A/N: There was a time in my life when I owned a large, black dog by the name of Wellington, appropriately named after the Wellington boot. He was a very beautiful and kind animal, though he was, at times, prone to eating bullfrogs. Oh, Wellington. He so loved a nice evening and the sounds of nighttime creatures. I hope you enjoy this chapter.


Sam didn't quite know what happened after he blacked out. All he was aware of when he came to were his brother's hands buckling him back into the Impala, his brother's voice telling someone no, that it was fine, that Sam didn't need a hospital and Dean could take care of Sam, thank you, though, and thanks for the rhubarb pie - Dean was, in fact, absolutely certain that rhubarb pie was the key to a speedy recovery.

And then the passenger-side door closed, and the driver's door opened, then closed, and the car was put into drive and they were moving and Dean was asking, "Sam?" in a quiet, earnest voice. "Sammy?"

Sam didn't want to respond, but he did. He did, because Dean's voice was spotted with a kind of worry that shouldn't exist in the presence of rhubarb pie.

"Yeah?" he croaked, and he felt the brush of his brother's fingers on his face, cold and coarse and quick to disappear, searching for a fever that wasn't there.

"You're really freaking me out, dude."

"M'sorry, Dean." Sam was sorry. Sam didn't mean to freak Dean out. Sam was freaking himself out, for the love of all things holy, and it was the last thing he ever wanted to do and he didn't even know why, really. He'd been attacked by a great many spirits before the old bitch from last night, but not one of them lingered like this one did. She was there, and then she was gone, but now she was everywhere. She was in every single one of them - in their eyes and in their touch and in their smell. She was in every passed and passing year visible to his eyes, in the cricks of their bones and the dry of their lips. "I don't mean to."

Dean merely grunted in response, but the ten-minute drive back to the motel seemed too short and Sam wanted to sit in the car after his brother parked. He didn't want to get out for anything, but Dean opened his door and reached over and unbuckled the useless belt, stood there and waited until Sam finally pulled himself out and trailed his older sibling into the motel room.

Sam dragged his feet over to the bed. The carpet sounded like sandpaper under the soles of his boots and Dean stared at him until he dropped his ass down onto the mattress and bent his head to the floor.

It took a few moments for Dean to sigh and swear under his breath.

"I hate talking," Dean grumbled.

"Nobody's asking you to talk," Sam replied, glancing up to see his brother nudging the floor with his own booted toe. "I don't want to talk."

"Well, that's too fucking bad, because you are."

Dean was obviously on the verge of one of those Big Brother Power Trips Sam had come to loathe over the years. He watched as Dean pulled a chair out from underneath the table and turned it around to sit on it backwards, as he rose just slightly to drag it closer to Sam.

Face-to-face discussions were the worst kind of discussions.

"You're scared of old ladies," Dean said matter-of-factly, folding his arms over the back of the chair.

Slander, Sam thought. Sam was just as badass as Dean. "I am not-"

"Are, too." Dean always knew. Dean would always know. "Our waitress was old. You fainted."

It was true, Sam knew. He had fainted. But he didn't want to hear about it - he hadn't wanted to faint. It was the worst possible thing that could have happened and he didn't need a stupid brother rubbing it in his face. "Shut up, Dean."

"No." Dean's voice was quiet now, but firm. "M'not makin' fun of you, Sam. You legit passed out. This is something we need to talk about and deal with because I don't know if I'll be able to handle you screaming every time you see a gray hair or a pair of reading glasses or, I don't know, a goddamn liver spot or something."

"Dean-"

"No, Sammy." Dean shook his head. "She had a freak arm, okay? She was dead and she had a freak arm and that's the only reason she was able to hurt you. All those other ladies? They're good people. Our waitress gave us pie, for chrissakes, after you were all safe and sound in the car. You want some pie?"

Sam didn't want any pie touched by hands like thin paper, but he didn't dare tell Dean this. And the only way to put a stop to this discussion was to be agreeable, he knew.

He nodded. "I...I want some pie, Dean."

Dean beamed. "You're damn right you want some pie."

The pie was on the rickety, old motel table in a cardboard box. Dean found some plastic forks in his duffel and, with an uncharacteristic sort of patience, waited for Sam to take the first bite before digging in himself.

Each mouthful was torture, but Sam swallowed it. He had to. Dean only looked away for a few seconds at a time.

"Bedtime, Sammy," Dean said after they were finished, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Sam raised an eyebrow. Dean's authority over his sleep had ended about ten years ago.

"I'm serious," his brother insisted. "We have to get up early for morning service. We've gotta get you over this soon or it's only going to get worse."

Morning service? Sam gaped. "Dean-"

Dean snorted. "Nah, you're right. I fuckin' hate church. We'll just go to the grocery store. Get some donuts or something. Still, though...early, okay? Early bird specials? Isn't that something old people do?"

Sam wanted to protest, but Dean was already pulling him up and pushing him towards the bathroom door, stuffing a toothbrush in his hand along the way. Sam didn't resist, though his stomach was nothing but knots of dread, tightening with every second that ticked away on the clock - every second of time passing, wearing down the skin of women, and bringing him closer to tomorrow.