On My Knees

by Kaynara

Sam/Dean. After killing a demon, the boys find a little girl it has been holding captive for a year. AU after Time is on My Side. NC-17. The boys are not mine, but how I wish they were.

1. Part 1

On My Knees (Train for Nowhere)

On My Knees (Train for Nowhere)

Part 1

They drove into town just after sunup, one year to the day since Dean should have died.

On the trail of a demon who had been killing its way down the eastern seaboard, they finally caught up with it at a speck on the map an hour north of Savannah. They stopped to sleep until dark at the only hotel in town, an inn with ivy dripping like entrails and a formal dining room, and couldn't they just sleep in the car?

Sam was giving Dean that look, though. The one that said, "If you don't quit bitching, I'm gonna put my huge-ass fist through your face." He may have said it out loud, too, so Dean rolled his eyes and shut the hell up, even though the inn was three times as expensive as the places they typically stayed and right across the street from an actual gazebo.

"This is nice," Sam said when the bellhop left them in peace, having relieved Dean's wallet of five dollars.

Sam flopped down on the bed, stretching his long arms over his head and rucking up the bedspread in the process. Dean grunted a reply and began rifling in his duffle bag.

When Dean was three, his parents took him to Disney World.

They stayed outside the parks, some run-down roadside chain that was all they could afford with John starting a new job and Sam already on the way. The first night, Dean practically flew back to the room having scoring a hug from Cinderella, the second most beautiful women in the world after his mother. One moment he was bouncing on the bed, too hyped to even contemplate sleep. The next, Mary was scooping him onto her hip, and Dean caught a breath of her clean, vanilla-scented hair, before he was being deposited inside cool sheets.

"Don't lay on the bedspread, baby, it's dirty." She bent to nuzzle his neck, and Dean stretched his arms up for a hug, keeping her close an extra few seconds.

Over the years, Dean had crashed on a thousand bedspreads—come-crusted and sweat-stained—in a thousand motels. He and Sam returned from hunts with a dozen wounds too minor to mention and a pervading bone-weariness that had them collapsing, still in their clothes, on the nearest flat surface.

Next to some of the places they had stayed, the Grayford Inn was downright palatial. Which didn't explain Dean's urge to explain the whole bedspread thing to Sam. He settled for aiming a kick at Sam's shoe as he crossed to the window.

"So I was thinking," Sam said, ignoring the kick. He folded his arms under his head. "We should do something today."

"Okay," Dean said, shaking a line of salt across the windowsill.

It was easier to agree. If he put up a fuss, Sam would want to talk about things that Dean would prefer not to discuss. Ever.

Like what happened a year ago. Sam had saved Dean from the pit like he promised, but beating Lilith had a cost. When all was said and done, it wasn't Sam in there anymore, not the Sam he knew anyway. Dean spent the next five months chasing Sam across thirteen states, finally catching up to him in Arizona, at the fucking Grand Canyon of all places, for some stupid epic showdown. Dean had nearly put a bullet in Sam's head that day, a second loaded in the chamber for himself.

In all honesty, Dean still wasn't certain how he got his Sam back. Or why, in the seven months since, almost everything in their lives had returned to normal. They still lived out of their duffels and killed evils sons of bitches, while furthering Dean's quest to eat pie in each of the lower forty-eight states. The demon population was waning, the result of in-fighting and Sam and Dean's steadfast efforts. A continuous stream of poltergeists and spirits and monsters of all sizes would guarantee their job security for a few more years at least, and Dean felt optimistic for the first time in a long time about them winning the ultimate war. Everything was the same as it had always been, with one notable difference. The same night Dean pointed a gun at Sam's head, Sam kissed him in the shower.

It started innocently enough, Sam too weak to stand on his own and Dean so goddamned grateful that he didn't think, just shuffled them both into the tiny motel bathroom, drew the curtain behind them and threw on the taps.

Sam was filthy, covered in dirt and blood and fluids Dean refused to think about. Wanting to get Sam clean, Dean wrapped an arm around his waist, used the other to dump a too-small bottle of watery shampoo over Sam's head. He scrubbed hard, pretty sure his fingernails were digging grooves into Sam's scalp. He thought it was just confused biology when he felt Sam's erection poking his hip. Sam was exhausted, wounded, confused.

Dean's attempt at levity—"This ain't a sponge bath and it sure as hell don't come with a happy ending"—died on his lips when he saw the expression on Sam's face. Something soft and needy, but underneath it was steel.

Dean would have backed up if he weren't sure Sam's knees would buckle without the support. The air in the cramped stall was thick with steam and their coupled breaths, making it hard to breathe, to think. He'd hold on to that after.

"Dean," Sam said, and his voice sounded pale and paper-thin.

"Sammy," he'd croaked, but that was hardly a protest, and Sam didn't take it as such.

Leaning forward, he brushed Dean's mouth with his, dry-lipped and first-kiss sweet even though, if Dean were counting—which he wasn't—it was the second. After, Sam rested his forehead against Dean's for a long moment. Waiting for Dean to make the next move.

Dean had been rationalizing and denying for so long he could probably win some medals in it, but it didn't take a genius to figure what was going on here. He and Sam had sold their souls for each other, watched each other die more than once. So what if they needed a little physical contact by way of reassurance? What they did in the privacy of their own room wasn't anybody's business but theirs, and here beneath a piss-trickle lukewarm shower in Nowhere, Arizona, Dean could almost believe that.

Sam was watching him with those sad, seen-too-much eyes, and Dean made a noise in his throat and clamped his hands on either side of Sam's face.

"This is beyond fucked, Sam."

Sam had blinked shampoo out of his eyes and laughed, honest-to-god laughed.

"Really, Dean?" Sam said. "You don't say."

So Dean tugged Sam forward by his face. He kissed Sam, and Sam kissed back, and it wasn't gentle anymore but sure—rough slicks of tongue on tongue and stubble rubbing, lips going red and raw with the effort.

The water had run cold, but Dean was burning in his skin when he took Sam awkwardly in hand, jerked Sam like he would himself because he didn't know any other way. They slept together in one of the beds, facing each other with only their knees touching.

In the morning, Sam gave Dean a long open-mouthed kiss with no regard for their questionable breath, and Dean knew he wouldn't be denying either of them.

Seven months later, lying on a yellow-and-blue bedspread at the luxurious Grayford Inn, Sam used his elbows to elevate himself to a sitting position. Pushing Sam-stubborn bangs out of his eyes, he blinked at Dean in surprise. He might have looked a little disappointed, too, like he wasn't expecting an easy assent and had maybe prepared arguments.

"Really?" Sam asked. "I mean, okay. Good. Let's get something to eat."

Dean just snorted and went to get his wallet. He would rather engage in a little Sammy-celebration time than have some awkward conversation about feelings any day.

Dean refused to eat downstairs in the dining room—"Two words, Sam: lace doilies"—so they walked across the street to the country store and filled a wax-paper bag with about eight bucks' worth of penny-candy, bickering good-naturedly about whether gummi bears or worms were better and how to achieve the right fruit to chocolate ratio. Then, because Sam was bitching about candy for dinner, they stopped by the coffee shop and picked up a couple of subs and coffees, too.

"Hey, don't eat that yet," Sam said when they were back in their room, Dean reaching for a sour gummi worm having devoured half his meatball sub.

"What, I gotta finish my dinner first?" Dean chewed a worm with his mouth open.

"Just hold off on the candy, okay?" Sam made a grab for the bag, which Dean held out of reach. "Wait until . . . "

He pulled something out of his pocket, and Dean arched a brow when he saw the joint lying in the middle of Sam's palm.

"Didn't know you had it in you, Sammy."

Sam went into the bathroom, angling his head for Dean to follow. He got to work rolling up a towel to stuff in the doorjamb.

They sat on the bathroom floor, lengthwise so their legs would fit, facing each other across the pattern of tiles. Silently, Sam extended a hand, and Dean raised a brow again but obediently gave up his lighter.

It had been a while since Dean had done this, a few years at least, and he took the first hit too hard, started to choke. Snorting, Sam went to the sink to fill a plastic cup with water.

"Easy," Sam said, grinning.

Dean shot him a look over the rim of the cup, a sneaking suspicion occurring to him.

"Did you smoke pot in high school?" Dean demanded.

Sam just rolled his eyes and worked the joint free from Dean's fingers.

"I should so kick your ass for that," Dean said lazily.

But he was already starting to feel that calm, floating feeling and now seemed as good a time as any to go for the candy. Which tasted fucking awesome, by the way, and maybe this wasn't the worst idea Sam had ever had.

After they'd eaten half the chocolate and most of the gummi snacks, Sam started to do that thing where he kept darting these soft, tentative looks at Dean's face. Dean finally took pity on him and sighed, said, "Jesus, Sam. How did you ever get laid? You don't know the first thing about subtle—"

He had a few more choice comments, but the words got sort of muffled when Sam's lips attacked him.

Sam tasted like sour peaches mixed with sweet smoke, which wasn't such a bad combination. They stumbled their way into the bedroom, and Dean made sure to pull down the bedspread before pushing Sam down on the bed. He kissed Sam's mouth and jaw and the sweat-salty side of his neck. And if he kissed Sam's temple once, quickly, he was pretty sure Sam didn't notice, what with Dean's hand curling around his dick.

After Sam came, babbling nonsense, he gazed up at Dean with huge eyes, all pupil, and then rolled Dean onto his back and kissed his neck and chest until Dean felt like he had to say, "Just get on with it already," so he wouldn't keep moaning like a little bitch at the damp press of Sam's tongue. Sam just chuckled and worked Dean's jeans open. Then he slithered down Dean's body and gave him what felt like, if not the best blowjob of his life, a damn good imitation.

After, Dean lay with an arm flung over Sam's chest just because it happened to fall that way and he was too fucked-out and exhausted to move it. The sun slipped in through the blinds, rolled over them in lazy waves. Dean was about two seconds from passing out when Sam propped himself on an elbow.

"So," Sam said, "better than last year, right?"

Sam flashed his corniest grin, and Dean had to laugh.

--

Dean had set the alarm in his cell phone to wake them at seven. As it turned out, he didn't need the convenience of modern technology. Dean woke up just fine when one of Sam's arms smacked him in the nose.

"Uh, ow," he said, rolling to deliver a punishment blow to Sam's stomach. Then he noticed that Sam was crying in his sleep, a few tears sluicing from the corners of his closed eyes to drip down his cheeks.

Dean pinned Sam's wrist before he wound up with a black eye as well, and leaned over Sam's thrashing form.

"Sam. Sammy. Wake up, kiddo," he whispered along with a few other things he'd be embarrassed to repeat outside the privacy of their totally overpriced hotel room.

Sam's eyes flew open, the remnants of the nightmare lingering around his irises.

"Dean?"

"Crying after sex?" Without thinking, Dean used the pad of his thumb to wipe under Sam's eyes and where his nose had dripped snot on his upper lip. "That's pretty friggin' girly, Sam."

"I was having a dream."

"Thank God." He let Sam push him away, pull himself together. "You remember anything?"

Sam sat up, running a hand through sweat-damp hair.

"Yeah, I don't know. It's really vague, man."

"Humor me."

Sam's eyes narrowed like he was struggling to hold onto a memory that was already fading.

"Uh, there was a house."

"Around here?"

"Farther north. New England, maybe? There was a couple, a man and a woman, mid-30s. Good-looking. They'd been stabbed through their hearts," he said roughly.

"Sounds pleasant," Dean murmured. "Now did this feel like a vision? Or just a case of you watching too much snuff before bed?"

"I think—I think it already happened. It's like, I was there, watching it happen, but I couldn't . . . I don't know, man."

"We'll figure it out." Dean smacked Sam's shoulder before rolling out of bed. "Get dressed, dude, we got a demon to waste."

They showered and packed up their supplies before heading out to the abandoned house on the outskirts of town, where Bobby's source said the demon was squatting.

They left the car half a mile down the road and hiked up to the property.

The place was a crumbling two stories of molded wood and hastily scrawled graffiti. Cracked and dusty windows signified years of neglect and a group of bored teenagers somewhere in the vicinity. The moonless sky gave enough cover for them to get inside unnoticed, and years of practice had them functioning as a single entity, searching rooms until they got to the upstairs bedroom where it was hiding.

Judging by the sigils she had painted on the walls, the eight human bodies they found along the way, and the freaking altar, this chick wasn't just in town for sightseeing. Sam and Dean didn't keep her alive long enough to answer questions.

She was small but size didn't really matter with demons, and this lady put up a hell of a fight. Still, they exorcised the bitch easy enough, if you didn't count Dean's dislocated shoulder or the knife Sam took to the ribs—luckily his sweatshirt absorbed most of the damage.

It wouldn't have been a very momentous job at all, except for the fact that, before Dean torched the place—"Our fingerprints are everywhere, dude. Not to mention all those bodies and demonic hooha . . . "—Sam decided to do one last walk-through to check for survivors. Dean's grumbles of "I didn't see anyone," and "C'mon, bitch, pop my shoulder back" seemed not at all to weaken his resolve.

Grudgingly, Dean trailed Sam through damp rooms littered with crumbled newspaper and crunched glass, down a broken staircase and into the basement where, in a back corner, crouched in a pile of pink insulation, they found a child.

--

They took the girl with them because, what else were they supposed to do with her?

At least, Dean was pretty sure it was a girl. It was kind of hard to tell with its hair filthy and hanging in its face and its clothes damp and dirt-crusted. But the face, in the brief moments the kid dug it from the curve of Sam's shoulder, seemed sort of delicate and girl-like.

She (Dean was going with that till someone told him otherwise) pitched a fit when Sam tried to strap her in the back of the Impala, thrashing and moaning in this low, guttural tone that made Dean want to cover his ears. Finally Sam just let her sit in his lap up front and gave the seatbelt enough slack to cover them both.

Dean drove fifteen miles with his shoulder throbbing and the kid silent as stone in Sam's lap until he found a suitable motel. The dingy roadside chain was set alongside a sports' bar and seemed the kind of place that wouldn't object to two guys covered in blood and muck and a small child who looked like a third-world refugee.

"Wait here," Dean said, just in case the guy at the front desk got nosy.

He returned several minutes later with a key for Room Four and a couple Cokes from an antiquated vending machine. Sam was leaning against the car, the kid still clinging to him like skin. Dean jerked his head, and Sam straightened up and shifted a little to support the unaccustomed weight at his front before trooping after Dean.

Inside, Dean set the Cokes on top of the TV and walked straight into the bathroom where he dropped to his knees and promptly threw up.

"Dean?" Sam called from the other room.

"Gimme a minute," he muttered, hocking bile into the toilet. He drew a long ragged breath and rested shaking hands against the porcelain, trying to will images of children and fire from his brain.

"Dean?" Sam said again, more insistent this time, and Dean got to his feet and washed out his mouth before going back into the room.

"A little help here, dude? I'm useless till you put my shoulder back."

Sam raised his eyebrows in a typical Sammy-look of frustration. He glanced meaningfully at the child still hanging on him and then back at Dean.

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed. Trying not to jar his shoulder, he crossed to the TV and spent a pathetic few seconds trying to open a can of Coke one-handed. Then he went to his bag and dug out his flask, tucking it into his waistband. He walked back to Sam, soda in hand.

"You thirsty?" he asked.

For several seconds, the kid didn't lift her head from the folds of Sam's shirt. Finally she pulled away and tipped up her face, which was damp and pink where it wasn't covered in dirt.

"I'm Dean," he said and held out the can. "And the big guy you're riding is my brother, Sam."

Wide eyes turned to Sam, whose smile only quivered for a second before he firmed his jaw.

"It's okay," Sam said. "Go on."

Dean held the can steady, waiting. Finally, she snatched it out of his hand and took a long sip. She hiccupped and drank some more.

Dean extracted the flask from his waistband and, fumbling the cap off, sprinkled some of the liquid into his palm. Deliberately, and before she could freak, Dean dipped his thumb in the water and drew a broad swatch across the kid's forehead.

As expected, she sucked in a surprised breath and choked as a gulp of soda slid down the wrong pipe. But her head didn't start to sizzle, and Dean relaxed a little.

"It's okay," Sam said, patting the kid's back with his big awkward paw, and amazingly she started to settle. Dean wondered if maybe she thought Sam was her own personal human-sized teddy bear.

Dean met his eyes and shrugged—I had to—and Sam bit his lip and nodded.

"Hey," Sam said softly, "I'm gonna put you down now, okay?"

The kid twisted her free hand in the front of Sam's hoodie, her eyes flashing with panic that made Dean flinch.

"No, it's okay," Sam assured. "Nobody's going to hurt you."

She hesitated, uncertain, but after a moment Dean saw her grip on Sam's shirt loosen marginally. Sam carried her to the cheap Formica kitchen set and deposited her in one of the chairs.

"I'll be right over there," Sam said, pointing. He hefted a second chair before crossing the room to the spot where Dean was waiting. He set it down, indicated for Dean to take a seat.

"Hurry up," Dean instructed. "Then I'll look at your ribs."

He let Sam help him off with his jacket, jaw clenched against the pain.

"Anterior dislocation," Sam observed. "Should be easy to reset."

"Easy," Dean echoed. He and Sam had done this for each other a dozen times, and it sucked every single one.

"Come lie down on the bed," Sam said gently, and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Just do it," he muttered.

Sam arched a brow.

"Just lie down on the bed," he said evenly, and Dean groaned and stood up. Sam always liked to do this with Dean lying down, claimed it was less painful. Dean just thought it made him look like an idiot.

He walked to the closest bed and got up on his hands (hand) and knees. Sam tried to be gentle but it still hurt like a bitch when he bent Dean's elbow out and drew his arm perpendicular to the floor. Slowly, Dean eased down on his stomach, waited.

"Try to relax," Sam said, and Dean didn't bother with a snarky comeback, just grit his teeth. One of Sam's hands grasped the inside of his elbow, the other encircling his wrist.

Across the room, the kid kept sneaking glances at them in between sips of Coke.

"On the count of three," Sam said.

Naturally he started pulling on two, the bastard, and the combined efforts of Sam and gravity popped Dean's shoulder back into its socket. Almost immediately, the sickening pain started to recede, leaving a dull ache in its wake. Dean could deal with that.

Sam helped Dean roll onto his back, careful to keep his injured arm tucked to his chest.

"Are you going to puke again?" Sam asked after a few seconds.

"No," Dean said when he was fairly sure it was a promise he could keep. He sat up, ignoring one last wave of nausea, and gave his shoulder a gingerly roll. "Lift up your shirt."

When he was satisfied Sam wouldn't bleed to death, Dean told him to get his laptop out.

"We should see if there are missing kids in the area."

"She's not from the area," Sam said. "And I don't need the laptop; we know who she is, Dean."

"Not for sure we don't."

"We've got a pretty good idea."

Sam crossed to his duffel and dug around for a while. After a moment, he pulled out a creased sheet of paper, and Dean didn't have to wait for Sam to unfold the page and hold it up to the light to know what he'd see there. Despite the shoddy photocopy, they could see the girl's features well enough. She had long, light hair and dark eyes and a smile broken by a set of missing baby teeth.

"I can't believe you kept that," Dean said, but that was a lie. Of course Sam had kept it.

Dean remembered Sammy coming home one day when he was seven or eight, asking for money for school pictures.

"Those are a total rip off," Dean had told him. "Anyway, we don't need any pictures of you. We know what your dork face looks like."

For dinner that night he had made hot dogs and the waxy green beans Sam loved, and they both pretended it wasn't an apology.

"Look at her," Sam said now, all six-foot-five of him hovering anxiously. "She's filthy, Dean."

Dean cocked a brow at his brother, remembering suddenly that they were disgusting, too—dripping in demon's blood and smoke-singed.

"Not sure you're one to talk," he said.

"I'm serious. Shouldn't we . . . give her a bath or something, man?"

"You wanna give her a bath, Sam?"

That shut Sam up, at least for a few seconds.

"It's her, Dean. I know it is."

Whenever a hunter was killed, the others heard about it pretty fast. Dean had always heard that the Omeras were good hunters, and when a demon murdered them in their home a year ago, a bunch of hunters, Ellen and Bobby included, put out an APB on their daughter. Asked other hunters to keep their eyes peeled. Nobody expected her to turn up, at least not alive.

"Dean, what are we gonna do?" Sam was saying, and that was a first—Sam not offering an opinion.

"Fuck." Dean stalked across the room and picked up his phone. "Fuck."

He scrolled through his address book, pressed a key and waited.

"How soon can you get to Georgia?" he said in place of hello. A beat. "Oh, I'll pay you, Bela."

--

Bela arrived just after sunup, looking the same as always which meant freaking awesome. In an evil slut sort of way. She gave Dean a peach-glossed smile that was way too cheerful for six in the morning. In one hand, she held a small black duffel bag, in the other the remains of an iced latte.

"You two look absolutely dreadful," she remarked, siphoning coffee through a straw.

Dean couldn't exactly disagree. During the night, he and Sam had taken turns ducking under the shower spray for about twenty seconds, trying to jar themselves awake. Around three, Sam tried to coax the kid into lying down for a little while. She just stared at him with those big, haunted eyes of hers until Sam relented and let her sit up at the table all night while he and Dean feigned interest in two-man poker and tried not to pass out.

"I can't believe you called her," Sam said, not bothering to lower his voice as Bela made a slow study of the room and removed her coat. She folded the trench carefully and gave it to Dean, who let it fall to the floor. He reached for her coffee, the straw slipping from between her lips with a slight sucking sound.

"Hey!" she exclaimed.

"Didn't have a lot of choices, Sam," Dean said, ignoring that. He took a noisy slurp of Bela's latte. "Missouri and Ellen are too far away. Ruby tried to kill us, last time we saw each other. You got a better idea?"

Sam said nothing and glared at Bela with a weird expression Dean couldn't name.

"Why don't you go get us some breakfast, Sam?" Dean suggested, eager to avoid a showdown, and that was a dumb idea because the second Sam went for the door, the kid freaked.

"Hey," Sam said, crouching down in front of the kid even though he still towered over her that way. "I'm just going to get breakfast. What do you like to eat, huh? Do you like cereal?"

It was five more minutes before Sam could pry himself away, and when he was gone, the kid glanced anxiously between Dean and Bela. She didn't seem to like her options, and Dean couldn't exactly blame her.

"Okay," Dean said. He didn't kneel, figuring she would see through the gesture, but tried to twist his lips into something resembling a smile. "This is Bela. She's a, well friend's kinda pushing it. Let's go with fellow human being on a good day."

Bella glared at him, and Dean coughed.

"Anyway, she's gonna help you get cleaned up, okay? And when you get done, Sam'll be back—that's the big guy—with something to eat. Sound good to you?"

The kid hesitated, chewed her lower lip like Sammy used to when he was thinking something over. She still seemed uncertain. Bela surprised him then by coming over and holding out her hand, palm side up.

"Let's get you clean, hmm? Come on," she said, her tone all-business but softer than Dean had ever heard it sound, even when she was conning him.

After a beat, the kid slid her hand into Bela's and allowed herself to be led into the bathroom. Bela glanced at Dean briefly before closing the door, and after a minute, he heard running water and dragged himself toward it, knocked.

The door opened a crack, and Bela popped her head out.

"Yes, Dean?" she asked. The narrowed eyes belied the sweetness in her tone, and Dean was reminded of a succubus he met in New Orleans. He'd had to remove her head eventually, but Jesus, what a night.

He lowered his voice even though he was pretty sure the kid couldn't hear him over the bath taps.

"Look. We think a demon's been holding her the last year."

"You said this all on the phone last night," Bela explained patiently. Her smile suggested that she thought Dean wasn't, maybe, all that bright.

"Sam and I . . . we just wanna make sure she's okay."

Bela frowned and nudged the door open a little more so she could cock a hip in the doorway.

"You're aware I'm not a doctor, Dean?"

"Just check her over," he growled.

Bela shut the door in his face, and Dean opted to take that as a sign of agreement.

--

The bathroom door opened an hour later, and Bela emerged. She glanced around the room, aiming deliberate eye rolls at Sam and Dean at the table, before turning back to the bathroom.

"Come on out, now," she said, her voice firm but gentle, kind without being patronizing, and Dean found himself almost not despising her for a second. The idea was enough to have him shuddering, and he took a cleansing gulp of his coffee.

After a moment, the kid stepped out, hair damp and brushed back from her face, skin clean and pink from the bath. She was wearing a black Metallica T-shirt, so long on her it skimmed her knees.

"That's my shirt," Dean said, shooting an accusatory look at Bela. "How did you—?"

Sam kicked him under the table, and Dean coughed and let the rest of the protest die.

"Hi," Sam said, flashing the kid one of those big earnest grins of his, the kind that always worked on the frightened or grieving. He gestured to the food spread over the table. "Are you hungry? There's Cheerios, and milk and . . ."

While Sam demonstrated his cooking talents putting together a bowl of cereal, Dean followed Bela across the room.

"I didn't exactly have a lot of notice," she said, rifling through her bag. "I had to make do with the airport shops."

She handed Dean a few miniature t-shirts and a pair of track pants, a three-pack of underwear with "I heart NY" emblazoned on the backs. On top of the pile she set a pair of hideous-green flip-flops with butterflies on the soles.

"She's small for seven," Bela said accusingly, like Dean had deliberately misled her. "They might be a bit big."

So he wouldn't be tempted to thank her or, equally likely, ask what spawned the rare display of human kindness, Dean scooped a hand under Bela's elbow and escorted her outside onto the balcony.

"So?" he said when they were safely out of earshot.

"So," Bela said, pointedly smoothing her blouse where Dean had manhandled her, "the girl seems to be perfectly fine. No cuts or bruises or broken bones. There's no sign that anyone's laid a hand on her, in fact."

"You're sure about that?" Dean said, and Bela's eyes narrowed again, a frown twisting that beautiful face.

"Of course I'm not sure. I've no way of knowing what may have been done to her, just that she appears to be healthy now."

Bela leaned into the railing, and Dean followed her gaze down two floors to the in-ground pool, leaf-choked and empty. Someone had abandoned a pair of bright orange water-wings, and they floated now in a dark corner of the water.

"What will you do with her?" Bela asked him, her eyes still staring into the pool. Her tone was casual, as though they were discussing some interesting artifact Dean had picked up on a hunt.

"Whadda you think? Once we're sure she's . . . all right . . . we'll take her to a police station or something."

"I see."

And the thing was, he knew better than to ask, he totally did, but—j

"You see what?"

"The brothers' Winchester have many more demons to battle."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It doesn't mean anything," Bela said. "I merely thought, after Sam got you out of your deal, the two of you might give up your hunting. Settle down perhaps."

"We've got work to do." Dean shifted, uneasy under her level gaze. "You remember what work is?"

"Are you really going to chastise me for being a thief, Dean? You of all people."

"We're saving people. What's your excuse?"

"Money." She smiled. "I like having a lot of it."

Dean snorted and turned away.

"You'll want to be sure she's not a danger to others before you hand her over to the police," Bela said. "Will you go to Bobby?"

"Stay away from him," Dean told her. "You harass any of our friends, any of our dad's friends, I'll come down on you so hard you won't know what hit you."

Bela raised a single, perfectly arched eyebrow.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" And then, her tone more thoughtful, "He doesn't know about you two. Does he."

"What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"You and Sam," she said slowly, her full lips curving around the words. "Bobby doesn't know you're screwing each other."

Dean shoved her against the railing so hard he knew she'd be feeling the bruises in the morning, where metal impressed delicate flesh. He glared into her eyes, watched the humor fade from her gaze and become the thing that comes before fear. He felt vaguely ashamed, vaguely aroused, and the combination had him lowering his arm from her throat and taking a step back. Pulling a few bills from his pocket, he stuffed them into her hand.

"Get lost. We're done here."

"You think I care," Bela said, smiling as she tucked the money away in a pocket of her pants. "That is matters to me one way or the other. Honestly, Dean, what possible difference could it make to me that you and Sam are fucking? Though, I suppose I am vaguely disappointed. I figured I'd go to bed with one of you eventually. Ah, well."

Dean shook his head.

"You're one crazy bitch, you know that?"

Bela just smiled.

"May I use your bathroom, please?"

"What do you mean, 'one of us'?" he asked. But the door had already closed behind her.

--

"What'd she take?" Sam asked half an hour later. He poured orange juice into a paper cup and set it in front of the kid.

Dean slurped a mouthful of Cheerios, muttered, "Watch."

Some milk dribbled out of his mouth, and Sam rolled his eyes. Dean made a stupid face back. The kid drank the juice Sam had poured and watched them both with those big solemn eyes.

"Whose?" Sam asked tiredly, and Dean raised a brow. "Whose watch did she take, Dean?"

"Both of 'em."

"Great," Sam sighed. "What now?"

"Now we get some sleep," Dean said, swallowing the last of his cereal. "I can't think straight anymore, and I doubt you can either. Go 'head and lie down for a few hours; I'll take first watch."

"What about . . .?" Sam glanced across the table, and Dean followed his gaze, frowned.

"She could probably use some sleep too—" Dammit, he wasn't going to talk about her like she wasn't sitting a foot away. He coughed and started over.

"You must be getting sleepy, huh? This one," he said, jerking a thumb at Sam, "whines like a little bitch when he's tired."

She didn't smile but she didn't look scared either, so Dean allowed himself a moment's triumph.

While Sam cleaned up from breakfast, Dean crossed to the bed farthest from the door. He drew down the bedspread and tried to make the pillows look fluffy and inviting. He returned to the table and sat down again.

"So that bed by the closet? Is all yours." He leaned back in the chair, feigning interest in the newspaper spread open over the table. "Sam's gonna take the other, and me, I'll be keeping watch. Making sure no one comes in."

"Dean," Sam said, voice tinged with disapproval. But Dean figured the kid had seen enough to be scared anyway.

"You know there are bad things out there," he said, looking her in the eye. "Things that can hurt you. Sam and me, our job's to make the bad things go away."

Sam went into the bathroom and closed the door, and a few seconds later Dean heard the taps cut on. The kid didn't move, just sat ramrod-straight staring at her lap. Dean figured she was staying awake at this point through sheer force of will. Finally, she yawned, one hand creeping to cover her mouth, and Dean hid a smile behind the newspaper.

The bathroom door opened, and Sam came out scratching his head. With a soft sigh, the kid slid down from her chair and crossed the room. She reached up for one of Sam's freakishly long arms and squeezed his hand to make sure she had his attention. She walked over to the bed by the closet.

"You—do you want me to tuck you in?" Sam asked, genius that he was.

He followed her over to the bed and drew the blankets up over her, gave the mattress an awkward pat.

"Sleep tight, okay?" Sam said.

The kid rolled over a few times, like a puppy trying to get comfortable. Sam wandered back to the table and just stood there until Dean sighed and put down the newspaper he was pretending to read.

"I gotta tuck you in, now?"

"What are we doing, Dean?" he asked, voice low and worried.

"Getting some much-needed sleep, Sam."

"Yeah, and then what?"

"And then . . . we figure it out tomorrow. Or tonight. Christ, I know it's bad when I can't even figure out what day it is."

"We don't even know what the demon did to her. Why it took her in the first place. I mean, it's not a demon's usual MO to snatch a kid and play house for a year."

"I know that, Sam," he said with what he thought was infinite patience under the circumstances.

"Why didn't it just kill her when it killed her parents? Why keep her alive?"

Across the room, the kid turned on her side, as though she could will everything—Sam and Dean, this room, the whole fucked-up world—away.

"We'll figure it out, Sam. I promise. Now get some sleep, okay?"

He picked up the newspaper again and made himself focus on the words.

--

Dean woke with the distinctly uncomfortable sensation that he was being watched. He rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes. The kid was sitting at the foot of the bed, legs hugged to her chest, Dean's favorite Metallica shirt stretched all to hell over her knees.

"Hey," Dean said groggily. "Where's Sam?"

She glanced over her shoulder. Bathroom.

Dean sat up, rolling the kinks from his shoulder, which for the record still ached like a bitch. The kid was staring, brown eyes huge and thoughtful.

"So, hey," he began. "I realize you might not feel like talking right now. Believe me, I understand what that's like. Still, we gotta call you something, and I always liked the name Layla."

He didn't plan on saying that; it just sort of came out. Maybe it was that she reminded him of someone else, a pretty blond with old eyes. He wondered what happened to her before deciding he liked not knowing better.

The newly dubbed Layla chewed her bottom lip and watched him swig water from the bottle on the nightstand.

"You hungry?" he asked. "Once Sam finishes curling his eyelashes in there, I'll make a dinner run. How about pizza? I'll bet you like anchovies."

He hoped she'd make a face, giggle, blink even, but wasn't really surprised when she did none of the above. Shoving the blankets off, he got out of bed and went to sit at the table.

They both looked up when the bathroom door opened, and Sam emerged in a cloud of steam.

"Hi," Sam said, stooping to tuck his shaving kit back in his duffle. He hadn't dried his hair all the way, and the back collar of his shirt was soaked through.

"I think we should go see Bobby," Dean said without preamble. It hadn't been a difficult decision. They could spend the next two weeks researching in libraries and on the Internet and still not know all the stuff about demons and possession that Bobby knew from experience.

Sam straightened up again, and after a few seconds nodded, unsurprised.

"That's a good few hundred miles," Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean said. "We'll leave after dinner."

--

In Chatanooga, Sam decided they needed to sleep a night in actual beds. Dean went through the McDonald's drive-through, ordering Big Macs and coffees for him and Sam, a Happy Meal and milk for the kid. Just in case, he got both the hamburger and the McNuggets.

At the hotel, Dean poured a thick line of salt in front of the windows and the door while Sam fumbled with the prize in Layla's Happy Meal.

"Do you want to take first watch or should I?" Sam asked, handing over what was apparently some kind of robot with big friendly-looking eyes.

"Things have been pretty quiet since we left Georgia. And we haven't noticed anybody following us, right?" He waited for Sam's nod of confirmation. "I'm thinkin' we could both use a full six, dude, what do you say?"

Sam paused, digging in his duffel for clean pajama pants.

"You want us to sleep in the same bed?"

"Unless you don't think you can keep your hands off me," Dean said, giving his best attempt at a cocky smirk. Usually he excelled at cocky—pun intended—but he was worn down from hours on the road and the stress of another human being to look after.

Dean brushed his teeth and used the bathroom while Sam got Layla settled in the other bed. Then he checked the locks on the windows and doors and made sure the salt lines were undisturbed before climbing into bed.

"G'night," Dean said, rolling onto his stomach and pressing his face into the pillow.

"Hey," Sam said, pushing up against his side. Dean could feel his breath, minty-cool on the back of Dean's neck. He shivered.

"Yeah?"

"You sure one of us shouldn't stay awake?" Sam pressed.

"It'll be fine. Go to sleep."

"Yeah, okay. G'night, Dean."

When Dean woke up again, the sheets on the other side of the bed were cold, and the room smelled like bacon-and-egg sandwiches and coffee. The water was running in the bathroom; Sam, bless his insomniac soul, must have gone out to grab breakfast before showering. Dean cracked a single eye against the way-too-fucking-bright, and considered joining Sam under the hot spray before he remembered that they had a seven year-old houseguest for the time being, and wow, did that suck out loud right now. Wait. Seven year old. Beams of sunlight striking his eyes like lasers, and yeah. Shit. The bed farthest from the door was empty, and the door wide open.

"Shit," he said, hand sliding automatically under his pillow, and then pain. Surprising amounts of pain.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed just as the shower cut off in the other room. Holding his right hand to his chest, he used the other to bang on the bathroom door.

"Layla's not in her bed. Go check the front desk. Oh yeah, and hurry up before I bleed to death."

Bleary-eyed he stumbled toward their duffels, started rifling for something to stop the bloodflow.

Sam's voice, muffled through the bathroom door.

"Dean? What happened are you okay?" The last was all in one breath.

"I'm fine," Dean ground out. "Just . . . got cut." He wrapped his hand in one of Sam's T-shirts—he hadn't worked out how yet but this was totally Sam's fault—and groaned as the new pressure made the pain about a million times worse.

"What? How?" Sam demanded. The door to the bathroom burst open, and Sam emerged with his jeans unbuttoned and his shirt stuck around his neck.

"Go," he managed, sticking his head around the corner. "Find the kid, I'm fine."

On his way out the door, Sam's foot snapped Layla's Happy Meal toy in two.

--

"Not that bad?" Sam said. "You're a frikkin' idiot, Dean, you know that?" One hand on the wheel, he used the other to reach over and check the pressure on Dean's wound.

"Thanks for the heads up," Dean said. He tried to concentrate on the throbbing pain because it was more fun than the conversation.

Sam gave the wheel a vicious jerk before slamming the breaks of the Impala outside the big double doors marked Emergency Room.

"Dude, chill," Dean said. "And watch my car." He twisted in the seat as much as he dared and offered Layla what he hoped was a reassuring, I'm-not-gonna-bleed-to-death smile.

Sam had found her sitting perfectly calm out by the pool.

"How's it goin' back there?" he asked, hoped Sam would take the hint and shut up. He didn't.

"How many times have I warned you about sleeping with an unsheathed knife under your pillow?"

Dean crinkled up his forehead, considering.

"None, actually."

Sam opened his mouth, closed it again.

"That's because I didn't think you were clumsy enough to cut your freakin' hand open, Dean!"

"Yeah, well. Live and learn." He cradled his bleeding hand to his chest and used the other to open the car door. "You're not leavin' my baby here to get towed. Go park, I'll meet you inside."

Ten minutes later, and Dean was idling in an exam room while Sammy paced trenches into the floor.

"Sit down, will ya? You're making me queasy." It was either Sam's pacing or the nurse preparing to stick a huge-ass syringe in his hand, he wasn't sure.

"You could have bled to death," Sam said.

"Ix-nay on the eath-day," Dean replied, jerking his head in the direction of Layla, who was seated on a folding chair in the far corner. "Anyway, this is totally your fault."

"What? Why?"

"You're the one who went out to get food. What have I told you about doing something nice, huh?"

The nurse was doing her best to ignore their little family spat, which Dean completely appreciated. He tried to smile charmingly, wasn't sure if his face cooperated.

"That makes no sense!" Sam was still going. "And for the record, she was still sleeping when I got back from the convenience store with breakfast, so—"

"Ohhh, God," Dean groaned as the needle slid into flesh.

Sam paused in his tirade.

"You okay, man?" he asked, all concern now.

"Uck-fay," Dean muttered, closing his eyes.

Beside him, Sam cringed and gave Dean's shoulder a brief squeeze.

"I'm gonna go, uh, fill out the paperwork," Sam said, ducking out the door.

Dean gritted his teeth and tried to relax.

"Is that your daughter?" the nurse asked. She was thirtyish and pretty and reminded Dean a little of the nurse who took care of Sammy when he had his tonsils out. He wondered if she too would give Dean lime Jello and a hug out in the corridor.

"Uh, no. Nope. M'brother's actually. I'm way too young to have a kid her age."

The nurse smiled sweetly before jabbing him with the needle again. Dean wondered seriously if he was going to pass out.

Dad and Sam had stitched him up dozens of times, often without any anesthetic save a bottle of Jack, and he'd scarcely batted an eye. Well, okay, so it had hurt like hell. But he never felt like last night's dinner was going to make an appearance. It had to be the hospital. He hated these places—like goddamn death houses. Too bright and white and sterile.

He never seemed to leave one with everything he came in with.

The nurse was frowning, resting a free hand on his shoulder.

"Are you feeling alright, Mr . . .?"

What was the last name on the insurance card this month? Dean couldn't remember. He watched the slow pull of the needle and thread, the tug as his flesh came back together.

"Dean. Call me Dean . . . sweetheart." He swallowed hard, really preferring not to puke all over a hot girl.

Across the room, Layla slid out of her chair.

"Hey," Dean said, sitting up. "Hey, where you—"

And then she was taking his good hand, her small fingers curling around his, squeezing. Holding on.

"Don't run away again," Dean murmured.

She held his hand while the nurse finished stitching him.

--

Back in the car, Dean dry-swallowed three pills and slumped down in the passenger seat.

"Wake me up when . . . yeah, on second thought, don't."

Sam snorted and turned over the engine. Dean closed his eyes, smiling as his baby rumbled to life. He waited for her soothing motion to drag him off to dreamland.

"Dean?"

He opened his eyes slowly and turned his head. Layla was perched on the edge of the back seat, dark eyes serious.

Dean glanced at Sam, who widened his eyes and shrugged but did nothing remotely useful. Dean coughed and turned to face the girl more fully.

"My name's not really Layla." She shrugged, as though she were sorry to have to tell him that.

"Yeah, I know that," he said. "It's from a song. Clapton. He's amazing. You should hear—"

"—but you can call me Layla. I don't mind." She hesitated and scooted backwards, chewing a line into her lower lip. "I don't really remember what they called me before."

--

At a rest stop in Macon, Dean gassed up the car and dialed Bobby's number.

"Anything?" he asked, and the pause told him everything he needed to know.

"Wish I had better news for you boys," Bobby sighed. "But it's damn uncommon for demons to hold human children for any significant amount of time. They usually have pretty specific purposes in mind. Rituals, human sacrifice, feeding . . . otherwise, they tend to just kill folks outright."

Dean cut a hand across his face to block the sun and squinted out over the parking lot. Sam was walking back from the rest station, arms full of hot dogs and chips and cans of soda. Layla trailed behind, eating a hot dog like a slice of watermelon, taking small bites from the middle.

"Her parents were hunters, right?" Trapping the phone between his ear and shoulder, Dean replaced the pump and printed his receipt, which would wind up crumpled in the backseat with all the others. "Maybe it was, like, a revenge gig."

Bobby snorted.

"Revenge would be killing the girl and letting her parents find the body. That was always your dad's biggest fear."

And it wasn't really funny but Dean almost laughed anyway because, as a kid, his biggest fear had been that one day Dad just wouldn't come back from a hunting trip and they'd never find a body. Never know one way or the other, and that had to be worse, right?

Sam held open the backdoor, eyeing Dean across the roof while Layla climbed inside. She had a blob of mustard on her chin. Turning his back, Dean dropped his voice to a low murmur.

"What was that, Bobby?"

"I asked if she's been doing anything weird."

"She's a seven-year old girl. Everything she does is weird." And then, because he sensed Bobby was losing patience he added hastily, "But if you mean like Exorcist-weird, no. No levitating or vomiting black smoke. She hasn't wandered off since that day at the motel."

"Listen, Dean. We don't know diddly-squat about this girl yet, and it could be a while before we do."

"What are you saying, Bobby?"

"I'm saying, you and Sam should get here as soon as physically possible. And for God's sake, be careful."

Dean hung up and got back in the car.

"Everything okay?" Sam asked, handing him a hot dog.

Dean shoved half of it in his mouth and flashed Layla a smile in the rearview.

"Sure," he said, mouth full of dog, and started the car.

--

Dean had one mother of a migraine. His head throbbed in time with the windshield wipers slicking over the windshield, and he was pretty sure that the next son of a bitch that left his high beams on was going to wind up with a face full of buckshot.

It had been raining since Lynchberg. Layla had spent at least seven of the last eight hours talking to Sam, and, apparently, the kid could talk like a champ when the subject wasn't 1) her parents or 2) what happened to her the past year.

"Can we play the picnic game?" she asked, inching forward on the bench seat.

"Again?" Sam asked with amusement, and Dean groaned, tried to smother it with a yawn.

The sign ahead promised lodging at the next exit. Dean gave Sam a significant nudge, and Sam guided them into the right-hand lane. Dean wanted a cup of coffee, a bed and six hours uninterrupted.

"I'm going on a picnic, and I'm gonna bring an aardvark," Layla announced. "Your turn, Sam."

"Sammy, I'm begging you," Dean murmured, slanting his eyes closed.

"Hey, Layla, maybe we should take a break," Sam suggested.

"Okay," Layla said, but she sounded sort of disappointed.

Dean sighed and dug around in the glove compartment till he found his shades. He pushed them up over his nose, and turned his head even though the motion made him feel like his brain would seep out of his nose.

"I'm going on a picnic, and I'm bringing an aardvark and a baboon," he said, and was ridiculously pleased when the kid beamed at him.

"You hungry?" Dean asked her. "We'll stop somewhere for food."

"It's two in the morning," Sam said. "Everything's closed."

They went to McDonalds again. The lights on the second golden arch were out, and Layla asked for chocolate milk with her Happy Meal. Sam ducked a glance at Dean, who shrugged.

"Sure," Sam told her.

--

She had a nightmare in Liberty.

Dean heard her screaming and thrashing in bed and was up and at her side before Sam was fully awake. This was an old role. Familiar as breathing. Or fighting.

He put a hand on her shoulder and shook, reaching over with his other hand to switch on the lamp. She started awake, met Dean's eyes and burst into tears.

"Not really the effect I go for with women," he quipped.

He could feel Sam at his elbow, and he straightened, intending to give Sam room for swooping in and comforting. Layla still insisted that Sam tuck her into bed every night. Not that Dean cared. It wasn't like he was jealous or something.

Before he could step back, Layla had reached out and grabbed a handful of his t-shirt, tugging him down beside her. She crawled into Dean's lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her damp face in the crook of his neck.

"Hey," he said. And then, because he couldn't think of anything else, he said it again: "Hey. It was just a dream, okay?"

He heard the sound of a throat clearing and looked up to see Sam blinking down at him, scratching his mop of hair like he was trying to extract answers. Finally he just turned around and went back to their bed. Dean sighed and rested a hand on Layla's back. She was shaking so hard her teeth were chattering.

"That looked pretty bad. Any chance you wanna tell me about it?"

She said nothing, just molded herself against him and yeah, he hadn't thought so, but it was worth a try.

Sam never wanted to talk about what was bothering him either, would pull faces and act all bitchy if Dean pressed the issue. And okay, there was usually less snuggling with Sam, but this was hardly unfamiliar territory for Dean. He stroked her hair for ten minutes until she fell back to sleep. Then he eased her into bed and drew the blanket up to her chin.

Sam was still awake when Dean slid back into bed.

"She okay?"

"It's the Bible Belt," Dean said, shuddering. "Gives me nightmares, too."

Sam didn't laugh.

"I didn't even hear her. I slept right through it."

"That's 'cause you were snoring so loud," Dean said, adjusting his pillow.

"Do you have to make everything into a joke? Can't you be serious for a minute?"

"Your face is a joke," Dean said.

Sam gave him a look that said, you're so freaking immature, before rolling over.

Well, fuck.

"Sam." Dean cleared his throat and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "C'mon, what's wrong, man?"

Sam said nothing, and Dean gritted his teeth. He could tolerate bitching and moaning, pouting even, but the silent treatment drove him nuts.

"What's your problem?" he hissed. "What, you pissed 'cuz she didn't go running to you for once? Don't worry, Sammy. I'm sure she'll still ask you to pour her milk in the morning."

"Screw you, Dean."

"No, thanks, I'm not in the mood."

Sam flopped over on his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. Dean did the same.

--

"Where are we going?" Layla asked the next morning as Dean turned onto the interstate. Her words were muffled, mouth full of cinnamon-raisin bagel.

"We're going to see our friend, Bobby," Sam said. "You'll like him. He's . . . nice."

Sam looked at Dean and shrugged. Dean grinned back, pleased that Sam seemed to have gotten over the previous night's bitchfest.

"Bela's nice," Layla said. "Will she be there?"

"Bela's an evil bitch," Dean said, just so there wouldn't be any confusion on that point.

"Dean," Sam said, and gave Dean a look.

Dean angled his head to meet Layla's gaze in the rearview.

"Witch. She's an evil, conniving, lying witch-whore."

He raised his eyebrows at Sam. Better?

Apparently, Sam didn't think so because he rolled his eyes and slumped down in the seat, folding his arms across his chest.

"She oughta eat something healthy," he said sulkily. "Like with fruit maybe."

"The bagel has raisins," Dean pointed out.

Sam dug around in the glove compartment and came up with Dean's sunglasses. He flipped them down over his eyes.

"Wake me when it's my turn to drive," he muttered.

"Whatever, dude," Dean said. "Me and Layla are gonna rock out."

It occurred to Dean that this was the first time Layla had shown any interest in their destination. He decided to take that as a good sign.

"Dean?" Layla said, and he had to turn down AC/DC to hear her properly. "Can I have a knife to put under my pillow?"

Beside him, Sam was clenching his jaw.

--

Dean guided the car over Bobby's gravelly drive and Sam immediately jerked awake.

"How do you always do that?" Dean asked, taking the keys from the ignition. He reached out to swipe at the drool spot on Sam's chin, laughing when Sam thanked him with an elbow to the stomach.

It was just after sundown, and the western horizon looked like a kindergartener had painted it with broad stripes of color. Dean rounded the car, pausing to peer into the backseat. Layla was curled almost fetal, her head resting in the center of Sam's duffel, Dean's leather jacket draped over her like a blanket.

It was a brisk night, the air sweet and ripe with possibility. It was the sort of night that usually inspired Dean to go out in search of a few beers and a pool game, maybe a cute girl who was willing; who wouldn't make a fuss when he drove out of town a few days later.

If Dean weren't totally numb-brained with exhaustion, he might have dropped Sam and the kid and peeled out again in a cloud of dust. "Don't wait up," he'd have yelled over the hot heavy pulse of the music blaring and the adrenaline of an entirely different kind of hunt. Instead he shouldered both his and Sam's bags and slammed the trunk.

They met Bobby on the porch, Cheney scratching at the screen to make his presence known. Layla lifted her head.

"He's got a puppy," she said from the circle of Sam's arms, her head already dropping onto his shoulder again. "Cool."

She closed her eyes.

"Boys," Bobby greeted them.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam said.

Dean held out a hand, which Bobby clasped and gave a brisk squeeze before releasing.

"Hey, Bobby," he greeted, wondering vaguely if, after all they'd been through they ought to hug hello or something. Then he wondered when he'd turned into Sam.

"You boys look like Hell on a cracker." Bobby held open the door, stretching out one booted foot to hold Cheney back. "Get some rest, we'll talk in the morning."

While Sam showed Layla to the bathroom, ushered her inside with instructions to brush her teeth, Dean made up the couch, using the sheets he and Sammy used to sleep on when they stayed here a hundred years ago. Pound Puppies and Charlie Brown.

She was still half asleep when Sam tucked her into bed, pulled the topsheet back to slide her inside.

"G'night, Layla," Sam said, smoothing her hair with the side of his hand.

" 'Night, Sam," she murmured, burrowing into the couch cushions. "Wait!"

She opened her eyes, squinting into the darkness.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, right here," he said, stepping forward so she could see him in the sinking sunlight that flickered inside between Bobby's blinds.

She held out her arms expectantly, and it took Dean several seconds to realize what she wanted. She smelled like the bubblegum-flavored toothpaste they bought her from 7-Eleven, and baby powder, though Dean had no idea where that particular scent came from.

After all she'd been through, how was it she still remembered hugs goodnight?

Nodding to Bobby who was sharpening his knives at the kitchen table, Dean headed for the back bedroom, Sam trailing behind him.

The twin beds were made up with clean sheets and blankets. Dean dropped his bag on the bed and started stripping right there. When he turned around, Sam was watching him get undressed.

"What, you want me to go slower?"

Sam kept right on staring at Dean, eyes sort of soft like he might at any moment cross the space between them and give him a freaking hug or something.

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean said. "Bobby's just down the hall, Sam. Not to mention the kid asleep on the couch out there . . . no friggin' way."

Sam looked offended and then plain pissed.

"God, Dean, is that all you think about? I don't wanna have sex, okay, I just . . . wannasleeptogether." The last came out all rushed, crammed into a single breath, but Dean got the drift.

"Sam," he protested, too tired even to make fun of Sam for being such a girl. "These beds are hardly wide enough for one of us, dude. I really don't need your bony elbows bashing me in the face all night."

Sam mumbled something, and this time Dean did have to ask him to repeat himself.

"We could push the beds together," Sam repeated. "We did when we were little sometimes. When Dad left us here. Remember?"

Dean did. He remembered Dad gunning the Impala up Bobby's gravelly drive, turning to Dean in the rearview as he let the engine idle. Help your brother inside, John would say, mind already ten miles down the road. Already focused on the hunt. And Dean would be the one to shake Sammy awake and tug him sleepy-eyed and rubber-limbed out of the car, shouldering both their bags as they marched up the drive to the porch where Bobby stood waiting for them.

Dean sighed, mostly because he could feel himself caving. He had gotten sort of used to sharing a bed with Sam, falling asleep to the deep even sound of his breathing and waking with their faces close, Sam's slightly sour breath puffing against his mouth. It wasn't all bad. There were perks.

The guy gave off heat like a freaking radiator.

Sam was watching him, one big hand sliding under his t-shirt to scratch an itch on his midsection.

"Lock the door," Dean said with a sigh.

He moved the beds around while Sam got undressed. When he slipped under the covers he half-expected Sam's arm to go around him, was prepared to put up a lackluster display of masculine protest. He was surprised when Sam merely scooted a little closer and moved his hand so it brushed the back of Dean's on top of the covers.

"Goodnight, Dean," he said.

Dean grunted a reply and closed his eyes.

--

He woke at dawn, hardly a surprise since they went to bed before dinner. Sam was still unconscious so Dean tugged on sweatpants and one of his hoodies, worn soft and threadbare, and went for a run. Outside, the sun was just beginning to tint the sky from black to dark-blue. Dean's breath left cottony puffs in the air as his feet beat a reassuring pattern into the dirt.

He ran until he was winded, then ran until he caught a second one, not slowing until his blood was pumping and his muscles singing in that good way that meant he was still alive. When he got back to the house, Sam was sitting on the porch in his pajama pants and a brown sweater that Dean knew was torn in the underarm, drinking coffee from a chipped yellow mug.

"Hey," Sam said easily.

Dean felt awesome, pulse thrumming under his skin.

"Have you showered yet?" Dean replied, pausing a moment to stretch out his calves on the porch step.

"Not yet." Sam raised a brow, took a sip of coffee.

"Good."

Dean curled his fingers in the fabric of Sam's sweater and yanked, snorting as Sam tried to set down his coffee without spilling.

Dean dragged Sam around the side of the house and shoved him up against the wall.

Sam huffed out a sound, halfway between laughter and annoyance.

"Jesus, what's your—?"

Hurry? Problem? Childhood trauma that makes you understand the word fraternize in entirely new ways? Dean never got to hear the end, because the words dried up on Sam's lips as Dean leaned close to his face and waited for Sam to meet him halfway. This thing between them—incest, Dean, you should be able to say it—only worked if they were partners. Equals. Sam had to want it too, or else—

Sam's lips were rough, a little bit chapped and still warm from the coffee when they crashed down on his. It was more attacking than kissing—all teeth and tongue.

"You bit me," Dean said, poking out his tongue to taste the drop of blood.

Sam grinned and sucked Dean's tongue into his mouth, drawing it into a tight little funnel that had Dean humping Sam's thigh like he was a frustrated teenager again.

"Who the hell taught you to kiss like that?" Dean demanded, pulling away from Sam's mouth and dropping his lips to Sam's throat.

"Georgia Paulson," Sam said, arms going around Dean's waist to tug him closer.

Sam freaking loved having his neck sucked. Almost as much as other things.

"Who's that? Girl from the Cape?"

"Nuh," Sam said, or else something equally articulate.

His hands managed to gain purchase in Dean's sweatshirt and he swung him around, reversing their positions. He jutted a knee between Dean's legs, bending his neck to slurp Dean's earlobe into the wet heat of his mouth.

"I'm gonna look her up," Dean said, shivering violently as Sam blew hot air into his ear canal. "Gonna send her flowers or something."

"You do that."

Sam's hands were scrabbling under his sweatshirt, sliding warm and firm around his belly, and Dean reluctantly thrust an arm between them. He gave Sam a gentle shove mitigated by a smile of apology.

"We can't, dude. Bobby . . . "

Sam looked for a second like he might protest. Then he sighed and took a step back, thrusting a hand through his mop of hair.

"Yeah. You're right. It's just . . . dude."

"Yeah, I know."

In the entryway, Sam hip-checked Dean and scrambled past him, claiming first shower as he jogged toward the bathroom on his giant's legs.

"Bitch," Dean called without much heat and headed for the kitchen.

Bobby was at the kitchen counter squinting at the coffee maker.

"That almost ready?" Dean asked, pulling out a chair at the table.

Bobby shot him a look.

"I mean, thanks," Dean coughed. "For having us."

"Don't thank me yet," Bobby said. He eyed the steady drip drip drip of the percolator. "I found a spell last night. You're not gonna like it though."

"What else is new?" Dean said.

--

"First thing's first," Bobby said, peering into the kitchen where Layla was seated at the kitchen table, eating a piece of toast. "We gotta determine she ain't possessed before all manner of hell starts breaking loose."

He crossed to one of the piles of books and printouts covering the floor and started to rummage through the contents.

"We already did that," Sam said from the sofa. "Dean doused her with holy water back at the hotel."

Bobby paused long enough to raise his head and arch a meaningful brow at Sam.

"Remember how well that worked when Yellow Eyes got a hold of your dad?"

Dean did, and one glance at Sam confirmed that he wasn't forgetting any time soon either.

"Okay," Dean said, and Sam nodded. "What do we have to do?"

--

It went about as well as Dean expected, which meant really frigging badly. They didn't do anything to hurt her, at least not physically. But they might as well have. After what she'd been through the past year—and Dean could only guess—tying her to a chair and painting symbols on her face and forehead while Bobby recited Latin must have seemed like the cruelest sort of betrayal, worse still because they'd acted like she could trust them.

"She's not gonna understand," Dean had protested before they began. "Can't we drug her or something? Knock her out?"

"We need her awake," Bobby had said, shrugging, and that was as close to an apology as Dean was going to get.

It wasn't Bobby's fault. He was just trying to help; they all were, which didn't make Dean feel like any less of a bastard.

After, he helped Bobby clean up, mopping paint and holy water off the floor, while Sam tried to coax Layla out of the bathroom. She'd shut herself in there, locking the door behind her, almost as soon as Sam finished untying her. Dean could hear her talking to herself, voice stripped raw from screaming, soft and high and childish. He'd preferred the screaming, actually. It was worse when she gave up and started to cry, those big brown eyes so full of hurt.

All that, and they didn't know a damn thing more than they had when they started.

"Fuck," Dean said, kicking at a stack of books and earning a glare from Bobby. "Sorry."

Bobby nodded.

"I'm gonna make a few calls," he said. On his way upstairs, he gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze. "I'll be upstairs if you boys need anything."

When he was gone, Sam crossed the room and slumped into a ratty armchair with a high sloping back.

"Well, that was about as much fun as calculus," he said.

Dean held the mop over the bucket, squeezing out the excess water.

"You loved calculus," Dean reminded him.

He left the mop standing in the corner, crossed to Bobby's desk and pulled out the chair, straddling it backwards.

"No I didn't," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "You always thought I liked every subject just because I liked school in general."

"Well, yeah. You were a nerd."

Sam screwed up his face like he was going to argue. Then he stopped, smiled a little.

"Were?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. He jerked a thumb at the bathroom door, his smile fading.

"No luck?" he asked.

"Is she out of the bathroom?" Sam shot back.

Dean arched a brow and tilted back in his chair.

"No need to get snippy, Sammy. I was just asking."

"Feel free to try for yourself," Sam said.

"Okay," Dean said. "What's up with you dude?"

"What? Nothing's up with me." And then because Sam could never leave well enough alone—couldn't resist dropping well enough in a bowl and poking it—added, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've gone all silent partner on me lately. You haven't been this quiet since you were nine and had your tonsils out." Dean smirked, staring off. "Huh, you had the hottest nurse, man. Her name was Anna or maybe Hannah. I dunno. But she had these dark blond curls, and the way she looked in scrubs . . ."

Dean had been thirteen and sliding into puberty like oil through an engine—all slow, easy heat. Sam was the opposite, waking up one morning with a tent in his boxers and chin acne.

"Are you asking for my opinion on something, Dean?" Sam crossed his ankles and grinned.

"Not exactly—"

"Because that would be a first."

"--just used to you volunteering it," Dean amended. "And that's bullshit, dude. We're partners now. Have been for a while. Haven't we?"

Sam sighed.

"It's no big deal, Dean. I just figure, of the two of us, you're the one with experience raising a kid."

That was enough to have Dean losing his balance, chair crashing down on all four legs. Dean winced and stood up before he broke all of Bobby's furniture.

"Whoa, whoa. Hold up there, Sammy. Dad raised us."

"Yeah," Sam said slumping down even farther if possible. "Sure."

Jesus, he could be a sarcastic little shit when he wanted.

"Maybe he wasn't around all the time," Dean acknowledged.

"All the time? Try any of the time. He was away more than he was home—"

Dean folded his arms over his chest.

"That's an exaggeration, Sam—"

"And when he was home, he wasn't exactly what you'd call an active parent."

"Active parent?" Dean scoffed. "You learn that one at Stanford, Sam? In Psychology for Whiny Bitches Who Think The World Is Just a Cold, Cruel Place? The man's dead, for God's sake. Show some respect."

"Hey," Sam said, getting to his feet now. He held up a hand in a gesture of peace. "I'm not trying to dump on Dad. I know he loved us, that he did what he thought was best."

"Damn right he did."

"But he was also a hard, obsessive bastard with a stubborn streak a mile wide."

Yeah, Dean thought. Good thing he didn't pass that on to either of his sons.

"And in case you didn't notice," Sam said, on a roll now, "he wasn't the one there when I got home from school. He wasn't the one to cook dinner every night or make sure I had money for lunch or yell at me to go to bed at a decent hour."

"Sam," Dean started and then stopped, unsure how to continue. His throat felt tight, like he'd dry-swallowed a handful of pills, and he wanted out of this conversation five minutes ago.

"He wasn't they one who sat with me when I had bad dreams. And, in high school, it sure as hell wasn't Dad I talked to about girls or kissing or sex—"

"No sense in talking about it when you ain't doing it, right, Sammy?"

Dean grinned, quick and deliberate, and Sam rolled his eyes.

"You know what I mean, Dean."

"Hey, something I've been wondering," Dean said, picking at a speck of paint under his thumbnail. "Was Jessica the first?"

He didn't need to look up to know Sam's ears would be bright red.

"That's none of your business," Sam shot back.

"Was she gentle?"

"You're an asshole, Dean."

--

Sam took the Impala into town and came back with rotisserie chicken and mac and cheese, along with a salad to satisfy his own abnormal urges. He spread the food out on the table and announced that dinner was ready.

"You're gonna make some woman a fine wife one day," Dean said, slapping Sam once on the chest.

Bobby ate a drumstick and shook his head at the both of them.

After dinner, Dean took his beer out to the porch, sort of relieved when Sam grabbed a book and made for the couch. He really wasn't eager to follow up that afternoon's conversation with a heartfelt moment. One angst-fest per day was about all he could handle.

Anyway, Sam was overreacting, as usual. Dean was the big brother: the one charged with looking out for Sammy. He hadn't done anything above and beyond, nothing outside his realm of responsibility, and, okay, even he wasn't buying that. It might have been more salable if he didn't know the taste of the soft skin behind Sam's ear. Or the way Sam's eyes flickered and darkened when Dean—

Stopping that line of thinking seemed smart. It was twilight, stars starting to pop along the horizon as the temperature dropped. Dean shivered and flipped up the collar on his button-down.

It was some kind of irony, he figured, that most people didn't think about Hell until they'd committed some sin grievous enough to gain them entrance. Dean had been keeping a tally for years. Like that sitcom where Jason Lee finds all the people he screwed and tries to make it right. Except this wasn't a sitcom, and Dean knew in the final count he'd always come up short.

He had thought for a while that Sam might be safe—that he and John could somehow save Sam from a one-way trip down south. Those fantasies died at a crossroads in South Dakota, Dean lying on the ground and burning in fires he couldn't yet see, blinking blood from his eyes as he watched his brother's brown ones go black.

Somehow, screwing each other seemed less damning after that.

"You plannin' on sleeping out here?' a gruff voice asked.

Bobby.

"Just enjoying the evening," Dean said, shaking guilty images from his head as Bobby stepped onto the porch. "What's goin' on?"

"Just wondering if you and Sam had given any thought to what you're gonna do now." He lowered himself to the porch rail. "Where you're gonna go."

"You want us to take off?" Dean said, really hoping that didn't sound as pathetic as it had in his head.

"I'm not kicking you out. Christ. You're welcome to stay as long as you want." Bobby hesitated, hand hovering in the air a few seconds before it clamped warm and solid on Dean's shoulder. "Dumbass."

Dean snorted and stared out into the dark again.

"I've got a friend working down at the police station," Bobby said. "She's a nice lady, and she wouldn't ask too many questions. She'd make sure the girl ended up someplace safe."

"No." Off Bobby's look, he cleared his throat. "Not until we know for sure she's not a threat. We can't risk her hurting anybody, Bobby." It was almost true, even.

"Don't know how you're gonna make sure of that. No way of knowing what the demon wanted with her, or what they may have done. Not unless you resurrect the bitch and ask her anyway."

"What about her family?" Sam said, and Dean looked up in time to see his long form stepping out onto the porch. "Is there anybody looking for her, Bobby? Someone who might be willing to take her in if—when we're sure it's safe."

"Rick and Maddy were hunters, Sam. Why d'ya think people become hunters in the first place?"

"The kick-ass dental plan?" Dean said. "Okay, so no family."

"Just what's resting in a cemetery outside Boston."

"You knew them," Sam said suddenly, cocking his hip to lean against the porch rail. "The Omeras."

Bobby shrugged.

"About as well as I knew any hunters, except your dad."

"What were they like?" Sam asked, carefully ignoring that. "The Omeras."

"Smart," Bobby said. "Her especially. Young and determined as all-hell. Cold, hard hunters. And damned good at it."

"Not good enough," Dean said, and Bobby shrugged again.

"Things changed when Maddy had that kid. She said she wanted out and Rick, he went along with it. He was head over bootheels for that woman. Never seen a man so gaga over anyone except maybe . . . " He coughed and thankfully didn't finish that sentence. "Anyway, they went to the goddamn suburbs or something. Tried to live like real people, and even succeeded. For a while."

"So they weren't hunting anymore when the demon came after them?"

"Not since the kid was around three." Bobby cleared his throat. "Ryan. That's what they called her."

--

It took them all of the next morning and half the afternoon to coax Layla out of the bathroom. They took turns sitting by the door and talking to her. Dean told stories about the stupid things Sam had done when they were kids. When he ran out of stories about Sam, he started telling her some of the dumb stuff he'd done, substituting Sam's name for his. And when he couldn't think of any more stories, he told her the plots from TV shows—I Love Lucy, Happy Days. When he got to Beverly Hills 90210, Sam said maybe he should choose alternate source material. Dean just shrugged, started to sing.

Motorhead. Metallica.

"My God," Sam said, shaking his head. "You know, like, every single word."

"Shut up."

Wisely, Bobby stayed clear of their efforts, working most of the day up in his room. Dean was pretty sure Layla was never going to forgive Bobby.

It was almost dinnertime when Layla finally unlocked the door and opened it enough to poke her head through the crack. Sam was in the middle of a detailed description of somebody's—not theirs definitely, maybe Jessica's family's—Christmas tradition which involved, Christ, board games. At Bobby's desk, Dean looked up from the credit card forms he was dutifully filling out.

Layla stood in the doorway, clothes wrinkled, brown eyes huge. She had red paint in her hair which, from a distance, looked disturbingly like blood.

"Hi," Sam said, staring at Layla like if the next words out of her mouth were 'I want my own unicorn' he would probably try to make it happen.

"Don't," Layla said, fingers still tight around the doorknob, "don't do that again."

Dean and Sam exchanged glances.

"We won't," Sam said. "I promise," and Dean wondered when it was that Sam got to be the better liar.

Layla nodded, apparently satisfied.

Sam gave him a look—what now? Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to the kid.

"You like bubble baths?" he said, rising.

He crossed the room and held out his hand. When she slid hers inside, he felt like thanking some higher power.

While the tub filled and Sam reheated last night's chicken, Dean lifted Layla onto the vanity and used his fingers to comb some of the dried paint from her hair.

"Ouch," she said, and he winced and tried to be gentler.

"Sorry. Almost done."

He ran his fingers through her hair, and it was soft and wispy like he remembered Sam's being at that age. He recalled how she had looked the first time he saw her, crouching in a dark corner of a basement, her hair dirty and dank from the pipes dripping overhead, and had a sudden urge to protect her, keep her safe.

"Layla," he said. "You remember when Sam and I found you? At the house in Georgia?"

Her eyes went even darker, the amber and gold specks receding till they were a solid brown, and she shrugged narrow shoulders.

"Can I have dinner soon?"

"Sam's working on it. You were in the basement, remember? What were you doing down there? Did you run away from it? From the demon?" he added softly.

"No." Her voice was scarcely a whisper and he had to strain to hear.

"What were you doing? You can tell me."

"I was hiding." She mumbled the words at her lap. "She told me to."

"Layla." He waited until she lifted her chin. "Who were you hiding from?"

"From you. You and Sam." She bit her lip. "She told me you were coming and said to hide."

He checked the bath temperature and made sure she had clean clothes to change into before closing the door and going to the kitchen to help Sam.

Twenty minutes later she wandered into the kitchen carrying a hairbrush.

"Do you know how to braid?" she asked the room at large.

Dean raised a brow.

"Sammy, if you can braid hair, I swear to God . . ."

"I think I can manage a ponytail," Sam said, rolling his eyes.

He beckoned Layla closer and got to work brushing her hair. The end result wasn't bad, if a little lopsided.

"Thanks," Layla said after, beaming up at Sam.

"You're welcome."

Dean wondered if he should have asked one of the (not man-whore high but still totally respectable number of) women he'd slept with to teach him how to make a braid.

Layla was digging into her mac and cheese like she hadn't eaten in days.

"Hey, Sam," she asked. "Is it almost Christmas?"

--

He had a dream that night.

It was a year or so after the fire that killed his mother, and they were renting some shit-hole apartment, having long since moved out of the big house. ("Just think it's time for a change, Dean-o," was what Dad said, but Dean knew better, knew Dad thought the house was just too lonely without Mom.) Dean had refused to eat dinner because Dad made the scrambled eggs too runny, so Dad told Dean, if he didn't like it, he could make himself a bowl of cereal. And Dean said all the cereal was gone, so Dad told him to go play in his room.

Dean had been playing with his action figures (not dolls) for what seemed like a really long time when the doorbell rang. He went into the living room to see who it was and found his dad talking to a woman. She was soft and grandmotherly with curling grayish hair and little glasses that sat on the end of her nose. She smelled like church and cats.

The woman smiled at Dean and asked how old he was and if he was looking forward to starting school—almost six and no. Then she said wasn't Sammy adorable and gave them both a lollypop, grape Dum Dums taken from her gigantic shoulder bag, and said she'd like to talk to their dad alone if that was all right.

Though he was only almost-six Dean wasn't stupid. He took Sammy into the bedroom and gave him his best GI Joe to play with while he listened at the door. When she was gone, Dean went into the kitchen and found his father sitting at the table, head in his hands.

"Please don't leave us with that lady," Dean said. "She smells like cats."

John looked up, and Dean was surprised to see that his father's face was wet.

"Dean," John said, reaching out a hand to stroke blindly at Dean's hair.

"I'll be good, Dad. I'll help with Sammy. I'll keep my room really clean. I'll go to school and I won't bitch about it. I'll be so, so good, I promise."

John looked at him for a long time—it felt like hours but was probably just a couple minutes. Finally, he curled an arm around Dean's waist and pulled him onto his lap, tucked his chin down into the curve of Dean's neck and held on tight. In the other room, Sammy started to whine for someone to come get him. Neither of them moved.

"I won't ever leave you, Dean. I swear."

"You said not to swear," Dean had murmured, a little embarrassed by the hugging, though not so much that he wanted his father to let go.

"It's okay to swear when it's a promise. I promise I'm not gonna leave you with anyone, Dean, especially not someone who smells like cats."

"Sammy, either?"

"Sammy, either."

Dean woke to find a fully-grown Sammy bending over him, one hand shaking his shoulder.

"Gah, what?" he demanded, throwing off Sam's huge paw.

Sam backed off and sat down on his own bed. The sun was peeking in through the blinds, and Dean could see the sleep lines on Sam's face, the scars painting a story in stark white over the brown of Sam's chest.

"You were . . . nothing," Sam said. "Forget it."

Dean swiped at his face, surprised when his hand came away damp. He was sweating. It must be warmer in here than he thought. He peeled his t-shirt over his head and started poking in his duffel for a clean one.

"I'm gonna call Sarah," Sam said. "Ask if she'd mind putting us up a couple weeks."

"Auction House Sarah?" At Sam's nod, Dean let out a low whistle, recalling dark hair and pale skin that was even whiter against Sam's hands. "I didn't know you two kept in touch."

"Well," Sam said, "We have," and Dean whistled again.

"You think that's a good idea, Sam? Taking Layla there? With all we don't know?"

"Actually, I do. New York isn't that far from Maine where the Omeras lived. We could drive up and check out the house. Maybe learn something about them, or the demon who killed them. And I think Sarah'd be great with Layla."

"No argument there," Dean said, standing to tug up his jeans. "I bet she'd be great with you, too."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just that, if you fuck her, it might relieve some of that tension you've been carrying around like a fifty-pound weight."

He knew that would earn him a punch in the jaw, wasn't surprised when Sam snagged a handful of his shirt, arm drawing back. He was a little surprised when Sam released him, his arm falling limply to his side.

"Grow up, Dean," he sneered in that way he had of making Dean feel like the younger brother before pulling out his phone.

"Whatever, dude," was Dean's mature response before stalking away. He lingered in the hallway long enough to hear Sam's greeting.

"Sarah? Hey. It's Sam Win—" He could practically see Sam's face break into a smile, all soft eyes and dimples. "Yeah, it's good hearing your voice, too."

--

"Where are we going?" Layla asked while Dean was loading the car.

Sam pointed out New York State on the map and showed Layla the route they'd followed to get to Bobby's, and the one they would take heading east.

"Do you and Dean drive back and forth all the time?" she asked finally.

"Sort of," Sam said, and he flashed Dean a sideways smile which Dean took to mean they were on speaking terms again, halle-fucking-lujah.

Bobby came out onto the porch while Dean was stowing the last of the bags. He hefted the one with the clothes they'd bought for her—jeans and t-shirts from Wal-Mart, a pink nylon windbreaker from the Goodwill. He was hoping Sarah would be willing to take her shopping for some other essentials. Items with which Sam and Dean lacked much expertise.

"You boys headin' out," Bobby said matter-of-factly. He had a steaming travel mug in either hand, Cheney whining at his heels.

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam and Dean said in almost-unison, Sam stepping forward to accept the mugs while Dean extended a hand to shake.

He followed Bobby's line of sight to Layla, who was already strapped into the backseat, maybe trying to ensure they didn't leave her behind. She hadn't quite forgiven Bobby for her first couple days here. Dean knew it was selfish, but he was just grateful that he and Sam had been given absolution. That she still trusted them.

He hoped they deserved it.

"What are you idjits gonna do now?" Bobby said, and Dean heard the unspoken "with her" in his voice, clear as day.

"I've got a friend who's willing to put us up awhile," Sam said. "We'll take it from there."

"Hum," Bobby said. He squatted down to scratch Cheney behind the ears.

Sam shuffled his feet.

"Gonna be dark soon," Dean said. "We should probably head out."

"Your daddy," Bobby said. "He did a good job with you boys. Best he knew how."

"Yes, sir," Dean agreed, and Sam gave a jerky sort of nod in acknowledgment.

"Even so, I sometimes wonder you two came out as good as you did. Which ain't always too good."

"We love you too, Bobby," Sam snorted, but Bobby didn't crack a smile.

"I'm not jokin' around, Sam. Raising a kid is a hard job. Maybe the hardest. And your dad, he had four years of your mom teaching him how."

Sam lowered his voice to a near-whisper.

"What are you saying, Bobby? That we should dump her at the nearest police station? Let them hand her over to Social Services, some foster home? What about when she has a nightmare or runs off in the middle of the night or goes apeshit over something? What are they gonna do then, huh?"

"Okay, Sam." Dean laid a hand on his arm. "Enough."

Did Sam worry about that when they were kids? Dad dropping them at some foster home and going off to hunt the demon on his own. Maybe Layla would be better off in foster care, part of some normal white-bread family. Until someone realized she wasn't quite normal.

"No, Dean," Sam said stubbornly. "I wanna know what he thinks we should do. I want him to tell us."

Bobby raised a brow and shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket.

"I'm not telling you to do anything, Sam."

--

In Chicago, Sam made them stop at a Barnes and Noble.

"She's been out of school for more than a year," Sam said stubbornly. "I want to get her some books."

She hadn't been in school, true, but that didn't mean someone wasn't teaching her things. But Dean just shrugged and handed over his credit card before going to wait in the café.

They returned a half hour later, Layla carrying a plastic bag the size of her torso. She was smiling, and Dean had to admit, that was about worth the price of admission.

"Have a good time?" Dean asked, nudging a chair out so she could sit.

Layla flopped down, and Dean totally didn't reach out to tug on her pigtail.

"Sam's gonna read me all the Harry Potter books. That's like a million pages total."

Dean reached for his coffee so he wouldn't strangle Sam right there at the Barnes and Noble.

--

They passed most of the drive east with Sam reading Harry Potter aloud and Dean pretending not to get into it.

"Shouldn't we try talking to her?" Dean protested outside Akron, while Layla was using the rest stop bathroom. "See if she'll tell us something?"

"I don't think she's ready yet," Sam said.

"Maybe she'll let something slip if we get her going. Hey, we could play that picnic game?"

"Just give her some time, Dean. Are you sick of Harry? You wanna listen to music for awhile?"

"No," Dean said quickly. "I mean, she likes it, so . . ."

"Okay."

"Just."

"Yeah?"

" 'S better when you do the voices."

--

Dean was crossing the border into New York, feeling kind of sulky because Sam and Layla had both passed out and he could only listen to his tapes so many times before even he was sick of them.

He almost crossed the double yellows when Layla suddenly let out a shriek from the back. In the passenger seat, Sam woke up with a jerk and a muted groan as his knee thumped the glove compartment.

"No, I don't want to," she cried. "Please don't make me!"

"Want me to pull over?" Dean asked, watching Layla thrash around in the rearview.

Sam shook his head and swiveled around enough to stretch an arm into the backseat.

She started awake when Sam touched her, glancing wildly around the car before her eyes locked on Sam's. Dean figured it was mostly just the shock that made her cry, and pride that had her swiping at her face with her sleeve.

"You okay?" Sam asked in his best interrogate-the-victim's-family tone.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"You don't have to be sorry," Sam said.

"Sam's right," Dean agreed. He looked at Sam, and Sam's return stare was pointed. Don't push, man.

Dean offered back, I can be subtle, dude, and thought, not for the first, that he and Sam had been together way too long if they could hold entire conversations with just their eyes.

Ignoring the pretty serious bitch face he was getting from Sam, Dean tilted his head to meet Layla's gaze in the mirror.

"You wanna tell us what you were dreaming about before?" he asked with as soothing a tone as he could muster at quarter to asscrack in the morning after driving all night without rest.

"I can't remember," Layla murmured. She drew her knees into her chest, tucking her head into the hollow of her legs.

"Listen. Layla. Me and Sam, we just wanna help. And we can't do that if you aren't honest with us."

Layla didn't reply, just dug her forehead further into her kneecaps.

Dean took a chance, kept prodding.

"So let's try this again. What was your dream about?"

"I don't remember!"

Only she didn't just say it. It was more of a scream, piercing enough that Dean wanted to slap his hands over his ears. Je-sus.

Sam made another face, which Dean read as, She's seven years old. What did you expect? Dean thought their whole silent dialogue thing was getting borderline scary.

"Third in four nights," Dean said under his breath, and Sam nodded and sighed, turned his face to mope at the landscape.

Dean sighed and fixed his eyes on the road. Layla was crying in earnest now, silent tears she tried to hide in her sleeve, and the hushed sniffling sound made Dean feel like a complete bastard instead of just a partial one. He fished a tape out from under the seat and popped it in the player, slid his sunglasses over his eyes and let Boston ease his pain.

--

They stopped for the night at some two-bit motor lodge off the interstate. Dean had noticed a 24-hour diner on their way in, and after dropping Sam and Layla in front of their room he drove back for cheeseburgers and mashed potatoes, as Sam had been bitching about all the fries they were eating.

After dinner—during which Sam was not nearly grateful enough for Dean's fry sacrifice—Sam went into the bathroom to shower. Dean stretched out on the bed nearest the door and started flipping channels. One of the movie stations was showing Jurassic Park, and Dean spent a few minutes watching a poor billy goat meet its fate at the hands, or teeth, of a hungry T-Rex before slanting a glance across the room. At the small kitchen table, Layla was turning pages of a thick book that Dean really hoped was Harry Potter and not, like, a History of Succubi.

"Hey," he said, and when she glanced up he patted the bedspread beside him. "C'mere."

After a second's hesitation, she slid down from the chair and crossed the room to stand by the bed. He had to thump on the mattress again to get her to climb up next to him. She arranged herself cross-legged, followed the hand he pointed to the television.

"See that guy with the hurt leg? He's the only one who knew what a bad idea Dino-Disney was. All those other morons were like, hey, great big carnivores, awesome . . . "

Layla conked out while the kids were hiding in the trees. When Sam came out of the bathroom, face pink and hair dripping, he took one look at the television and rolled his eyes.

"You have no concept of appropriate children's programming, do you."

"What are you talkin' about? I used to show you tons of cool stuff."

"The Shining? IT? I was the only second grader who was scared of clowns!"

"That's just good sense, clowns are fucking terrifying. Don't get your brastrap in a twist, Mister Rogers."

"Fine. You can be the one to comfort her when she has a nightmare about raptors eating her alive."

"Yeah, well. I think raptors would be an improvement on whatever she's been dreaming about."

And yeah, that kind of took the fun out of sniping at each other. Dean motioned for Sam to follow him into the kitchen area. He crossed to the mini-fridge and snagged two cold beers by the necks before joining Sam at the table.

"So?" Dean prompted after a few moments of drinking and companionable silence.

"We're going to be late. Sarah's expecting us tomorrow."

"Call Sarah and explain we're making a stop." Dean shrugged. "We'll tell Layla at breakfast. She's not gonna like it, so the less time she has to think the better."

"She's just starting to trust us again after Bobby's, Dean. Are you sure dragging her to the house where her parents died is our best move here, man?"

"I don't see another option. We gotta know what the hell happened if we want a chance of helping her, right? And why are you arguing with me? I thought we agreed on this, Sam."

"We do. It's just."

Dean sighed, setting his empty bottle down with a soft thud.

"Sam. What?"

"These decisions, Dean. There's a lot riding on them now."

"You're kidding me, right? We've been making 'these decisions' for almost five years now, Sam."

"It's different. She's just a kid, and we're . . . not her parents."

"Yeah, well, we're all she's got. So. Maine?"

Sam hesitated before jerking his head in the affirmative.

"All right, Maine."

--

The house where Rick and Maddy Omera lived and died was made up of straight lines and chipping blue paint and set at the end of a rough dirt road with woods on both sides. Dean had prepared himself for developments and SUVs, a sprawling row of split-levels in varying shades of beige. In the end, it was a house he wouldn't altogether hate living in . . . if, you know, he was going to start living anywhere.

Layla was asleep when they arrived so they left her in the car at the end of the gravel drive and took a walk around the perimeter. It was pretty clear the place had been abandoned since the murders, but they knocked at the door and peered in windows just in case.

While Dean got to work picking the lock, Sam went back to the car for Layla. Dean had the door open by the time they returned, Layla yawning into the sleeve of her coat and Sam watching her with a worried expression like he half-expected her to fall apart, or over. Actually, she'd taken the news that they were coming back here, to the house where a demon murdered her parents, better than Dean expected, better than he had responded when Sam made them go back to Lawrence. At any rate, she didn't cry or try to hit anyone, both of which had topped Dean's to-do list in that situation. When they told her that morning, over a breakfast of gas-station donuts and sodas on the road, Layla's only comment was, "I thought we were going to Buffalo."

"We are," Sam said.

"Just taking a little detour," Dean added.

"So we're still going to have wings?"

Sam shot an amused expression at Dean before pivoting in his seat to promise Layla that they could get Buffalo wings, sure.

Layla grinned.

"Good, 'cause Dean says your ears turn red when you eat them, and that sounds really funny."

"You suck so much," Sam told Dean, and Dean only grinned, turned the sound up higher on the stereo.

Now Layla lingered on the front porch, shivering a little inside her windbreaker. Maine in May was pretty brisk, and Dean wondered if they ought to get the kid some warmer clothes. Sam had a hand on her shoulder, and was speaking in the soft soothing voice he reserved for just these occasions.

"Take it nice and easy, okay? We can go as slow as you want."

Layla tilted her head to peer past Sam, through the open doorway into the darkened hallway.

"Are we sure nobody lives here?" she asked them with a frown.

They kept their guns in grabbing range out of habit; they weren't expecting to find anyone. Layla trailed after them, not making a sound expect to sneeze once or twice from the dust. Dean wondered if she had allergies, and asthma, like Sam had at that age. He used to get colds and stuff all the time before he hit puberty and, like magic, grew a foot and a half and developed the constitution of a bull.

There were only two bedrooms, a master on the first floor and a loft which, along with the attic, comprised the second floor. Most of the furniture had been removed, although the queen-sized bed in the master bedroom was still there, stripped down to the mattress. Along the right side, somebody had tried, and failed, to rid it of the stain, faded now to a significant pinkish-brown. Dean nudged Sam, who quickly nudged Layla into another room.

They spent a while in the loft, guessing or maybe just hoping that if anything here were going to spark a memory it would be in the room where she slept for six years. Dean lowered himself onto the bare twin bed, running his hand over a headboard hand-painted to look like the night sky. He trailed his fingers along the lower ridge, where a pair of protective sigils was carved into the wood. Apparently, they hadn't quite done the job.

"Hey, Layla?" Sam said, and Dean glanced up to see her standing in the middle of the room.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," she murmured, looking down at her feet in Bela's green sandals.

"You're not supposed to do anything," Sam said. "Just . . . is there anything you want to tell us? Anything at all?"

She hesitated, rubbing her foot along the hardwood. Dean tried to imagine the room full of books and toys and clothes, lived in. He couldn't.

"I don't know," she said again. Dean couldn't quite identify the tone in her voice. It wasn't fear, exactly, or defiance.

"Let's go downstairs," he said.

This time they found the glassed-in space—sun porch was what Sam had called it—that ran the length of the house's rear wall. Beyond the glass wall, the lawn ran wild; clearly it hadn't been cared for much better when it's owners were alive. Dean thought he wouldn't mind cutting the grass back a little, not going all Better Homes and Gardens or anything, but trimming it enough that you could sit out in a lawn chair without having to check yourself for ticks. It wouldn't altogether suck to sit out there with Sam, drinking beers and enjoying the un-noise of not another human for half a mile. If this thing between them kept happening—and Dean had lost too many things to make assumptions—Sam might like messing around out there, under the moonlight or some shit. Dean wasn't exactly hating on the idea either.

"What are you thinking?" Sam asked, bumping Dean's shoulder.

And really that was an obnoxious question, one he'd normally razz Sam a lot for asking, but the nature of his last few thoughts had him feeling guilty, and warm in places he'd rather not mention. He shrugged off Sam's touch and cleared his throat before answering.

"I think we should get outta here. Find a motel."

"Are you sure? Maybe we should take another walk around . . . "

Over Sam's shoulder, Dean watched Layla stand in the middle of what used to be the living room. Her back was to him, so he couldn't see the expression on her face. He was kind of glad about that.

"Maybe this was a mistake, Sam. I don't . . . " He trailed off, scraping a hand over the top of his head. Maybe he had developed allergies in his old age; dust was clogging his sinuses, making his throat ache and his eyes tear.

"Dude, talk to me."

"Sam, I know you don't remember anything about the house in Lawrence. But I do, and trust me, it's not a fun place to go back to."

Sam took a hesitant step forward, concern all over his face.

"I know you remember the fire, man. And, hey, I'm sorry about that. I wish neither of us—"

"No, Sam, it's not the fire. Yeah, I remember that night, but I also remember what it was like before. Dad making bunny-rabbit pancakes at the stove and Mom bathing you in the sink while you screamed your head off and . . . fuck. It's not good, Sam. Okay?"

"Dean, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I'm the lucky one here. At least I remember Mo—before."

It was true. Dean had pieces of the past at least, the good times before their family went to Hell, or maybe it was Hell that came to them. Dad getting home from work, opening the door, calling out, "Where's my little slugger?" Which seemed ridiculous because, after the fire, Dean couldn't remember one instance of Dad playing catch with either of them.

Sam didn't remember anything. Once he told Dean he thought he remembered their mother holding him, one arm supporting his butt, a handful of her blond hair clutched in his fat baby fist. Sam was completely convinced of this memory until Dean showed him the photo of Mary doing just that, and explained that Sam had just seen the picture so many times that he thought he remembered the actual event. Sam had looked totally crestfallen, and Dad had told Dean to mind his own business.

What was the harm in letting Sam believe?'

Sam was quiet for a moment, watching Dean with eyes gone soft, and Christ, Dean wished he'd just kept his mouth shut about the whole thing. Sam's hands fluttered before he shoved them down into his pockets.

"I don't think that Layla's remembering the good times here," Sam said finally. "Don't ask me how, I just don't think that's what's going on. But look, it's late. And maybe this isn't the best place to talk to her. We'll go get a motel, okay?"

Dean nodded, grateful that this conversation was over if for nothing else.

"Hey, Layla," he called. "Tell Sam you want burritos for dinner so it's two against one."

She didn't say anything so he went into the living room and found her sitting on the cushionless shell of the couch, and really if he had to see one more heartbreaking sight in the next hour he was going to lose it. He lowered himself down on the arm, reached out to nudge her shoulder.

"Wake up. You're heavy, and I don't wanna carry you to the car."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I'm teasing. You're pretty light."

"I'm sorry. I don't remember anything," she said softly.

He forced his lips into something like a smile.

"A lot of times, when bad things happen to people, adults too, they don't remember. It's like a game your mind plays so you don't have to think about the bad stuff."

"Dean," Sam said, coming to stand behind him. "I don't think that's what she means. I don't think she's talking about the night her parents . . . " He trailed off.

Dean arched a brow, and Sam went on.

"I don't think she remembers living here."

--

"What could happen to make her forget the last six years of her life?"

"I don't know, Sam, and I don't see us finding out anytime soon. We kind of exorcised the only witness."

They were drinking coffees and listening to Layla splash in the bathtub in the other room. Dean had given her a couple empty Coke cans and a funnel he found under the backseat.

"Don't give me that look," he'd said when Sam raised a brow at the improvised bath toys. "I had to bribe you with Hershey kisses when you were a kid to get you in the bath. We thought you were, like, allergic to soap."

Sam just laughed.

"You bribed me with kisses?"

"Shuddup."

Now Sam drained the last of his coffee and arced the empty Styrofoam into the trashcan.

"The house in Maine was a bust. So we keep looking, right?"

"Mmm," Dean grunted. He was mostly listening to Sam, but he kept an ear peeled toward the bathroom. He was pretty sure seven-year olds were capable of bathing themselves without drowning in the bathtub; but Layla had seemed off all afternoon.

"We hit a few . . . colleges . . . do some research and . . . talk to . . . ah . . . professor—"

Dean looked up to see Sam swaying.

"Sam?"

"Ah, God."

Sam hunched over in the chair, hands wrapping around his skull. Dean was on his feet and rounding the table in two steps. He dropped to his knees, catching Sam by the shoulders in time to keep him from slumping forward onto the floor.

Dean propped Sam up with one hand, the other supporting his back while Sam groaned through the worst of it. Anything Dean could think to say sounded stupid or patronizing so he just kept a hand on Sam's back, waited for him to come out of it.

After a while, Sam raised his head. His face was shiny-slick with sweat, and Dean resisted the urge to go get him a towel. His hand stayed a reassuring weight on Sam's shoulder.

"I'm okay," Sam said finally and gave a little shrug to let Dean know he could let go. The guy could cuddle with the best of them, collapsing atop Dean after sex like a giant man-shaped blanket. But he hated being coddled. Dean couldn't exactly blame him for that.

Dean removed his hand and eased back on his haunches. Sam's breath was coming harsh and shallow, and he had a hand cupped around the side of his head like he was afraid the contents would leak out his ear otherwise.

"You want some water?" Dean said, and Sam's face twisted into a frown.

"I said I'm fine."

Dean curbed the impulse to roll his eyes. Instead he shrugged and stood, crossed the room to sit on one of the beds. Sam sat there panting another couple minutes before rising and going to the sink. He filled a plastic cup with water and drank it down slowly. After, he rinsed out the cup and came to sit beside Dean on the bed, shoulder-to-shoulder like fellow soldiers.

Knowing by now it was a waste of time trying to push (or nudge) Sam where he didn't want to go, Dean waited, and let Sam set the pace.

"I was back at the house. Rick and Maddy Omeras'."

"Vision?" Dean asked as casually as he could manage.

He couldn't see Sam's face but knew from experience he was frowning. At least this time it wasn't Dean he was frustrated with. So that was something.

"More like a memory," Sam said.

"Layla's," Dean said, and it wasn't even a question. He didn't bother asking why his brother was getting random brain downloads from a kid whose parents were murdered by a demon they bagged a week ago. After all they had seen and experienced these last couple years, it just wasn't that big of a stretch.

"It was early in the morning," Sam was saying. "Still cold. Somebody must have been making breakfast because the house smelled like fresh coffee and bacon."

"Can we get to the part of the story that isn't gonna make me hungry?" Dean quipped, and Sam snorted humorlessly.

"Trust me," Sam said. "The next part's guaranteed to kill even your appetite. I went into the living room, and in the middle of the floor was a woman tied to a chair. She was . . . in a lot of pain. I couldn't make out everything she was saying, but she kept repeating the words, 'no, please' and 'I have a daughter.'"

Dean tried to picture Maddy Omera but all he could see was a grown-up version of Layla—blond hair and big, frightened eyes. He shuddered.

"That all you remember?" he said, tone a little huskier than he would have liked.

"I tried to get a better look, but . . . " Sam sounded so guilty that Dean had the urge to pat his back again, say it was okay. "I was behind her. I'm pretty sure her hair was supposed to be blond."

"Supposed to be?"

"There was a lot of blood."

"Jesus." Dean closed his eyes. It was enough that the kid was an orphan now. That she'd actually seen the demon kill her parents, at least her mother, seemed too cruel. Dean didn't believe in much of anything, but if he did he would have prayed that Layla not remember this.

"And then it was like I blacked out for a few minutes. When I woke up, I knew she was dead."

"Was it the demon bitch who did it? One we wasted in Georgia?"

"I guess. I couldn't see her face, but . . . I mean, that makes sense. I wish we'd kept her alive for a while," Sam said darkly. "I wish we hadn't exorcised her so quickly."

Dean hadn't heard his brother's voice take on that tone in about nine months. The one that vowed not just retribution but pain, and promised to take a lot of pleasure in the process.

"Yeah, well," Dean said facing forward. "Can't get much deader than dead."

"Oh God. Dean. I could smell bacon frying."

"Yeah, you mentioned the bacon."

"Her parents must have been cooking breakfast when the demon . . . when it came. I brought bacon and egg sandwiches back to the room that day she ran off. Do you think that's why . . .?"

"I don't know. And there's no way for you to either. Focusing on mistakes we made ain't gonna help her now. Right?"

Sam sighed. He sounded like himself again, worn-weary and too old for twenty-six.

"I'm just . . . so tired."

"What was that?" Dean asked even though he had heard Sam just fine.

"I don't wanna let her go, Dean. Not her too, okay?"

"Okay," Dean said.

Anything, Sam.

--