boneless as he sagged back against the bed. Sam had retrieved the weapon as Cooper took care of Dean. Sam was ordered to stay in bed, drink water, and eat the food Cooper had set on the nightstand next to him.

"I got enough to deal with here," Cooper had nodded toward Dean. "I don't need you getting sick, too. You're wrecked enough as it is."

Sam had more or less obeyed; at one point in the night he moved to Dean's bed to sit next to his brother and calm him when he struck out, sooth him when he fought, agree with him when he cursed, and warn Cooper when he got too close.

The fever brought out the fight in Dean that Sam had been so afraid he'd lost somewhere beneath the ice.

The warrior who put himself between Sam and the darkness, the man who'd stood up to every nightmare, the brother who'd willingly stayed behind when Sam thought he would be taken over by a demonic virus, all variations had appeared that night as the fever burned down Dean's walls, exposing him.

Sam had never loved his brother more.

As morning crept across the horizon, Cooper insisted Sam return to his bed, giving him more ibuprofen, checking his pupils, his pulse, his blood pressure, and forcing more food and water onto him.

"After you finish that," Cooper said, pointing to the half-eaten sandwich in his lap, "I want you to sleep."

"I wanna be awake when Dean wakes up," Sam protested, leaning his head back against the wall. It was too heavy for his weary neck muscles to hold erect.

"If I have anything to say about it," Cooper sighed, dropping into one of the chairs positioned next to the small table, "he'll sleep for a good long while." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "That was a helluva night."

Sam nodded wordlessly.

"If you don't mind me asking," Cooper said, dropping his hands and peering with narrowed eyes at Sam. "Why is he so protective of you?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "Always has been. My dad drilled it into him." He looked over at Dean, his half-masked face appearing achingly young. "Watch out for Sammy." Sniffing slightly, denying himself emotion, Sam looked away. "We're all we got now. And Dean's…never really had anyone else but me and Dad."

"He said some…weird stuff, though…."

"You mean all that stuff about demons and deals?" Sam asked, sliding his eyes askance.

Cooper nodded.

"You sure you want to know?"

Cooper nodded again.

"Why?" Sam asked.

"Curiosity?"

Sam set his sandwich on the nightstand and swung both legs over the side of the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head low for a minute, feeling the muscles there pull from tension.

"Curiosity isn't good enough, man," Sam told the M.E., his voice directed toward the floor. "You can't…unlearn this stuff. Once you know it, it stays with you and," he lifted his head, looking directly at the older man, "it changes you. It changes everything—how you look at the world, how you see other people. It changes what you believe."

"Maybe I need that changed," Cooper told him, his wiry eyebrows pulled close, the lines around his eyes deepening to crevices. He pushed out his lips, glancing down. "Maybe I need to know the Devil exists."

"But…why?" Sam asked, hearing his own voice crack against the word.

Why would anyone want to know what lurks in the dark? Why would anyone want to see behind the curtain? There were so many times in his life that Sam wished he could just go back to the moment before he learned the truth and pick door number two.

Especially now. Especially with the weight of his unknown destiny waiting to greet him every morning.

He said I might have to kill you, Sammy.

"Because," Cooper replied, his lips flattening in an unfamiliar expression of grief. "If the Devil exists…then maybe so does God."

Sam swallowed hard, looking back at the older man, trying to order his words.

"And maybe…," Cooper continued quietly, "maybe I need to know that God's out there."

It was a thought Sam had held tightly in moments of true fear. It was a hope he'd let fill him when Dean lay dying in the hospital bed, when his brother's brokenhearted voice filled the air around him with their father's last words: maybe God was watching.

Maybe they could be saved. Maybe it wasn't all darkness and death and fear and fighting.

He nodded. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll tell you." Sam shifted back against the bed, looking over at Dean. The peace he saw on his brother's face was a direct contrast from the fierce fight, the obvious pain that had captured his expression through the night. "But you're not going to like what you hear."

Cooper sat back and Sam started talking. He left out the personal touches—Jessica, Mom, Dad. He left out the human element, too, like the back-woods cannibals that had kidnapped him and burned Dean with a branding iron. He stuck mainly to the supernatural, filling the morning with soft-spoken recounts of wendigos and banshees, spirits and pagan gods, zombies and vampires.

Dean slept. Cooper listened.

And Sam talked.

He heard himself speaking factually about Bloody Mary, about Constance Welch, about the times—so many times—Dean had pulled him free, pulled him out, saved his ass. He heard himself telling about the heart-crushing fear of seeing his brother tied up helplessly when he reached Dean just moments before he was sacrificed to a pagan god and when he cut him free from a wendigo lair. He heard himself talk of hellhounds and crossroad deals, of goofer dust and rock salt. He spoke matter-of-factly about Holy Water, silver blades, and consecrated iron.

He listened to himself talk about how he'd lived—how they'd both survived—and he almost didn't believe it.

They sounded like superheroes, not human beings. And yet, not twelve hours ago, they'd been poised on the brink, beaten and broken, unable to care for each other, unable to save themselves.

"Tell me about your Dad," Cooper asked.

Sam wasn't sure how long the silence had stretched from his last word, but he looked up in surprise at the sound of Cooper's voice.

"Why do you want to know about our Dad?" Sam asked warily.

"I want to know why you two…push yourselves. Past the point any sane person would go. I want to know what drives you."

Sam shrugged. "It's our job."

"No," Cooper shook his head. "It's more than that."

Sam looked away, the room suddenly feeling too small, the people in it too much.

"I have a son," Cooper said suddenly. "Jason. He's about your age now."

Sam shot him a surprised look. The questions that had stacked themselves when it came to this man—why he was in Lethe, why he was alone, where he'd been before—clattered back in Sam's mind as he tried to marry what he'd just heard with what he knew.

"But…then why—"

"He's not in Lethe," Cooper said. "Truth is…I don't know where he is."

Sam frowned. "You don't know?"

Cooper leaned forward, mirroring Sam's earlier position. "He was taken from us. When he was eight. I worked with the police on the case. Tracked down every piece of evidence. Every…fact." He huffed. "It was the only thing that kept me together. The facts. Because they all pointed to Jason being alive."

"You…never found him?"

Cooper shook his head. "My wife…she left. Couldn't bear to live the rest of her life with an emotionally distant man. Don't blame her one bit."

He stood, arching his back and moved over to Dean's bed. He removed the oxygen mask, checking Dean's pulse, then removed the empty IV bag and needle, tucking Dean's arm beneath the comforter. Sam watched this silently, thinking about the story behind the man who'd initially resisted belief and ended up risking everything to help them.

To save them.

"When Dean told us what Wallace Sanderson did…how he'd killed his children," Cooper stopped moving, staring down at Dean's sleeping form. He dragged his hand down his face, the loose skin along his jaw line folding and flattening with the motion. "All I could think was how desperate he must've been. And then I remembered all those years, searching for Jason, collecting facts, refusing to believe…anything…except what I had in my files."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Cooper looked at Sam. "I came to Lethe to forget about who I was. I was nobody. Had no past. Just my skills. They didn't care; turns out they had their own secrets."

Sam nodded. Lethe had been the perfect place for this man to disappear.

"Until a snow storm blew you two my way," Cooper said. "And I gotta say…I've never seen anything like you. Either of you. There's a…devotion here. It's deeper than just growing up together. Just being brothers. I've seen it in war vets and soldiers...but not in…regular people. Not like this."

Sam looked down. His brother was the other half of him.

Even when Sam left to go to school, he knew he was leaving a piece of himself behind. He wasn't himself without Dean in his life. Sam knew that he'd never have been able to fully commit to Jessica the way he'd been living; he needed Dean to be whole. It had often made him wonder if Jess would have loved the whole Sam, if she'd ever met him.

And though he put up a decent show and had a million masks to face the world, Dean showed Sam that he had no desire to try life on for size without him the moment he locked them both in that room—virus or no virus—back in Rivergrove.

It was the other side of the promise John thrust upon Dean that scared Sam to death. If Dean couldn't save him…if he did, indeed, have to kill him…Dean wouldn't survive it. Sam was sure of it.

"So," Cooper continued. "I'd like to know about your Dad."

Sam looked at Dean, wanting for just a moment, to see his brother's eyes. Needing that connection.

"I think that's Dean's story," he said. "You need to hear it from him."

Cooper frowned. "Why?"

Sam rolled his neck. "When Hendrickson found us…he said some things. Some things about Dad. It…rattled Dean. Shook him up pretty good. I think," Sam shrugged, slouching against the headboard, "I think it would be good for him to tell you what kind of man our Dad really was."

www

When Dean next opened his eyes, he felt hollow.

His chest ached, his stomach muscles felt bruised, his lower back was fisted tightly. He could swear someone had opened him up and cleared out his insides, then returned them to him in a tangle. He swallowed, the sensation like that of cracked earth soaking up the first rain of autumn. He blinked, grit melding the corners of his lashes.

There was a sound coming from the foot of his bed. Voices—not familiar—and a low tone that told him the TV was on. He shifted slightly, looking at the stained ceiling, remembering. They'd stopped at a motel. He recalled Sam dragging him inside. He recalled making Sam promise to not go to a hospital.

And then…nothing else.

Despite feeling like he'd been run over by a dozen horses, he was alive, and they were still in the motel room, so Sam had come through once again. Saving his ass was becoming the kid's M.O.

He turned his head to the side, seeing Sam on the bed next to his, sprawled across the mattress, dressed in a white T-shirt and sweats, his mouth slightly open, a low snore slipping through his lips.

Dean smiled slightly at the sight, reaching up to rub at his chest, thankful that he didn't feel like coughing. Turning to his side to ease the ache in his back, Dean saw that there was another person in the room. Instinctively he reached beneath his pillow, finding the space empty. Pushing himself weakly to his elbow, he was unable to bite back a groan, and drew the man's attention.

"Cooper?" he croaked in surprise.

"Hey, there," Cooper stood and moved over to his side. "So you decided to join the land of the living again, have you?"

"When did you get here?" Dean frowned, dropping back against the pillow, amazed that such a slight movement could tire him out.

"Almost two days ago, now," Cooper replied. "You don't remember trying to shoot me?"

Dean blinked, looking over at Sam who huffed in his sleep, then rolled to his side, his back to them.

"No." He shook his head. "Guess I missed."

"Sam got the gun away from you." Cooper smiled. "Now that both of you have pointed a loaded weapon at me, I feel like I passed some kind of initiation."

Dean narrowed his eyes, looking around the room warily. "You're alone?"

Cooper nodded. "Alone, wasn't tracked, wasn't followed."

Dean sighed, then pressed his hand against his chest, breathing again. "I can...breathe."

"Finally," Cooper said, reaching behind him to shove another pillow under his head, then help prop him up. "Don't overdo it, though."

"Sitting up is overdoing it?" Dean replied, his voice still a bit strangled sounding, despite the fact that he was getting air without fighting for every breath.

"After the last forty-eight hours, yes."

Dean let his eyes track the room, taking in the medical supplies scattered across a table that on any normal day would have been covered with weapons. He saw small trash bags filled with take-out cartons, a pile of white towels—some splattered with red stains—in the corner of the room, and a few paper sacks with what he assumed were more groceries and supplies stacked next to the TV on the edge of the dresser.

"Thanks," he said quietly, returning his eyes to Cooper. "We…we wouldn't have made it if you hadn't found us."

Cooper looked down, crossing his arms. "You got it backwards, Dean," he said quietly. "If you hadn't found Lethe…who knows how many would have died. The whole town owes you both a big thanks."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "I'm guessing they didn't send you to deliver it."

"No," Cooper shook his head with a small smile of regret. "In fact…no one knows I'm here."

"Good."

Cooper looked at him then, as if working up to something, but shook his head. "You think you could eat something? Some soup, maybe?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, that sounds great, actually."

"Gimme two minutes."

Cooper moved away from the bed and dug something out of a paper sack before heading to the kitchenette. Dean followed him with quiet eyes, sinking deeper into the pillows, already worn out. Cooper returned with warm soup and a large spoon, sitting on the edge of the bed and handing the container to Dean.

"What are you watching?" Dean asked, sipping the broth and glancing at the TV over Cooper's shoulder.

Cooper half-smiled. "Ghost Hunters. Some show on the Sci-Fi channel."

"I've heard of it," Dean told him, enjoying the liquid gold feeling of the soup filling him up slowly.

"After what your brother told me the other day about some of the things you guys have…dealt with," Cooper said, glancing back at the TV, "I got curious. Wanted to see what these guys did."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "None of that's real, Coop. You've seen more than these guys ever have."

"Huh," Cooper chuckled. "How 'bout that."

"Where are they this time?" he asked, eating a few more bites of soup.

Cooper frowned at the TV. "Someplace called Roosevelt Asylum in Illinois."

Dean grinned tiredly, handing the empty container back to Cooper. "They won't find anything there," he said.

Cooper looked back at him. "Why do you say that?"

"'Cause," Dean yawned, rolling to his side and tucking his hands beneath his pillow. "Sammy and I already toasted that bastard."

Cooper's reply was lost as Dean succumbed to the heady pull of sleep.

Hours later he sighed himself awake, still weak, still achy, but relishing the feeling of filling his lungs.

"You look better." Sam's voice was soft in deference to the shadowed room.

Dean shifted to his side, rolling toward the sound of his brother's voice. Somewhere below him he heard the amusing sound of staccato snoring.

"Hey," Dean greeted quietly.

Sam smiled, pale light from a crescent moon shining in through slightly parted curtains illuminating his face, turning him a ghostly blue. He sat on the edge of his bed, leaning across the opening, watching Dean.

"How're you feeling?" Sam asked.

"Better," Dean answered honestly. "Thanks to you. Again."

Sam shook his head. "Wasn't me, man. It was Cooper."

The snore turned into a hiccup of sound for a moment, then returned to a steady cadence.

"Where is he?"

Sam tilted his chin. "He's got a bedroll; been sleeping on the floor at the foot of your bed."

"He said I tried to shoot him," Dean said, pulling the pillow closer, bunching it beneath his head and propping himself up to better see Sam.

"Yeah," Sam huffed. "You were pretty out of it."

Dean watched a shadow pass over Sam's face and felt a tug at his heart. What had he revealed? What had Sam seen behind his wall?

"Let me guess," Dean said, clearing his throat, "I gave you the rundown of the Impala's engine."

"Not quite." The breathless tick at the end of Sam's words told Dean that it had been worse than he expected. Much worse.

"Oh, God," Dean groaned, rubbing his face. "Don't tell me I told you about that night with Emma Curtis."

Sam frowned, momentarily going along with Dean's misdirection. "Which one was Emma?"

"Brunette," Dean said, rolling to his back and looking up at the ceiling. "Green eyes, full lips, legs that went all the way up." He glanced to the side at Sam's face. "Tits like—"

"I get the picture," Sam held up a hand, shaking his head good-naturedly.

Dean allowed a grin to slide into place, pulling the side of his face into a quirk of humor, his eyes narrowing, shielding the honesty that swam to the surface. It was a grin that he knew would always soften his brother's eyes with tolerance. It was a grin that always made Sam glance away, amused exasperation tugging at his lips.

It was a grin of protection.

Don't say it, Sam. Not yet.

"I'm just glad you're okay, Dean," Sam said, his eyes twin pools of emotion. He looked down, taking a shaky breath. "We really just need a break, y'know?"

"You got any plans next coupla days?" Dean asked, feeling sleep tug at him, eager to fold him back into its embrace.

Sam half-smiled. "Not really."

Dean yawned, pressing a hand against his still tender chest. "How 'bout we hang out here for awhile, then?"

Smile still in place, Sam nodded, rolling back to his pillow. "'Night, Dean."

Dean waited until he heard his brother's breathing even out. "'Night, Sammy," he whispered.

www

"Where've you been?"

Sam looked up as Cooper entered the motel room, three bags in his arms and a newspaper in his hand. He watched as the man blinked in surprise at the display of firepower adorning Dean's bed.

"Getting supplies," Cooper replied. "What's all this?"

"I was bored," Dean informed him.

"That's never good," Sam filled in.

Twenty-four hours after he'd first woken up, Dean was able to stand long enough to shower. Cooper was insistent that they both rest as much as possible, but keeping Dean in bed had been a two-person job. Even though he could see his brother's weakness creep up on him at regular intervals, Sam knew Dean would insist he was okay, he was ready to go at a moment's notice, unless given another reason to stay still.

So, Sam had obeyed Cooper's orders to the letter, sleeping often and late, making it impossible for Dean to do anything else but comply. They'd watched endless hours of TV, hustled Cooper in a dozen games of poker—playing for meds and pretzel sticks—and elaborated on the hunts they'd survived. Dean had added Lethe to John's journal, marking it as their first encounter with a spirit with enough strength to become corporeal.

Nearly two days later, however, and Dean was restless. He was still pale, his cheekbones more prominent than usual, his voice a bit raspy at times, and once in awhile, he'd press his hand to his sternum as if to hold himself together as he coughed, but Cooper's prescription of rest, food, and medicine had started him on the best course for healing.

That morning, they woke to find a note instead of Cooper's bedroll on the floor. After each of them had showered, and Cooper still hadn't returned, Sam offered to empty out the Impala's trunk if Dean would agree to rest. Cleaning their weapons always seemed to have a calming effect on his brother.

Dean had agreed and they'd spread a few shotguns—regular barrel and sawed-off—several handguns, and a multitude of knives on the bed by the time Cooper returned.

"Where do you keep all that stuff?" Cooper asked, setting the bags on the table and sliding the chain lock across the door behind him.

Sam saw Dean tip his chin up at that, but answered Cooper's question. "Hidden compartment in the trunk of the car. Our Dad put it in there. Long time ago."

"What's up?" Dean asked, clearing his throat slightly.

"Bad news," Cooper said, tossing a newspaper down on the bed across several weapons.

Sam peered at the article below the fold of the paper. His heart dropped. "Hendrickson arrested Marshall?"

"On suspicion of aiding and abetting a criminal," Cooper nodded. "Don't know how long he'll hold out under Federal questioning."

"How much does he know?" Dean asked.

Cooper shook his head. "I haven't seen him since he took Mead to look for you—the day after...it all happened."

"Who did you see before you left?" Dean pressed, his brows close, his mouth grim. He was in interrogator mode and Sam felt himself go on alert.

Cooper rolled his lips. "Sherriff Mead. And Mandy."

"Did you tell either of them where you were going?" Dean asked, his eyes hard as he waited for the truth.

"No," Cooper shook his head. "Mead was…well, it was not an easy conversation. I guess Marshall spent the time on that trip telling him about the night in the incinerator room. Mead came back, needing to know how much of it was true."

"What did you tell him?" Sam asked.

"I told him all of it was true," Cooper replied shrugging as he leaned back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. "I told him what I'd seen, how I'd been hurt, what I knew you two had done. I told him about Wallace and he was…well, wrecked isn't even the best word."

"Why?" Dean drew his head back.

Cooper looked at him, his eyes sad. "Matthew Mead is not a bad man," he said. "He made a mistake."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "One person's mistake is another person's completely terrible no-good very bad day."

"He didn't know, did he?" Sam guessed. "I mean, he really didn't know."

Cooper shook his head, looking at his hands. "He didn't even know about the deal Judge McAvoy made with Josephine Sanderson. Not until after they blew the dam. He said the Judge called Tolliver into his office when they heard the explosion and was panicking, asking if they were back, wanting to know if he'd seen them." Cooper shrugged helplessly. "It took Tolliver over an hour to figure out who they were. The Judge hadn't been too with it even then. By the time he reached out to Mead, the whole town was underwater. Matthew said they all decided to assume Wallace was in the nursing home and Colin was in Iraq."

"And Josephine?" Dean asked quietly. "Where did they conveniently decide she'd been spending the last four years?"

Cooper sighed as if he understood Dean's bitterness, but felt the barbs dig deep none-the-less. "I honestly don't know."

"What'd you tell Mandy?" Sam asked, deflecting Dean's ire and refocusing the conversation.

It still managed to surprise him that his brother could find it in himself—after all this time, all these hunts—to get worked up over the evils of humankind. He took hope from the fact that Dean cared so deeply, despite his posturing to the contrary.

"I just told her I needed some food for a road trip," Cooper said. "That I wanted some time off after everything that had happened. Nothing that Marshall could have picked up on if he talked to her when he got back."

Dean looked at Sam. "What are you thinking?"

Sam met his brother's eyes. "I'm thinking you're not ready to travel."

"Yeah, well," Dean muttered, his quick fingers seamlessly reassembling the Beretta in his grasp, "I'm thinking I don't want to know what the inside of a Federal Prison looks like."

"What did you guys do to piss this guy off so badly?" Cooper asked, sitting down slowly.

"Got away," Dean replied, grimly, breaking down the next weapon—a sawed-off shotgun—his hand moving as if on tracks, nimbly removing each piece, examining it before cleaning.

"There's only so many graves you can dig up before someone finds you," Sam sighed, leaning back against the headboard of Dean's bed, leaving the guns to Dean and looking at the newspaper in his hand. "Eventually, you're labeled a freak."

"You don't think he'd be willing to listen to you?" Cooper tried, half-heartedly.

"Think how eager you were to believe us," Dean pointed out, reassembling the shotgun and moving to his Desert Eagle, "and multiply that by negative a billion. This guy? He's already made his decision about us. He's not interested in the truth."

"But, surely once the facts are laid out—"

"No," Dean interrupted Cooper, cutting him off. "He's got a file on us—on our Dad. He's labeled him some kind of…of whacko—his word, incidentally." He looked back down at the gun in his hand, speaking almost to himself. "The lives Dad saved? The things he took out? None of that matters. We're against the norm, outside the lines. We don't fit."

Sam exchanged a glance with Cooper. He'd not told Dean about Cooper's son, and he knew Cooper had yet to ask Dean about their dad. The focus had been on healing; opening old wounds wouldn't have aided in that effort.

But as it looked like their convalescence was nearing an end, Sam thought it might be the best time to bring everyone up to speed.

"Dean," he started. "Cooper—"

"Sam," Cooper interrupted, evidently guessing where Sam was headed. He shook his head subtly, but Dean saw, looking from one to the other.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Never mind," Sam shook his head, avoiding Dean's gaze.

Dean leveled his eyes on Sam, his voice heavy. "What is it, Sam?"

"I asked Sam about your Dad a few days ago," Cooper supplied. "He said you needed to tell me about him."

Dean frowned over at Sam. "He was your Dad, too, man."

"That's not what I meant," Sam tried, watching Dean's hands go still on the broken-down Desert Eagle. "Dean, when you were sick…you said some stuff."

Brows pulled close, Dean leaned toward Sam. "What kind of stuff?"

"You…you brought up Dad's deal," Sam said, ignoring Cooper's watchful eyes, the way the man had of listening with his whole body, and concentrated on Dean.

His brother was completely still, his eyes wide, barely any green around the pupil, his body tense. Sam swallowed before continuing.

"When you told me about Hendrickson…it was what he said about Dad that…that you wouldn't let go of," Sam said quietly, looking down. "And when you were…when the fever had you…you told me," he glanced up, meeting Dean's eyes, "that it should've been you."

Dean looked away.

"I know this isn't easy, Dean." Sam kept his voice purposefully soft. "I know what he did for you…what he made you promise—hell, what I made you promise—I know it eats at you. Every day."

"So?" Dean bit off the word, rolling his head—chin first—to challenge Sam with a dead-panned expression and expressionless eyes. "Doesn't change a thing does it?"

"I just—when you trapped that crossroads demon…I think you wanted to trade up…and then when we were dealing with the Croatoan virus…," Sam felt anger working its way to the surface, coiling beneath his words, "you were willing to die in there with me."

"What's your point, Sam?"

"My point is that Ronald was not your fault! Hendrickson isn't after us because of you!" Sam yelled, seeing Cooper flinch back with the force of his anger, but ignoring him. Ignoring everything but Dean. "My point is you're not Dad! He's not here. You are."

Dean stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. He slid his eyes to look at Cooper, his face tight, lips pressed forward. Sam felt his belly tighten in anticipation of his brother's words.

"You want to know about our Dad?" Dean asked the M.E.

Cooper stayed very still, watching them both.

"He was the toughest bastard I've ever known. Impossible to please; when you got it wrong, you knew it. But when you got it right," he looked down for a moment, a humorless half-grin ticking up the corner of his mouth. "He kept us with him, kept us as safe as he could. We were a family with him. If he was going down…we were going down together."

Dean swallowed, and rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his hand. "And then he disappeared. Just…gone, y'know? No note, nothing. With all the shit we deal with every day, all the time, I…had no idea how to deal with it. I didn't know if he was dead, or…," he paused, clearing his throat. "I got Sammy out of school and we started looking for him. He was our…Captain, I guess. Our glue. Without him, I—"

"That's where you're wrong, man," Sam said quietly, his anger cooling. "Dad wasn't the one that kept us together. You were."

Dean looked over at him, a flash of vulnerability cutting through his eyes. Sam held his gaze until Dean turned away, lifting his face toward Cooper.

"You really want to know who my Dad was?"

Cooper nodded silently.

"He was a hero," Dean declared. "He was selfish ass, but he was a hero. He drove us hard, but he taught us how to survive. He taught us to…be a family. He saved more lives than anyone will ever know. He sacrificed everything for us. For me. He traded his life for mine. And I…."

Dean shook his head, looking away. The room was quiet.

"No son of a bitch Federal Agent looking to level-up by bagging a grave-desecrating murder is going to change that." Dean's words were quiet, but their impact shook through Sam.

Sam wanted to reach out, touch Dean's shoulder, make contact somehow. But he knew that contact in this moment could shatter his brother's control, and there were times when that control was the only thing keeping Dean from falling apart so completely no one could put him back together again.

He had to settle himself with simply looking at Dean, his own face pulled into a fist of emotion rivaling his brother's.

"I think I understand something now," Cooper said softly. "I've spent all these years looking at the facts. Using them to prove to me what counts and what doesn't. But I missed seeing the whole story. The facts just show what's on the surface."

The brothers looked at him, waiting.

"I spent so much time…fact checking…that I missed…faith."

Sam saw Dean shake his head once in resistance.

"Not in God, maybe," Cooper continued. "But in people. This Agent Hendrickson…he's got all the facts. You two don't even try to say he's lying. But his story…it's all wrong." He glanced down, shaking his head slowly. "He's missed the reasons that give those facts meaning. And those reasons are fueled by the faith you have in each other—the faith your father obviously had in you."

Dean glanced over at Sam, questions in his eyes. Sam nodded, the corner of his mouth curling up in an answer.

The unfamiliar ring of Cooper's cell phone caused them all to jump. Dean looked up quickly, meeting Cooper's surprised glance. Sam stood, uncertain what he should do, but knowing in his gut this call wouldn't be delivering good news.

Taking a breath, Cooper answered. "Hello? Oh, hey, Matthew."

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance.

"No, I hadn't seen that. Not much use for papers on vacation."

Cooper looked at them, his eyes apologetic.

"What makes him think they're in Madison?"

"Shit," Sam whispered. Madison was too close. Madison may as well be here. He closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead with the flat of his hand.

"Matthew…why are you helping this guy?" Cooper asked, dragging a hand down his face. "Federal Age—so the hell what? What is he to you? Those two guys saved our lives!"

Cooper was quiet for a moment. Sam grabbed the duffel bag from the floor and tossed it toward Dean.

"I know you do. Well, thanks. Tell Marshall I'm pulling for him. No…I don't know when I'll be back. Don't know about you, but I don't think I can go back to business as usual after all that."

Dean began loading the weapons into the duffel.

"Yeah, okay. See ya."

Cooper closed his phone. "He's close," he told them.

"We, uh, picked up on that," Dean muttered, loading the last of the weapons and pushing himself to his feet.

"Where are you going to go?" Cooper asked, his shoulders bowing helplessly, uncertainty coloring his tone.

Sam looked his brother. Wherever it was, it had to be far, they both knew that. They were going to have to dead-head it away from here, not look back.

"Dean?" Sam asked, pouring more than just an echo of Cooper's question into that word. Are you well enough? Can we do this? Stay together stay alive, right?

Dean looked at him, his eyes shadowed. He opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by the sound of Sam's phone.

"Jeeze, Grand Central Station," Dean muttered as Sam dug his phone out of his pocket.

Glancing at the caller ID, Sam blinked in surprise, answering while looking at Dean.

"Bobby?"

The look of happy relief on Dean's face at that name was enough to elicit an answering smile on Sam's.

"What the hell are you thinking, Sam? Calling me twice and not leaving any message?"

"I, uh, didn't know you had caller ID."

"I got all kinds of ID, boy. Where are you?"

"Bobby, we've got some trouble—"

"I know that, you idjit. I do own a TV."

"Oh."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Your brother?"

"He is now. We…had a little help from a friend."

"Had me a few of those over the years."

"We're in Fennimore, WI," Sam told him. "Need to be somewhere else. Now."

"Well, too bad I sent my transporter out to be cleaned," Bobby grumbled. "Think you can get yourselves to Providence?"

"Rhode Island?" Sam bleated.

"I knew you were the smart one," Bobby teased. "Some gal stabbed a perfect stranger through the heart."

Sam blinked. "How is this our kind of case?"

"She claims it was God's will."

Sam looked at Dean. "Oh, this oughtta go over well."

Dean frowned. "What?"

Sam waved a hand at him. "It's gonna take us a day or so to get there, Bobby."

"Get you far enough from that Agent that's breathing down your neck?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "It will."

"You two really okay?"

"It was rough," Sam confessed.

"Dean being stubborn about it?"

"What do you think?"

"He's sitting right there, ain't he?"

"Yep."

"Give him the phone."

Sam handed the phone to Dean. "He wants to talk to you."

Dean glanced at the phone as if it were a particularly large rat, then took it gingerly from Sam's hand. "Hey, Bobby."

"Who's Bobby?" Cooper asked.

"Kind of an…adopted uncle," Sam told him. "He's one of the few friends my Dad had who's still alive."

Cooper lifted his eyebrows. "He wants you to go to Rhode Island?"

"Heard about a job there," Sam said, trying to focus on what Dean was saying to Bobby.

"You got it," Dean said. "We'll call you soon." He closed the phone and handed it back to Sam. "He said to tell you that I should find a massage parlor when we get there."

"What?" Sam drew his head back, his face twisting into an expression of irritated disbelief. "You're crazy."

"Said it would help me heal up quicker." Dean's smirk was threatening to turn into a full-fledged grin.

"Dude, we are not looking for massage parlor." Sam rolled his eyes.

"If I'm gonna have to hide out from Hendrickson while you poke around about this job, I gotta have something to do," Dean shrugged innocently.

Sam waved a dismissive hand at him, turning away to start gathering up their things. "I am not listening to this."

"A massage might actually be quite helpful," Cooper chimed in. "Help with the muscle strain from coughing for so long."

"See?" Dean lifted his hands in a told you so shrug.

Sam pointed at Cooper. "Don't you start. He doesn't need any encouragement."

Cooper laughed, turning to the bag of supplies he brought, and suddenly stopped. It was if he'd run into an invisible wall. The brothers paused and looked him, confused.

"I'm never going to see you again, am I?" Cooper said softly, realization drawing his face down. "You move on to the next hunt, the next town. Hopefully getting through that one relatively unscathed. And that's it. You'll just…continue to live this…shadowed life."

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

"It's the only life we know," Sam offered. And we have a demon to kill, he thought.

"And if we didn't do it…," Dean shrugged. "It might not make a big difference, but…we're not willing to take that risk."

Cooper huffed out a brief, humorless laugh. "I think I'm actually going to miss you two."

Sam had to admit, it was hard to get close to some people and walk away. Especially when those people had a hand in keeping them alive.

"Don't go getting all sentimental on us, Coop," Dean teased, doing his best to lighten the mood. "You never know when we might need a good M.E."

"Not funny," Cooper scolded, but Sam saw a reluctant grin tug up the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you," Sam said, sincerity turning his voice soft. "We don't make a lot of friends doing what we do."

"As many lives as you save, I'm surprised you don't have your own fan base," Cooper shook his head.

"We mean it," Dean said. "You're right. We do live in the shadows. And like I said, with a few exceptions, when we go…there won't be a lot of people who will even remember we'd been here once. So…meeting someone like you," Dean looked down, turning his silver ring around his finger, "who is willing to go out of his way to save our lives…," he looked up, meeting Cooper's eyes once more. "We won't forget it."

"Are you going to head back to Lethe?" Sam asked.

Cooper looked at him. "Not yet. I have some…fences to mend." He smiled softly.

"I hope it works out for you," Sam said sincerely.

He wanted to know the end of Cooper's story, to know if there was hope for finding his son again after all these years. He wanted, just once, to keep a friend close to him on the merit of their life experiences and not because he'd saved them from falling victim to a supernatural death.

"Well," Cooper said, taking a breath. "If you two are going to drive across country, we'd better make sure you're stocked up."

It took over an hour and some creative positioning, but they were finally able to fit the extra supplies Cooper had purchased—spare blankets, medicine, socks, sweatshirts, and two used canvass jackets—along with some food for the road in with their duffel bags and weapons.

Standing in the snow-dusted parking lot, the sound of the highway beckoning like a siren's call, the brothers regarded the M.E.

"You take care of each other," Cooper told them. "Try to stay out of trouble."

"I hope you find what you're looking for," Dean said softly.

Sam saw Cooper's eyes flinch, the lines deepening as Dean unknowingly hit a nerve. Sam glanced at Dean, momentarily wondering if Cooper had shared the story of his son with him. But then he realized it didn't matter. Dean could read people; he'd always had a knack for it. And in this man, his brother saw someone searching. And it was enough.

Cooper smiled, reaching out to clasp Dean's outstretched hand. He turned and grasped Sam's, smiling at him as well, before lifting his hand in a salute and turning toward his truck.

"He really doesn't like goodbyes, does he?" Dean commented as Cooper pulled out of the parking lot, heading west on the main road.

"Like you're a big fan?" Sam retorted dryly.

Dean pulled a face in his direction. "Hey, maybe we just find a motel with one of those coin-operated massage bed things," he suggested, an eyebrow raised.

"Get in the car," Sam ordered, rolling his eyes.

Happily allowing Dean to slide behind the wheel of his baby once more, Sam closed the passenger side door, a smile relaxing his face as Dean turned on the radio the moment the Impala's engine caught, the sound of Kansas welcoming them home.

Things were starting to feel normal again.

"They say the sea turns so dark that you know it's time, you see the sign. They say the point demons guard is an ocean grave, for all the brave. Was it you that said, "How long, how long, how long to the point of no return?"

"That's more like it," Dean sighed happily, clearing his throat slightly as they backed out of the parking lot. "Let's see what the east coast has for us, Sammy."

"Think it'll be warmer?"

"I'd be happy with no snow," Dean muttered, pulling onto the highway.

Not more than two miles off the exit, Sam saw the lights.

"Dean."

"I see 'em."

Heading west, a line of four police cruisers and a dark sedan passed them, lights swirling in the gray evening air.

"You think that was…?" Sam began, not wanting to voice his worry.

Dean was dividing tense attention between the road in front of them and the rear-view mirror. Bob Seger's whiskey-smooth voice filled the space Kansas vacated.

"…I was living to run and running to live, never worried about paying or even how much I owed, moving eight miles a minute for months at a time, breaking all of the rules that would bend…"

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"No matter what, we do not ditch this car."

Sam nodded. "Agreed."

"Feel like taking the scenic route?" Dean's eyes were still bouncing to the rear-view mirror, his shoulders tense, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

Sam dug the atlas out of the glove box. "As long as it doesn't start snowing," he complied.

Dean pulled off an exit onto a state road, coughing loosely into the crook of his elbow. Sam handed him a water bottle. After a few miles, Sam felt the tension begin to ease from the confines of the car.

"If that was him," Dean said finally, "he doesn't know our car."

"Let's keep it that way," Sam said. "Until we're sure we've shaken him, you two stay out of sight."

Dean grinned, rubbing the palm of his hand over the steering wheel, his ring skipping over the ridges. "Hear that baby? We stay together."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You have an unhealthy attachment to this car."

"C'mon, Sam," Dean reached over, punching him lightly on the shoulder. "She saved our lives more than once. You never know. She might even be able to save the world."

"Right." Sam's reply dripped sarcasm.

A familiar guitar riff rolled from the radio and Dean grinned. He turned the volume up until anything outside of music was rendered obsolete. When Ronnie Van Zant's voice kicked in with the lyrics, Dean joined in.

"If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me? For I must be traveling on now 'cause there's too many places I've got to see…"

"C'mon, Sam," Dean demanded, smacking Sam's chest with the back of his hand.

"Naw," Sam shook his head, grinning at his incorrigible brother.

A week ago, Sam had almost lost Dean beneath the frozen surface of a haunted lake. Four days ago, he'd been convinced his brother was going to die from the fever burning through him. And now, while not as strong as could be, Dean was practically brimming with life. He was in his element—behind the wheel of his car, tearing down a back road in Wisconsin, through a winter evening, toward another hunt, another job, another place.

Maybe Sam had been wrong. Maybe this life wouldn't take his brother. Maybe his brother was made for this life.

"We're gonna be okay, aren't we." It wasn't a question. Sam said it with the knowledge that somehow, someway, when the world was done with them and the job was finally over, it was true.

Sam looked at Dean, catching his smirk, the light in his eyes.

"Long as we stick together, Sammy," Dean said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, "we'll be just fine."

Taking a breath, Sam joined in, his off-key notes sliding around his brother's harmony.

"'Cause I'm as free as a bird now, and this bird you cannot change. Lord knows, I can't change…."

Playlist:

Point of No Return by Kansas

Against the Wind by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band

Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd

a/n: Fennimore, WI, is an actual town. I've taken liberties with its size; I have no idea how many hotels it actually has. *smiles* No offense meant to any Fennimore residents.

I am going to be taking a break from writing multi-chapter SPN fics for awhile. I made a resolution at the turn of this year to complete a draft of an original story by December 31, 2011, and with the load of real life right now, I don't have enough of me to indulge in the enjoyment of plotting out lengthy fanfics and make a solid attempt at an original story.

I will continue to write one-shots, though, to stay in the game (so to speak). In fact, I have a one-shot for yasminke's winning bid in the Australian Flood Relief author's auction (at fandom_flood_ap on LJ) to be created and posted soon.

I can't express to you adequately how much writing fanfic has meant to me these last five years. These stories, these characters, and your feedback have changed me—for the better. The whole experience has made me into a better person and now I'm going to see if I can roll with it outside the amazing world of the Winchesters.

I hope you won't forget me. I look forward to your thoughts on any one-shots you see pop up in your reminders or LJ communities. Slán agus beannacht leat!