Part 2

Part 2

They pulled into Sarah's driveway at a quarter to nine, Sam painfully alert despite the fact that he hadn't slept more than two hours at a stretch since Chicago.

"You want me to pull over so we can switch spots?" Dean had asked him a half hour before. "Make her think I let you drive sometimes?"

Sam shot him a look that he hoped discouraged further commentary.

"O-kay," Dean had said, leaving Sam to press his face against the window and watch the suburbs bleed past.

Sarah had a small ranch in a nice part of town—the kind with lots of kids and lawnmowers and a good-sized library. She answered the door wearing jeans and a loose gray top that left her arms bare. Her hair was shorter than Sam remembered, barely skimming her shoulders. He suddenly recalled how much he genuinely liked her.

"Hey, guys," she greeted them, and the smile she flashed was bright and true and showed in her eyes. It was kind of nice—strange, but nice—for someone to be glad to see them.

Sarah's eyes searched the porch for Layla, discovered her hiding behind Sam's legs.

"Hi, I'm Sarah."

Sam dropped a hand on Layla's shoulder, gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze before drawing her out.

"Wow," Layla said. "Dean's right, you are really pretty."

There was an awkward silence. Dean actually blushed. Sam opened his arms and forced a smile.

"Hey, Sarah, how've you been?"

She felt good, and familiar like a place you haven't been in a long time—all soft, warm girl against his chest. He tried to remember the last real hug he'd had. Dean, up against the wall outside Bobby's. The sun was climbing the sky and Dean's mouth was sucking the beginnings of a hickey into his throat. Dean's skin was warm from the sun, damp from his early-morning run, and Sam had clung for an extra few seconds.

Did that count as hugging?

Sarah let go too soon, pausing to brush a kiss over Sam's cheek before pulling away and turning to his brother.

"Did you miss us?" Dean asked, cocky smile firmly in place again.

Sarah smiled and hugged him, too, before inviting them all inside. They followed her through an entryway and into the living room, which was warm and homey, a fire burning in the fireplace. A few artfully placed black and white photographs decorated the walls. Sam didn't see any paintings.

Always subtle, Dean cleared his throat loudly.

"Nice place you got here."

"You guys must be exhausted," she said. "Come on. I'll give you the tour, brief though it may be, and show you where to sleep."

A hallway to the right of the living room led to the bedrooms—master suite to the left, to the right an office and the spare room all the way at the far end.

"There's a pullout couch in the office. I thought that would be good for Layla. It's all made up, extra pillows . . ." She smiled at Layla, blinking when she didn't get a response. "I'm afraid the guest room only has a queen. Sorry."

"It's fine," Sam said. "Really, don't worry about us."

"I thought you guys wouldn't mind too much," she said. "Sharing hotel rooms all these years . . . I figured it wouldn't be the first time you slept together."

Sam was glad they weren't eating or drinking because Dean totally would have choked.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, "why don't you get Layla settled in her room?"

"I'm not sleepy," Layla said, making Sam wonder how many times he'd attempted that same line of reasoning with Dad, with Dean. Dean was more likely to cave, allowing Sam an extra half hour of TV-time wrapped up in the scratchy wool blanket they kept thrown over the back of the couch, pretending not to be afraid of whatever monster movie Dean was engrossed in.

"You don't have to sleep," Sam said. "You can lie in bed and read." He swung his backpack down from his shoulders and gave it to her. "Harry's in the big pocket, okay?"

"I wanna stay up with you," she whined.

Dean reached down to ruffle her hair.

"Be good and I'll tell you about the time Sam ripped his shorts open in front of half the field hockey team," he promised.

"Are you gonna leave me here?" Layla said.

Dean looked sort of stunned. Sarah licked her lips and stared politely at her feet, bare and brown against the floor.

"I don't wanna stay here," Layla whispered, presumably for Sarah's benefit, and Sam wondered vaguely if they were succeeding at teaching her manners. He crouched down in front of her, resting his palms on his knees, and looked her square in the eye.

"I promise we're not going to leave you here, Layla."

She studied his face for a second before she seemed to decide he was telling the truth. She relaxed, shoulders slumping before she drew them straight again.

"You don't have to put me to bed," she told Dean.

"Uh, I don't mind," Dean said, and she shook her head fiercely.

"I'm not a baby. I can tuck myself in." She picked up Sam's backpack by the handle and lugged it into the office, where she set it by the bed.

"Okay, Layla," Sam said because Dean was still staring with a blank sort of expression on his face. "We'll be right next door if you need us. G'night."

And then they were left alone in the hall, three adults looking and feeling increasingly awkward.

"Is she . . .?" Sarah began.

"Fine," Sam said. "Except that . . . except that that's a total lie. She's the exact opposite of fine." He let out a short bark of a laugh. "Dean and I don't have a clue what we're doing. It's just been this wild guessing game since we took her in, not knowing what's going to help and what's gonna make things a hundred times worse, and, this is going to sound horribly sexist, but seriously, Sarah? We could really use a woman's point of view."

Sarah opened her mouth but Dean spoke up before she could say anything.

"I'm goin' to bed."

Sarah blinked, pushing away from the wall with the flat of her hand.

"You guys must be exhausted. I'll show you where the towels are and let you get some sleep—"

"Sam slept a bunch in the car," Dean interrupted before Sam could respond. "Right, Sammy? Anyway, how long's it been since you guys have seen each other? Uh huh, you oughta spend some time getting reacquainted. Night, you two."

He went into the spare room and shut the door before anyone could argue.

"Hey," Sarah said. "How about I make you a sexist sandwich and we sit down and talk?"

Sam laughed.

"Tell you what: I'll make you a sandwich. How's that?"

They sat facing each other across the breakfast bar, eating grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches and drinking herbal tea.

"So," Sarah said, licking crumbs from the tip of her finger. "If I asked you what you've been doing the last few years, is there a chance in Hell you'd tell me?"

"Hell was sort of the highlight. Trust me, you don't wanna know."

"You're tired, so I'll let you get away with that for now."

"I appreciate it," he said chuckling. He took a sip of tea even though he knew it was still too hot and immediately scalded his tongue.

"Tell me about Layla," she asked, settling back in her chair. And Sam told her everything they knew about the demon and the abandoned house and the fire. He told her about the Omeras and the house in Maine, and about the vision he had, and how they thought Layla had witnessed her parents' deaths.

"Most of the time she's a regular kid. Jokes with me and Dean. Asks to stay up past bedtime . . . But then there are the nightmares. She'll wake up screaming her head off, won't tell us what she was dreaming about. A couple times she's wandered off."

Like at the truck stop outside Chicago where they gassed up. They left a sleeping Layla in the Impala while Dean went to take a leak and Sam headed inside to buy drinks; when they got back to the car she was gone. Naturally they'd panicked, Dean interrogating random motorists and Sam trying hard not to envision all the gruesome possibilities for what could happen to a little kid alone on a desolate stretch of highway. Luckily, before Sam could have a panic attack, and before Dean could commit any homicides, Sam found Layla sitting on a picnic table in a patch of grass. She was staring into the setting sun, a trance-like expression on her face.

"What were you thinking?" Sam had asked, picking her up and shaking her a little. "You could have gotten hurt!" Layla blinked at him, murmuring that she was sorry over and over.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean had said when he jogged over. He scooped Layla out of Sam's arms and onto his hip even though she was really too big for them to carry her around like that. "Can't you see she's freaked?"

"Dean, she could have been . . . " Sam didn't bother finishing the sentence. Dean knew as well as he what could have happened. Instead, he went into the filthy men's room, splashed cool water on his face and waited for his breathing to return to normal.

"Do you think she might try to hurt herself?" Sarah asked now, a frown crinkling her face above the lip of her teacup.

"We don't know why the demon took her, Sarah. And until we find out we're pretty much in the dark. She might try to hurt herself . . . or someone else. Listen, Sarah, if you wanted us to go, I'd understand."

"You're not going anywhere, Sam. Any of you."

"I just don't want you to think you owe me anything."

"Wow, Sam. I don't remember you being this stupid."

"Yeah, well, I've had some time to practice," he muttered. "Still, I want you to sleep with you door locked. And, if you agree, I'm going to have Dean teach you how to use a gun."

"Why don't you teach me?"

"Don't tell Dean this, but he's a better shot. I could give you a few lessons in basic self-defense if you wanted." He stared glumly into the dredges of his tea, cold and too-sweet way down at the bottom of the mug. "I hate forcing all this on you," he said.

"Seriously, Sam. If you keep saying stupid stuff I'm going to start wondering why I ever agreed to go on a date."

"I'm not kidding, Sarah." Sam put down his cup. "This stuff isn't a joke. And this world, Dean's and mine, isn't a nice place."

"Really," she said flatly, "because I thought it was all kittens and sunshine."

Sam felt a little stab of anger that was tempered by a glance at her face, and those strong intelligent eyes of hers.

"I wish we'd had more than just the one date," he said before he could reconsider.

She didn't smile but her expression softened somewhat.

"If I lock my door at night I might be keeping certain people out. People I might want to come inside."

"Sarah." He didn't say anything else, just stared at his empty plate.

"No offense," she said. "You're a good-looking guy, Sam. But right now you look awful."

"Thanks," he laughed. "You look amazing, still."

--

Dean was asleep when Sam finally got to bed, sometime after three. Of course he was passed out in the middle of the bed, and Sam stood there shivering in his shorts and shoved at Dean's shoulder until Dean reluctantly rolled over.

"Get laid?" Dean asked, a sleepy mumble from the other side of the bed.

Sam sighed, mumbled something noncommittal. He didn't want to have this conversation—fight—just now. Just now he wanted to sleep for an eon. Of course, Dean had never been good at sensing Sam's moods. Or rather, he could sense when Sam wanted to be left alone, just chose not to accommodate him.

"What was that, Sammy? Couldn't hear ya."

"I said, we talked."

"Dirty?"

"Go to sleep, Dean."

--

In the morning, Layla sulked and refused to eat the cinnamon buns Sarah made before leaving for work.

"I said I don't want it," Layla protested when Sam pressed the issue.

Dean deliberately buried his nose in the sports' section. Sam leaned over to kick him under the table.

"What?" Dean mouthed. He added softly, "You don't need my permission, dude."

Sam sighed and turned to Layla, who was slumped down in her chair, lip twisted in a sneer that looked ridiculous on a seven-year old with a mustache made of OJ.

"If you don't want a cinnamon bun, you can have cereal. But you need to eat, all right?"

Dean wrinkled his nose and murmured something that sounded suspiciously like, "You're not asking, Sammy."

"I'm not hungry!" Layla exclaimed, and Sam laid down his coffee mug and sat up straighter.

"I understand that you're upset with Dean and me for bringing you here. I get that you're scared, but that's not an excuse for acting like a brat. And if you keep acting that way, you're going to get punished." He managed not to tack a nervous 'okay' on the end of his sentence, but couldn't quite refrain from glancing at Dean for approval. Dammit.

Layla's mouth had fallen open and she was sitting up in her chair.

"How?" she asked, her voice a whisper.

"Uh . . .what was that?"

"How are you going to punish me? Are you gonna spank me?"

She looked at once horrified and fascinated, and Sam found himself squirming in his chair.

"Uh . . . I don't. I mean—"

He slanted a glance at Dean, who was shaking with silent laughter. Dean took pity on him and reached over to tweak Layla's ponytail.

"Sam only spanks girls when they've been really bad," he told her, winking.

"I'll be good," Layla said a little breathlessly. She darted a look at Sam under her bangs before blushing and looking away. She was grinning when she selected the biggest cinnamon bun from the platter in the middle of the table.

Sam took a long sip of coffee and pretended to ignore the way Dean was grinning over the rim of his cup.

--

It took a few days, but Layla seemed to come around to the idea that Sam and Dean weren't going to abandon her in upstate New York. She even consented to a shopping trip with Sarah on Saturday morning, though she wouldn't get in the car until they promised they would be home, waiting, when she returned.

She seemed sweetly, sadly relieved to find them in the kitchen drinking coffee, Sarah's table buried beneath a layer of books and papers.

"Did you have a good time?" Sam asked, and Layla just shrugged. She wormed between his and Dean's chairs.

Sam looked at Sarah, tried to transpose his face into an apology. She just smiled and asked if anyone needed a refill before going to the coffee maker.

Layla was burrowing against Dean, trying to see what he was reading. Sam, who thought demon sex rituals might not be the most appropriate topic for a seven-year old, kicked Dean under the table.

Dean kicked back amicably before closing the book with a dusty belch. He snaked an arm out to tickle Layla in the ribs.

"You had me worried," he said, giving her braid a tug. "Thought you might come back wearing a dress or something."

"Layla, why don't you show the guys some of your new clothes?" Sarah suggested approaching the table.

Sam hurried to unearth one of the chairs for her, scooping a pile of news clippings onto the floor. Sarah offered a smile in thanks.

Layla made a face and rested her cheek against the side of Dean's arm. Sam frowned; she was an affectionate kid, sure, more every day she was with them. Clingy, though, that wasn't like her.

"They don't care about stupid girl clothes," Layla told Sarah. "If you knew them at all, you'd know that."

"Hey." Dean flicked her arm, apparently his preferred method of discipline. Come to think of it, Sam remembered receiving the same treatment when he had been particularly annoying as a kid. "I care plenty about girl clothes."

"Dean," Sam warned, but his brother merely grinned. "Show us what you got, Layla. Really, we wanna see."

Layla sighed dramatically and disappeared into the living room to retrieve the plastic bag containing her purchases.

Back in the kitchen, she laid the items out one by one—jeans and t-shirts, button-up sweaters in pale blue and purple, an orange flowered pajama set.

Sarah picked up a t-shirt with a butterfly pattern.

"This is going to look so pretty on you, Layla. You have an artistic eye."

Layla screwed up her face.

"I can pick out a shirt, I'm not a freakin' moron."

Sam opened his mouth but Dean beat him to it.

"Hey," he barked. "Watch it."

"Sorry," she murmured, voice already cracking under the strain.

"Good," Dean told her. "Now go to your room."

Layla looked up, eyes wet and shining.

"I don't have a room, I have an office!"

"Well go to your office!" Dean shouted back, and Layla burst into tears and turned and fled.

"Oh my God," Dean said when she was gone. He lowered his head to the tabletop and groaned. "I'm Dad."

Sam ignored him because that idea was just too disturbing to contemplate.

"Give us the bill for the clothes and we'll take care of it," he told Sarah.

"It's my treat," she said, lifting her chin.

"Sarah," Sam began, but Dean shook his head.

"Dude, we owe her for a lot more than clothes."

And Sam couldn't really argue with that. The coffee maker startled to gurgle, and Sarah went to the counter. Sam sighed and stood up, cracking his spine, which was stiff from sitting curved over the table too long.

"I should go talk to her."

Dean frowned.

"Sit and drink your coffee. I'll go have the Full House moment."

Sam shook his head.

"You just referenced Full House. I'm gonna be the one to talk to her from now on."

--

"I'm sorry," Layla said as soon as Sam nudged the door open. She was sitting on the fold-out bed, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes bright and wet and miserable.

Sam felt any lingering annoyance drain away and dropped down beside her.

"Yeah," he said because, he'd never been on this end of the discussion before and Jesus, it sucked just as much as the other side. "I know y'are."

Unable to help himself, he stroked a hand over her soft, kid hair.

"Sarah really likes you," he said. "You hurt her feelings before."

Layla made a snuffling sound, said nothing.

"She's my friend," Sam tried. "And she just wants to help."

Layla sighed, whispered something he didn't quite catch.

"What was that?"

"She's pretty cool," Layla said. "She took me to the bookstore and helped me pick out a really awesome book about kids who are also detectives."

"She is pretty cool," Sam agreed. "So why're you being a brat, huh?"

He gave her ponytail a light tug to let her know he wasn't really angry anymore.

Layla shrugged.

"First I thought you were gonna leave me here with her. And she's cool, but . . . I wanna stay with you and Dean."

"Yeah, I think we got that," Sam teased. "Anything else bothering you? Because you know, just because Sarah's my friend doesn't mean you and I aren't friends anymore—"

Layla giggled.

"I'm not dumb, Sam."

"I'm pretty sure no one would make that mistake," he agreed. "So, if it's not that—"

"Sam, will Dean stop liking me if I sometimes do girl stuff with Sarah? I still love the Ampala and stuff, but it was really fun picking out clothes, and Sarah let me get two colors of nail polish, purple and blue, and will Dean still like me if I paint my fingernails?"

She drew a deep breath as though the last had exhausted her. Sam had to bite the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood so he wouldn't laugh.

"Layla, I promise Dean will still like you. Even if you paint your fingernails and toenails."

Layla dropped her shoulders with a sigh of relief.

"Good." She lifted her head again, eyes wide. "Are you gonna spank me now?"

Sam groaned and flung himself back on the bed.

--

Dean had rented The Goonies and he and Layla were sprawled on the living room sofa, a box of Snow Caps propped between them. From the kitchen, Sam half-listened to their conversation. Dean was trying to convince Layla Sloth wasn't that bad-looking, much to Layla's noisy protests, and Sam, lost in his own thoughts, almost didn't hear Dean creep up behind him.

"You know what's funny?" Dean asked, sliding a hand in the back pocket of Sam's jeans and breathing over the back of his neck.

"What?" Sam said, automatically checking over his shoulder to be sure they were alone.

"She wasn't worried that you'd stop liking her."

"Maybe she's just more secure in our relationship," Sam said, dipping a wooden spoon in the sauce to sample.

"Or maybe," Dean said, leaning in to lick a speck of sauce from the corner of Sam's mouth, "she just thinks you're a big girl."

Sam replaced the spoon on the stove and laid a hand over Dean's dick, the other sliding around to curl in the small of his back.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean said, twisting away.

Sam let him go but met his gaze with hard eyes.

"I'm not the only one who needs this." He tried not to let the desperation creep into his tone but figured it was a losing effort. It had been too damn long and he needed to touch.

"God, you're a pushy bitch," Dean sighed, but he slid a warm hand over Sam's collarbone and squeezed. "Soon, dude. Okay?"

Dean turned and staggered into the living room, calling, "Sloth want Layla," in a grumbly monster-voice until Sam was laughing too hard to stir the sauce.

--

So slowly.

If Sam didn't know better, hadn't seen certain proof to the contrary with his own two eyes, he would have thought Dean wanted to kill him.

Dean's tongue traced a wide wet path along Sam's belly before his teeth closed none-too-gently over Sam's hipbone.

"Ow," Sam hissed at the almost-pain.

"Good ow or bad ow?" Dean asked, lifting his head.

Sam palmed Dean's head, his fingers conforming to the shape of Dean's skull, and pressed down instead of answering.

Dean bit him again and then pressed a kiss where the skin was still tender. Sam loved when Dean used his teeth, perfectly straight and white, and no way was that from regular trips to the dentist. Sam couldn't remember ever visiting a dentist until he was nineteen years old and on the college's health plan. (He'd had seventy-three stitches by then, and four broken bones, and none of that had seemed as terrifying as letting some dentist scrape his gums. The first time, Jess offered to hold his hand and it took every ounce of bravery Sam possessed not to take her up on it.)

As a kid, Dean had been obsessive when it came to his teeth—maybe he anticipated how important his mouth would be in the future—and would spend long minutes in front of the mirror each night, brushing and flossing and gargling with that vile blue wash that made Sam want to gag. Most nights Dean hauled Sam into the bathroom by his sleeve, held him until he brushed to Dean's satisfaction. Sam supposed he could thank Dean for the fact that all his teeth didn't fall out before he was twenty-five.

Maybe he should be more worried by that: how easy it was to merge the Dean who played a significant role in raising him with the one currently licking a horizontal stripe across Sam's belly. Sam didn't plan to lose much sleep over the matter. He figured the world owed them this.

He knew it was harder for Dean. Dean who believed he could protect Sam from everything, from gingivitus to death, if only he tried hard enough, sacrificed enough.

Dean kissed into the crease of Sam's thigh, his lips mouthing along soft worn flannel. He hesitated, cheek pressed to the raised crotch of Sam's pajama pants, breath trailing across Sam's bare belly, seemingly lost in thought.

"Dean?"

Dean thrust a hand under the waist of Sam's pants and started pulling him off in long slow strokes.

"Fuck," Sam hissed, neck arching back.

Sam let the sensation coil in his gut, building and warming, gaining in intensity until he realized Dean wasn't really paying attention. He continued jerking Sam but his mind wasn't there, Sam could tell.

"Hey," Sam said. "You okay? You seem kinda distracted, man."

Dean sighed and sat up, swiping a hand over spit-slick lips. He hovered over Sam, gold-ringed green eyes boring into Sam's own.

"I don't have a problem, Sam. Do you?"

No, Sam decided, clamping a hand down on the back of Dean's neck. No problems here. He opened his mouth and let Dean lick his way in. This close, Dean seemed to relax, to breathe easier. Like even he couldn't fail to protect Sam when they were this wrapped up in each other.

Sam had spent twenty-five years, give or take, in pursuit of a normal life while Dean spent most of the same time fighting against one. When they were kids, Dean dogged Dad's every step—learning to shoot or slice with every weapon in John's arsenal, dutifully pouring over the Latin texts when it was clear he didn't have the ear for Spanish—while Sam asked for trapper keepers and library cards and Snoopy valentines for his homeroom class.

Now it was Dean trying to preserve a sliver of normality while Sam had long stopped caring what anyone else thought. Though, to be fair, there were few people left to care. Bobby. Ellen.

Sam supposed he should think about laws and codes and moral rights and wrongs, but right now he was more interested in what Dean was doing with that beautiful, well-cared-for mouth.

"Hey," Dean said now, breath chuffing warm and amused in Sam's ear. "Remind me which of us is distracted."

"I'm gonna suck you off now," Sam said carefully, as though deciding it just then.

"Jesus," Dean said, a shudder rolling through his body as Sam climbed on top.

One second Sam was kissing Dean, wet and filthy-deep, and the next he heard the creak of the door opening, saw light from the hall spilling into the room.

He noticed her feet first, small and bare beneath the trailing hem of her pajama pants.

Her eyes were staring, vacant, not dark with demon-possession but not wholly present either. Dangling limply at her side, like a teddy bear held by its leg, was an eight-inch meat cleaver from Sarah's kitchen. She stood in the doorway, watching without seeing, waiting.

Dean got there first, though not by much. Sam was by his side in time to watch Dean's fingers ensnare her tiny wrist, trying to force her to drop the knife. Two hours ago that same hand, its fingernails dark with the Violent Violet polish she chose herself, turned the pages of Harry Potter.

Layla, or the thing inhabiting her body, let out a shriek when Dean finally shook the knife free from her grasp. Sam heard something crack, snatched up the knife and threw it across the room. He turned back to see Layla slump forward into Dean's chest, the fight seemingly gone out of her.

"Dean," Sam murmured, not even sure what he was trying to warn his brother against.

"Get the light, Sam," Dean said, and Sam obeyed, not knowing what else to do.

He hurried to flick on the bedside lamp, and when he returned Dean had lifted Layla onto the bed.

For the first time, Sam noticed the thin line of silvery red running down Dean's forearm like a strand of thread, marveled that Dean hadn't uttered a sound when the knife sliced him. Yet another legacy of being born a Winchester—the ability to deny hurt until you literally bled to death.

Sam caught Dean's gaze before lowering himself gingerly to the bed, preparing to grab Layla by the shoulders if she spazzed again. She was starting to stir, face crumpling like she was in pain, breath coming faster.

She opened her eyes, and Sam almost sagged with relief when her long-lashed brown gaze locked with his.

"Sam?"

"It's okay, shhh." He glanced at Dean, who was curiously silent, before leaning forward to slide a hand through Layla's hair, murmur some more nonsense to quiet her. "You're okay."

She had her lower lip clamped tightly between her teeth, her breath still coming in harsh pants. She glanced over at Dean, and Sam noticed the liquid gleam in her eyes, realized she was struggling not to cry.

Sam moved to pull her in for a hug but Dean stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Don't, Sam," he said gruffly.

"What? Why?"

Dean gave a little jerk of his head, and Sam followed the motion. In the soft glow of the lamplight, Sam could just see that Layla's right wrist was beginning to swell.

"I think I broke her arm," Dean said quietly.

--

"It's not your fault," Sam whispered.

Beside him, Sarah made a face and pushed away from the counter against which they were both leaning. She crossed to the window of the tiny room and parted the blinds, peering out over the still, silent parking lot.

After a long moment, she turned, burrowing deeper into the hooded sweatshirt she wore over her pajamas. Her shoulders dug down, causing the soft gray material to bus her cheek, and Sam marveled at how beautiful she managed to look under fluorescent hospital lights in the middle of the goddamn night.

"Yeah, Sam. I realize that. Doesn't mean I shouldn't have remembered to lock up those knives."

Sam sighed and considered resting a friendly hand on her shoulder, in comfort or apology, he wasn't sure which. He had just decided it would be safer to stick his hands in his jacket pockets when the door opened, and an orderly wheeled Layla inside.

"Hey," Sam said when the orderly had left again. "Pretty cool cast you got there." He grinned and gestured to the black plaster swathing her lower arm to the elbow.

"Thanks," Layla said, "Where's Dean?" and Sam had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Layla had been asking that very question, or a variation on the theme, since Dean's rapid disappearance upon their arrival at the ER. Sam got the hero-worship thing, he really did, but a guy could only take so much.

"He, uh . . . " Well, Layla, he's blaming himself for this just like he does everything else. And God, when you grow up I hope you have better taste in men than I do. "Dean is—"

"He's probably out buying you the softest teddy bear he can find," Sarah interrupted, pushing past Sam to rest a hand on Layla's shoulder.

Layla smiled faintly and clutched her injured arm to her chest.

"Okay," she said around a yawn.

"Tired?" Sarah asked softly, and Layla shrugged.

"They asked a lot of questions."

Sam and Sarah exchanged meaningful glances.

"What, uh, what kind of questions?" Sam asked casually.

Layla shrugged again and traced an idle finger along the top of her cast.

"Whether I hurt myself a lot."

"What did you tell them?" Sam asked, heart hammering and eyes scanning the exits in case they had to make an abrupt departure.

"I told them I never broke any bones before but wouldn't it be cool if they could regrow them like in Harry Potter? But the lady didn't laugh, I guess she didn't read it. Then she asked how I broke my wrist, and I told them I tripped like you said. She asked next what I tripped over, and I said it was the dog, and when she asked what kind of dog, I said a spaniel—that's a kind right—and, Sam, maybe we could get a dog?" she finished on another yawn.

Sam sighed, fear trickling out on a sharp, humorless laugh. He leaned back against the counter, afraid his knees would buckle and he'd really make an idiot of himself. He wanted to laugh and cry because, well, two weeks in their company and already she was lying to ER docs.

"Are you okay, Sam?" Layla asked. "And do you think Dean will be back soon?"

"Pretty safe bet," a voice said from the doorway, and Sam lifted his head at the familiar sound.

He resisted the urge to ask, Where the Hell have you been? He didn't want to hear whatever piece of fiction Dean had at the ready.

"I'm going to go make sure the paperwork's settled," Sarah said before slipping quietly out the door, one hand squeezing Dean's arm in passing. Dean didn't pull away from her touch but Sam could tell it was an effort for him to refrain.

Layla was squirming around in her chair, excited by Dean's presence but trying to play it cool. Sam wished she'd just stop moving before she broke the other arm, and Christ, when did he turn into such a worrywart? Always have been, Sammy, that's what Dean would say. Dean, Sam decided, was a frikkin' hypocrite.

"All patched up?" Dean said, offering Layla a ghost of his usual smirk. The skin around his mouth was drawn tight, his eyes black holes against the white of his face. Sam knew he wasn't just suffering from lack of sleep.

"Dean, wanna see my cast?" Layla asked, practically bouncing now.

She held up her arm for Dean's inspection, and his fingers hovered over the plaster, not quite touching. After a moment he withdrew his hand, and backed up a pace. Like he was scared to get too close.

"My favorite color," he said easily, then cleared his throat and added, "Whadda ya say we get outta this place and go home?"

--

Dean lingered in Sarah's home office, hugging the wall while Sam tucked Layla underneath a pile of blankets and fed her painkillers.

When she was settled, Sam opened Harry and began to read; by the third paragraph Layla was already starting to fade.

"Get some sleep," he murmured, sliding a hand along her hair at the crown.

"Wait." She thrust out her good arm. "Sam."

"Yeah, 'm right here," he said softly, but she just shook her head.

"Other Sam."

Behind him, Dean snorted and tossed the stuffed monkey he'd been holding at Sam's chest. Sam caught it, glared down at the black and brown ball of fur before sighing and handing it over.

"Can you tuck Little Sam in too?" Layla asked, and she probably would have pulled it off, too, if she weren't so doped up on pain pills.

"How much did Dean pay you to ask me that?" Sam wondered aloud.

Layla's face split into a grin but she said nothing, already a disciple of Dean's school of not squealing on . . . well, Dean.

"Next time hold out for double," Sam advised, and tucked in the damn monkey before crossing to the light switch. "Sleep tight, okay?"

He drew the door shut and secured the chain before turning to face his brother. Dean's head was bowed so Sam couldn't see his face, but the tight line of his shoulders gave him away. He looked ready to crack open.

"We need to talk," Sam said quietly, not sure if Dean was more likely to break down or throw a punch in his current state, kind of hoping it was the latter.

"Not now, Sam," was the response, and okay yeah, that got him pissed. Dean acted like Sam was always after an emotional heart-to-heart when really all Sam wanted was to keep them breathing. And as hard as it was for Dean to believe, their survival occasionally depended on them having an actual conversation. Sam thought it was funny and also really annoying that Dean expected him to share his every worry and vision and freaking ass-ache without ever reciprocating. Dean liked to tell Sam they were partners but what he meant by that was that Sam should lean on Dean, not the other way around. Sam was good and sick of it.

"Uh, yeah, it's definitely going to be now," Sam said in a voice that brooked no argument. "Go have a drink if you need to, but we're sitting down in ten minutes, and we're talking."

He didn't wait for an answer, would have been surprised if Dean offered one. Instead he crouched down by the duffle bag he'd left outside Layla's room. He retrieved the salt canister and shook a thick band across the length of the door.

--

Sam showered, letting the hot water beat down on tightly clenched muscles. He soaped and rinsed and then turned the dial all the way to the right, hoping the blast of frigid water would do something to stimulate his drowsy brain cells.

He pulled on sweatpants—Dean's but who was keeping track these days—and a T-shirt that had been washed sometime in the last couple weeks. Feet bare, he padded into the living room where he found Dean and Sarah sitting around the coffee table.

Sarah was on one end of the couch, her body tense and poised on the very edge of the cushion. Dean sat in the armchair, slouched back with legs sprawling. Sam might have thought he was relaxed if not for the way his left hand was gripping the seat arm, his knuckles gone white with the strain.

They were drinking, whiskey by the look of it, and not just a little.

Sam sat down on the couch beside Sarah, and reached over to give her knee a light squeeze. She twitched her lips in a faint gesture, more acknowledgment than actual smile, and poured Sam two fingers without asking.

"You a big whiskey-drinker, Sarah?" Sam asked, raising the glass to sniff.

"It's my dad's. It's either this or a six-pack of Corona, and I figured—"

"Corona ain't gonna cut it," Dean finished. He looked up from his own glass long enough to slant a curious glance at Sam. "Dude, are those my pants?"

"Guys," Sarah interjected, probably wisely in Sam's opinion, "we need to talk about what we're gonna do here. It's pretty clear that little girl's getting worse."

Dean snorted. "That's putting it mildly."

"Sam, you told me demons sometimes possess people," she continued, unperturbed by Dean's outburst. "Was Layla possessed when she attacked you?"

"Doubtful," Sam said, and off Sarah's quirked brow he explained, "no black eyes or smoke. And she didn't react to the holy water after, so, no I don't think it's a possession we're dealing with here. Still, I'm pretty sure she wasn't the one driving when she came into our room tonight."

Dean cocked an eyebrow, not sitting up yet but interested.

"What are you thinking, Sammy?"

"Keep in mind this is just a theory," Sam began. "But do you remember Dad talking about something called an imprint?"

He could almost see Dean racking his brain to remember.

"Yeah," Dean said finally. "We were working that the mental institution job. Massachusetts, right? What was that, a decade ago?"

"Westboro Mental Hospital in Westboro, Mass. Summer between my sophomore and junior years, so yeah. About ten years."

"What happened in Massachusetts?" Sarah asked, sitting forward.

Sam remembered that summer, how pissed off he'd been when Dad dragged him out of his school in Texas two days before the End-of-Classes Dance. He was supposed to go with Jenna Maloney. Sam still remembered her little upturned nose and how it had felt to kiss her. He spent the first few days in Massachusetts ignoring his father, and Dean who had taken Dad's side. But the case was intriguing, and despite himself he'd started listening to their conversations.

"Dad got a call from an old friend of his, an army nurse who worked at the hospital," Sam explained. "She was worried about one of her patients. He was this sweet old man—everyone on staff was crazy about him."

"Until one day he stole a nail file out of a doctor's wife's purse and used it to kill three of the other patients," Dean said matter-of-factly. "Only he didn't just kill them, he did stuff with their bodies after. Weird blood rituals, which is what got Dad interested in the first place.

"Right," Sam said. "Now Dad figured the old man was being possessed but when we got a hold of him he was clean. No reaction to holy water or exorcism, nothing. Dad kept digging, and I don't know how he did it but he realized the guy had been possessed back when he was a kid. And what he was experiencing now were memories of the original possession."

"I don't understand," Sarah said. "Why would a memory cause him to start killing people? Especially if he'd lived with it his whole life until now."

Sam avoided meeting Dean's eyes when he answered her.

"That kind of evil gets inside you—demon evil—it leaves an impression behind. An imprint on the soul, you might say. It's stronger in children, probably because their brains are still developing. And in the mentally ill." Sam glanced away, lost in memory.

"This guy had been fighting off the memories his whole life, but when the dementia set in he couldn't do it anymore," Dean said. "He stopped being able to control it, and so he started killing. Doing what the demon did when it was inside him fifty years earlier."

Sarah was quiet for a long time. Sam and Dean exchanged glances before Sam laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey," he said softly. "You okay?"

"Uh huh. It's just . . . I spent the summer after tenth grade at a sailing camp in Europe."

Sam offered a sympathetic smile.

"Um, guys?" Sarah said. "Out of curiosity, what happened to the old man at the mental hospital? Were you able to help him?"

Sam looked at his hands, and Dean cleared his throat.

"He went off again, grabbed one of Dad's knives and started swinging. We had to take him down."

"You were right," Sam said, catching Sarah's gaze. "Layla is getting worse and this . . . is speculation at best." He glanced at his brother before adding, "Which is why Dean and I should take Layla and go."

Sarah put down her drink on the coffee table with a hard clunking sound that had Sam wincing.

"Excuse me?"

"Sam's right," Dean said, staring into his own glass. "It's not safe."

"And, what, you think the three of you will be safer someplace else? Like, say, a motel with a disco theme?"

"Sarah, if you would just listen for a second," Sam began, but she was already pushing up from the couch.

She folded her arms across her chest, chin rising in defiance.

"No, Sam. You listen. I'm not stupid. I know you wouldn't have come here if you had other options. Better options."

"Sarah—"

"Don't. Sam. Don't pull that bullshit with me. I know you never meant to come back. The fact that you did means you were out of choices. Now, does the whole sleepwalking with cutlery incident have me a little freaked? Hell, yes. But I'm not a coward. I'm going to help you and Dean save this little girl because . . . because it's what I want. And before you say something presumptuous or insulting about why I'm doing it, I'll tell you that it's not about you, not about the fact that we kissed once a lifetime ago or that I wouldn't mind doing it again." She hesitated, drawing in a breath that wasn't at all shaky, before continuing. "Now, I'm going to change my clothes, and when I get back we're gonna decide what to do. Please help yourself to another drink."

She turned on her heel, the belt of her sweater jacket trailing in her wake. They watched her go, slack-jawed, and Dean let out a low whistle before leaning forward to refill his glass.

"Hey, Sam?"

"I know, I know. I should marry her."

"You had your chance. Now I might marry her."

Sam snorted, tried to sober as much as possible with hundred-dollar whiskey coursing through his veins.

"Do you think we should stay, Dean?" he asked after a few moments of drinking in companionable silence.

Dean turned his glass carefully, studying the amber glow of the whiskey in the dim lamplight.

"I think Sarah's right. Ain't like we've got a lot of options here, Sam."

"I might have an idea," Sam said carefully.

He could feel the pieces fitting together in his brain, easy like the Ikea furniture he and Jess picked out hours after signing the lease on their little apartment. Insert screw A in slot B. There was definitely a good chance of someone getting screwed here.

Sam laughed, a hard, harsh sound, and Dean lifted his head. Sam watched shadows play across the planes and lines of his brother's face; he smiled. Most of the time, Dean was just Dean, as constant in Sam's world as the change of days. Barring those months after Broward County (another lifetime now) and eight minutes in a field in South Dakota, Sam had never known a world without Dean, and judging him objectively was pretty much impossible. But sometimes, like now, Sam couldn't help thinking that Dean was beautiful. He didn't remember Mary outside pictures, but maybe she'd looked like Dean, a little.

"We'd need some things," Sam said slowly, "and a place we wouldn't be disturbed."

"I'm willing to try almost anything at this point," Dean said, sounding more desperate than Sam could remember.

"You won't like it," Sam told him, figuring he might as well state that up front.

Dean snorted, raised his glass in a mockery of a toast.

"Gotta be better than one of my plans, right?"

--

"I'd like to go on record saying this is possibly the dumbest idea you've ever had, Sam."

"Seconded," Sarah said, "And I haven't known you as long as Dean has."

"Trust me," Dean said, "it's goddamn crazy." He paused in his pacing, turning to meet Sam's gaze across the room. "Only problem is, it just might work."

--

"No. No, Sam."

Outside on Sarah's lawn. White fence glowing in the moonlight and the grass dew-damp under their feet.

"Gimme one good reason why not."

"I'm older and I fucking say so. It should be me."

"That makes no sense, Dean, and you know it. The whole point, the whole reason we're doing this is because I can—"

"I know why we're doing it, Sam."

Softer now, forgiving. "Then why are you arguing with me, man?"

Dean's fingers, thrusting through his short hair.

"Sam. Jesus, Sam."

"It has to be me, man. If there's a chance we can learn something we didn't know, find some way of helping her . . . "

Dean said nothing, glared helplessly.

"I think I get why you always tried so hard to . . . " Sam trailed off on a huff of breath that hung in the air a second before dissipating. "I need to keep her safe, Dean."

"Yeah, Sam." Tired, so damn weary. "I know you do."

And so do you, Sam finished silently.

"Plus, you know," Sam deadpanned, waited for Dean to meet his gaze, "I'm taller so it should definitely be me."

--

Sam tried to insist that Dean take the first sleeping shift, but Dean just shook his head, barked out a short laugh.

"Trust me, dude. I'm not sleepin' anytime soon."

So Sam spent a couple hours drifting off and jump-starting awake with his cheek pressed to the cool leather of the couch and his brain spinning. Finally he just rolled to his feet, stumbled bleary-eyed into the hall to relieve Dean. He stopped short at the sound of voices, Sarah's feminine tone strong and even, a counterpart to Dean's rough, raw whispers. Sam leaned into the wall, listening.

"—shouldn't have grabbed her so hard—"

"She was holding a meat cleaver, Dean. And, from what you and Sam have told me, possibly being controlled by someone . . . or something . . . that made her a lot scarier than your average seven year old."

"We don't know that. The fuck was I thinking? 'S a little girl."

Sarah made a tsking sound, and when she spoke again her tone was firm.

"We don't know anything, except that tonight could have happened a lot of different ways. Someone could have gotten hurt—"

"Someone did."

"Seriously hurt. Something more permanent than a hairline fracture. Layla could have injured herself with that knife, which, let's not fail to remember, I was the one to leave out."

Dean's voice cutting in, a quick protest.

"No way is any of this your fault, Sarah."

"She could have hurt herself," Sarah said stubbornly. "Or me. Or Sam, or you. She brought the knife into your room, Dean. We don't know what she was going to do with it."

"I broke her arm." Sam could hear the thin broken way Dean's voice pushed out the words like they were jagged glass. "I fucking broke her arm."

And then there was the hoarse noise of oxygen being sucked in followed by harsh, racking sobbing.

Sam slumped against the wall, listening as Dean broke down to a woman Sam kissed once, another lifetime ago, instead of to him.

--

The painkillers the ER docs prescribed accomplished the added task of keeping Layla out cold most of the morning. Keeping an ear peeled from the kitchen, Sam went through a stack of books, scribbling a list of things they might need. Dean joined him after a shower, sat down at the table and scanned the list before nodding an approval. His looks good, dude wasn't all that reassuring; Sam still felt like he was pulling the whole thing out of his ass.

Sarah volunteered to do a supply run as soon as the stores opened. She got back around ten, looking smug.

"Chalk and candles. Sand, acacia leaves," she said, pulling the items from the paper bag.

"What about the oil of Abramelin?" Dean asked. He was reading over Sam's shoulder, something Sam found annoying and oddly endearing.

"Stop and Shop was all out," Sarah said dryly. "But. I went by the library on the way back, and it turns out there's a recipe for making your own on Wikipedia."

"Wiki-what?" Dean asked, expression blank.

Sam grinned. "You find all the ingredients?" he asked, and Sarah unfolded a printout from her back pocket and passed it over the counter.

"All there in the bag," Sarah said, a little smugly. Sam read it, smiled. It ought to work.

"You did good," he told her softly.

"It sucks that you're not into handsome guys," Dean said. He leaned in to nudge Sarah's arm with his. " 'Cause I'd totally be up for it." He winked, and Sarah laughed.

Sam wondered how it was Dean got away with making horribly offensive comments. He supposed it was part of Dean's—Christ—charm.

"Okay," Dean said, rising. "I'm gonna pick up the last of the stuff. You guys can fight over who gets to be Top Chef."

"Dean, hold up a second." Sam raised a meaningful brow. "We still need to do that thing."

"What . . . oh. Yeah, I'll see what I can find."

"Just find something that'll do it. I don't care about the . . . aftereffects."

Sarah was glancing from one to the other, her expression suspicious.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded.

They exchanged looks, and Sarah made a small sound of displeasure.

"Uh uh, you two don't get to keep secrets. Not now. Tell me what this is about."

Dean jerked his head—go ahead, dude. Sam sighed, and caught his t-shirt around the waist before dragging it over his head.

"What is that?" Sarah said, her hand halting just short of tracing the symbol etched into his skin.

"Protection," Dean explained. "Keeps anything outside from getting in."

"The problem is," Sam continued, "it's also gonna prevent the ritual from working. Unless we get rid of it."

"And how do you plan to do that?" Sarah asked.

"However I have to," Sam said. "If we have to burn it off—"

"I have a friend," Sarah interrupted. "My roommate freshman year of college, she's a plastic surgeon now."

"We need the full moon, which is in three days," Sam said. "We don't have time—"

"Let me call her, okay?" Sarah glanced back and forth between them. "Before you two resort to the home remedy."

--

Sam was hunting for his phone in Dean's jeans when he heard the sound—a soft knocking, not continuous but broken, stopping and starting at random intervals.

Dean was still at the store, Sarah catching a few hours of much-deserved shuteye in her bedroom. At Sam's insistence, she had locked the bedroom door from the inside. Sam figured now was as good a time as any to get this call out of the way. No way would Bobby be comfortable with what Sam and Dean intended to do in three nights' time, but Sam felt honor-bound to inform him of their plans, even if just so Bobby could call them both damn idiots. He knew Dean would rag on Sam for doing it, just like he knew if he didn't call, Dean would probably do it himself.

Crouched on the floor, Sam hesitated, head cocked. It was several seconds more before he realized what the sound was, and when he did realize it he felt his face heat and guilt roll over him in waves. He followed the knocking down the hall until he stood outside Layla's room.

The chain on the door was still secure, the half-circle of salt undisturbed. Sam pressed a hand against the wood and imagined Layla sitting on the other side, holding her broken wrist. He rubbed a hand over his face and tried to breathe through the lump in his throat, hard and painful like he'd swallowed a Jolly Rancher.

He felt Dean's presence at his side before he saw him. Dean's face was windblown, new freckles popping on his nose.

"We need to talk to her," Sam said quietly.

Dean jerked his head in acknowledgment, or agreement, Sam wasn't sure, and reached out to unhook the latch on the chain. He waited for Sam's 'ready' nod before turning the knob.

Sam didn't know what he was expecting. The Layla who entered their room wielding a knife yesterday wasn't the same kid they'd gotten to know these past weeks. Not the same little girl that screamed with delight when Dean chased her around the house, making stupid moaning noises and swaying, nor the one who snuggled up to Sam for story time, her small body fitting just right beneath one of his arms. She wasn't the kid who ate Dean's burnt eggs or Sam's overdone spaghetti without complaint; not the kid who fell asleep in the Impala to lullabies of AC/DC and the two of them bickering. The girl last night hadn't been Layla, but Sam was pretty sure she hadn't been possessed, either. He didn't know who or what it was that came at them with a butcher's knife, and the not knowing scared the hell out of him.

Whatever he was expecting it wasn't what he got—Layla perched on the edge of the makeshift bed, bare toes dragging on the carpet. She was wearing one of Sarah's college t-shirts, and Sam remembered that Sarah had helped her change into it last night because her own pajamas were blood-stained from the cut she opened on Dean's arm.

She glanced up when the door opened, her expression full of hurt and confusion.

"You locked me in," she said accusingly.

Sam glanced at Dean, who glanced quickly away. He crossed the room, lowering himself to the bed beside her.

"We had to," Sam said softly. "We didn't know what you'd do if you got out."

Realization turned her eyes into round balls of dark amber.

"You're afraid of me," she said.

Sam flashed Dean a look like, 'You can jump in anytime now.' He stretched out a hand to touch her, push stringy blond hair back from her face, but she jerked away from him. She scrambled across the bed to sit up by the wall, arms hugging her knees.

"Do you remember how you hurt your arm?" Sam asked gently.

She eyed him suspiciously, blinking beneath her bangs. Sam made a mental note that they ought to get her a haircut if they survived the next three days, and that was it, he was officially turning into their father. Or, worse, Dean.

"It's okay," he encouraged.

"You said I tripped," she murmured. "I don't remember falling though."

Dean looked over, a mixture of anger and gratitude coloring his features. Sam stared back, remorseless, daring Dean to say something. Dean clamped his jaw shut and turned away.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Sam asked.

"The bogart," she said, and Dean looked up, startled.

"Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban," Sam said, hiding a smile. "We were reading it before bed. Then what, Layla?"

"I woke up, and I was in you guys' room. I didn't know how I got there. And my arm hurt like a bitch."

Sam very deliberately avoided looking at Dean's face.

"Layla, do me a favor. Think back. Do you remember anything weird happening after I left your room, before you fell asleep? Anything that seemed strange or unusual?"

"No." She sighed as though the conversation was boring her a little, and Sam had to remind himself she was only seven and yeah, this was probably a lot boring for her. "I wasn't sleepy when you left so I was gonna read by myself for a while. But then I got really tired all of a sudden, and really warm too, so I laid down and went to sleep."

"What do you mean, warm?" Dean asked, apparently deciding to join the conversation finally. He approached the bed but left a few feet's distance between himself and Layla. "Like the heat was up too high?"

"No, just . . . warm." She shrugged and started picking at her cast. "It's stupid."

"Try us," Sam said, and Layla gave a dramatic-sounding sigh.

"I felt . . . warm and safe. Like somebody wrapped me up in a big soft blanket and was . . . hugging me from the inside." She glanced up, nose wrinkling and cheeks flushed. "I told you it was stupid."

"It's not stupid," Sam said softly. "Was there anything else?"

Layla ran her bottom lip through her teeth and looked from one to the other.

"I did something, didn't I? I made you scared of me. I'm like the things you fight."

"No," Sam said quickly.

"I've fought a lot of things in the dark, and not one of 'em was as pretty as you," Dean assured. "Most of 'em? Damn ugly."

"I'm not a little baby."

Dean coughed and looked surprised.

"I know that," he said.

"I know you don't have to be ugly to be evil. Beautiful things can be evil too."

Sam shook his head.

"Layla, you're not evil—"

"I know something really bad's happening," she murmured. "Isn't it."

Sam knew what to say here, had been on the receiving end of this too many times not to. These words were so familiar they ached. Lying on foreign sheets in a room that smelled like strangers. Dad on a hunt and Dean breathing on the other side of the mattress. Shouldn't he be back by now, Dean? Dean's whispered assurances wrapped up in Shut up and Go to sleep, Sam. More comforting than if he'd been gentle. Later, when Dad was gone for good, Dean kept making promises. Nothing's wrong, never while I'm alive, don't worry about it, Sam. Sam had stopped believing his big brother was a superhero around the time he graduated elementary school but some part of him still thought, if Dean said something, it must be so. It was enough. In the end, it was enough that Dean said it.

"Do you trust us?" Sam asked.

Layla blinked and nodded finally.

"That's good," he said. "Because Dean and I, we're going to keep you safe. I promise. As long as we're around, nothing bad's going to happen to you, Layla."

She studied him with big brown eyes, and he was afraid she was going to see right through him. Call him a liar and tell him to go away. But after a long moment she just nodded again, and when he looked into her eyes he thought the fear was a little lessened maybe.

Dean was watching the scene with an odd expression on his face, soft and appraising at the same time.

"Can we have pancakes for breakfast?" Layla asked. "I'm starving. And maybe after we can watch Goonies again, Dean?"

On the way to the kitchen, Layla stepped right over the salt line neither of them had remembered to break.

--

The Winchester Brothers' crash course in surviving the paranormal. Day One: Hand to Hand.

"I'm sorry," Sam said for what must have been the fifteenth time this hour. By now Sarah must be feeling it, new muscles cramping and blood rushing to the surface of her skin in blue-green bruises. He offered a hand to help her up.

"Sam Winchester, you are the worst date ever."

He forgot himself for a second and was offended.

"What? Why?"

Sarah pushed a section of damp dark hair back from her eyes, grinned.

"Hmm, let's see. So far, I've almost gotten my throat slit by a painting and acted as unofficial babysitter for your and Dean's unofficial ward. Toss in a little physical violence . . . "

"Oh, that's it."

He wrapped his arms around her, pinning hers to her body and lifting her off the ground. She tried not to laugh and failed, and Sam started to laugh to, and for a moment he was back at Stanford, goofing around with Jess before they started dating. There was an ache in remembering—soft hair, lips in the dark, miss you Jess—but mostly it was a light feeling filling him up. A younger, more ignorant Sam, who while maybe not devoid of responsibility was definitely enjoying shirking it for a while.

He was still laughing when Sarah worked an elbow loose and hit him in the stomach, knocking the wind from him. She wrapped an ankle around his and they both went down, Sarah on top of him.

He blinked up into the sun, temporarily blinded, and when his eyes adjusted he saw Dean watching him from the back porch. He expected to see . . . he wasn't sure what he expected. Jealousy? In Sam's dreams, maybe. But Dean was smiling, like all he wanted in the world was currently rolling around in manicured grass under a bright June sky.

--

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Hey." He unbuttoned his shirt, folded it in half absently and laid it over a chair. "You tried."

"Reya's visiting her parents in Paris. Otherwise, I know she'd have helped us out."

Sam shrugged. He felt sort of stupid standing half naked in the middle of Sarah's kitchen. The window was open, and a light breeze wafted in, made the chimes hanging in the windowsill tremble.

"Don't worry, okay? It's not even the first time I've had one of these burned off. And Dean doesn't need to get the whole thing, just disrupt the symbol."

Sarah looked down at the floor, and when she lifted her face again it was perfectly composed, any trace of concern or pity vanished. Sam thought not for the first time that Sarah would have made a good hunter.

"Is there something I can do?" she said.

Sam could see Dean hovering in the doorway, his face expressionless, though the set of his shoulders gave him away.

"Take Layla out into the backyard for a few minutes, okay?" He set his jaw. "I'd rather she didn't hear this."

--

"Sure you don't wanna switch parts, Sammy? My Latin sucks, dude. You might end up downloading, I don't know. A golden retriever."

Sam didn't bother asking what a golden retriever would be doing in Hell, just stepped over the circle of paint and sat down in the chair. Waited. Dean gave him that look, the one like Sam was five, fifteen, twenty-five, and Dean wanted to lock him up someplace safe. Finally, he came to kneel at Sam's feet, started looping the rope around Sam's ankles.

"Tighter, man," Sam said softly, and Dean obliged, tugging until Sam felt the knots digging into bone. Dean did his hands next, slapping a pair of cop-issue cuffs around Sam's wrists. Sam refrained from asking where Dean had procured the handcuffs, and for what purpose, but Dean answered anyway, with a suggestive brow waggle that had Sam's eyes rolling.

"Kinky," Sam said tonelessly, and Dean just smirked.

He made an apologetic sound in the back of his throat before throwing a length of rope around Sam's waist, binding his arms to his torso and his entire upper body to the chair back. "Good?"

Sam used all his strength to pull against the bonds, and then nodded, satisfied.

"We're good. You ready?"

Dean fixed him with a look. Not even close.

But he stepped out of the circle and picked up the notebook from the table. He read to himself, lips silently shaping the words.

"You ever gonna learn to read without moving your lips?" Sam teased, and Dean glanced up from the page, mouth opening to answer when Sarah walked in.

Her arms were full of candles, and when she drew up short she almost dropped a black taper, fumbled to hold onto it. She stood very still, watching Sam with serious eyes.

"You okay?" Dean asked, moving to take the candles from her.

"Fine. For a second this just reminded me of a date I had last month." She dug in her pockets for a matchbook before adding, "That was a joke, guys."

"I know," Sam and Dean said together, then exchanged matching looks of disgust at having spoken in unison.

Sarah followed Dean around the perimeter of the circle, lighting candles when he positioned them.

"Layla in her room?" Sam asked while Dean knelt down to assemble the altar.

Sarah stared at her hands.

"I gave her two of the painkillers the doctor prescribed with lunch. I read to her until she fell asleep, and then I locked her in her room and put salt across the threshold like you showed me. Some babysitter, huh."

"You did good," Sam said softly, and Sarah looked up.

"It'll all be worth it if this works, right?" She hesitated, as though this was a delicate subject, before adding, "Um, how do we know this will work?"

Dean emptied the rest of the sand into the bowl and stood, brushing his fingers on his jeans.

"Don't," Dean admitted. "Sam pieced the ritual together from a few sources—books, memories, goddamn inspiration. Pretty freakin' impressive either way." He glanced up long enough to meet Sam's gaze, and Sam flushed, seeing the pride beneath the fear in Dean's eyes.

"Our dad summoned a demon to him once," Sam said quietly. "Some of the ingredients are things he used."

"Of course," Dean said, "what we're doing is a little different. Demon we're after ain't walking around eating Happy Meals. She's in Hell."

"Because we put her there," Sam said.

"Now the thing about demons in the pit," Dean continued, "They don't exactly have much holding 'em together. Pretty much just big-ass clouds of smoke. Have to possess a body to walk and talk, which is where Sam comes in. We're gonna draw the bitch outta hell and into Sam's body."

"Because we're just that crazy," Sam finished.

Dean smirked and reached for the notebook. Sam knew he was checking the words again, the ones Sam had checked and rechecked. He rolled his eyes.

"Sarah," Sam began. "I need you to do what we talked about."

"I've been thinking about that, Sam. What if my being down here, with Dean, could help in some way? Could prevent things from going wrong in the first place?"

Dean hesitated, tongue working his lower lip. He glanced at Sam, but Sam shook his head firmly.

"I—we—need you upstairs. Dean." He raised a brow, and Dean sighed, crossed to the table. He returned with a knife, which he pressed hilt-first into Sarah's hand.

"This blade'll kill anything," Dean said quietly. "Use it if you have to."

Sarah gave a jerky nod, and started to go. She hesitated then turned back, stepped over the circle and cupped a hand around Sam's chin and brushed a kiss across his lips.

"Good luck," she told him.

There was an awkward moment after she left. Sam coughed loudly, and after a second Dean stepped forward. He waited for Sam to meet his gaze, to nod his approval, before giving a jerky nod of his own. Then he lit the match on the side of his hand and threw it in the bowl.

"Hold on, Sammy," he said quietly and began reading the words Sam had written.

--

He had been sort of hoping to pass out. Stupid—Sam had never been that lucky. He felt everything, felt the demon invade his body, forcing her way down his throat in an endless flume of hot smoke that had him gagging.

For the first few seconds, he was in shock, everything hurting too badly to move. It was all he could do to cope with the pain. She wasn't making it easy for him either. Fuck, she was pissed, Sam could feel her fury, her want to make him suffer. He felt like his internal organs were boiling and it was a fight to wipe his mind enough to form thought.

Wait. Please.

But she was rabid, furious, and he could feel her rage like teeth. He let out a groan, he was losing, fading. Then his chest was on fire, and he screamed, but there was relief, too, she was releasing her grip on him somewhat. One of them, Sam wasn't sure which, opened his eyes, and he saw Dean grinning down at him, wagging a flask of holy water in front of his face.

"Hey, baby," Dean drawled lazy and smooth, and Sam knew it wasn't just his brother's aptitude for hunting and killing that made him such a hated figure among the demonic community. "Thanks for coming."

--

Sam listened, and waited, trusting Dean to keep the teeth from snapping shut again.

"Look at me," Dean murmured, lips curling around the words. "Yeah, that's right. Check out this handsome face."

Sam felt his throat struggling to swallow, mouth garnering moisture enough to speak.

Somebody said the words, "Dean Winchester," and it was a few seconds before Sam realized it had been he who said them. Or rather, the thing inside him. The demon they killed back in Georgia.

Dean smirked, a cold-eyed expression, and shoved his face close enough that Sam could scent the coffee on his breath, which temporarily overpowered the taste of sulfur coating Sam's tongue.

"In the flesh, bitch," Dean offered, and the thing inside Sam snorted.

"I'd watch the language, sugar, as I'm wearing your brother's."

Dean made an incredulous noise and somehow managed to get even further into Sam's face.

"You've heard of Sam, right? Reputation kinda precedes him. Anti-Christ an all that? I think he can handle one demon, especially one we already wasted." He pronounced the last word slowly, tongue savoring it in a way that was downright sexual.

"I'm camped out in your brother's body. If I want, I can liquefy all of Sam's organs."

Dean's hand was in his hair almost before she—Sam was getting a headache trying to keep track of pronouns—finished the sentence. Dean yanking on his hair didn't help things much.

"Bitch, you even try—"

Sam felt himself jerk forward as every muscle in his body went tense at the same time. She was trying to pull free from the bonds. A second later he was reeling from the backhanded slap Dean delivered to his face. Sam had a brief flash of their conversation days earlier. No, Dean. I'm gonna be the one who gets possessed. Don't try to change my mind.

She was laughing in Dean's face.

"We miss you downstairs, handsome. Although, way I hear it, you went from being Hell's bitch to being Sammy's."

The demon grinned big and bright as the color receded from Dean's cheeks. She chuckled as the pain pulsed in Dean's eyes before a dangerous glint replaced it.

"I should smack that mouth of yours again," Dean growled.

"Gonna break Sam's strong, distinguished jaw? Rumor is you want that particular bone of your brother's in working order, Dean-o."

Dean said nothing. Sam's mouth parted, his tongue darting out to moisten his bottom lip. His lips were forming a response when she suddenly paused.

Oh, fuck, Sam thought. No, no—

"She's here." Voice wondering, marveling over it. "Son of a bitch, you've had her this whole time."

"Excuse me?" Dean said.

When the demon spoke again, her voice was clear and strident.

"I wanna see my daughter."

Dean went still.

"What'd you just say?"

"My daughter. My child." Sam's neck arched forward, veins straining against sweat-slick flesh. "Bring her to me. Now."

Dean leaned in close, his fist closing around a hunk of Sam's hair.

"You don't have a daughter," he growled.

Sam's memories of this were too fresh, too near to the surface. She kept pushing, peeling away the layers of his thoughts. He stopped fighting, let her take and take.

"I did until you took me from her," she said. "The child you found in the basement of that house, Dean. Hiding under the pipes, filthy, frightened. You were going to burn the place to the ground but Sam insisted you take a last walk around to look for survivors. You found my daughter."

Dean's lips twisted into something too cold to be called a smile.

"Somebody skipped you when they were handing out sanity pills, didn't they? She's not yours, bitch. You're not human. Layla—the kid—belonged to Rick and Maddy Omera, two hunters you murdered. That ring any bells, you demonic piece of—?"

"Layla," she spat from Sam's mouth, as though the word itself had a bitter taste to it, "nee Ryan Omera. That girl died in April of 2008. The child who took her place was named Ailo, and she was my daughter. Now I want to see her. Or I squeeze your brother's heart until it pops like a balloon."

Dean shook his head, jaw quivering with barely restrained fury.

"Sam even feels a twinge of heartburn, and I'll pull you out of him so fast, you'll be back in the pit before you can say, 'Hellhounds are nipping at my ankles.'"

Dean leaned in and curled a hand under Sam's chin, forcing the demon inside to meet his eyes. Sam's eyes narrowed, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

"I know you're not the brains of the operation, Dean. But you must realize the danger you're courting."

"I've courted worse," Dean said with a humorless laugh. "Now I brought you here to play Let's Make a Deal. You tell me what you did to that kid during the year you held her. And in return I don't send you on a one-way trip back to the pit."

Sam felt his knees spreading as much as the ropes allowed. He slumped back in the chair, head tilting carelessly.

"You must think I'm a fool," the demon in him sneered. "You'd never let me go free."

"Heh, you're right about that." Dean shrugged. "Can't take the chance you'd come after us."

"Aw, Dean." She sounded almost like she was flirting with him. "You know it's not a chance."

Dean smiled, crossed to the table with slow, deliberate steps.

"Still. I want her free from you. So I'm willing to offer you a deal." Dean reached behind his back, and a moment later he was laying the Colt down on the table. "'Stead of sending you back to writhe for an eternity, I'll deliver you into oblivion."

He watched Sam's face.

"Okay, so it ain't a great deal. But it's gotta be better than burning. And I can say that with some degree of authority on the subject."

"Nice try," she laughed. "I'm not dumb enough to believe you'd put a bullet in your own brother's skull."

"You're right about that," Dean agreed. "I wouldn't shoot my brother."

Sam's brow shot up.

"Well, well. How the sanctimonious have fallen," the demon in him observed.

"You spend some time in the pit, everything looks different. I got a little girl upstairs who isn't ever gonna have a normal life unless I make a choice I don't like all that much. Fact is, she deserves a shot at normal, at a life. And another fact. There's plenty of people out there who don't. Don't deserve to live, even." Dean turned away so his face was in shadows. "Wasn't too hard for me and Sam to find just one candidate for oblivion."

"One year out of Hell and you're playing God. Quite the promotion."

"So we got a deal then?" Dean asked, turning back.

She cocked Sam's head to the side, studying Dean through narrowed eyes.

"Demons aren't so different from humans, Dean. You should know that by now. We want the same things. Companionship, family. Children."

"Oh you have got to be kidding me," Dean said with a groan.

"What about this is so hard for you to believe? That we would want a child to raise in our image? To teach and to love. Unlike with you humans, we can't achieve the miracle of life with a few sweaty moments of pleasure. It takes more than a casual fuck for us to become parents. Sterility is one of our curses. A punishment bestowed upon our kind to ensure that we live lives of loneliness."

Dean looked murderous, ready to draw blood. Sam couldn't exactly blame him.

"So you slaughter a couple of decent people and steal their kid?" Dean asked, voice dangerously soft. "Play some sick game of house with her for a year?"

"Decent? The Omeras killed my mother, along with plenty more of us—"

"Your mother?" Dean interrupted. "You just said demons can't have kids. What's a'matter, can't keep your story straight?"

"That doesn't mean we don't form familial groups! That we don't care about one another. Even—yes, Dean—love. You see, Lilith was a mother too. She loved children, their innocence and their . . . adaptability. Lilith knew what it was like to have a child, and to lose one. She knew the importance of having something to love, which is why she gave me the Omeras' child. To make up for the loss of my mother."

"Oh yeah. You're totally sane."

"Don't tell me you haven't done your reading? No? Well let me enlighten you. Humans have known about Lilith for a long time, Dean. In the olden days, your people would draw protective circles around their beds, or use amulets, to ward her off. When a child laughed in her sleep, it was believed that Lilith was with her. Legend had it that tapping the child on the nose would make Lilith leave. What can I say? You guys are gullible."

Dean smirked and started to turn away. Sam knew what was coming but could do nothing to brace himself. He felt the full impact when Dean backhanded him.

The demon growled, swearing as she spit a circle of Sam's blood onto the floor.

"Don't think I didn't appreciate the history lesson," Dean assured. "But do we got a deal or what?"

"You gonna kiss Sammy's bruises later?"

"Tell me what you did to her."

"I wanna see my daughter," she spat back.

"Not a chance."

"Exorcisms are tricky things, Dean, and word in the Pit is your Latin isn't all that. Maybe Sammy should gnaw off his own tongue while you're tripping over yours."

"No wait!" Dean said, fear creeping into his tone.

"Dean, don't!"

Sam didn't know if he broke through or if she let him. In all probability it was the latter. But for a moment he could control his own limbs again, could have moved even, if he wasn't tied to a chair.

"Sammy?"

"Don't give her what she wants," Sam begged. "I . . . I want my daughter, Dean," and just like that she was pulling Sam back, tucking him away somewhere he wouldn't be a burden. But this time she was careless, too quick. She left the window cracked, and suddenly he could see into the past, into the demon's memory.

Layla, or Ailo . . . she was all the demon could think about. He could feel the weight of her in his arms—her body small but sturdy, warm with life. She was unconscious, or asleep, her head lolling on his shoulder as his boots (too high, not his) swept over a bed of pine needles. He was in the woods by the Omera house, making his way to the highway on the other side. It was dark, no moon, and several times he tripped over upraised roots or low branches. At one point a high branch sliced across his face, cutting a shallow gash into his forehead. He used his free hand to wipe away the blood, held the child tighter and kept moving. So still, not a sound. When he heard the scream, he thought it was an owl, glanced wildly around with eyes that no longer obeyed his brain's commands.

From somewhere very far away, he heard Dean's voice—the one he used when things had gone horribly wrong. "Is that you, Sarah?"

Sam forced his way back to the present, to the basement, watched Dean eyeing the staircase. The three of them—Dean, Sam, the demon—held their breaths, waiting.

She clambered down the stairs and stopped short at the base, one hand lingering on the rail. Even in Sam's current state, a demon camped out in his body, he knew something wasn't right with her.

"Layla," Dean said, "where's Sarah?"

Layla bit her lip. Her hair was coming out of the neat ponytail Sarah had made, blond falling into mouth, sticking to her face where it was wet with tears. She glanced down, and for the first time Sam noticed the knife she held in one hand. Ruby's knife.

"I took this away from her." She held it up like evidence, and Sam noticed that the tip was dry. So either Layla hadn't used it . . . or she'd used the knife and wiped off the blood. "She tried to hurt me with it. I know you said she was your friend, Sam, but I think something's wrong with . . . "

She trailed off, as though noticing for the first time that Sam was tied to a chair. Then she looked into the demon's eyes. She sucked out a startled breath that curled into a whimper.

"You're not Sam," she said, stating a fact.

"That's going around," Dean muttered, voice hoarse. "Layla, I need you to give me that knife."

"Ailo," the demon intoned, and for the first time its voice betrayed the emotion Sam felt swirling inside him. Them. "Oh, baby."

Layla made a sound like a sob.

"I'm not her, okay?"

"Layla," Dean began, "Give me the knife now."

Back in the woods, but Sam could see lights through the trees. Car headlights. He stumbled up the incline and into the road, waved his free arm wildly. A dark minivan swerved, sped off. Curses pouring from his lips, old words in unfamiliar tongues. At last an ancient looking Buick ground its breaks, skidded to a halt in the middle of the street. Sam hugged the girl to his chest and jogged toward the car.

"You okay, ma'am?"

"No," Sam said, breathless. "I need a ride."

Warm in the backseat, heat blowing through the vents. The driver flicked on the overhead. An old man, gray hair and too lonely-looking to be anyone's grandfather.

"Hey," he said, "your daughter, she's bleeding."

Sam looked down at the girl, his, swept his hand along the red stain coating her nightgown.

"It's not hers."

"What?"

The man's arterial blood, wet and spilling over his fingers. Sticky hands steering the car as he drove them south.

One minute Sam was in a car in Maine, the next he was back in the chair, the demon straining against the ropes holding his body in place.

"Ailo." Half command, half plea. "Come here."

Sam fought against the invisible ropes keeping him prisoner in his own body, keeping him from speaking. He wanted to scream, Stay back.

Layla was crying now, silent tears sluicing over her nose.

"No," she whispered.

"Ailo!"

Dean's voice, pleading: "Layla, just walk to me."

"Take another step toward her and I'll hurt Sam, Dean." The demon twisted Sam's lips into a smile. "Bring me the knife, Ailo."

Sam met Layla's eyes, which were wide with terror, and suddenly he was back in Maine, back at the house.

He woke up when the sun climbed high enough to shine through the skylight in the loft bedroom. It was morning, cartoon-early, and Sam felt amazing, safe and warm like he hadn't since he was five or six and still young enough to believe whatever Dad and Dean told him.

He didn't know whose head he was in, but it wasn't the demon's anymore.

He got up and went downstairs in his bare feet, mind full of Mom and breakfast and something else just beginning to push at the edges of his consciousness. The bedroom door was open, hall light sliding along the floor and across the big bed in the middle of the room. He hesitated in the doorway, confused, cold starting to creep up from his bare toes for the first time. And then she was there.

Beautiful and young, with dark hair curling around her face, green eyes gazing at him from a face shaped like a heart. Sam recognized her from somewhere. Georgia. The abandoned house. Crouching in a room with sigils on the walls.

"Is this what you're looking for?" the demon asked him, voice heavy, reverent almost.

She pressed the knife into his small hand, and it seemed to fit there like it was made to. Sam turned around and went into the bedroom while the demon backed into the shadows, joined another figure. A small dark figure that looked suspiciously like a little girl.

He stood at the foot of the big bed, and waited. Finally, the bathroom door opened, and a woman emerged, and his brain said mom, but he didn't feel it, didn't feel anything until the warmth filled him again, stretching from his toes to the ends of his hair. It was like someone wrapped him in a blanket. Hugged him from the inside.

Layla's head, he realized. That's where he was now. And this was Layla's mother, the late Maddy Omera.

"You're up early," the woman said, rubbing a towel over her head. She whipped it away, and her blond hair fell forward, choppy in places, like she was growing it out after a long time. "Daddy's still asleep."

Sam glanced at the bed, and at the man asleep under the sheet, which rose and fell with the rhythm of his breathing. Rick Omera. Dad, Sam thought, but he felt nothing.

"Hey." Maddy knelt down, and Sam could see her brown eyes and the freckles on her nose. "Everything okay, Ryan?"

And Sam tried to stop it, he tried as hard as he could, but he was years too late. The knife plunged through the V where Maddy Omera's robe gaped open, passed through nightgown and flesh, cutting deep. Sam tried to pull his hand back but it struck again, arching with expertise no six-year-old hand had a right to.

He rounded the bed, and the next part felt almost like anticlimax. One blow this time, perfectly aimed through the sheet. He could practically hear the silence when the heartbeats stopped. When Layla killed her father.

Sam left the room, was curled up on the living room sofa before he noticed how wet his hands were, or how cold he felt all of a sudden. Whatever presence was inside him was gone now. And then the dark-haired woman was there, bundling him into a blanket, her face pale and beautiful.

"My daughter," she murmured, "my Ailo," and her hands were soft and soothing in his hair. He had flashes of the woods, the car stopping for them on the dark deserted road, the gurgling sound the driver made when the demon slit his throat.

Sam wanted to throw up but didn't have the control over his gag reflex. He had accomplished their goal finally, discovered the truth. They thought she'd witnessed her parents' deaths when in reality she'd been an active participant. Lilith used her body—Layla's own hands—to take her parents' lives, before handing the little girl over to the demon.

Back in the basement, Sam cursed both of them to hell and hoped Lilith heard him somehow.

"I wasn't the one who killed the Omeras," the demon protested, and Sam knew she was talking to him and not Dean.

Dean's eyes were sliding from Sam to Layla, still clutching the knife to her chest with her good hand.

"Granted she may have had a little help," the demon drawled. "That little girl witnessed the murder of my mother at the hands of the Rick and Maddy Omera. So she became my daughter and avenged her grandmother's death. Kind of fitting, don't you think?"

No, Sam tried to say, but nothing came out.

The demon was bucking against the restraints, and Sam's head felt like it was going to roll off his neck with the effort.

"Ailo, come here," the demon commanded, voice high and straining now. "Come to me, baby."

And it was like something inside Layla broke, and she crept forward sobbing.

"Layla, don't!" Dean shouted and stepped over the circle.

The demon threw him across the room with enough force that he went careening into the wall opposite, before sliding to the floor with a sickening thud. Dean took a moment getting to his feet, head shaking from the impact, and that was the delay she needed.

The demon extended Sam's cuffed hands to curve around Layla's head. Sam could feel Layla's hair, soft and damp, beneath his hand. He cradled her skull in one palm, marveling at the fact that she was his. His, hers. The child of a dead woman named Maddy Omera. Sam couldn't see the line anymore, but he felt his eyes fill with someone else's tears.

"Stab me," the demon whispered. "Do it."

His vision waterlogged, Sam watched Dean swaying to his feet, stumbling forward with a frantic "No!" on his lips.

Layla had stopped sobbing. She stared up at Sam with huge eyes, frightened and pleading. Mournful eyes, far too old for seven.

"I don't wanna hurt anyone else," she said softly.

"Ailo, look at me," the demon instructed. "Look at my eyes. Do it. Do it, baby. Do it, Ryan."

Layla sniffed, sucking snot through her nose, and wiped her face on her sleeve.

"I can't," she whispered, "I'm sorry."

And Sam believed her. With a detached sort of interest, he watched her hand, small and steady, raise the blade before plunging it down and into his belly. He felt the knife slicing its way through skin and tissue, but the pain was vague, dull and far away. His lap felt warm, and he realized it was his own blood, seeping through his jeans.

Sam didn't care about any of those feelings though because, far stronger, was the feeling of the demon letting go, letting him go. She was dying and declining to take Sam with her.

"No," he groaned. "Not yet."

Then Dean was on him, pushing Layla aside and grabbing the knife, using the still-wet blade to slice through Sam's restraints. Fingers fumbled with the key, working the cuffs open.

Sam hissed as he slid from the chair in a controlled fall, Dean's arms tight around him.

"Sammy?"

"Wrists hurt," Sam ground out.

A soft expulsion of breath. Dean's voice, disbelieving.

"Yeah, I'll get right on that."

"She—she let me. I wasn't there yet, but she let me . . . she let me see what she did to her, to Layla, over the last year. Why would she do that, Dean?"

The bodies in the house in Georgia, and others along the coast. The demon was sacrificing them, feeding Layla their blood along with her own. Trying to make Layla special, make her hers. Sam could see the rituals, the words, as though they were inked over his corneas.

"She—the demon—she fed Layla blood. Tried to change her. Wasn't done though, not yet."

"You're bleeding to death, Sam. Do you think you could shut up for five minutes?"

"Don't think it's that bad," Sam said objectively, realizing as he said the words that they were true. "Go check Sarah."

"Sam—" Exasperation, and something like relief that Sam felt up to issuing orders.

"She could be hurt, Dean."

"Seriously, Sam, if I have to gag you . . . "

Sam's muscle control wasn't a hundred percent, but he managed to raise one hand, slap his palm lightly against Dean's cheek.

"Dean," he murmured.

"Excuse me."

They both turned at the voice.

Layla's hands were red, and Sam wanted to search her for injuries before he realized it was his blood. She was obviously scared but seemed otherwise unharmed, and Sam felt his body go limp with relief.

"It's gonna be okay," Dean was telling her. "Everything's gonna be—"

"Dean," Sam began, a frown starting to form. "I don't think—"

"My name's Ryan Jane Omera," she interrupted, voice quaking like she was making a valiant effort not to cry. "I'm six years old and I live at 14 Acadia Drive in Portland Maine. My telephone number is 555 818 9032. Can you take me home or to the nearest police station, please?"

--

Sam's first interaction with Ryan Omera had happened under somewhat strange circumstances:

"Sam, are you awake? Dammit, Sam, you better fucking stay awake."

From across the room, Sam watched Dean do a quick concussion test on Sarah. Follow my finger and the like.

"Who's president of the United States?" Dean asked.

"Barak Obama."

"And the one before that?"

"George Bush. Oh God, I think I'm gonna throw up."

"He has that effect on people," Dean muttered, but he pulled a wastebasket over in time to shove under Sarah's head.

Sam tuned out the noise of Sarah retching, letting his gaze slide over to the little girl sitting on the floor beside the couch where Sam was currently sprawled.

"It's okay," Sam said. "I know this is . . . a lot. But everything's gonna be all right. I promise." He meant it, damn it. He would make sure of it.

She mumbled something, and Sam had to ask her to repeat herself.

"Who are you?" she asked, louder this time.

"I'm Sam," Sam said. "And that's my . . . that's Dean."

There was any number of reasons he could have failed to mention Dean was his brother. He was still shaking with the aftereffects of possession. He was cold and feverish and possibly bleeding to death. But Sam knew exactly why he didn't tell Ryan that one fact, and it wasn't due to any of those things.

"Sam?" Dean called, his voice growing closer along with the sound of his bootsteps on Sarah's hardwood floors. "Tell me you're awake and breathing so I don't have to kill you."

"Quit your whining, I'm alive. Sarah have a concussion?"

"Yeah. I don't know why I bothered with that president crap; she's got a bruise on her forehead the size of Texas." Dean knocked Sam's hands out of the way, resumed holding pressure on the wound himself. "Help's on the way. Hold on, okay?"

"Jerk," Sam said, eyes sliding closed and mouth curving into a smile.

"Bitch," Dean said, and squeezed Sam's hand.

--

He slept a lot the first few days. He didn't think it was just the stomach wound. Demon possession was surprisingly exhausting.

Dean hadn't made him go to a hospital, though it was touch and go for a while. In the end, he only consented to home care when Sarah, clear-thinking despite the concussion, made a call to an old friend, who agreed to drive out in the middle of the night.

Martha was a pediatrician with big, no-nonsense hands and a bag of tricks. She might have known Sarah's mother, but Sam wasn't clear on this point. To be honest, he didn't care beyond the fact that it would keep him out of the hospital—they didn't need the attention a second emergency room trip would spawn, nor could they leave Ryan alone. More importantly, Sam had work to do, and a hospital visit would have delayed that. The demon had given him the tools but he still had to apply them to the task.

Even with Dean helping, it took Sam nine hours of research to find what he needed. The amulet was rare, only seventeen in existence, but Sam had a pretty good idea how to get their hands on one. That, combined with some fancy herbs and tricky Latin, might just be enough. Sam was praying they would be enough.

"And this'll do it?" Dean asked three days after it happened.

Sam was propped up in bed, Dean reading over his shoulder while he scribbled a shopping list on the back of a receipt for gas.

"This'll reverse what the demon did to her?"

"She fed Layla—Ryan—human and demon blood for over a year, Dean. That can't be reversed, just . . . controlled."

Sam turned to check something in a book he'd re-read twelve times to avoid looking at Dean's face. He knew what Dean was thinking about right now. Sam as a baby, helpless in his nursery while that yellow-eyed son of a bitch fed Sam his blood.

"I should get a move on," Dean said, straightening.

He shook the kinks out of his spine and issued an order for Sam to stay in bed or else before going.

Sam was dozing again when Dean got back and set a paper bag on top of the dresser.

"Hey," Sam said yawning.

Dean glanced up, guilt sliding over his features.

"Go back to sleep," he muttered.

"How was the library?" Sam asked, choosing to ignore that.

Dean sighed and sat down on the end of the bed.

"Titillating, Sam. On the plus side, I think I found what we need so I shouldn't have to go back there anytime soon. How 'bout you, huh? You get a hold of Bela?"

Sam nodded, struggling to sit up. Heaving a sigh, Dean went to help him.

"She thinks she can get what we want by the end of the week," he said.

"And how much is that gonna cost us?" Dean asked, shoving an extra pillow behind Sam's back.

"Amazingly enough, no charge. Though she did say this makes us even."

Dean laughed.

"We pull her ass outta Hell, she gives us scrap metal. Sounds about right."

"She sounded kind of funny," Sam said as Dean rounded the bed to stretch out beside him.

"Funny like SWAT team on our asses?" Dean asked. He bumped Sam's shoulder companionably.

"No. Just . . . smug." Sam turned his head to look at his brother. "You didn't . . . sleep with her?"

"What? No. Course not." A beat. "You?"

"No."

"Well, that was awkward," Dean said, and Sam laughed for real.

--

The herbs were easy. They claimed they were medicine—a not-quite lie—and fed them to Ryan with dinner.

The amulet was harder because they had to tell her something. Ryan not remembering what happened was a blessing, and they both wanted to tell her as little as possible.

"The stone means protection," was what Sam finally settled on. He nudged Ryan's ponytail out of the way before working the clasp of the necklace. "As long as you always wear it, you'll be safe."

She fingered the amulet dangling from the chain, frowning slightly. Sam wondered if she believed him. Dean still doubted whether she believed them about her parents, but Sam thought she did. Ryan might not want to listen to them, two virtual strangers, but the feeling in the pit of the stomach was tougher to shake. Sam remembered that feeling well from after Meg had gotten inside him.

"Is it a present?" she asked finally. She glanced between Sam and Dean, uncertain.

"Yeah," Sam said. "It's a present. From Dean and me."

Ryan nodded seriously.

"Maybe you should have given it to me before I broke my arm," she said, and Sam had to smile.

"Maybe you're right," he agreed.

Sarah was great with Ryan. And she wasn't the one to tell her her parents were dead, which meant Ryan was far more willing to climb into Sarah's lap when she woke up from a bad dream. Sometimes Sam watched Sarah soothing Ryan back to sleep, and felt a pull a nostalgia for something that was never really his to begin with.

Sam kept meaning to talk to Sarah, thank her, but he was still sleeping an insane number of hours, and she had to go back to work eventually.

Dean sent him a few knowing looks before finally confronting Sam before bed one night.

"What are you gonna do, dude?" he asked without preamble. "No, don't give me that clueless puppy look. What are you gonna do about Sarah, Sam?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam said even though he kind of did.

"You could have that, you know." Dean stepped out of his jeans and tugged on a pair of pajama pants.

"Have what?" Sam asked.

But he laid down his book, knowing Dean wasn't just going to let this go. Dean didn't disappoint.

"A normal life. A pretty girl with a hell of a lot of backbone who for some reason . . . some good reasons . . . is willing to put up with your bony ass. You could marry her, have some geek babies. The whole shebang."

Sam smiled.

"Did you just say shebang?" he asked as Dean got into bed beside him.

Dean made a face and flopped over onto his stomach.

"Go to sleep, Sam."

--

It could have been worse. That's what Dean said. Like it was a consolation.

From his perch on the bed, Sam watched Dean pace the room. The attempt was kind of pathetic. Three of Dean's long strides were all it took to cross the small space, and when he reached the wall he rested against it a moment before pushing off like an Olympic swimmer and beginning another lap. Sam was getting nauseous from all the back and forth.

"I mean it. At least we were only . . . " Dean trailed off with a tiny shrug that didn't come close to expressing the enormity of what he and Sam had been doing when Sarah saw them.

What Dean meant was, at least they weren't fucking. Fuck, they weren't even kissing. No, it was more intimate than that, Dean's hand curled around Sam's jaw, Dean's thumbnail scratching a line of possession down Sam's still-bruised cheek. It was the moment before a kiss, the time-stop-pause when you know it's coming.

"Sorry, sorry," Sam had said, even though it was his cheek flaming with pain, stinging under the heat of Dean's hand. Even though it was Dean's fist that inflicted this damage in the first.

"Sam," Dean had said, pressing Sam into the wall between the guest bedroom and the hall bathroom, close enough that Sam could taste two days' worth of sour coffee on his breath. "Sammy."

Sam knew this script, these lines. Bitch was I love you. Sammy: I'd die for you.

Not again, you won't, Sam had thought. He clamped a hand on the bone of Dean's shoulder. You're not going anywhere.

And that was when Sarah had come out of her room, her hair still wet from her shower, her face paling, going weirdly, unnaturally white.

It might have been better if she'd walked in on them sucking each other's faces, cocks. At least that could be explained away by exhaustion, perversion, obsession. Too many days, weeks, months on the job. Too many stale-smelling motel rooms with stiff impersonal pillowcases, the same unwashed felt blankets. Too many scalding showers with thin slicks of soap that left a sticky residue behind, like a memory on the skin.

What Sarah witnessed couldn't be explained away by hard hunts and no sleep and the memory of two beautiful golden-haired women, faded and newspaper-thin, so dry and brittle they could burn up in flames. There was no excuse, nothing but Sam and Dean.

Sam stood up, halting Dean mid pace.

"I'm gonna go talk to her."

"Yeah," Dean breathed out. "You should do that."

--

He found Sarah sitting up on the couch, knees folded to one side, elbow bent and resting on the sofa arm and chin cradled in her hand.

Moving further into the room, he could hear the song playing on the speaker system. Garth Brooks Unanswered Prayers. Sam smiled. Dean hated that song, thought it presumptuous that God would choose what prayers to answer and ignore. Sam had always found it oddly soothing.

He didn't know what to open with so he decided just to go with, "Hi."

Sarah patted the couch cushion beside her, and after a beat Sam sat down. She was quiet for a long time; he didn't try to rush her.

"I've spent the last two hours," she said finally, "trying to decide what to say to you. I also listened to a hell of a lot of country music."

He wasn't sure whether to chuckle at that, settled for smiling faintly.

"What, uh. What'd you come up with?"

"I was going to start by telling you it's not normal." She held up a hand before he could reply. "Dumb, I know. You're a bright guy, Sam. Stanford right?"

"Yeah, but I never actually graduated. So I don't know if we can hold the university responsible." He tried to smile, relieved when Sarah's lips moved in response.

"And then I thought, their lives haven't exactly been normal either."

No, they really haven't, Sam thought, but he merely tilted his head in acknowledgment.

"I don't have a brother. Or a sister. It's always just been me. When I was younger I didn't care much. I was a pretty independent kid anyway. But, later, and especially after I lost my mother, I wished I had someone. Someone who knew how it felt, how lonely it was."

"Sarah—"

"I don't know what it's like to have a sibling, Sam, but I imagine it makes things less lonely."

"Yeah," Sam breathed out. "Yeah, it does."

"You don't owe me explanations, Sam—"

"I owe you everything."

"—but I can't help wondering about before. When I met you guys, when you and I kissed. Were you and Dean already—?"

"No! No, believe me, Sarah. That—this—didn't happen until later. Until after . . . "

"After Dean almost died, you mean."

"He did die, Sarah." Eight minutes of Dean's body lying on the ground, his skin growing cold under Sam's hands while he wondered if, somewhere, Dean was screaming while his flesh burned. "But actually, if I'm being honest, it happened just before."

That last night, a motel off the interstate in Aurora. Sam wanted to stay someplace nicer, but Dean had just laughed and gunned the engine into the gravel-bitten parking lot of the One Moose Lodge.

"I plan on goin' out in style, Sammy."

While Dean showered, sang Ring of Fire at the top of his lungs, Sam ordered pizza and burgers and the crab rangoons Dean loved. He turned up the thermostat because he could not get warm and waited for the food to come or for Dean to use up all the hot water, whichever came first.

Dean outlasted the first two delivery guys and was just coming out of the bathroom, gray sweatpants slung loose on his hips, as Sam was paying the third.

"Jesus, Sam," Dean had commented, pulling on a shirt while he took in the spread. "I'd say you planned on inviting friends, if, you know, we had any."

Dean loaded a plate with every kind of food Sam had ordered but didn't do more than pick at a few fries. Neither of them was the least bit hungry.

They sat on one of the beds together, shoulders bumping, and watched TV. Sam tried to flick past Dead Man Walking but Dean mumbled, "Leave it."

They watched for maybe twenty minutes before Dean slid off the bed and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Seconds later, Sam heard the sound of retching. He switched off the TV and got under the covers. He was so fucking cold; it didn't matter how many layers he put on, he wasn't getting warm.

When Dean emerged from the bathroom minutes later he wasn't wearing a shirt. Sam wondered if he'd gotten puke on it. Don't, he told himself, don't you dare cry. He had to bite down on inside of his lip hard enough to pierce the skin, and still he could feel the telltale tremble of his jaw. He held it together until Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, and stroked a rough hand through Sam's hair. Dean's voice was grainy, his breath warm and slightly acidic from throwing up.

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sam lost it. Furious at Dean, Dad, maybe himself most of all, Sam started to sob. Even as he cursed Dean—selfish prick, noble son of a bitch—he mashed his face into his brother's neck, fingers digging into Dean's bicep.

Dean let him go until he was all cried out, empty like a wrung washcloth, exhausted. When Sam finally quit shaking, Dean pulled back a little, rested his palms flat against Sam's shoulders, and pressed a kiss against the sweat-slick skin of Sam's forehead.

Sam blinked rapidly, grateful there was nothing left to cry.

"I love you, Sam," Dean said, simple as anything.

He pulled back, making to stand. Sam's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

"Dean?" He couldn't have formed a complete sentence, was glad he didn't have to try.

Dean said nothing but, like always, he knew what Sam needed. He dragged down one side of the bedclothes and slid in beside Sam. He shifted until they were close, their breaths tangling in the dark.

"I'm so cold, Sam," Dean whispered. "Fucking freezing."

He could make excuses, blame it on stress, fear, temporary insanity. But Sam knew exactly what he was doing when he stretched his neck out and kissed Dean on the mouth.

"Sam," Dean said hoarsely. "You . . . "

Sam just prodded Dean onto his side, wriggled up behind him. He tucked his knees into the hollows of Dean's, and pressed his hand flat over Dean's heart, counting beats until morning.

The next day, they met Lilith in a field the sun had seared to a crisp gold. She was stronger, faster, and it was eight minutes before Sam could kill her. Eight minutes during which Dean was in Hell, and Sam felt like his lungs were burning through every single one.

Dean passed out almost as soon as Sam dragged him back into his body, and Sam laid on the ground for what seemed like hours, body siphoning heat from the earth as the morning sun warmed the dirt. Beside him, Dean slept like the dead.

Sam had spread his arms and laughed till his sides ached. He remembered thinking that evil felt oddly like falling in love, and then he realized he had fallen in love, had fallen so fucking hard a long time ago, and he rolled onto his knees and vomited into the ashy dirt.

It hadn't been anything like falling in love with Jess.

With Jess, he'd been terrified and elated, unable to think beyond the next time he could kiss her, be with her. Now, sprawled face-down on the sun-caked earth, Dean sleeping the sleep of the dead five feet away, Sam shook with laughter as he realized he and Dean were stuck with each other, stuck until one of them wound up so dead the other couldn't bring him back. In that moment, Sam wanted to kill Dean, tear him apart with his bare hands or else use his hands for entirely other means, and so he had left Dean lying there in the dirt. And ran.

Sam wished he didn't remember what happened in the five months that followed but figured it was only right that he did.

It wasn't like being possessed. There was no one inside Sam but Sam, and all that blood rightfully belonged on his hands. Sam had no doubt that it was Dean who brought him back. He didn't know how Dean had done it, but somehow, someway he had.

After, he kept catching Dean watching him. Staring like he half expected Sam to suffer a mental breakdown. At least break down and cry on his shoulder a few times. Sam didn't do any of that. He knew he couldn't make up for what he had done, and that the only thing that came close was to keep on fighting. Keep saving people.

There was no point in regretting what was past when he would have made the same choices over again. When it came to Dean, there was no choice.

"I wish you hadn't told me that, Sam," Sarah said when he was done.

Sam felt exhausted, his neck limp and unable to support his head.

"Not because I think it's disgusting or wrong," she explained. "But because it almost makes me understand, and I really, really didn't want to understand it, Sam."

"I don't know that I totally understand it, either," he admitted, smiling.

Sarah angled her head, lips pursed as she studied Sam through dark eyes that saw too much.

"Tell me something, Sam. Are you happy? Does he make you happy?"

Sam laughed, low in his throat.

"We drive each other crazy. But we can live with that."

--

They needed time, space to rest and recuperate, and while Sarah claimed otherwise, Sam figured she could use some time to herself. Though none of them said it, there was another good reason to leave. It was best that Ryan not get attached to another person she was going to lose.

Sam and Dean discussed the situation for approximately two minutes before getting on the phone. Bobby was holed up in some Podunk in Montana, taking care of a ghoul infestation, but assured Dean they were more than welcome at his place. Only he didn't put it quite like that. (You idjits really need to ask?)

They argued about it for a while and, even though it was out of the way, they wound up driving back to Maine so Ryan could see the house. They were afraid she wouldn't ever really believe it otherwise. In as un-terrifying a manner as they could manage, they sat her down and explained about demons and the bad things lurking in the dark and, with some significant revisions, what had happened to her parents. They told her they'd keep her safe, and though they half-expected her to run screaming to the next cop she saw, she never did. She didn't remember those first few weeks she spent with Sam and Dean, but she seemed instinctively to trust them. Dean thought it was dumb luck but Sam sort of knew better. He felt connected to her, in a way that might have started with Lilith but had become so much bigger than that.

Bobby was in Idaho when they arrived—apparently he'd detoured to Boise to handle some killer bats—so the three of them settled in.

Sam had never seen a seven-year old mourn before.

Ryan spent hours in her room, coloring with an old box of Crayolas they found in a drawer in the kitchen. At night, she stayed up with them watching TV, preferring Bobby's huge old armchair to a spot on the couch. They watched VHS tapes on his ancient player—Pete's Dragon and The Cat from Outer Space; a copy of Flight of the Navigator that Dean had played so many times when they were kids that there were five minutes of blue screen in the middle.

When she had bad dreams, they took turns sitting in the chair beside her bed. Once, Sam caught Dean singing to her in a low tuneful voice; he had crept back to their room before Dean heard him.

About a week after they arrived, Sam and Dean were sitting at the table one morning, drinking coffee and reading the paper when Ryan came into the kitchen.

She stood in front of their chairs, holding a hairbrush in one hand, a pair of thick elastic bands in the other. She was wearing the necklace they gave her, the amulet dangling over the collar of her t-shirt.

"Can you do pigtails?" she asked, glancing from one to the other, and Dean had grinned and reached out for the brush and Ryan.

Sam figured things were going to work out okay after that. Not every kid could survive what she did, but Ryan was anything but ordinary. She was theirs, and okay, maybe that was sappy, but Sam felt like they were due for a little sappiness. They had a right to it after everything they'd suffered and lost, paid out in flesh-pounds and blood-quarts, bodies salted and burned. The way Sam perceived it, the world owed him and Dean and payday was long overdue.

His stomach wound was healing cleanly, if a little slowly for his taste. Especially when Dean kept insisting that Sam not over-exert himself. He put up with it for the first couple weeks, knowing it couldn't have been a picnic for Dean to watch him take that knife to the gut. But seriously, enough was enough.

Two weeks after they arrived at Bobby's, Sam woke to the sound of rain driving down on the roof of the house. He levered himself up onto his elbows to peer through the window. Beyond the water-glazed glass, the sky was just turning, the black of the previous night fading to a cold, gunmetal gray. Sam guessed it was five or five-thirty.

They had fallen asleep sometime after two, staying up far too late watching the awful horror flicks Dean loved. But they didn't have to do anything today besides putter around the house making small repairs, and later muster the energy to cook dinner. Sam figured a little pre-dawn fooling-around wouldn't hurt too much. In fact, he was hoping it would do some good.

"I can hear freaking birds chirping," Dean muttered, the words mostly mushed into the pillow.

He was sprawled on his belly, naked to the waist where Sam had dragged the sheet and arms flung at either side so he took up almost the entire bed. Sam straddled Dean's hips, fingers splaying his back in search of sore patches.

"So?" Sam asked after a while.

Dean seemed to have lost the thread of conversation around the time Sam found a particularly vicious knot in his right shoulder. It was several seconds before he replied.

"So, if the birds are just getting up, I sure as hell shouldn't be," he said finally.

Sam laughed and after a few more minutes rolled off Dean and to the side, tugging Dean with him. He knew better than to use the word spooning, which didn't make it any less accurate a description for what they were doing.

"Go 'way," Dean said, arching his neck to give Sam better access. "Ugh, hate when you do that."

He rolled his hips, grinding his ass into Sam's erection.

"I know you do," Sam apologized, delivering another sucking kiss to the warm curve of Dean's shoulder.

Dean rolled over to glare through a single eye, the other squeezed tight against the faint glimmer that passed for sunlight.

"I'm not into morning sex at all, dude."

"I guess I forgot," Sam said, and leaned in to kiss the corner of Dean's mouth.

Dean's lips were soft, probably from the little tube of chapstick he kept in the pocket of his jeans, rubbed on when he thought Sam wasn't looking. Sam wondered if Hell was particularly drying, because Dean had never done that before. Of course, if Sam wanted to keep his own lips in their current state—i.e. not bruised and bleeding—he would never be posing that particular question to Dean. So he wouldn't break out into a grin, he darted forward and sucked Dean's sex-swollen lower lip into his mouth. He let go, shoving the curve of his mouth against Dean's ear.

"We can stop if you want, man," he breathed hot and wet into Dean's ear canal.

He started to roll away, and that was when Dean snorted, pushed Sam over onto his back.

"Well I'm already up now."

Dean kissed down Sam's chest and belly, alternating hard bruising ones with the feather-light kind, barely a touch. He got as far as the white bandage above Sam's left hip and stopped, fingers tracing around its edges.

"I'm not that breakable," Sam felt the need to assure him, arching up a little so Dean could feel just how weak he wasn't.

Dean snorted, mumbled something that sounded like, "Quit molesting me," before sliding his thumbs under the waist of Sam's boxers and dragging them down.

Keeping up a steady downward path with his mouth, he spanned his hands over Sam's chest. His fingers plucked at Sam's nipple, which was really more Dean's thing than Sam's. Dean seemed distracted though, lost in his own thoughts. Sam opened his mouth to say something, snapped it shut again when he felt Dean's lips wrap around the head of his dick.

"Fuck," Sam hissed, trying not to thrust up.

Dean made a sound that would probably have been a snort if his mouth wasn't, uh, full at that moment. Sam surrendered to wet suction and the knowing flick of Dean's tongue. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt weighted, his lashes coated with glue. When he pried them apart at last, he saw Dean watching him. Making sure, like always, that Sammy was all right.

It was several seconds before he could muster the strength to grab Dean's shoulders, and several more before he could convince Dean he wanted him to stop and not go faster, harder, deeper.

Dean made a sound like, what the fuck, and Sam cringed.

"Sorry. Sorry, just. You enjoy this, don't you?" he blurted out before he could censor himself. "I mean, you wanna be here, right?"

Dean gave him a look, then snagged Sam's hand and moved it to cover his own dick through the taut fabric of his shorts.

"No, Sam, I don't." He rolled his eyes and moved to cover Sam again.

"Dean. Dean, I'm serious. I need to know that you feel good about this. And not just when you're getting off, but after too. I need to know you're okay with all this. Because this is it, man. This is us, and the next thirty years. So if you're not okay about it, now's the time to speak up."

"Seriously?" Dean sat up and rubbed a hand over his hair, which was bed-rumpled and kind of sexy. "You're seriously pulling this right now?"

"I have to know," Sam said stubbornly, and Dean sighed.

Sam sat up, too. He felt a little ridiculous having this conversation naked but figured Dean had seen him in worse conditions. And, really, the conversation was long overdue.

"I'm okay, alright?" Dean said. "I'd be downright amazing if you shut up and let me get you off."

"That's another thing."

"What?" Dean said, suspicious. "What's another thing?"

"I'm not the only one in this relationship, man. You're here too."

Dean hesitated, mouth opening and closing like he got off to a few false starts.

"Where the hell is this coming from, Sam? Did I do something to make you think I don't wanna be here? I've got your dick in my mouth, dude. What more do you want?"

"I wanna know it's what you want, Dean! Did you do something that makes me wonder? How about selling your soul for me? It's no secret that you'd do anything for me, and I love you for it, man, I do. But if this isn't what you want too then it has to stop. I couldn't live with this if you didn't want it too."

Dean said nothing for several seconds. Then he pushed back the blankets and got up. Sam watched him hop comically, struggling to yank on his jeans.

"Dean. Dean, where are you going?" he asked as Dean reached for a shirt.

Dean shot him a last glance as he yanked open the door.

"Leave me alone for a while, Sam."

--

Sam brought him a cup of coffee and a baseball cap because, though the rain had slowed, it was still falling in fits and starts. Dean ignored the latter but accepted the former with a grunt. He took a tentative sip, as though Sam might try to poison him with weak coffee. Apparently satisfied, he drank again, deeper this time, and wrapped his hands around the mug.

Dean had spent the past hour sitting on the porch in the rain and was thoroughly soaked, jeans and t-shirt clinging to his skin. He must be freezing, but being Dean, he didn't come inside.

Sam didn't bother trying to speak to Dean until he'd drained half the coffee and was looking slightly less likely to commit a murder in the next five minutes.

"So," Sam said at last, "are we going to talk about this?"

Dean turned slowly, and Sam wondered if he'd spoken too soon about Dean not being homicidal.

"Okay," Dean said finally. Reaching out, he eased the ball cap free of Sam's grasp, slapped it down on his head. "Let's talk about you ruining perfectly good morning sex with all that touchy-feely bullshit."

Sam nodded and fixed his eyes on the horizon. He thought the sun would break through by noon, dry everything out.

"You know what, Dean?" he said, voice even. "Bite me."

"Excuse me?"

"Do you really wanna do this? Because we can have the conversation where you gripe about me acting like a girl and I say you're a Neanderthal jackass, but honestly? I'm tired, and it's raining, and we both know I'd win in the end. So how 'bout we just skip all that and you tell me what you're thinking, yeah?"

Dean didn't hit Sam, though he looked like he might want to. He didn't even seem all that surprised, just resigned and a little sad maybe.

"It's wrong, Sam," he said, tugging the brim of the ball cap lower so his eyes were half-hidden. "That's just fact, plain and simple."

Sam suddenly needed to be on his feet, to be moving, and he pushed off the porch step.

"Is it, Dean? I mean, who are we really hurting? It's not like one of us is gonna give birth to babies with antlers or anything."

Dean blinked at him.

"Dude, are you high again?"

Sam felt the raindrops skate down the sides of his face, and it felt good. Cleansing.

"I'm not saying it's normal. But when have our lives ever been normal, Dean?"

Dean stood up too, stepped forward until he had Sam backed against the porch rail. Rain dripped off the brim of Dean's ball cap, beneath which Dean's face was pale and tight.

"We'll be outcasts forever, Sammy. I don't know what kind of fantasy world you're living in, but people—they won't ever be okay with this. With you and me. You're never gonna get that regular life you're always talking about. You ready to just give up on that?"

"I've been thinking about it," Sam said, "And there is a way. For us to have a, quote on quote, normal life. At least in other people's eyes."

Dean scoffed.

"Oh, yeah? What's that, genius?"

"We stop being brothers."

Dean looked like he'd just taken a punch in the gut, or someplace less pleasant. He released Sam, backing up. The rain was picking up now, drops falling faster and closer together.

"What the hell are you talking about, Sam?" he asked, voice hoarse, and even though Sam knew better he wondered if Dean was catching cold already.

"We stop telling people we're brothers. It shouldn't be that much of a stretch for us. Half the time we say we're partners or coworkers or a dozen other lies anyway."

Dean was quiet for a long while, and when he spoke there was something new in his voice. Something Sam couldn't identify right away but might have been hope.

"You wanna talk about lying, Sam? We do this, we'll be lying forever."

Sam followed Dean out into the yard, careful to keep his distance.

"Is it even a lie, Dean? There's not a word for what you are to me. Brother doesn't begin to cover it. I don't know of any brothers like us. Lover? That's true, but not the half of it."

"So, what, you're gonna tell people I'm your boyfriend?" Dean scoffed. "Your domestic partner?"

"I don't care what we call it, Dean. It's nothing but a stupid label to make other people feel comfortable. All I care about is that we can live with it, man. I just want . . . I wanna get on with our lives, Dean. I wanna have one," he added with something like a laugh.

"I want you to have one too, Sammy. All those things you've been wanting since we were kids--"

Sam reached out and grabbed Dean by the shoulders, shook him.

"No! You're not listening to me. I need you to listen, Dean. I need you. Okay?"

"Jesus, I'm listening."

"No. I need you. I can't lose you again, man."

"Like you could get rid of me," Dean snorted. After a moment, his hands came up to rest on the sides of Sam's face. "I'm not going anywhere, Sam. No matter what, I'll always be there."

"That's not what I—fuck!" He pushed away. "Am I misreading you, Dean? I mean, I know you love me. But is this really what you want? Because if it's not you gotta tell me, man."

Dean huffed air through his nostrils and sighed, sighed again. He was quiet for so long that Sam started to worry.

"Dean—"

"I'm not gonna repeat myself so you better fucking listen." He had one arm pressed over his eyes, blocking them from Sam's gaze. "I—damn you, Sam, for making me say this. I fucking want it, all right? I like kissing you and touching you and sucking you. And I—I like when you do the same for me. Yeah, I love you, Sammy, like a goddamn part of me, my skin or something, but beyond that I like you. You're . . . well, you're a man now, one I can be proud of. So, yeah, I want you. Do I have moments, days, where I think I'm damning us both? Yeah. But that doesn't stop me from wanting you so bad it hurts."

Dean inhaled slowly through his nose, and Sam was amazed he made it that long without oxygen.

"I want you, Sam," he said softly. "When I go to sleep at night and when I wake up in the morning. But right now? Right now what I really want is for you to shut the fuck up and not make eye contact when I take my arm away from my face, do you think you can do that?"

Sam's brain had jammed up somewhere around 'proud' and he was having trouble shaping his mouth into words.

"Well, Jesus, Sam," Dean breathed, the words tumbling out on an expulsion of air. "You gonna say something?" he demanded, apparently forgetting his request that Sam shut up.

"Wow," Sam said finally. "I never realized you were such a girl."

Dean blinked at him for a second before his mouth curved into a smirk.

"I take it back."

"What? You can't," Sam protested.

The rain was falling in sheets again, and he didn't care. He wanted to grab Dean by the hair and kiss him, to hell with who happened to see.

"Yeah, I can," Dean protested.

Sam shook his head, spraying water everywhere.

"You're a romantic, Dean. Who'dve thought?"

"If you ever say that again, this is so off."

--

Bobby showed up three days later with a shiner and tales of killer bats.

He told them while he made dinner, homemade lasagna, and Sam thought he might cry a little when he tasted it. Who knew Bobby could cook?

After supper, Dean and Ryan passed out on the couch in the middle of the second Indiana Jones. When the credits started to roll, Sam got up and stretched before wandering into the kitchen for a glass of water. He wasn't all that surprised when Bobby followed him.

Bobby went for the coffeemaker, even though it was almost eleven. A box of cereal stood open on the counter, and Sam reached inside for a handful.

"You and Dean," Bobby said, and Sam waited for Bobby to finish the thought before realizing with gut-clenching clarity that he already had.

His heart beat fast and hard against the walls of his ribcage. He swallowed, the dry cereal stabbing at the back of his throat.

"I'm not an idiot, Sam. I'm also not your daddy. Ain't my job to tell you how to live your lives. "

"This you giving us your blessing?" Sam said, and Bobby's head snapped up so fast, eyes narrowed to angry slits, that he immediately regretted it.

"It sure as shit isn't that, Sam."

"Bobby. I know it's hard to understand—"

"I'm not looking for explanations."

"If you want us to go, we will. We'll leave in the morning."

"Dammit, Sam. All we've been through, you and your brother and your daddy and me, are you really gonna pull that? Just because families don't agree, or understand each other always, doesn't mean you throw out the baby with the bathwater. Jesus, Sam, I thought you were smarter'n that."

Sam had to stare at the scuffed linoleum for several seconds before he could trust himself to meet Bobby's gaze.

"How long have you known?"

"If I'm being honest? Probably since the day you died and your brother brought you back. But the easy answer is this afternoon when I caught you two playing footsie under the table."

Sam flushed but forced himself to meet Bobby's eye.

"And?"

"And what?" Bobby prompted.

"We're gonna keep Ryan," Sam said.

"I figured as much."

"That's it?" Sam pressed. "No comment?"

Bobby raised a brow over the rim of his coffee cup.

"If I had something to say, Sam," he growled, "you can bet your ass I'd say it."

They were quiet for several moments. Sam ate another handful of cereal.

"Dean and I aren't sure where we'll end up yet. But we'd like to come by now and then." Sam shrugged and offered a smile. "I want her to have a Bobby."

Bobby paused, face pink and coffee mug halted halfway to his lips.

"I, uh. Need to take a leak," he muttered before walking out of the room.

Sam waited until his heart rate had dipped to more reasonable speeds before rinsing out his glass and going back into the den.

Ryan had fallen asleep on Dean's chest, one of his arms draped loosely along her back. Sam took a moment to marvel at how fast she had become theirs the second time before reaching down to lift her. Dean stirred when the weight of her was off him, and Sam made a shushing sound.

"I'm gonna put her to bed. You can go back to sleep if you want, man."

Sam slid Ryan into the cot they'd set up in one of Bobby's infinite 'spare' rooms. He ran a hand over her head and murmured for her to sleep tight before drawing the door closed behind him.

When Sam got back to their room, Dean was waiting, seated on the end of the bed in his boxers, rubbing his eyes.

"Hey," Sam said, and Dean jerked his head in what probably passed for hello in Dean's world.

"Ryan out for the count?" he asked finally.

"Oh, yeah," Sam said. He pulled his shirt over his head. "I probably could have brushed her teeth and she wouldn't have stirred. Should I have brushed her teeth?"

Dean snorted.

"Uh. Speaking of Ryan?"

"Yeah?" Sam asked. He stripped off his jeans, figured it was warm enough he could skip the pajama pants.

"You're not . . . I don't know, sick of her following you around?"

Sam raised a brow.

"She's a little girl, Dean. Not a Saint Bernard."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"I know that, dude. Just . . . when I was twenty-six, last thing I'dve wanted was a seven-year-old dogging my every move. Cramping my style."

Sam smiled, lowered himself down on the bed. His leg was warm where it pressed the length of his brother's.

"You had a seven-year old dogging your every move when you were eleven," Sam reminded him gently, and Dean shrugged.

"Yeah, well."

"She needs us, Dean. And I . . . I want to do this."

Dean nodded seriously.

"Yeah, I do too."