Sam Winchester knew just about everything there was to know about pain: physical, emotional, and spiritual. He knew how to cope, how to endure. Given a goal and enough willpower, you could overcome just about anything. A bullet to the gut, for instance, or a hallucination caused by a mangled soul, or a beloved friend lying shredded in a morgue.

Sam Winchester knew that after enough pain, you stop screaming for help, because you realize no help is coming. You stop screaming in anger, because you realize that there is nothing you can do to stop it. You stop screaming in pain, because it is too exhausting. But after all that, you start screaming again just to keep yourself sane, because you need the distraction. You can ignore anything with the right distraction: a hunt to overlook a vanished mother, or a whiskey to dull the loss of a brother, or a blue-eyed blond to forget a brown-eyed brunette.

Sam Winchester knew that it was the little things that hurt the most. Some pains were too big to process, so the human brain bypassed them entirely to focus on the smaller details. The slow burn of a needle pressing into your arm when your guts were pooled on the floor, for example. A scratch on your brother's car when he was lying dead in the back seat. An ad for sign language classes while you were researching how to prevent the end of the world.

Sam Winchester knew how to work around pain, to do the job in spite of it. He'd been doing it his whole life. But some pains had to be met head-on, stared dead in the eye, and confronted before they could heal. A broken leg had to be set before you could walk on it. A shredded soul had to be replaced before you could feel guilty enough to seek forgiveness. You had to open the door before one of your greatest regrets could come inside and let you try again.


Dean slowly tucked the overbleached motel towel around his waist as he left the bathroom. Sam was cautiously opening front door, a gun in his hidden hand. A bit paranoid, but with all the shit that had been happening, probably a good call. Dean peered around his brother's lanky frame to see who their guest was. The pizza man, he hoped.

It was Eileen Leahy.

Dean distractedly hoped that his towel would stay put as he dove for a weapon. A shifter or related monster was exactly what they didn't need right now.

"How dare you wear her face," Sam hissed, pointing his favorite pearl-gripped pistol at its forehead. Dean knew why he hadn't shot already, and it had nothing to do with thin motel walls and security cameras. He hoped, for Sammy's sake, that the monster would listen and change into someone, anyone, else. His brother's nightmares and guilt trips were bad enough already.

"I'm not a monster," not-Eileen said, slowly enunciating. Dean had to give the monster props for getting the deaf accent just right. His questing fingers finally found the shotgun Sam always stored at the foot of his bed. Salt didn't do much against corporeal monsters, but it hurt like a bitch and certainly slowed them down. It would do until he could reach the weapons bag by the door or his own pistol under his pillow.

"Eileen is… dead," Sam snarled. Only Dean would have heard his slight hesitation. He smoothly padded around the beds to get a better shot at the monster. Sammy clearly wasn't going to harm it unless he had to, and his hesitation could prove dangerous. Dean didn't like the idea of shooting something with Eileen's mug either, but he wouldn't think twice about protecting his brother. He would do what Sam could not, just like Sam had done what Dean could not in similar situations in the past.

"I just wanted to make the British think that." The thing held out its grimy hands. "Test me. I'm human." It certainly looked and smelled like a human who had been living rough for a while. Dean saw the tip of Sam's pistol waver just slightly. He also felt his towel slip just a little. The shotgun required two hands, so he couldn't adjust it. He'd fought naked before, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that. Sammy had enough blackmail material on him already.

"I've got you covered," he told his brother. Sam started like he hadn't realized Dean was there. His jaw worked for a moment, his eyes vulnerable. However, by the time Sam returned from the weapons bag with a silver knife and a holy water flask, his game face was firmly on. Dean was proud of his brother for doing the job despite the circumstances.

Not-Eileen barely flinched when Sam professionally slashed its arm. The bleeding flesh didn't fizz or bubble like a shifter or related monster. The holy water had no effect either. She wasn't an angel or she couldn't have gotten past the sigils they'd carved into the porch railing earlier, she couldn't be a demon because she'd waltzed right through the devil's trap painted on the awning, and frankly there was no possible way she could be either because they'd burned her body so there was no vessel left to possess.

Sam's breaths started to get panicky.

"I'm not a monster," Eileen repeated as she quickly wrapped a crusty bandana around her bleeding arm, and this time Dean believed her. She quickly glanced around behind her at the motel parking lot.

"Can I come in? I'm supposed to be dead," she shrugged as if that was no big deal. Dean smiled and lowered his gun. He wasn't sure how, but Eileen was alive, and that was excellent news. He'd missed her wit and her ability to make Sam smile. Besides, they needed every ally they could find these days.

Sam was still having problems with his breathing. The weapons in his hands were unceremoniously tossed onto the side table with a loud clatter as he took a few coltishly uncoordinated steps forward.

"Eileen…" he murmured, brushing a hand against her cheek. The aching shuttered look that had haunted his face when Sam thought Dean wasn't looking was gone, replaced by the pleading puppy eyes that no one to date had been able to resist. Eileen smiled and signed something quickly that Dean didn't understand.

Moments later, she was airborne as Sam lifted her up to an exuberant kiss. They would have probably spun around like some corny Hallmark movie if the motel wasn't so cramped. Dean slowly applauded with fond exasperation. Sam turned to glare at him for interrupting his Epic Reunion.

Of course, that's when Dean's towel decided to give up its fight to stay on his hips where it belonged. Thankfully, his reflexes were faster than gravity. His graceful save didn't, however, stop Sam from breaking into a huge smile that promised brotherly teasing for the next forever. It was a good sight to see, one that Dean hadn't seen in far too long. So he fumbled and played for laughs before retreating to the bathroom to give the lovebirds some space.