A/N: Gosh, I've apparently been thumped several times over the head by something that wants me to write. Not that I'm complaining about anything apart from the lack of sleep - oh well, enjoy this (long overdue) penultimate chapter

I owe PleaseBelive cookies

Title is kudos to Mr. Shakespeare. I owe him cookies too

I wish you well and so I take my leave,
I Pray you know me when we meet again: The Merchant of Venice

Much ado about nothing

The hospital came to view.

"You sure I shouldn't just drive you home?" asked Dean, as the car drove into the car park.

She glanced in his direction, surprised. "You've gotta get back to your room, Dean," she said.

Dean shrugged. "I'm cured." He smirked. "I'm sure the docs agree."

"Oh…," she faltered. "Well, I live close to here, so it's cool," she said vaguely.

I wonder what goes on in your mind, wondered Dean as he studied her features. Her thoughts were clearly not focused on their minor conversation.

He parked the car. The hospital lights dimly illuminated the car park.

She turned to him, the light casting deep shadows onto her face, causing her expression to become undeterminable. "This whole thing was… awesome," she declared. Her voice sounded vague, but genuinely happy. Bet you're not thinking that much about me right now though, he thought, feeling slightly disappointed. This would probably be the last time he saw her. Sad to think this ended here, with what is probably going to be a handshake. Dean… Pull your perverted self from the gutter. She's happy, so you did good.

She turned from him and opened the car door. Dean leaned slightly towards her, putting his arm over the headrest of the seat. She got out and started walking away, leaving him feeling slightly cheated out of a handshake. That's not too much to ask, is it?

He moved forwards to shut the door after her, when she suddenly appeared before him again, kneeled down and kissed him carefully on the lips, laying one hand on his cheek and resting the other on the seat. He felt her tongue briefly touching his, before she pulled her head back. He was disappointed again, though also slightly satisfied. She seemed to assess the action as she removed her hand from his face, before nodding to herself, smirking a little and turning to leave again. "I wish you well and so I take my leave, I pray you know me when we meet again. More Shakespeare. See you around," she waved as she walked in the direction of the hospital.

Dean stayed where he was for a second, thoughtful. Not bad, he rated, not too hurried, slightly sudden I suppose, coulda' gotten that much more out of the situation if I'd been prepared. Then: Why are you walking towards the hospital, Shakespeare?

He watched her until she turned the corner that led towards the main entrance. Could be your way home, but… I'm trusting my instinct here. He sat looking towards where she had disappeared then came to a conclusion. None of my business really.

He shut the door, revved the car and drove away, curious, but… Hell, he also kinda missed Sammy and was looking forward to a bored night/morning at the motel with him.

Can't wait to taunt you about your day. Unless you found that waitress of course, provided they're hot here.

Who am I kidding, waitresses are hot.

She had known that she'd blown it. She stared defiantly at doctor Bonham and the two officers in a way that suggested her thoughts were saying: You dragged the POLICE into this. What am I, six?

In actuality she was sorry. Not for running off for the day with Dean, not for lying to him about herself. That had made her feel normal, just for a bit. It was merely the fact that she couldn't honestly spend an innocent day away from this place, for having to keep doctor Bonham in the dark when he was really being protective. He was like a father to her, literally, seeing as she practically lived in the hospital. He was disappointed now.

He was telling her about Dean. Dean Hammett, she told herself. I've heard of a Hammett… Metallica. Hilarious, Dean.

She wasn't moronic, she knew that he was far from honest, which made them equal. She didn't ask about him and ditto the other way round.

Funny, how the doc was telling her about "danger" when she'd felt pretty protected around Dean. It was like his aura bore a mark stating: "safety."

She wondered if his dad was mafia, like it was some sort of family business. Maybe they were under witness protection. None of my business really.

She was curious, but… Hell, she needed to sleep. And her pills. Doc was still talking.

This was going to be a long night.

Sam fought back.

He had been unable to find a weapon and was most of the time just trying to keep his arms in front of his face to avoid the worst blows. The ghoul was hitting him, but not too often. It giggled whenever Sam was forced to take a step back, until there was no more floor and he was pinned against the wall. The fake Theo laughed and bent down to pick up a metal pole, turning its head down so as to see where it was.

Sam used the distraction to kick it in the face and it fell back, surprised and with blood pumping from its nose.

Sam ran, although he wasn't sure how to get out. He reached another wall and sighed, defeated.

And something hit him in the back of the head.

Strangely enough there was no pain, just randomly issued thoughts: This is so annoying, can you stop friggin' hitting me all the time.

He was being dragged back by one of his feet, hearing noises. The ghoul hummed tunelessly and something landed beside Sam. The body, or at least what remained of it, had been removed from the cords. Sam was hoisted into the air and his wrists secured.

He let his head loll forwards, not bothering to open his eyes.

I wish things would stop smashing my head all the time.

I wish dad and Dean were here.

… Screw this, I wanna go to sleep.

Dean punched in the number, gripping the phone tight. "pickuppickuppickuppickup," he muttered angrily into the receiver. He glanced once more onto the devastation that was all he had as a clue to where Sam might be, if he was… okay. The blood suggested otherwise.

Sammy, please.

Sam blinked.

Wake up.

His eyes closed and he was falling asleep again. Sam. Wake up, now.

He blinked again and opened his eyes properly, looking around.

His wrists were bound by ropes that were attached to a hook in the ceiling. His feet dragged across the floor and he needed a moment to get accustomed to the gloom.

The ghoul was leaning back in a wooden chair, waiting for him to return to reality.

"You know, Sam," it said nonchalantly. "I want to tell you a secret. I could have killed your brother a million times in that motel room. I could have killed him later, but you know what… It's so much more fun," it stood up and walked slowly towards Sam, "to witness his reaction after I kill you."

Sam tried testing the rope without alerting it. For the moment, however, he was pretty well secured.

There was a drum beat thumping against his cranium and he really wanted the damn thing to shut up. He even welcomed death if it meant less of that grating voice.

"Kill me," he muttered, wondering if he'd even said anything or was merely thinking it.

It blinked, surprised. "What."

"Just kill me already, the monologue was clichéd the first time it was ever used," he growled. Speaking actually hurt, but it was worth it just to be able to glimpse the confusion his sentence caused in the ghoul.

Clearly it wasn't used to Winchester wit.

"But we have to pass the time somehow, Sammy ("it's Sam," he wanted to say, but it seemed his word quota was used up) and I believe your pain centres have shut down. Not much fun hurting you then, is there?"

Something seemed strange to Sam. Pass the time. Maybe the ghoul was melodramatic. It wanted an audience – dad, Dean – to witness the kill. "So you have a death wish," asked Sam, not entirely aware that he might accidentally cause his own death in a matter of seconds. I wonder if I have brain damage.

The ghoul merely shrugged. "I'm going to die really soon," it told him. "Your family is going to make sure of that no matter how far I run so… I might as well go out with applause." It bowed mockingly to Sam who actually, in his present state, understood its reasoning. That didn't mean he liked it.

"So… You wanna talk until they get here?" he asked, slight disbelief etched in his words.

It nodded and walked back to the chair, sitting down whilst gazing a little wistfully in no particular direction.

"What do you wanna talk about," Sam asked as the ghoul just sat silently staring ahead of itself.

It shrugged. "Can I tell you a secret?"

Sam was slowly starting to feel like he was at a girls slumber party, but he nodded.

It smirked. "You know your brother?"

Sam wanted to say "duh," but he wasn't pressing his luck. He might actually survive this, possibly with lasting damage to his sanity. He nodded.

"Well, he's been hanging around with that girl, from the hospital. I was actually considering eating her, but, you know…" it stopped and Sam felt that the ghoul was going for effect, somehow. He just wanted it over with, seeing as he was having a hard time concentrating already.

Sam cleared his throat and the ghoul continued.

"Well, she's gonna die, in like, a few months. Some sort of tumour." It started laughing as if this was the funniest joke in the world.

Sam felt slightly sick. This is one screwed up slumber party.

What to tell dad?

This wasn't exactly Dean's main concern, but it was pretty high up on the list. He wasn't sure whether the truth as to why Sam had been kidnapped would find welcome ears.

Dean had looked around the room and found about a dozen clues as to Sam's whereabouts – dirt, a name tag saying: Theodore Mitchell, crumbling rock (most likely a tomb, well, duh, it's a ghoul), also – strangely – a bone. What the Hell, was this CSI or something? Last, but not least, a note. Dean was trying very hard not to groan as he read it, though more out of disappointment than worry: "If you want to see your brother again, blabla… location, time." Dramatically clichéd effects. He really didn't want to be part of some sort of ridiculously written story, most likely typed by someone who'd watched way too many procedural cop shows. He hated those.

Did the son of a bitch want to be found?

Dean had told John where to meet after their short exchange of words. Dean had been surprised that he'd even picked up the phone, but also glad that John hadn't asked too much. Still, what to tell him? He was going to be ripped into many small, bloody pieces when they got Sam back.

And now Dean was standing outside the graveyard, shotgun in one hand, flashlight in the other, about half an hour before the ghoul had written and wondered which tomb to crash.

He checked his cell phone again. Main concern: Sammy, where the hell are you?

"So how are you gonna make sure they find you," asked Sam. This was getting awkward. After the ghouls "secret," they'd done "who/what have I killed," "favourite things" and "I spy."

Sam really didn't feel the two of them had that much in common. For one, Sam didn't enjoy eating flesh and drinking blood. Also, his favourite things did not include disembowelling. He didn't even enjoy hunting all that much.

"Oh, I left clues," grinned the ghoul, pleased with itself. "I got the idea from the television."

"You really don't get out much," murmured Sam, but for some reason he didn't want to hurt its feelings. It seemed to be enjoying itself for the moment and might possibly let him go out of the goodness of its heart. Yeah, right.

On the bright side, he was actually able to slowly free his hands slightly, but without knowledge of where the exits lay, there wasn't much hope it would help. Still, I guess the other guy didn't survive as long as me.

"So what's the plan?" tried Sam. Maybe it really was stupid enough to tell him something that would help. If you know you're going to die you often get reckless.

"Oh, it's simple," it said. "I take you outside, break your neck and your family shoots me in the head." It sounded a little sad.

"Oh. Right." Sam wasn't sure what to say. "You know, if you didn't kill me I'm sure they'd let you go." He'd decided to cut straight to the chase. Half an hours "I spy some rock" can make you impatient. The ghoul turned to face him and a genuinely creepy smile darkened its features, I bet you've been practicing in front of the mirror, thought Sam, actually shivering.

"But I want to kill you. You have got to be the most exciting game I have ever played."

Sam felt he was being congratulated.

"Shame it had to be so quick though. I would have liked some more pain from your side," it stated, taking points off its mental judging board for Sam's game play.

Twenty minutes until Sam's death.

John had turned up and he and Dean were scouring the cemetery. John hadn't asked about anything yet, just: "Are you ready." Dean had responded by holding up the shotgun and flashlight.

They'd split up and had been searching for close to twenty minutes. Dean was getting worried – not panicked, no way – for Sam. Surprisingly his biggest hope happened to be the note. Apparently this thing was going for an audience.

It was gonna die slow. Dean would make sure of that.

Sam knew that one twist of his wrists and he'd be free. One problem: Free to get his head bashed in again and he needed to be conscious enough to escape. So, exits, where are you?

There'd been around fifteen minutes silence between the two.

"We'll leave through the secret entrance," said the ghoul suddenly. Sam was quietly, happily stunned.

"Oh, right, where is that again," he asked, trying to sound casual (or, as casual as possible while faced with the possibility of dying). The ghoul pointed without enthusiasm towards the place Sam had run before getting a pipe smashing into his skull. It was just a dark corner with more wall.

"It looks like part of the wall, but it's an opening. Just so you don't think I'm going to make you walk into the wall." Sam could practically hear the depression in its voice. Great, stuck with a suicidal ghoul. What do you want, comfort?

It turned its back to him for a second and Sam figured "what the hell" and slipped through the knot. He started walking backwards, but his foot hit the damned metal pipe and the ghoul spun around. It laughed, glad that this last game had turned out slightly more entertaining. It had underestimated the youngest Winchester's survival skills, but now, maybe it was time for the kill.

It didn't count on the pipe.

Sam turned, pretended to stumble and picked it up, swung around and hit the fake Theo in the face, just as it was about to reach out to him. That sufficed to make it angry, but Sam used the momentary distraction to run.

This was what Theo called a real hunt.

Dean was ready to shout pointlessly, probably a sentence involving "son of a bitch," "kill" and "son of a bitch." Because you could never have enough "sons of bitches."

Then Sam fell right into his arms.

He was bloodied, disorientated and well… looked pretty awful, but it was Sam.

"Sam, you okay?"

Sam nodded, out of breath and seemed to be trying to point at something behind him.

The ghoul chose that second of joyful reunion to punch Dean in the face and both he and Sam fell over. Sam rolled away and was kneeling in a crouch, ready to defend himself, but the ghoul had gone for the person closest and had bitten Dean in the neck, trying to tear out his throat. Dean was sporting a broken nose and was, for the moment, dazed.

The ghoul was happy. If it couldn't get one Winchester , another would do. This was a real way to die, with somebody's blood between its teeth.

Sam picked up the dropped shotgun, aimed and blew its head from its shoulders.

So much for a dramatic death.

Deans face was covered in his own and its blood. He raised a hand and Sam took it, helping him up.

"You okay, Sammy," he asked and Sam scoffed.

Yeah, so he had a few bruises to the head (possibly just a little worse than a couple of bruises, but who was telling), but Dean always chose the dumbest times to ask about his health. Dean was about to fall to the ground, but then John was behind him, supporting him. He looked at Sam who nodded: I'm okay.

"I've called an ambulance," John said to Sam who noticed that perhaps Dean's bite was worse than it looked, although it was difficult to see through all the blood. No way was he losing his brother to a depressive ghoul.

"How are you gonna explain?" wondered Sam aloud, noticing that his brother's bite wasn't exactly inconspicuous.

"Dog," grunted John, simply.

John started hauling Dean towards the entrance and Sam followed, carrying Dean's shotgun and the flashlight. Dad probably has an explanation for the guns too, decided Sam, not bothered to ask.

They reached the road.

"Can you carry your brother?" asked John. Sam nodded. Dean groaned and mumbled something, but none of the other two listened. Sam traded Dean for the gun and the flashlight.

"I'll take these to my car; you wait here for the medics, alright?"

Sam nodded again and John stood, appraisingly gazing at his youngest son for a moment. "You're becoming a fine hunter, son," he said at last and turned to walk away.

Sam didn't know what to say: Why thanks dad, but I'm going to college first chance I get, so he stayed quiet while his father left him alone with Dean.

John turned around once more, thoughtful: "How the hell did it get a hold of you anyway?"

Dean groaned a little again.

"I, uh, went out for a coke, just for a second" Sam replied and Dean muttered something that sounded vaguely like: "Mmma bro. Mi ssoscrew."

Sam decided to interpret it as: "Thanks bro. I was so screwed."

Around the time Sam and the ghoul started playing "I Spy" at the slumber party, I was listening to AC/DC at 2am, hence the original idea for a slumber party. This may have ruined the seriousness from the beginning of this fic, but... Hell, who wants to be serious^^