A/N: This is a two part sequel to my other fic This Woman and this Man. Don't have to read the other one, but I think it'll help to understand this one. I meant for this to be a one chapter story, but I got bitten by a plot bunny and it got elongated. Also didn't mean for this to be a songfic, but just started hearing the song as I was writing and had to put it in.

Song is "Sound the Bugle" by Bryan Adams.

Disclaimer: Its so funny that ya'll keep thinking I make money from these stories. You know something I don't?

Sound the Bugle

Sound the bugle now - play it just for me
As the seasons change - remember how I used to be
Now I can't go on - I can't even start
I've got nothing left - just an empty heart

He's sitting in a dirty little diner is some forgettable little town in some county that he can't remember. There's news papers spread before him, obituaries, strange cases, irregular disappearances. It's what his life consists of; these little clippings about lives he knows nothing of. Can't make himself care for. They're just cases, numbers in his life. A family saved in Indiana, teenagers rescued in Ohio, a man's house cleaned of poltergeists. It's all they mean to him anymore. Once he'd cared more, once he'd cared about and remembered each life. Now that was all gone.

"Hey, hon, can I get you anything else?"

The waitress is a pretty blond bimbo, all bust and legs and cherry lips, probably full of ambitions to go to Hollywood. The question is asked in an enticing purr and once he would have been all charm and "let's go out back" grin. But now he looks up and just smiles politely and shakes his head. She pouts and flounces off after leaving his check and he drops his eyes back to the papers unable to quite read the lines. He's coming to the slow realization that he doesn't know who he is anymore or what he's supposed to be doing. Before everything seemed so simple. He was hunting because his father told him to hunt. Then he was hunting to get the thing that got mom, to keep Sammy safe. Then he was hunting to run away, to hide from the one person he loved and hurt the most. But now… now there was nothing. Sammy was gone, settled down with his wife and hell, they were even expecting a kid in another week or so. Just another person whose life he'd pass through every now and then. He was just a memory, sometimes pleasant, sometimes just plain annoying, but not needed. No one needed him anymore. Not even this job needed him. There were other people, other hunters out there who could do what he did, even do it better. So why keep doing it? He can't even be with girls anymore because all he wants is her, but he can't go back. He has nothing to offer, nothing to give. All he knows is how to hunt and hustle pool and scam credit card companies. What does he have to offer a rich man's daughter? So he can't go back and he can't make himself want anyone else. He's got nothing; empty.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

I'm a soldier - wounded so I must give up the fight
There's nothing more for me - lead me away...
Or leave me lying here

He can hear his head crack as he slams into the wall. It's this dull sickening crunch that travels to his ears in a round about way, taking a few moments for him to understand. Fuck. Shit. It's a cold hard litany rambling through his brain as blackness dances in front of his vision, encroaching eagerly on the sidelines. It's a tempting thought to let it, to just give into the pain and let it take him away. But there's red eyes looming in his blurry vision, cutting through the pain and fatigue. The thick scent of sulfur and blood is a toxic tangle invading his senses as the beast stalks closer. There's no acidic slaver dripping from its jaws like all those B rate horror movies say, only the blood it's gleaned from his body. His chest and one leg is shredded, ribs cracked, and he's bleeding to death, never mind the head wound. It's his own fault really. He didn't take the time to check this case out, do the leg work. He'd just rode up and busted through that old rotted door of another old rotted house without a care for the consequences. Because, truth be told, he doesn't really give a shit if he makes it out of this one alive. He doesn't care. He's so fucking tired, this thing can eat him right now and it won't bother him. His blood and flesh will just mingle with the stupid kids sprayed across the walls and floor that called this thing up. Really, it was bound to happen some time. Why not this one?

But when those jaws are hovering over his head, fetid sulfur and brimstone breath choking him in the smell of Hell, he finds the strength to raise his bruised and battered arm and aim the gun at the thing's –what the hell is it anyway? Hell hound? - chest. His fingers are bloody and slipping on the grip and its hard to hold steady, but he squeezes the trigger and the consecrated rounds, blessed and dipped in holy water, rip through the beast. There's no sound, just a silent howl of agony as he keeps squeezing the trigger until it fades to nothing, disintegrated ashes floating away on a supernatural wind. His arm falls to the floor with a dull thud, into a pool of his own blood and some one else's as blackness takes over his mind.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Sound the bugle now - tell them I don't care
There's not a road I know - that leads to anywhere
Without a light I fear that I will - stumble in the dark
Lay right down - decide not to go on

Vision is an obscure thing, something his mind can't focus on but refuses to let go. But his other senses help to build the picture. Smell assaults him first. The sharp metallic scent of blood, the fading odor of sulfur, and underlying both the beginning scent of death and the must created by the old house. Sound. A hushed clap of thunder in the distance. The house is creaking but there's nothing else. No people, no animals. Touch. The wood is rough under his cheek, the hard surface making his broken body ache. He can feel the blood under his fingers, soaking his clothing. He can still feel it leaking out of his body in slow rivers. He's dying. Through the pain and haze and just pure exhaustion, he knows he's dying. And he can't care. He's tired, so fucking tired of everything that he just doesn't want to move. If he doesn't do anything he'll just die here and maybe some one will find his body and eventually Sammy will be tracked down and told and maybe not. He doesn't care. That's sort of an awakening thought, digging through the fog of fatigue and blood loss. He's always cared about Sam, what he felt, how he was doing. Half the times he hangs on because his little brother needed him. Now there's nothing. Now all he wants to do is rest. He curls his head in towards his shoulder like he does just before he goes to sleep. He lets his eyes close and drifts away.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Then from on high - somewhere in the distance
There's a voice that calls - remember who your are
If you lose yourself - your courage soon will follow
So be strong tonight - remember who you are

Yeah you're a soldier now - fighting in a battle
To be free once more -Yeah that's worth fighting for

"Come on, son. Stay with me."

"Dad, I'm tired. I need to rest."

"Not right now. We're almost there. You can sleep when we get to the car."

"Dad, the car is really far. I don't think I can make it."

"Yes you can, Dean. Yes you can."

He stumbles and nearly falls. The only reason he's standing is his father's arm around his shoulders. "Please. Just let me go."

"No!" A slap stings across his cheek, adding blood to a mouth that's already full with it. "You don't give up. You're my son. You don't give up."

It's a memory from another time, another hunt, but his father's voice is just as strong now as it was then dragging him from unconsciousness.

"Just let me go, dad. I just want to rest."

"Dean!"

It's Sam and he's frightened and panicked, kneeling over him and shaking his shoulders. He just wants him to go and leave him alone. The demon's dead now. He should be allowed to rest.

"Leave me alone, Sam."

"No. I won't let you go."

There's an arm gathering under his shoulders, lifting him from where he lays bleeding on the ground. "Please, Sam. It's dead. I don't wanna do this anymore."

Then Sam's holding his face and staring him down and he can see the blood.

"Don't you dare quit on me. Don't you dare. You're my brother. You don't quit."

"But I want to, Sam. After all I've done, it's my right. I have a right to stop." The blackness is encroaching again, persistent, demanding that he just give in, a sweet seductress that he wants to follow.

"What is it, Dean?"

She's sitting beside him on the bed of a motel, his hands dangling between his knees, head bowed. On the other bed Sam is sound asleep, one hand curled under his pillow, the other draped across his mid section.

"Nothing." It's a lie he knows she'll see through, but he wouldn't be him if he didn't try to deny.

She curls her head onto his shoulder, cuddling against his side. "Something's bothering you." She rubs her cheek against him, the old worn out shirt soft and comforting. "Tell me."

He lets his head drift to rest on hers, breathing deep the scent of her hair, the softness of it against his skin. So real and comforting it's almost painful. "Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever find it," he tells her quietly. "All our lives…. It's all we've done. Hunt for this son of a bitch. For over twenty years all we've done is look for him. Why would be any closer now than when we were when we began? Sometimes it feels like it would be easier, better if we gave up."

They both know she can't give him an answer and she doesn't try. All she can give him is hope, something to hold onto. "I don't know, Dean. I wish I did, but I don't." She caught his chin in her fingertips and tilted it towards her upturned face. "You could find it tomorrow or twenty years from now." He tried to look away, but she held him tighter. "But that doesn't mean you have to be alone. I'll be here, Dean, for you. For always." She stretches up and presses a chaste kiss upon his mouth before settling on his shoulder again. "Besides, you're you, Dean. You don't know how to give up."

They're right. He's a Winchester. He's John Winchester's son. They don't give up. So he pushes himself to his knees, ignoring the screaming in his body, the lurching in his brain. Finds the wall with his hand and clings to it and he fights himself upright. Legs shaking sweat beading in between all the blood. Or maybe he's sweating blood. Gritting his teeth as everything in him fights against each movement, each small staggering step towards survival.

Outside it's begun to rain, a soft patter against the dirt and his car. He's in the middle of Who-Knows-Where and the nearest hospital is over an hour away, but it's his only hope. He's leaving a blood trail, sticky footprints of his fading life. Getting into the car is a painful ordeal, squeezing and pulling at his wounds and breathing is a harsh rasp and unconsciousness a very real fear. But he's in and he's conscious and stepping on the pedal. At this time of night the highway is empty and it's just him and the rain. There's a steady beat comprised of his throbbing body, tapping rain, and the thrum of the engine, soothing and begging that he just lay his head down and rest.

No. Winchester. We don't give up.

But rest is an enticing seductress who wants him to follow her and he has such a long way to go, such a hard road to fight to survive. And he's tired.

"Do you love me?" She's lying atop him, resting her chin on her crossed arms on his chest. Her hair is down, the thick dark ringlets falling across her pale shoulders, brushing his skin.

His hand reaches up and he smoothes his thumb across her full lower lip. Here in this moment he's full, complete. Outside of this nothing matters. No evil, no demon to kill. It's just them and he needs nothing else anymore. "Yeah."

There's a light blinding through his windshield and the indignant terrified scream of a car horn. He jerks the Impala back to his side of the road, shaking with not only the near death experience but the strain to stay awake, to keep fighting on and on.

She's plastered against the wall of the crypt, eyes wide and terrified, hands clutching the gun until her skin is white, finger still pulling the trigger, but the gun is empty. There's a cut on her cheek and as soon as he sees it, he's at her side taking the gun, tangling his hand in her hair, stroking the side of her face.

"You okay?" He's yelling it over and over because she's not looking at him, just staring where the ghost used to be.

"Try kissing her," Sam suggests from the other side of the crypt, small amused smile playing around his mouth as he pokes around.

Dean gives him the famous pissed off look before returning to Ally. But she's still not responding so he follows Sam's advice and presses his mouth to hers. When he pulls away she hasn't moved but she's focused on him.

"Dean?"

He lets out a shaky relieved breath. He knows this job can traumatize people and though she's seen worse she's never had to pull the trigger before. "Yeah. You okay, babe?"

She swallows, tongue glancing across her lips. "You taste like shit."

Somewhere in the background Sam quite literally cackled.

Ahead there are lights flickering through the rain and the dark, beckoning him to hold on just a little longer. It feels as if there are bugs behind his eyes, clawing to be released. His body is heavy, thick and swollen with pain though his life essence was leaking away.

"I love you, Dean." "Can we move past this?" "If you let us." "Pretend that all we were was friends." Her words are echoing in his mind, giving him the strength to go that last distance, to hold on and keep the wheel steady. "Can we move past this?" "You know what I want." "I love you, Dean. Always."

Always. Always. Always. It's his chant, his litany, the one thing he can focus on so he can fight, so he can make it. To live.

He almost flips his car when he veers into the turn, hitting the brakes so hard, so fast he hits the steering wheel and he almost passes out from the pain. But he can still hear her voice, his father's, his brother's, and they drive him from the car, to stumble through the doors. The hospital's emergency room is blinding and it breaks the last fabric of his will as it seers through his brain. As the world starts spinning and he falls to the floor he can see the startled faces of the nurses and doctors.

Hope you enjoyed so far. There's more if you did.